PRELUDE

Admiral Albert Calavicci bounded up the stairs two at a time. His face was covered with strong concern, or rather almost panicked worry. Normally, he would take the elevator up to the infirmary in an emergency but, in this case, the elevator was far too slow for his liking.

Without any kind of warning to those on the other side of the stairwell door, he burst onto the level and ran down the hallway, forcing people to move to the side and make way for him. He busted though the infirmary door, panting hard and shouting, "Where is she?"

The Assistant Chief Medical Officer slowly walked over to him, his hands up in an attempt to calm him down.

"Just relax, Admiral…"

"The hell I will relax! Where is she? How is she? What happened to her, damn it!"

The doctor didn’t allow Al’s volatile temper get to him. Instead, he remained calm, speaking to the Admiral in soft tones. "She experienced a slight heart murmur and we’re just keeping her here for observation. Knowing the problems she has had before, we just want to make sure there are no complications."

Al exhaled, a little calmer but still anxious. "Where is she?"

"She’s in Room B. Your wife is in there with her."

Al started for the door quickly.

"Admiral," the doctor interrupted his actions quickly.

Al turned and looked at him with question.

"I don’t think you should go in there in an agitated state. It might not be good for her. Wait a couple of minutes to collect yourself."

Al was about to make a comment about his not being agitated, about needing to see her. He stopped, however, when he realized the doctor was right. He nodded before waiting at the door, forcing his heart to slow to a normal rate. Then, with a deep breath, he entered the infirmary room.

As he entered, Beth Calavicci turned her head to look at her husband with gentle eyes. Her actions were followed by the young lady in the infirmary bed. The latter beamed at Al and extended a hand towards him.

"Dad!" she called out to him with a pleased smile.

Al hurried to her side, unable to keep the look of concern from his face. "Christa, honey, are you okay?" he asked as he took the extended hand, sitting on the side of the bed and looking at his youngest daughter with loving care.

"I’m fine, Dad," she tried to assure but the paleness of her skin indicated that she wasn’t as fine as she was proclaiming.

Al looked at his wife with an exasperated smirk, indicating to her how he felt about Christa’s obvious lie. Beth just gave him a gentle smile, dissipating Al’s smirk.

"What happened, sweetie?" Al gently asked his daughter. "When I heard you were rushed here, I was worried sick."

"You still are, Dad," Christa pointed out. "I had a little pain in my chest. That’s all. It’s not like nothing like this hasn’t happened to me before."

Al brushed her hair. "You’ve got to take it easy, sweetie. Okay? You can’t overexert yourself in your condition."

She sighed in frustration. "Why can’t I have a normal life like a normal teenager?" she asked in a sad mutter.

Both Al and Beth looked at her with knowing sympathy. Al squeezed her hand gently.

"Why don’t you get some sleep, sweetie?" He stood up slowly. "Maybe, in a couple of days, you’ll be well enough to go home."

Christa sighed again. "Okay. Is it okay if I call Alan and let him know I won’t be able to make our date tomorrow?"

Al smiled. "I’ll see what we can do." He kissed her forehead gently. "Get some rest."

Christa nodded gently before Al looked to his wife and indicated that she should follow him out of the room.

Beth stood up at Al’s indication and kissed Christa’s forehead.

"Sweet dreams, honey," she bid her before following Al.

"Okay, Beth," Al said as soon as the door was closed behind them. "What happened?"

Beth exhaled. "She was mowing the lawn."

Al gritted his teeth in frustration. "And you let her?"

Beth frowned at him. "Al Calavicci, you know me better than that. I wasn’t even home. I was grocery shopping. When I came home, I found her on her knees, on the front lawn, holding her chest."

"Well, what the hell was she doing mowing the lawn?" Al queried in a loud voice.

"She was trying to help us out."

"By risking her life? By doing something she knows she can’t and shouldn’t do? She has a heart condition, Beth! What the hell was she thinking?"

Beth gently took his hand in hers while touching his cheek with her free hand. "She was probably thinking of how much she loves us. Don’t be so hard on her, Al. She was only trying to be helpful."

Al sighed, closing his eyes. "Well, she can help us out by taking it easy and letting us to the hard work."

"She’s eighteen years old, Al," Beth pointed out. "Old enough to vote, to move out, to go to war…"

"Please, don’t remind me," he put in.

"She doesn’t want to be cooped up in the house all day. She has had very few friends since the incident and she likes helping us out. You can’t expect her to just do nothing."

Al exhaled in frustration of his own helplessness. "I wish she wasn’t so damn stubborn," he complained.

Beth smiled at him gently. "Like father, like daughter. She’ll be all right, Al. She just needs a little rest." She kissed him gently on the lips. "And so do you. You wear yourself out, Al. You should take it easy more often."

"Easier said than done, Beth," he pointed out.

"I know," she said gently. She took his hand again. "But now is a good time to rest. The leap is over so you don’t have to worry about Sam. Just spend some time with Christa. She needs her father."

Al nodded slowly before kissing Beth’s forehead. "You are a truly remarkable woman, Beth Calavicci."

She smiled at him gently as he went back into the infirmary room.

Al slowly returned to the bed and sat beside it, watching the slumbering teenager under its covers. Christa had once been such a beautiful girl. Her bright brown eyes had shown off her curly brown hair and rosy cheeks. Most importantly, she had been so innocent, evil being only something found on television shows she didn’t even watch. She was never interested in those crime shows; her favorite show was the Disney "Avonlea" series.

However, shortly after the Calavicci’s had a family picture taken together, Christa’s innocence was lost after the incident that had cost them all dearly. The physical and emotional scars that Christa now bore had been placed on her purposefully. Al was glad that his little girl couldn’t remember the details of what had happened. Knowing that it had happened was enough to make the coldest heart shudder.

He brushed her hair gently, thankful that the act didn’t wake her.

"Sweet dreams, honey," he whispered lovingly. "And never forget that it’s what’s on the inside that counts." He bit his lip and forced back his emotion of sympathy for the girl.

Christa continued to sleep soundly, her head snuggled against the bed pillow so that her scarred face showed under the dim fluorescent lighting.
 

PART ONE 
 

Albuquerque, New Mexico

September 5, 1996

"Please, let us go!" the voice pleaded from behind the door. "Please! We haven’t done anything wrong!"

Sam Beckett slowly walked towards the door, uncertain of the situation in which he suddenly found himself. The voice sounded very frightened, almost alarmingly so. Sam was almost certain that he had heard that voice somewhere before and that alone, along with the padlocked door in front of him, gave him a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach that told him the whole situation was very wrong.

As Sam came closer to the door, it shook as something pounded it hard from the other side, causing Sam to jump backwards with surprise.

"Let us out!" another voice screamed from the other side. "You don’t know who you are dealing with! My father is a very important man! If you don’t let us go right now, you’ll regret it!"

Sam started for the door again, ready to obey the demand. He had to be there to release those children – he was certain that they were children – and he didn’t see a reason why he shouldn’t do exactly that.

"I thought I told you to keep those brats quiet!" another voice growled angrily from behind him as he heard the sounds of harsh footsteps. The owner of the voice grazed past him, shoulders touching, before roughly opening the door of the room in which the children were being held captive.

The redheaded woman, who for a moment Sam could have sworn had blonde hair, grabbed a nearby object before entering the room. A moment later, Sam heard screams and crying, causing him to instinctively hurry towards the door.

"Shut the hell up!" the woman shouted at them. "Unless you really want me to hurt you!" She stormed out of the room, blocking Sam from entering in the process.

Sam had barely had a chance to look into the room, much less enter it, but what he saw through the closing door was enough to shock him from moving.

The room was small, windowless, and completely barren of any comforts. But what really caught his eyes and tore at his heart was the girl. She was raising herself from the floor, her eyes streaming with tears. Her cheeks were bleeding from cuts she had received and her clothes were splotched with blood. She looked directly at Sam with intense pleading.

"Uncle Sam! Please!" she cried out as the door shut and was locked from the outside.

"Oh, geezus!" Sam whispered appalled by the situation - especially since he was certain he knew the girl who had called out to him.

The woman turned towards him with a glare, her eyes flaming with such intense hatred. No, not hatred, Sam corrected his thoughts. Evil. Intense evil. He shuddered involuntarily at her glare, certain that he had seen that glare in those eyes before.

She spoke slowly and intensely, making shivers go up Sam’s spine. "You may look like him but don’t you dare start acting like him. We have a job to do and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you ruin it because you suddenly caught his conscience." She looked at him carefully. "You’ve dyed your hair like I told you. Good. The more you look like him, the better." She looked directly into his eyes, causing yet another shiver to go up Sam’s spine. "I thought you said you couldn’t wear contacts."

"I guess they don’t irritate me as much as I thought they would," Sam replied, forcing his voice not to quiver in fear. He wasn’t sure why he was afraid but he somehow knew that he had to make sure he didn’t get on this woman’s bad side, especially when he had no absolutely clear idea why he was there other than to free those girls.

She huffed slightly. "I’m returning to bed. Keep them quiet," she ordered, her accent distinctively British to Sam. She forced an object in his hand. "Put it away," she ordered plainly. With that, she turned and walked away down the hallway.

Sam waited until she was out of sight before he looked at the object she had given him. He frowned at it as he flicked a switch, causing a small bolt of electricity to spring from one metal prong to another. A taser, he realized. His eyes widened in horror. She used a taser on those children?! "Geezus!" he whispered, quickly putting the taser on the small table where the woman had procured it. He took several quick steps from the table, as if trying to distance himself from the electrical device.

‘I have to get those children out of here!’ he thought with desperate determination. He quickly examined the padlocked door. It didn’t take very long for him to realize that he wouldn’t be able to open the door without a key and that the key was in the possession of the redheaded British woman.

He could here the murmur of voices from the other side of the door and he leaned close to it to hear what was being said. What he heard tore at his heart.

"Oh, gawd! We’re going to die! We’re going to die!" one girl cried with fear. To Sam’s surprise, it was the voice of the girl who had spoken strongly about her father’s influence.

"It’ll be okay," the other girl, the one Sam was sure he knew, spoke gently. "You know, any minute now, my dad will send the cavalry to save us. I know he will." She spoke bravely but her voice also held a hint of confusion.

"Your own uncle didn’t!" the response came.

"He’s not my real uncle, Leslie," the voice was filling with hatred. "He’s not related at all. In fact… I hate him."

Sam pulled away from the door in shock. ‘She called out to me and yet she hates me?’

"She doesn’t hate you, Sam," a raspy voice, filled with sadness, replied to his thoughts. "She’s just angry and confused, not surprising given the circumstances."

Sam had been unprepared for the voice and had to stop himself from jumping in shock. He turned to the source and looked at the Observer with confusion mixed with concern.

"What the hell is going on, Al?" he asked with a shaky voice. "Two girls locked in a room and a red-headed woman with a taser…"

Al winced at the last word, not surprised to hear it but nonetheless appalled. "Yeah, I know." He frowned after a second. "Wait a minute. The woman who kidnapped the girls was a blonde," he said with conviction.

"Well, this woman is a red-head and I think she’s British or Australian or something and she had these… eyes," he said the last word with a shiver.

"What eyes?" Al questioned cautiously. 

"They’re…" Sam searched for the proper word to describe them. "Evil," he finally said, shivering again. "I swear she actually enjoyed hurting those children."

Al closed his eyes tightly, swallowing down fear and anger. "Are the girls okay?" he asked in a whisper.

Sam pursed his lips. "I don’t know." He looked towards the locked door. "I can’t get in there to find out. But they’re really scared. I know that much. One of them… we made eye contact and…" He forced himself not to cry at the memory. "She called out to me, Al. She begged me to help her and I… I couldn’t move. I wanted to help her, Al, but I couldn’t." His voice was filled with shame for his previous inability to act.

Al swallowed tightly, unsure what to say to his friend. He knew giving him assurances was pointless; they wouldn’t help Sam’s conscience. Neither would Al remain silent; that would make him seem cold to his friend’s feelings and to the situation. 

Al took a deep breath, readying his thoughts into words.

"Sam, you may have saved her life and yours by not doing anything," he told him gently.

"How? By letting that woman torture her?" Sam retaliated with force, not raising his voice.

Al winced strongly, more from the words than the tone. 

"I think I know her, Al," Sam continued, pacing slightly as the soft sound of crying seeped through the door. "I’ve seen her before but I can’t remember where or when." He looked at his partner with force. "And she called me by name, Al!"

"What did she say?" Al whispered, trying to keep his voice from quivering.

"She said ‘Uncle Sam! Please!’ She knew who I really was, Al! She knew me! And I didn’t help her!"

Al took a breath. "You’re not listening to me, Sam," he told him pointedly when he noticed the scientist was still on his guilt-trip. "If you had tried to help her, that woman might have killed her. It’s a good thing you didn’t help her, Sam. It gave you both time to figure out how to get out of this hell." He took a deep breath, something still nagging at his mind. "Sam, are you sure the woman was red-headed?"

Sam turned at Al with disbelief. "What matter does it make? Those girls…."

"May be in more danger than before," Al interrupted firmly. "Is she a red-head?"

"She is definitely a red-head and she definitely has a British accent," Sam told him, frustrated with Al’s seemingly pointless persistence.

Al’s face became a clear picture of fear and near panic. "Dear God, please, tell me I’m wrong," he prayed as he punched buttons on the handlink.

The sight of his friend being so frightened caused Sam to ignore his own feelings. He took a step towards Al while frowning with concern. "Al?"

"Oh, gawd!" Al whispered, his eyes staring at the handlink, at the information Ziggy was providing him. "It wasn’t supposed to happen! All these years, all the therapy sessions, all the pain and it didn’t even happen originally!" He couldn’t stop the tears from finding their ways down his left cheek. "They did it to her to get to me! To hurt me! To punish me for things I hadn’t even done yet!"

Sam frowned strongly with confusion and concern. Al wasn’t making much sense to him, seeming to act irrationally. It scared Sam greatly. 

"Al, what are you talking about?" he questioned firmly, commanding Al’s attention.

Al looked at him with tear-filled eyes. "The girl is my daughter, Sam! And the woman is a leaper!"
 
 

PART TWO

Sam found that he was having trouble standing, his legs buckling from underneath him. He backed away from Al and found support by leaning against the nearest wall.

"Christa," he whispered painfully.

Al closed his eyes at the single word. "You remember her."

"She’s… she’s my godchild. She was the only one of your girls who called me Uncle Sam."

"She IS the only daughter who calls you that," Al corrected. "She isn’t dead, Sam!" He spoke with a hint of anger.

Sam closed his eyes tightly. "I’m sorry," he said genuinely. "What happened?"

Al bit his lip to control the rage that was building. "The bastards used her affection for you to kidnap her and Leslie." He took a shaky breath. "They torture Christa to show what they would do to Leslie if her father didn’t pay their ransom." He was crying now, obviously on the verge of breaking down completely. "All Beth and I knew was that the girls were missing and being held captive by a wacko. That bastard of a Senator never even told us what the kidnappers were doing to Christa." He wiped his cheeks quickly of the salty tears that adorned them. "When we finally got her back, Christa suffered constant health problems. Still does. Not to mention the suicide attempts she made."

"Oh, gawd!" Sam exclaimed in shock.

Al took a slow breath, trying to regain himself. "Lately, it’s been her heart. I tell her not to over-exert herself but she just doesn’t listen. This is the second heart attack she’s had since all this happened."

Sam’s eyes widened with fright, as if hearing about the suicide attempts wasn’t enough to shock him. "She’s had a heart attack? Is she okay?"

Al exhaled. "The doc says she just needs some rest. But, damn it, Sam! She doesn’t deserve this just because of me!"

Sam stood erect and looked directly into Al’s eyes. "I’ll get her out of here, Al. I promise."

Al nodded his head to Sam’s words, sure of his partner’s promise.

"Al," Sam continued after a moment. "Is Christa… mentally handicapped?" he asked gently.

Al looked at him with shock. "What? No! What the hell gave you that idea?"

Sam looked at him, worried about how Al would react. "She could see me as myself."

Al exhaled with understanding. "Sam, I think you should look in a mirror."

Sam blinked for a moment, slowly walking down the hallway, afraid of leaving the locked door. It was then that he realized he couldn’t hear anything coming from the other side of the door.

"They cried themselves to sleep," Al explained with sad eyes. "Go look in the mirror."

Sam nodded and walked down the hallway. He appeared to be in a small, dirty house. The floor was marked with footprints that broke the dust overlay. The hallway had three doors on its sides. One, on his left side, was shut, obviously the room in which the other leaper was now sleeping. One of the doors on his right led to a small bedroom, which only had a cot and a table in it. The other led to a bathroom, the only room that seemed to be taken care of lately.

He entered the bathroom and turned to look at himself in the mirror. The sight caused him to stumble backwards in shock as he forced himself not to scream.

"Uncanny, isn’t it?" Al said without humor.

"Oh, my gawd!" Sam said, forcing himself not to speak too loudly for fear of waking the sleeping leaper. He took slow steps to the mirror and touched its sleek surface as confirmation of what he was seeing.

"You’ve leaped into Kim Harper, a convicted rapist who was hired for this scheme to ransom Senator Brackenhein’s daughter, Leslie Brackenhein, for $2.5 million."

"Leslie Brackenhein," Sam said quietly. "I know that name."

"She was Christa’s best friend. The idea was to get her to go with a friendly face – yours." Al took a breath. "They say everyone has a twin somewhere in the world. Looks like yours is Kim Harper."

"And Christa thinks Kim’s me," Sam said with shock.

Al nodded. "It’s only after all this is over that she realizes she was duped by this nozzle. Thus, the various emotional problems and the suicide attempts."

Sam looked carefully in the mirror. Kim Harper certainly looked very much like him. The hair was a bit too dark, the eyes were brown instead of hazel green, and the chin wasn’t quite right but Sam knew that, with a little hair dye and some contact lenses, it would be hard for anyone to tell the difference between him and Kim Harper. He could see that there had once been dye in Kim’s hair but it had been washed out.

"Al, does Harper wear contacts? I mean, did he wear contacts when…" He let the meaning of his question be understood by Al without having to say the words.

Al shook his head. "No. Not once. He’s allergic to them."

Sam got a thoughtful look on his face as he left the bathroom to return to the locked door. "Who’s the woman?" he asked.

Al froze. "The red-head or the blonde?"

"Both, actually," Sam replied. "The blond first."

Al took another breath, putting his hands in his pockets. "Francine Raoul. Called Francie. The way I remember it, she was the one who cooked up this scheme and she’s the one who hired Kim to impersonate you. According to Ziggy, in the original history before that other leaper changed it all, Francie never got into any kind of seriously illegal activities, just an occasional tiff with the law. And Harper had changed his life around instead of breaking his parole. Originally, he too only had a few tiffs, most of them speeding tickets."

"And the red-head?" Sam asked with trepidation.

Al was quiet with that question. "Ziggy isn’t sure. She’s still trying to figure out how you could see her without having touched her."

"We did touch," Sam said with realization, the thoughtful look still in his eyes. "She brushed my shoulder when she was going to…" He swallowed slightly. "I don’t think she noticed. She seemed to think that Harper finally dyed his hair and put in contacts to look like me."

"Good," Al said firmly. "The longer she thinks you’re Harper, the better. Then maybe we can end this nightmare as soon as possible before Christa really gets hurt." He looked towards the locked door and swallowed. "I’m… umm… I’m going to go back and see if we can’t figure out how to end this." He punched the exit code into the handlink. Before stepping through the Imaging Chamber door, he looked at Sam gently. "Take care of the girls, will you, Sam?"

Sam nodded gently in return. "I will. I promise."

A moment later, Al disappeared into the future, leaving Sam alone guarding the girls’ makeshift prison.

"Rise and shine, sweet cheeks! Mmm! That’s one fine looking aura you have there!"

She glared at the black man as she rolled out of the bed, showing off her perfectly shaped body. If it hadn’t been for the aura of Francine Raoul, which was practically flawless in every way, one would have seen a noticeably large scar across her abdomen. The scar ran from the bottom of her ribcage and ended just short of her belly button. She considered it a battle scar, something to drive her towards her ultimate goal.

"Enjoying the view? I thought having the real thing in the Holding Chamber would help quench the lust in your eyes," she commented to the black man as she readied to shower.

"With your aura surrounding her? Don’t get me wrong, baby. You’re a treat for the eyes but… I enjoy perfection."

She turned on him with a much stronger glare. "I had been perfect once, until Beckett spoiled our operations. Speaking of which, how is our look-alike doing?"

"The last I saw him, he was sitting by the room, looking too sad to bear," he told her, his voice feigning sympathy. "You know, Zoë, I don’t think he is as into this idea as he used to be."

She huffed. "If he ever really was." She walked out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, glancing towards the locked door to see Harper leaning against the door, asleep. She frowned slightly. The fact that he was asleep didn’t bother her as much as how he was sleeping. His position indicated that he was trying to keep something out of the room rather than something in. He looked protective rather than malevolent. She didn’t like that look one bit. There was something else as well that she couldn’t put her finger on – something about what happened last night between them.

"Thames," she said in a commanding voice as she stepped towards the shower. "I want you to keep an eye on Harper. There’s something definitely different about him. Also, keep an eye on the Calavicci girl. If she is anything like her father, she is going to be trouble."

"What about Brackenhein?" Thames asked. "What are you planning for her?"

She gave a half-smile as she turned on the shower, checking its temperature. "Nothing."

His eyes widened slightly. "Nothing? What about your mission?"

She glared at him. "I haven’t forgotten the mission. That doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fun while I’m at it. Think about it, Thames. We have Calavicci’s daughter. We have a practical twin of Dr. Beckett. Who says we even have to touch Brackenhein to get her father to pay $2.5 million for her release?" She smiled wickedly. "No, I think Christa Calavicci’s screams will be sufficient to make the Senator surrender the money if he believes that his daughter would undergo the same treatment if he doesn’t."

Thames smiled with admiration. "And I wondered why Lothos was so adamant about saving your life. Zoë, baby, you are an absolute genius." He moved closer to her, his holographic body centimeters behind her. He put his head closer to hers, his lips beside her ear. "I can’t wait to see what you do to her."

She gave a thin smile. "Go watch Harper," she ordered gently.

He stepped away from her, a sly grin on his face. "As you wish." Slowly, he lifted the pyramid-shaped handlink and pressed some buttons before disappearing.

Stallion Springs, New Mexico

September 5, 1996

If it were possible to feel more helpless, Al Calavicci didn’t know how. He paced nervously in his living room, having already checked out every possibility he could think of but getting only negative results. It was hard enough dealing with his own daughter’s disappearance without Senator Brackenhein accusing him and Christa of causing Leslie’s disappearance as well. To Brackenhein, Christa’s "bad" influence was the catalyst to the girls’ disappearance and, therefore, Al was responsible because of Christa’s "lack of discipline". It took everything Al had not to go to the Senator’s house and knock the arrogant man senseless.

Beth watched as her husband paced, her own eyes filled with worry. Of the two of them, she was the one that tended to stay calm under pressure, mostly due to the years of stress she endured as a nurse and mother. However, it was hard for her to stay calm now when her youngest child was who-knew-where, possibly hurt or, God forbid, dead.

She walked slowly up to Al and guided him to the couch to sit, unable to handle watching him pace anymore. 

"What are we going to do, Al? I feel so utterly helpless." She leaned her head onto his shoulder as Al wrapped an arm around her waist.

Al sighed gently. "I know you do. Me too."

"Christa doesn’t just get lost," Beth stated firmly, her voice edging towards hysteria. "She would call. She’d tell us where she was. Something’s happened to her!"

Al held her a little more tightly, gently shushing her back to calmness. "Everything will be okay, Beth. The police will find both her and Leslie and they’ll be all right."

They were both quiet, holding each other even as the phone rang. The moment it did, Al hurried to answer it.

"Admiral Calavicci?" a garbled voice spoke over the receiver.

Al got a knot in his stomach. He had a very bad feeling all of a sudden, especially when the person on the other end of the line disguised his voice. Her voice. Al wasn’t sure which.

"Yes," he said carefully, his attention focused on the voice.

"Do nothing to find your daughter and she will be returned to you once we have finished with her. I know you have already called the police. Call them off."

Al frowned at the words, anger growing on his features. "You want me to give up on her?! I can’t do that! She’s my daughter, for God’s sake!"

"If you do not do as we say, your daughter will not survive what we will do to her. I trust your love for her will help you to make the right decision." With that, the phone line went dead.

Al slowly hung up the phone, shaking physically from the conversation.

Beth was already at his side. "What did they say?" she demanded. When Al didn’t answer immediately, she repeated the demand, this time with much more force.

Al swallowed before he slowly recounted the brief conversation to her. She took a step back in emotional shock.

"Oh, gawd! Oh, my gawd! They’re going to kill her!" She started to scream her words, repeating them and pulling at her hair viciously.

Al quickly yet carefully removed her hands from their assault on her hair before holding her firmly by the shoulders.

"Beth, don’t get hysterical," he ordered. "Calm down." Yet right. You too, Al.

"Calm down?! She’s our baby!"

"I know," Al whispered painfully. "And we want her back alive. We’ll just have to do as they say. Don’t worry, Beth. We’ll get her back. I promise."

"How can you be sure?" she whispered with fear in her voice.

Al merely hugged her tightly. "Because I have to be."
  

PART THREE

Project Quantum Leap

Stallion’s Gate, New Mexico

May 30, 2000

Al smiled gently as he stepped into the infirmary room where his daughter lay sleeping. Not wanting to wake her, he watched her sleep, her chest gently moving up and down as she breathed. Even as he watched, though, his eyes showed great and painful sadness, compelling him to slowly approach the bed. He sat carefully beside her on the bed, examining her features. 

Christa rolled on her side, unconsciously showing her scars to her father. The right side of her face showed evidence of being burned in such a way that only a madman or, in this case, a madwoman was capably of inflicting such on a child. It had taken over a year for her eyebrow to grow back though her eyelashes never really did. Her right eye had been removed due to the damage it had received from the burning, the original being replaced with a false eye that almost perfectly matched her left eye. 

Her short curly hair had once been scorched off, the traces still evident at her hairline. For nearly a year, she had had to wear a wig to cover her baldhead. It had taken longer than that, though, for her to cope with what had happened to her. Even now, Al could see the emotional scars whenever he looked into her bright brown eye. Every time he saw those scars, both physical and emotional, Al felt a surge of anger for the people who had turned Christa’s life upside down just to get an arrogant bastard of a Senator to pay a ransom.

Now, his anger was far worse than it had ever been before because he now knew that her injuries were an act of revenge against him. Zoë – he was certain it had to be her; he could think of no other leaper who could want revenge on him – didn’t even have the courage to confront him face to face. 

Christa moaned as she flinched, her face distorting slightly. Al took a shaky breath. He knew when someone was in the thralls of a nightmare. He slowly started to stroke her hair as she shuddered and moaned again, fear in every move and sound she made.

"It’s okay, sweetie. It’s over," he assured her. "They can’t hurt you anymore." But his mind questioned whether he was certain that was the truth.

"Daddy! Help me!" she pleaded in her unconscious unrest as she began to thrash with the blankets that covered her. She screamed loudly, as if in agony.

Al acted without really thinking, his paternal instincts kicking into high gear. He took her quickly into his arms and spoke loudly and with repressed panic.

"Christa, wake up! Wake up, sweetie! It’s just a dream! It’s all over!" He repeated his words over and over until, finally, she shuddered physically as her eyes snapped open. She screamed in terror of the nightmare before succumbing to sobs, holding Al tightly.

"Daddy!" she cried, her mind still like a twelve-year-old due to the intensity of the dream. "Look what they did to me!"

Al gazed at her with sympathy, grazing his hand across her left cheek. "I know, sweetie. I know."

Tears rolled down her left cheek, brushing past Al’s hand. "I’m going to die before I’m thirty and I’ll always be a freak!"

Al gently took her whole face in his hands. "Christa, you are not a freak."

"Yes, I am!" she insisted. "I’m a one-eyed, leather-faced freak! I wish I were dead!"

Al pulled her into a tight hug to make her stop screaming. "Christa. Listen to me. I don’t know what brought this up so suddenly after all this time but you are not a freak. Do you hear me? You. Are. Not. A. Freak. You are my daughter and a beautiful human being. Are you listening to me?" When she nodded slowly against his shoulder, Al could tell she was now calm enough to think a little more rationally. He rubbed her back gently. "Honey, you haven’t had a nightmare in a long time. Something happened to bring it on and make you so angry. What happened, sweetie?"

She hugged Al tightly. "Alan… dumped me," she sniffled. "He said the only reason he went out with me in the first place was because his friends bet him that he wouldn’t take out the class freak," she said the words with tears in her voice. "That’s what he said, Dad. He called me the class freak."

"Oh, sweetheart," Al whispered sadly. "I’m so sorry."

She sobbed into his shoulder. "I hate my life! I hate it!"

He rubbed her back again, slowly and steadily. "Christa, sweetie, let me tell you something. Alan and his friends are idiots. They don’t know you. In fact, they don’t deserve to know you."

Christa adjusted her head so that it laid face-out on his shoulder. "I’m just tired, Dad," she said plainly. "I’m tired of having to struggle my way through this world. I’m tired of the taunts and the insults. I’m tired of the medications I have to take every day. I’m tired of it all, Dad."

Al was silently for a moment. He understood the feelings all too well. What frightened him was that he knew, just by his own experiences, that Christa was, once again, seriously considering suicide.

"Do me a favor," he said gently as he separated her from him. He looked into her eyes, both false and biological. "Hang in there for me. Okay? Don’t let go of hope."

After a second, Christa nodded slowly. Having gotten his answer, Al slowly stood, giving her a wide smile. He bent down and kissed her forehead with great affection.

"I love you," he stated with all of his heart.

"I love you too, Dad," Christa answered, her voice devoid of much feeling other than depression, her hands clutched tightly.

Al watched her for a second before slowly leaving the room. Once outside the infirmary, he leaned against a wall and rubbed his hands slowly across his face, trying to remain calm and composed despite the situation. After a moment, he looked up towards the ceiling.

"Please, God, help her," he begged, on the verge of tears.
 
 

Albuquerque, New Mexico

September 6, 1995

Sam woke due to the feel of a boot kicking at his ribs with a hint of aggression but not enough of one to cause damage to said ribs. He quickly looked up at his assailant as he sat up against the door. The woman looked down at him with a frown, obviously annoyed.

"What’s wrong?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm and unsuspicious.

Zoë gave him a slight, un-amused smile. "What’s wrong?" she repeated the question for clarification. Without waiting for an answer, she continued. "You’re here to do a job, Harper, not to sleep when the prisoners could possibly escape."

Sam frowned at her. "They’re children."

Zoë huffed. "And what if one of those children’s fathers came in to rescue them? We would both go to prison, especially you. I doubt the parole board looks kindly on rapists that break their parole and ransom children for $2.5 million." She gestured her head upwards. "Go get something to eat," she ordered. "And don’t take too long. We need supplies and I want to make sure those brats are well-secured before I leave."

Sam stood up, noting what she had told him. ‘This could be my chance,’ he thought. If I could get the children out of here while she’s away… However, he knew that things rarely came about so easily, especially with an adversary out to ruin Christa’s and Leslie’s lives. With just a brief nod of acknowledgement, he walked away from the door. He wasn’t comfortable with leaving this woman guarding the children but neither did he want to bring up her suspicions.

"Hi, Sam," a female voice said somberly as he entered the kitchen.

Sam jumped in shock and quickly turned to see the source of the voice, fearing for a moment that it could have been the Evil Leaper. Who he saw, however, made him even more afraid.

"Verbena?" he questioned with shock. "Where’s Al?"

The usually very calm and composed psychiatrist looked like she was on the verge of bursting into tears at his words.

"He’s in the infirmary," she said quietly, biting her lip.

Sam swallowed tightly, afraid of what the problem could be. "What happened?" he asked quietly.

Verbena took a quick breath, swallowing slightly. "It’s Christa," she continued in the same tone as before. "She’s… She somehow got hold of some Valium and…" She closed her eyes tightly. "She’s dead, Sam," she said with tears in her voice. 

"What?" Sam whispered with disbelief. "She can’t be." He quickly searched for a chair to sit in, his legs unable to hold his own weight anymore.

"She… she swallowed enough pills to make her heart stop completely. Dr. Nath tried to get her heart started again but he couldn’t. Al…" 

"Oh, gawd!" Sam whispered in pain. "No!" He buried his face into his hands, hiding his tears from the world around him.

Verbena took a shaky breath. "I’m sorry, Sam," she whispered, wishing she could wrap her arms around him to give him the physical comfort that they both needed.

Both remained silent for a few moments, allowing themselves a time to mourn before they had to focus on hardening themselves for the task they had to complete.

"What about Al and Beth?" Sam finally asked, his voice croaking with sheer sorrow.

Verbena swallowed, thinking how to respond. "Neither are doing well. Beth refuses to leave Christa’s side. She… she’s an emotional wreck. Al… he blames himself for what happened." She hesitated a moment, hating to tell Sam just how bad things were. "He’s in an infirmary bed. When he found out what happened, he passed out."

Sam looked at her with wide and worried eyes. "Passed out?"

Verbena closed her eyes painfully. "He’s delirious, Sam. He insists that it didn’t happen and that it’s all his fault." She shook her head. "He’s not making any sense at all and it’s scaring everyone half to death, especially Beth." She took a calming breath. "I think that… that the changing timelines are affecting his sense of reality. Ziggy told me all of the histories concerning this date and I understand the confusion and hurt Al is in now."

Sam carefully wiped his tears from his eyes. "Tell me how to get Christa and Leslie out of here," he said with determination.

"Sam…" she started, obviously deeply concerned about his emotional state, foregoing her own feelings on the matter.

"’Bena, I can keep Christa’s suicide from happening," he took her gently. "It all started here, when she was kidnapped. She was traumatized by her kidnap, wasn’t she?" he stated more than asked.

Verbena just looked at him with a frown. She couldn’t understand how Sam could think of the leap giving the circumstances.

Sam looked at her sadly. "What’s happening here affected Christa, caused her to have emotional problems and even caused her to become suicidal." He swallowed. "I need to get her out of here before she’s hurt like she was by that other leaper."

"Zoë," Verbena whispered. "Ziggy says that it’s Zoë."

Sam looked at her as firmly as he could, given his emotional state. "Verbena, how do I get the girls out of here?"

Verbena took a breath, forcing herself to check the handlink for the information that Sam needed.

"We’re not sure you can without endangering your own life," she told him gently.

"Forget about me being in danger!" Sam insisted firmly. "How do I get those girls out of here?" He took a breath. "Zoë mentioned she was going to pick up supplies. What about when she leaves?"

"You’ll need the key," Verbena pointed out. "And it’s probably on Zoë at all times."

Sam shook his head. "Forget the key, then. Just what are the chances of the girls getting away from here if I can get that door open?"

Verbena pushed some buttons to find the answer. "Ninety-seven percent. But, Sam, the chance of you getting that door open without a key is only thirty-one percent and then chance of you not being caught in the act is lower than that."

Sam looked at her firmly. "And what are the chances of me getting that key off of Zoë and successfully using it?"

Verbena sighed. "We’d better find a way to open that door without a key, then," she commented.

Sam nodded in agreement, standing from the table. "Why don’t you look around and see if there’s anything around here I could use to get that lock off. I have to go back on guard duty before Zoë becomes suspicious."

Verbena nodded. "Good luck, Sam," she wished, her eyes damp with sorrow for all that had happened that day.

"You too, Verbena," Sam replied. He took a breath. "Tell Al… tell Al I’m sorry." He bit his lip, forcing himself to control the urge to cry at his loss.

"Good news and bad news, darling," Thames said silkily as he appeared at Zoë’s side.

Zoë turned from the door, key in hand, obviously prepared to enter the room to start really working on her mission. She looked at her associate, waiting silently for him to continue.

"I tailed Harper like you requested. He is at this very moment having a conversation with an invisible person. Seems your suspicions were warranted. Harper is really Dr. Beckett."

Zoë gave a wicked smile. "I knew it! It will be a pleasure to have revenge at last."

"There’s more, love," Thames put it before she could continue. "Seems that Admiral Calavicci is out of commission some time in the future. Dr. Beckett is speaking to someone named Verbena. We’re assuming that this is the delectable Dr. Beeks. Apparently, the Admiral is in the midst of a family crisis. Christa Calavicci has just committed suicide."

Zoë chuckled with glee. "Oh, this is just too good!"

"However…" Thames began, interrupting Zoë. "Dr. Beckett knows that you’re Francine Raoul and is determined to stop you from hurting poor little Christa. I should warn you, Zoë. There is nothing more dangerous than a wounded animal and you have severely wounded Dr. Beckett."

Zoë looked at Thames pointedly. "There is also nothing easier to kill. I have both Beckett and Calavicci where I want them – helpless and desperate." She gave Thames a smile. "Relax, Thames. One way or the other, it all ends here."

"And if it ends for you rather than Beckett?"

"Then, at the very least, I won’t be leaping anymore."
 
 

PART FOUR

When Sam returned to the guard station, the first thing he noticed was that the door was open. Immediately, his suspicions and concerns were aroused. He slowly made his way to the door, watchful for the now missing Zoë. There was no indication, however, that Zoë was anywhere near the area.

He slowly entered the dark room only to find a blonde-haired girl shivering with fear in a corner.

"Leslie?" Sam asked gently, afraid of scaring the girl further than she already was.

She didn’t answer, watching him with frightened eyes.

"It’s okay," he assured as he lowered himself to look less intimidating. "I won’t hurt you. I’m here to help you. I promise I’ll get you out of here."

She hesitated to speak for a moment. "And Christa?" she asked with concern.

Sam nodded slowly, even though a sense of urgency ran through him. "And Christa. Where is Christa, Leslie?"

She hesitated again, obviously afraid she might be punished for answering the question. "She took her," she said plainly.

Sam’s heart and throat tightened at her response but he forced calmness in his voice.

"Do you know where she took her?" 

Leslie shook her head, afraid to speak.

Sam took a breath. "Okay, Leslie. I want you to do something for me." He searched himself and found a pen in his shirt pocket. He slowly pulled it out. "I’m going to write a phone number on your hand. I want you to go into the living room and call this number." He gently took her hand and wrote the number on the back of it, thankful he hadn’t Swiss-cheesed it for this leap. "Ask for Admiral Calavicci. That’s Christa’s dad, remember? Tell him everything you can. Okay, Leslie?"

She hesitated before she nodded and stood to obey. She stopped for a moment and looked at Sam. "You’re not Christa’s uncle, are you?" she stated more than asked. 

Sam swallowed and shook his head. "No. I’m not Sam Beckett," he lied, knowing that, when he leaped, it would be the truth.

Having gotten her answer, Leslie hurried to obey, not questioning her captor’s change of heart.

"Ziggy’s trying to find Christa," Verbena provided without being asked, having centered on Sam during his brief conversation. "She’s having a little difficulty due to some kind of electrical interference." Her voice was filled with concern.

"They’re blocking our search and lock," Sam surmised, remembering that he and Al had once done the same trick to Zoë when they were rescuing Alia. "Can Ziggy break through the interference?"

"She’s trying," Verbena answered, pushing buttons with desperation. "The only thing she can come up with is that she’s with Zoë and that they’ve left the house."

Sam hurried out of the room and stepped outside. He had seen a car outside of the kitchen window before. The car was now gone. There was no indication of another source of transportation.

"Damn it!" he exclaimed. There’s no way I can catch up with them now! he thought grimly. Nonetheless, he immediately started to search for a means to stop Zoë.

The phone call had definitely caught his attention as he drove towards Albuquerque in his desperate search. Despite what the kidnappers had told him, Al Calavicci refused to let the whole situation just lie. His exact words to his wife were "I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit here and just hope for the best. I’ve got to do something."

And so that was what he was doing – something. He knew there was only a one in a million chance that he could find Christa by just stumbling across her but he needed something to help him feel as if he had some kind of control with the situation, even if it was a futile act.

The phone call, however, changed everything. Ziggy had patched it through to him, telling him that is was Leslie Brackenhein. He had listened to everything the girl had said with interest and controlled impatience, trying to keep Leslie calm while at the same time keeping himself calm. At least he knew Christa was alive still. And he knew that Ziggy was tracing the call as the two spoke. 

What he had hoped, however, was not to be. Christa was no longer where Leslie was. She had been taking by a woman away from the house to God knows where. The news almost made Al scream.

For now, though, the only thing Al could think of was to get to the house where Leslie was. Perhaps there was some kind of clue there as to where this woman had taken Christa and why.

As he came closer to Albuquerque, he began to pass a familiar road. He had often taken the road with Christa to a little hideaway only she and he knew about. He couldn’t wait to take her up that road again so that they could sit on the rocks and tell stories to each other, so that Al could enjoy time with his youngest daughter without being disturbed by the real world.

Something nagged at the back of his brain as he passed the road and continued towards Albuquerque. He wasn’t sure what it was. Beth would have called it a sixth sense reaction. Al would have called it his guts telling him something. But, either way, he knew he had to turn back. He had to go up that road without his daughter for a change.

Because, if he didn’t, he would never go up that road with her again.

Sam had somehow got the old, worn-out Buick started and on the road, following Verbena's guidance. They now had a general idea of which direction Zoë had gone with Christa and they also knew that, with a few shortcuts, they could take some time off of the distance they had between them and their adversary.

"How far?" Sam demanded of the psychiatrist.

She hit the handlink with her palm, almost in a strange imitation of Al. "You’re about ten minutes away from them now. But this car isn’t handling the stress of this highway very well. If we don’t slow down, it’ll overheat in no time at all."

"And if I slow down, Christa could die," Sam said firmly, pushing harder on the gas pedal. "I can’t let her hurt her, Verbena. I can’t."

Verbena nodded with understanding and agreement. "Then I’ll start praying that this thing keeps running until we get to her."

There was silence between them for a moment as Sam tried to push the car to its limits.

"Do you think Ziggy has enough information that you could go be with her?" Sam finally asked gently.

Verbena hesitated a moment before nodding. "She’s breaking through the block. She has a lock on her. You have to leave the city." She took a breath. "I’ll go keep an eye on her for you," she told him gently.

Sam nodded. "Thanks, ‘Bena," he whispered.

She gave him a gentle smile before disappearing.
 
 

Christa struggled with the ropes that dug into her wrists and ankles, trying to scream through the gag that encompassed her mouth. The one thing she desperately wanted at that moment was to cry but she couldn’t find the tears necessary to do that. She also wanted to get out of the car and run. Anything to get away from the woman in the driver’s seat who looked at her with eyes that frightened her more than her father’s when he was angry – and she had considered that very, very frightening.

Zoë smiled at her, her eyes having that gleam which indicated she was anticipating her plans for the child.

"You must calm yourself, Christa," she instructed the girl with round, soft tones that did nothing to sooth. "There’s nowhere to run out here and your pathetic excuse for an uncle is far behind us. He will never catch up in time." She noticed the surprised look on her face. "Oh, I see. You’ve noticed that he doesn’t quite look exactly like your Uncle Sam. He wasn’t Sam Beckett when we kidnapped you but he is now. Didn’t your father ever tell you what he does when he goes to work? Didn’t he ever tell you why Uncle Sam doesn’t visit anymore? No, of course, he didn’t. Top secret government stuff. Can’t take it home to the family. That sort of nonsense when it isn’t as secret as they would like it to be." She smiled yet again at the girl. "Your dear uncle is traveling in time, little girl, and he’s come to your rescue. Unfortunately for you, he’s failed and now…" She carefully brushed her cheek with the knuckle of her right index finger. "Now, my dear child, your father and mother will grieve for a very, very long time."

She moved as far away from her as she could, pressing herself against the door.

Zoë chuckled at her reaction. "Please, Christa, you really don’t believe that that will work, do you? You’re an intelligent child. Surely you know it’s impossible to escape from me now." 

She turned off of the main road and continued for a few miles in silence as they approached their designation. Zoë had chosen this place specifically for this task, knowing that Admiral Calavicci would eventually find his way there. She could almost see him holding the small body in his arm, weeping continuously for the loss of his sweet daughter. It was a beautiful sight in her mind.

After a long while, she finally stopped the car and got out, carefully walking around to open the passenger’s side door.

"Get out," she ordered the girl.

Christa slowly moved her legs out of the car, still seated in it. She couldn’t do much more than that, she found, with her ankles tied as they were.

"Get out," Zoë ordered again. 

Christa looked at her with fear and uncertainty. Surely this woman didn’t think she could move with her legs so.

Zoë growled in anger, grabbing the girl by her shirt and pulling her out of the car, causing her to drop to the ground a few feet away from the car. Zoë slammed the door closed before turning towards the girl.

"I want you to understand this very clearly, Christa. If you disobey me in anyway, I will make sure that you suffer greatly. Your death will be exceedingly painful and you will wish that you had obeyed me from the start. If you do as you are told, I will make sure that it is very quick and painless. Is that understood?"

Until that very moment, Christa had denied the possibility that she could die. However, the look on Zoë’s face convinced her that not only could she die but that she would die. Today. She couldn’t help herself. She began to cry as she had wanted to before, streams of salt water adorning her cheeks, stopped only by the gag in her mouth.

Zoë grinned at her tears. "Excellent. I’m glad we have an understanding." She approached her slowly. "I am going to untie your ankles. If you do anything, remember what I’ve just told you."

Christa was motionless as Zoë untied her ankles, allowing her the chance to move her legs.

"Better," Zoë commented, helping the girl onto her feet. "Let’s go," she ordered. "I think you know where." She forced the girl forward, urging her to lead the way.
       Verbena centered on Christa, watching with worried eyes as she was forced away from the car, her hands still bound and the gag still in its place.

"Hang on, sweetie," she said with a trembling voice. "Sam’s on his way." I pray, she added mentally.

Christa continued her slow march through the rocks and granite, quivering with fright. ‘God, I don’t want to die! Please, help me!’ She sobbed, stopping briefly when her tears kept her from seeing where she was going.

Zoë shoved her back, forcing her forward and causing her to fall face-forward into the gravel.

"I didn’t say you could stop, little girl," she growled. With a quick movement, she grabbed Christa’s hair and raised her forcefully to her feet. "That’s going to cost you, darling." She quickly removed the gag from her lips and untied her hands before taking several steps away. "No matter. I think right here will do nicely," she told the girl as she slowly took out a small pistol from her waistband. "Now, let me think. Where to shoot you first?"

"Please!" Christa cried, shaking uncontrollably. "Please, don’t kill me!"

Zoë chuckled a bit. "And spoil my little present for your father? I don’t think so."

Verbena’s eyes went from one to the other, frantic in her eyes. If Christa died here, now, she would never be able to forgive herself. She would never be able to face the man in the infirmary suffering from an emotional breakdown or to face the woman who was gently coaxing her husband, reminding him that Christa’s death was not his fault.

"God, Sam, where are you?" she pleaded as she looked at the handlink. The odds of Sam getting there before Zoë pulled that trigger were less than twenty percent.

"Perhaps the knee?" Zoë questioned, her head tilted in such a way as to indicate she was asking someone other than Christa. Verbena didn’t doubt that at all. Of course, Zoë’s Observer had to be here to watch this tragedy unfold. 

Thames smiled at the question. "It would be very painful for her."

"What do you think, my dear? Where should I shoot you first?" Zoë asked, turning her attention completely to Christa. 

The girl didn’t say a word, crying loudly, afraid to move and also afraid not to move.

Zoë fired a round at Christa’s feet, causing the girl to scream in fright and jump backwards.

"I asked you a question, Christa!" she demanded.

Christa finally spoke, her voice small and shaking. "I don’t want to die."

Zoë huffed. "Too bad, child." She took her aim at Christa’s heart.

There was a loud bang and Christa screamed again in terror. 

Zoë stood absolutely still for a moment, looking at her Observer with wide eyes of surprise before slumping forward to the hard ground, her face scratching against the gravel. Thames immediately turned around and looked at the source while pushing buttons frantically on his handlink.

Al stood a few feet away, his gun still raised; waiting to make sure that the person he had shot was not going to get up any time soon. At the same time as he lowered the gun, Sam hurried onto the scene, looking with frantic before he realized that it was Al who had fired the shot. Al looked at him quickly, freezing for a moment at the sight before he snapped out of his wonderment and hurried to his daughter’s side.

"Christa!" he said with deep love as he took her into his arms. "Christa, sweetie, are you all right? I was so worried!"

"Daddy!" the girl cried into his shoulder, hugging him tightly.

The two remained in each other’s arms for a long time, causing Sam to smile with great relief. He looked towards the fallen body to see an older Al standing beside Zoë’s still form.

Al gave him a grateful smile. "Thanks, Sam." The hidden tears of joy in his eyes said so much more.

Sam slowly walked towards him, giving him a gentle smile. "Are you okay, Al?"

Al nodded slowly. "I’m okay."

They both turned their attention to the body on the ground. Very slowly, Sam lowered himself and turned Zoë over.

She was still alive but not for long, it seemed. Her eyes roamed the area to see the three figures that surrounded her. Just to her right was Thames, who was still fighting with his handlink to get Lothos to retrieve her before it was too late. Admiral Calavicci stood at a slight distance at her feet, looking at her with disdain and obviously waiting for her end to finally come. She couldn’t blame his sentiment. In fact, she understood it all too well. Why shouldn’t he hate her? She had almost succeeded in killing his youngest daughter.

The face that did surprise her was Sam Beckett’s. He looked… sorry for her. She couldn’t understand why. She had never done anything good for him – just the opposite. At every chance she had, she thought of ways to ruin his life forever, had even tried to kill him three times already. 

She swallowed weakly. "This is it, then," she whispered.

"I’m sorry," Sam told her, much to the surprise of the others around him.

"Sorry?!" Al exclaimed. "Sam! This woman…"

Sam continued, despite Al’s exclamation. "I’m sorry that your life brought you to this point. I’m sorry that the only thing you can do is hate others." He took a breath. "I forgive you."

Zoë chuckled, wincing at the pain the action brought. "You forgive me. You shouldn’t." She looked at him as firmly as she could. "Mark my words, Dr. Beckett. You are a hunted man. Wherever you are, we will find you again. And when we do, we will finally defeat you. It doesn’t matter if I live or die. Someone will find you and kill you." She slowly closed her eyes just before a flash of red crossed over her body.

She has leaped, leaving an unconscious Francine Raoul in her place.
 
 

EPILOGUE

It had taken a while to explain the situation to the Admiral Calavicci of 1995 but Sam was certain that no charges would be brought up against Francine Raoul and Kim Harper. He knew, after interviewing Christa and Leslie, that the girls were so frightened by Zoë that they shifted into an Alpha state whenever she was around them. Therefore, they had never even seen Francine Raoul before – only Zoë. As for Kim Harper, both of the girls spoke favorably of him as a person who, although he had assisted in the kidnapping, was also responsible for their rescue. It didn’t take much to convince Al that Kim Harper had acted out of fear of the mysterious redheaded woman who had tormented the girls. 

As for Francine Raoul, Al tried not to explain why she wasn’t hurt when he shot her. In fact, he couldn’t say for certain that it was Francine whom he had shot. His mind was so focused on rescuing his daughter; the identity of Christa’s would-be murderer hadn’t even registered in his mind.

At the moment, Sam sat on the dilapidated couch in the house, waiting for the police to clear up the situation as neatly as possible. He watched as officers searched the house and the makeshift prison cell for further evidence of the mystery woman. Sam, however, knew the only thing that they would find was a taser. Possibly even some ropes. Everything was winding up rather neatly, all the little pieces fitting in place, other than the missing culprit.

"Why am I still here, Al?" he asked quietly of his Observer, who watched his younger self and his wife carefully and lovingly hold Christa.

"Hmm?" Al questioned, turning slightly towards him.

Sam sighed softly, understanding the distraction. "Why am I still here?" he repeated.

"Oh. Umm." Al searched for answers from the handlink. "Ziggy isn’t sure. What’s the big rush, Sam?"

Sam sighed again. "I don’t know. I guess I’m just feeling… vulnerable. I guess. After what Zoë said…"

Al looked at him with concern. "You really think that they’ll try to kill you?" he stated more than asked. It was a thought he didn’t want to investigate. He couldn’t imagine what he would do if the other project sent someone and killed his friend.

Sam shivered. "Perhaps," he whispered. 

Al took a deep breath. "Sam, look at me," he ordered. Sam obeyed slowly, looking into Al’s determined eyes. "I will not let that happen," Al told him firmly. "I promise."

Even as Al made this promise, Beth approached Sam, tears in her eyes, Al and Christa just behind her. "Mr. Harper?" she asked for his attention gently.

Sam raised his head slowly to look into her teary gaze. He said nothing, giving her the chance to collect her thoughts.

"I just wanted…" She took a shaky breath before gently kissing his cheek. "Thank you," she whispered with all her heart. Then, without waiting for a response, she gently guided Christa out of the house.

The younger Admiral remained, looking at Sam with worn yet grateful eyes. "I think what she did says it all," he said plainly but genuinely. He turned to leave but stopped, turning back to look him in the eyes. He said nothing for a moment, just looking into Sam’s eyes.

"Thanks, kid," he finally said, his eyes sparkling.

Sam’s eyes widened as Al slowly left the building. Just as the Admiral stepped through the door, Sam leaped in a blaze of blue lightning.

Through a blue haze Dr. Sam Beckett could see he was holding something in his hand. The hum of humanity bustling around him distracted him momentarily, and when he finally focused in on his hand again he saw what it was he was holding: a plane ticket. Beyond his hand he saw a leather satchel sitting on the floor by his feet. Then he heard a woman’s voice over and intercom announce, "Last call for flight number 211 to Dallas, with continuing service to Los Angeles and San Francisco, now boarding!"

  He looked up to see that he was leaning against a marble pillar inside an airport terminal. He saw a jet parked outside the huge window, with a wheeled ramp rolled up to the hatch. ‘This is a time before tube ramps,’ he thought to himself, noting his classic style of dress and dark fedora atop his head. "The 50’s?" he spoke aloud softly, looking around at the clothing styles. He also noticed the pert, uniformed blonde standing in the exit doorway, smiling at him, a confused look on her face. She whispered to a uniformed man, who then slipped out the exit and up the plane’s ramp.

Sam had the feeling they were talking about him. He looked at the ticket, and saw it was for flight 211, so he grabbed the bag and stepped up to the lady, a few more passengers scrambling in line behind him.

"I thought you were on this flight, sir!" she said brightly, tearing his ticket. "Right up the ramp! Have a good flight!"

The smell of airplane fuel on a brisk wind hit him in the face as he stepped from the building. A majority of the planes on the tarmac were propeller styles, but the one he was directed to was a jet. He recalled that the jets started flying commercially in the late 50’s, and knew he’d at least partially answered the ‘when’ of this leap. All that was left was the what, who and why.

He walked up the ramp and found the copilot standing just outside the cockpit to greet him. "Good day, sir," he said with a smile. Sam got the impression that he was sizing him up. The uniformed man the woman had spoken with earlier was standing aside, waiting to disembark, but wouldn’t meet Sam’s eyes. 

‘What did I do to make them nervous?’ he thought, dragging the satchel down the aisle. He found his seat, and stuffed the bag under it. He looked up to see the copilot studying him for a second, then return to the cockpit. Sam shook it off, and settled in his seat. He saw the name ‘Jon Kyle’ on the ticket, and noted the date as being October 9, 1959. He also saw that he was a young, white male by the look of his hands. There wasn’t a wedding ring, and he let out a sigh of relief on that non-discovery. When he put the ticket back in his coat pocket the stewardess approached him and reminded him to buckle his seat belt.