He looked at the face of his watch glowing dimly in the darkness: quarter to eleven.

The snoring told Arnie Williamson the man who slept above him was finally asleep. The former bus driver moved quietly off his bunk anxiously trying not to awaken his cellmate. Arnie had learned quickly, the man _ with whom _ he was destined to spend the next few years within this tiny cement box, was randomly, and explosively violent. Waking this man from his peaceful and only escape from the harsh cold world of incarceration was a risky proposition at best.

To make less noise, Arnie crawled to the toilet, which sat open in the middle of the cell. It was designed, like all things in prison, for minimum privacy and maximum degradation. Dropping his pants, he pulled at the string, which had been protruding from his rectum two days. He yanked out the condom, encasing the last of the contents, which he had so carefully gathered over the past couple of years. Washing the condom in the toilet, he tore it open.

Reaching into a razor thin slit in his mattress he grabbed the rest of the items he had collected for so long. Looking up to make sure his cell mate was still asleep, he placed the items on the floor next to his newest acquisition. Lastly, and most carefully, he placed the most valuable piece of the puzzle on the ground beside them, Lucy Maya's hair. Over the wails of incarcerated anguish, and the whimpers of brutally forced sex echoing through the building, Williamson began to chant.

He knew very well if this worked, even if it didn't, he was probably dooming himself to hell. He had most likely done so already anyway. No matter. Arnie had abandoned God, as God had abandoned Arnie. No rightful god would show him an abomination against the Universe (that thing occupying the body of a woman for its own evil purpose) and punish him when he went to set it right. Punish him by placing a godfearing man in prison to spend years ... years ... being brutalized by animals with unthinkable appetites.

The woman on the dreamscape, Lucy, the one who explained to Arnie how he must shoot and destroying the invader of her body, was wise. She told Arnie if he were to fail, she would no longer be visiting him in his dreams. Then her body's interloper had destroyed her. She left him with the knowledge of how to use the dark arts to stop the destruction of her soul, to make her whole again.

Many of the items were extremely difficult to get, most were not allowed in prison. However, Arnie was determined regardless of the price of getting caught. Now all of his effort was going to pay off.

Arnie was now surrounded by the symbols of religions he didn't understand or even knew existed. He now chanted quietly, fervently, while arranging the pieces as he had been shown.

Sweat began to form on his brow as he wondered if he was getting it right, it had been so long ago. The memory of that dream was hazy. He was supposed to do it for more than half an hour, but he knew he would have that much time. Either his cellmate, or a guard doing his rounds, would catch him before that surely. He just hoped it would be enough to bring the woman on the dreamscape back. Arnie was compelled to right the cosmic wrong. This was his best and last chance.

He was getting closer; he could somehow feel it. However, above him, he heard the hard steel springs of the bunk howl in protest as his cellmate rolled onto his side. Arnie closed his eyes and began chanting faster.

With an awakening, hoarse, groan, the voice rang from the top bunk heavy with menace, "If you woke me up because you're down there playing jacks, I am going to seriously fuck you up."

Arnie never stopped chanting. He knew his cell mate would climb down and punish him for this ... but if he could get a few more minutes ...

"All right then, bus driver. I'm going to make you so very sorry...."

Quarter to eleven.

Father McCormick knelt beside his hard wooden bed, saying his prayers before sleep. As little as three years ago, he laughed at himself for this habit, even as he continued to repeat it. Here was a sixty-year-old man of God, who guided others through the complexity of their beliefs. Here he was still doing something as simple as kneeling like a child, quoting the nursery rhyme recitation, "And now I lay me down to sleep, I pray to God my soul to keep, for if I die before I wake, I pray to God my soul to take."

Nevertheless, this prayer no longer held the amusing nostalgia it once did for the priest. Nor was it any longer simply a routine borne of 54 years of daily habit. The words may not have changed, but now Father McCormick prayed earnestly that his soul would be taken by God and placed where it belonged. Since, as he had learned, souls did not always end up in the places they should.

The priest took off his slippers, pulling himself up to bed and underneath his covers. The labor of working in his garden washed over him quickly. He felt sleep ease him into a semi-conscious lull. A few moments later, he was sleeping - his mind allowed to roam freely, unfettered by the constraints of waking logic.

The dreaming priest found himself floating above a large, grassy landscape. Upon closer examination, he noted it was a field, impossibly large, perhaps infinite. Across it an invisible force, unseen but felt by the priest nevertheless, spread. It spread slowly and methodically, like an oil slick on an infinitely large pool of water.

Father McCormick knew he was not brought to this location in his dream by accident. There was something else here with him. There was something besides the eternally spreading force. It was guiding him. Unlike the force below, the guiding hand was warm and benevolent, and had something it wanted him to see.

The clergy watched the grassy plane below more carefully, feeling the spread of the force below. There was a change as mysteriously as it was spreading apart. It stopped. He knew instinctively that this was wrong. He somehow knew this expanding substance was to do so until eternity itself lie between each of its invisible pieces. Now it had defiantly halted in its tracks.

The warm powerful guiding hand directed the father's mind toward the force. He noted it was no longer halted, but now moving in on itself, re-constituting. Father McCormick felt a blunt, mute, horror. He did not fully understand what was happening, but he could feel its perversion, he could feel its violation.

As the clergy delved his mind deeper to feel the force begin to recombine, he feared for what it would become once the force was whole. He knew with certainty it would be like a vase, which was broken and scattered about in the filth. Once back together, it would be cracked, imperfect, with dirt lodged in its crevices. Dirt it picked up from places man did not dare to imagine.

This was all the guiding warmness wanted Father McCormick to see. He felt the benevolence move him from this place, this dreamscape, pushing him gently into the random chaos that was his sleeping, dreaming, unconscious. However, it did so with a simple idea, which it left planted in his mind: "Remember."

The old woman pulled her faded, tattered, shawl tightly around her head and neck, it now hid her graying jet black hair completely. Her weather beaten hands moved quickly in perplexing patterns over the cards laid on the table. Each wave of her hands swept broadly over the cards then over the carefully laid out, but incongruous, collection of various Eastern religious symbols. As if on cue, a cold breeze blew underneath the side flap of the tent. The old woman took this as a sign to moan with otherworldly mystery.

"The spirits speak to me, more strongly than ever," the woman began, speaking in a strangely exotic style, "and they have much to say to you. An evil force is coming for you..."

Lucy Maya stood up and threw her five dollars on the table. She had seen enough. She turned to leave, but turned back. Not knowing why, Lucy decided to explain to the woman - bogusly wrapped in the trappings of a gypsy life style the woman obviously knew nothing about - where exactly she went wrong.

"I have been blessed with a really good ear for accents," Lucy offered, "And it helps that I live in Los Angeles, where I meet people from all over the globe. Albania may sound like the mysterious home of gypsies to you, but you are never going to be able to keep telling people that's your home with an accent so obviously Central American. Either go with the Central American supernatural angle, Santeria maybe, or learn what native Albanians actually sound like."

Lucy pulled on her coat, bracing for the Washington DC weather outside, continuing to dispassionately point out the false fortuneteller's missteps. The old woman looked up at her silently, but with bitter interest as Lucy spoke, "And - you can't talk to the dead in a fully conscious state. As you can imagine, being dead is by definition having unfinished business. Believe me, if the dead found someone they could talk to while that person was awake and aware, every soul in the afterlife would be constantly trying to get that person to do things. In fact, so many voices would be chatting to you at the same time; it would surely drive you mad. To be more believable, try faking a trance. Trances and dreams are more selective means for communicating with the afterlife."

The woman had obviously heard all she wanted to, but Lucy didn't care. She went on, "These are common mistakes. Although I think you are preying on innocents, I don't begrudge you making a living. If fools want to part with their money, so be it." Lucy shrugged, "But be careful. Once in a blue moon you're going to come across someone who has actually walked the plane of the afterlife, finding themselves here on earth. They may be looking to make actual contact with the dead. Furthermore they'll spot you as a fake as quickly as I did. Quicker maybe." Lucy laughed grimly, "But these people who have been in the after life for a while have a tendency to become a little dark. Many of them will not be as kind to you as I."

Lucy Maya turned on her heels, bending over to squeeze through the tent's flap opening, stepping into the cold nighttime air. From the inside the tent she heard the old woman called her crazy.

Lucy checked her watch: ten forty-five. Damn, she thought. She couldn't still make it to Richmond to check on a fortune teller working out of an old "haunted house" down there. She had heard very good things about this one, but she had heard very good things about many, like the one she just left.

Lucy's investigations over the past two years had lead her to literally hundreds of soothsayers, fortune tellers, psychic guides, tarot card readers, even people who had near death experiences having had "seen the white tunnel". This does not even count her extensive journey through the hierarchy of the Catholic Church. But this two-year quest so far had reaped very little, except how to tell within a minute or so, when she was dealing with fakes. Moreover so far, she was always dealing with fakes.

Granted, many of them got their good reputations because they were supremely gifted con artists with scams bordering on the verge of art. However, Lucy was in a unique position to weed the pretenders out. She was in the exclusive club of people who had actually walked on the plane of the dead not just once, returning with a full memory of what is beyond life itself. In addition to, more crazily, that was the least of what made Lucy Maya unique. Lucy, put in the most simple terms possible, was Craig Morton in possession of Lucy Maya's body; at the small price of his own soul.

Several years ago Craig Morton's roadster spun out of control and into the path of a bus. His essence wandered off course and occupied the body of the car's passenger, Lucy Maya, while she was in a coma. After awakening in the body of Lucy, taking months to accept this was his fate, he began to form a life.

But no situation that otherworldly was ever going to be clear-cut. As Lucy Maya's already ambiguous soul (trapped in between life and death) spent time amongst the corrupted of the dead, it became dark and misshapen.

Bitter that she was unable to occupy the body that belonged to her, the dark spirit of Lucy manipulated circumstances, putting Craig at a crossroads. Continuing to live as Lucy, sentencing yourself to certain eternal torture once the occupied body perishes, or, give it back to the dark soul of its rightful owner - releasing that soul onto innocents.

Even knowing the consequences, Craig could not let what Lucy had become come back into this world. With great reservation and misgivings, he chose to continue life as Lucy now, facing eternal tortures later.

Furthermore now, Craig Morton thought of himself as Lucy ... at least a version of her, as a "she". In addition to these days she had a single mission: searching for the one small clue which could hopefully save her soul.

As was her way, Janet McPherson woke up giving herself just enough time to get ready. She rose from her bed, wiping the sleep from her eyes, looking at herself in the mirror. Even by her own insecure standards she was forced to admit she was an attractive girl. She was long legged and lean, no longer the coltish sixteen-year-old she was two and a half years ago. Left to its natural shape, Janet's body could be described as athletic, like a tennis player's. However, Janet's body had not been left to its own shape for quite some time. Thinking about this, unconsciously she cupped her small breasts, which were in the rare position of not being buried under layers high tech padding.

A few years back, Janet had been convinced by "LM" - what they all called the former occupant of Lucy Maya's body to avoid confusion - that every successful woman needed to manipulate her situation through sexuality. LM pointed to herself, an obvious up and comer, attributing it all to her ability to make those around her want her.

LM proudly discussed her implants, convincing Janet she too should be more buxom. Janet, whose only other role model was her mother, a woman not nearly as glamorous or charismatic as LM, completely absorbed this philosophy.

Now that she was two years older and less impressionable, combined with discovering how morally ambiguous LM actually was, she wasn't so sure hers was the path to follow.

Janet paused again to look at her body in the mirror, wondering how it would be to look as she did in her natural state? To not have men staring at her chest constantly, to not have women hate her, to not have so many refuse to take her seriously simply because of the size of her breasts? Breasts that, ironically, weren't even hers.

She wasn't sure that's what she wanted either. Janet was also very attuned to the power of these mounds which, when inserted, protruded so prominently from her clothing.

Men bought her dinner because of them. She got into clubs, often ahead of VIPs, despite huge lines in addition to her being under age, because of them. Because of them, she could always convince someone to take care of a little dirty task that she didn't feel up to. They were in many ways, a key.

"Besides", she explained to Lucy some months ago, "it is easier to explain breasts becoming larger as you're growing up. Especially from sixteen to eighteen. However, once you become known as bosomy, it is difficult to go the other way." Janet had come to terms with the idea, somewhat ambivalently, that she would be getting implants at some point. As her situation was now, she could not let boys see her naked, or even take a shower at a gym.

Janet shook herself from her daydream scolding herself for time-consuming self-reflection. Realizing she was close to running late, dashed for the shower. Lucy was a patient woman, However, no one liked being stranded at the airport.

Lucy stepped onto the curbside waiting area of Los Angeles International Airport, better known by the two logical, but last inexplicable, letters "LAX". Janet (as much neighbor as she was informally adopted daughter) waited in the loading zone driving Lucy's Toyota.

Smiling, Lucy threw the bags in the trunk and greeted Janet with a European style peck on the right cheek. As the greeting was exchanged, Lucy felt one of Janet's highly padded breasts rub up against her arm. It was inevitable, as it would be very difficult to control breasts that large if they were real and she could feel how far they extended, no less if two of the cup sizes were made up of artificial material, as they were in Janet's case.

Lucy quickly looked the young lady over carefully. She wore a short skirt, extremely high platform clogs, the aforementioned visually aided breasts leaping out of the low cut sweater in a "look at me fashion". Try as she may, Lucy was unable to undo the philosophy of LM, especially since Lucy, wearing the clothes LM picked out, did not dress much differently. It was impossible to explain the difference between it being okay for a woman and not a teen girl, particularly when that teen knows Lucy was never a teen girl herself.

"How was DC?" Janet asked, bringing Lucy out of her distraction.

"Same as Portland. Same as Toronto. Same as Phoenix. I talked to a gaggle of fakes. Well, I guess it was not quite like Phoenix, because Washington was too cold for all the open toed shoes I packed," Lucy stuck her arm into the warm Winter sun, "It's good to be back in LA."

"Well Mom will be glad to see you." From her peripheral vision, Janet watched for a reaction. She had known her mother and Lucy were good friends, but she was beginning to believe there was more to it. As she watched the two women interact, often in ways which spoke of secrets underneath the surface, Janet began remembering the innuendoes her father made about her mother's orientation before the divorce.

Lucy nodded silently, like Janet, was now thinking about the complexity of the relationship she had with Betty. LM, a woman who used her beauty to morally ambiguous ends, had manipulated Betty's closeted gayness to achieve a sexual relationship with her neighbor. Lucy suspected the entire relationship with Betty was fabricated by LM to position herself to bed the girl Janet. Lucy never gave LM the chance to prove her suspicions.

The complexity of the interaction between Lucy and Betty began at the core. Because try as she may, Lucy was in fact not a woman. Twenty-five years of conditioning did not change in the span of a few years. Furthermore, although it would never be said aloud, especially after discovering what LM's true nature was, Lucy could feel that Betty preferred the former occupant of her body. At least her femaleness. That was the woman she fell in love with, not this man walking around in her shoes.

For her part, Lucy enjoyed Betty's company. Betty was able to pleasure Lucy sexually, she enjoyed the idea of her, Betty and Janet as a little family. However, she often battled with the idea of was she in love, or was she in a strong bond with the first person to give her an orgasm. And if that were true, then what next? For now, despite its complexity, she was not willing to rock the boat.

Alex Morton spoke aloud although the room was empty. After researching for a block of three hours, he just needed to hear a voice, even if that voice was his, "Alex, my man, I'm beginning to think the Ancient Placenaxens are bullshit."

In the loosest sense of the word, Alex Morton could be called a hobbyist. He spent hours each week pouring over photocopies, and more rarely like tonight, the actual texts detailing religions long forgotten. Although unlike a hobbyist, who took on an activity to pass the hours away, Alex's aims carried far more gravity.

However tonight, like most nights before it, was a dead end. Alex had been reading these texts for two years now, nevertheless it took far less time than that for him to realize that despite what novels and movies portrayed, most of the "forgotten" religions were done so for a reason. Half were usually the poorly thought out rantings of cowering ancients trying to explain the mysteries of their world - why it rained, or why the sun rose each morning.

The other half of the texts Alex ran across were plainly frauds; written by men at the Dawn of Exploration creating entire cultures and religions that didn't exist. These men were simply storytellers trying to gain celebrity status in their homelands for their journeys. They were safe in the knowledge that most men in the days of treacherous travels and inaccurate maps would never be able to retrace the steps to these fictional lands.

Yes, Alex learned a short time ago that it was going to take great luck to be able to unlock what he needed to find the most: how to save his brother Lucy from the eternal tortures of the afterlife. On the contrary this didn't slow him down from trying. The inexplicable did occur, his brother was now a woman for god's sake, and people did come back from the dead. He just needed to find that one book, that one scribbling, of someone who had been there that could tell him what he needed.

Alex placed his feet up on his desk. In the background the muffled sound of laser fire from his son Joshua's video game leaked quietly into the room. Alex would soon go out there, throwing the football with his son, getting him away from the television and gaming consoles for awhile.

Alex needed the relief, more importantly, he needed to spend time with his boy. Alex was not going to suffer the bitter irony of losing one important person in his life while trying to save the other.

A young man matched Betty McPherson's speed running beside her for a moment, smiling. Betty smiled back politely, but not overtly so. The young man understanding her signals picked up speed and moved up the path. He knew there were plenty of women along this route who would enjoy running beside him, he didn't need to keep uninvited company with a woman who did not.

Betty watched him accelerate with a bit of amusement. Even the exercise paths in this city was fair territory in the never ending game of pick-up. She wondered what he would think if he knew that she was gay. Knowing most men, he would be even that much more excited. Being so sought after by men was a relatively new phenomenon for Betty.

While she had never been unattractive, over the past couple of years Betty had evolved, through much effort and exercise, into what running-boy would call a "hottie". All of this was borne from her, often contentious, relationship with Lucy.

After leaving her last husband, along with coming to terms with her sexuality, Betty was happy being attractive in a very simple manner. She had never been one for makeup, nor as long as she wasn't overweight, did she care too much about her figure.

Makeup, high heels, tight clothing were all things that she dispensed with as well. The few tentative relationships she struck up in the lesbian community seemed to overwhelmingly affirm that these women did not seem to care if she adhered to these standards or not. Even the women who were obviously very conscious about their beauty and style were able to look past these trappings, which men like her exhusband seemed to obsess on these points.

Although as wonderful as she tried to be, Lucy was not a woman. In very small ways, a comment here and there (even though they were almost always positive) let Betty know that Lucy liked the things the way men did. A revealing top, push up bra with heels, was far more likely to lead to impassioned sex, than sweats and slippers.

On the occasions they went out, Betty took the time to put on makeup was always met more enthusiastically than when she did not. She was almost certain Lucy wasn't even aware she was doing this. Lucy was still not fully aware how she came across to others or projected herself.

Lucy was equally not aware of the effect she had on men and women alike. At least Betty hoped not. Her obvious beauty and the ability to relate to them completely on their wavelength intrigued men. These weren't the conversations of a woman who had just grown up with brothers, or liked sports, or was a tomboy at heart, it was like (they gushed endlessly) she could be one of them.

Women too, found themselves feeling the attraction as they sensed a certain compelling essence emanating from this attractive woman in ways that they could not quite put their finger on. Many women had fantasies about being with other women, but they were just that, fantasies.

However with Lucy it felt very palpable and realistic; it was as strong as the genetically hard-wired attraction they had for men. There was something confidently sexual in the way she interacted with them. This was a feeling as if she were casually flirting with them on a male level. It left these women mysteriously thinking about her long after she had gone.

Betty could feel and see all of this. Despite their rough patches, her very frequent doubts, she very much wanted to keep Lucy. So here she found herself, running, hitting the gym, dressing up. These were all of the things she would be doing to keep a highly coveted man.

Betty switched her stopwatch over to clock mode. Lucy would be returning from the airport with Janet soon, meaning they would all be off to the meeting shortly afterward. She'd consciously thought to cut her run short and get ready.

From the ornately decorated stain glass door in the back; Janet, Betty and Lucy walked into the church, down the hall to priest's office. Even before entering it for their first weekly meeting two years ago, it looked, as they would have imagined it to. Bookshelves lined the paneled walls with spaces for replicas of famous religiously depicted paintings. In the corner sat a small wooden desk covered with a scattering of papers. The clergy still wrote his sermons by hand.

Janet, who was intrigued by these meetings as a young teen, although now was plainly bored as the mysteriousness became common place. She mentally began playing her weekly game to see who was going to be more uncomfortable when Lucy walked into the room.

Was it to be Father McCormick, because he was a man of god and modesty, or Alex because he was her brother? This time it was Alex who quickly looked away to gather himself, before looking back at the voluptuous, leggy, female he called his brother. Janet gave herself a mental pat on the back along with an inward smile for guessing right before hand.

As much as Lucy said she rejected the reasoning behind LM's choice of overt sexual clothing, she had not rejected the clothing itself.

Lucy claimed that for her male mind the equation was simple. LM, an avid clotheshorse, had bought more things than Lucy could wear in a year (even if she chose a different outfit every day). Lucy saw no reason on spending more money on coverings. Especially as she needed every dollar for the extensive traveling she did over the weekends.

Quite simply the others were a little more astute than Lucy gave them credit for, taking this explanation with a grain of salt. They understood as Lucy came to terms with how she actually looked to the world, becoming more womanly, that a bit of pride and curiosity came into play. Lucy was doing in two years, what most women come to terms with over a lifetime. They viewed much in the manner of a child with a new toy.

Other than testing out her womanhood or not, with her chest almost freed from its top, her strappy extremely high heels and short skirt, Lucy was perhaps pushing the levels of decorum around a brother who, was still not accustomed to her comeliness of appearance. Father McCormick, on the other hand, who shared Alex's discomfort. Due to his vow of celibacy it would never be.

Alex shook off his brother's appearance getting to the matter at hand. It was he who usually opened the meeting of what he dubbed, "The Scooby Gang". This was a reference to their chasing, researching and, largely, debunking mysteries. This was seen also to them as a "Harry Houdini Complex"

In a typical Sunday gathering, they went around the room covering their various assignments: Alex was the one who looked into texts of ancient religions searching for descriptions of the after life which came closest to what Lucy had seen. Lucy herself roamed the country looking for someone, any one, who could actually contact the dead. She looked for those among the afterlife who could help her cheat her fate.

Father McCormick, because of his strong relationship with the bus driver that was jailed for shooting Lucy, was the last of the group to come on board. It took Lucy a great deal of time getting him to workout his ambivalence toward her. It took a great deal of adjustment (after all Lucy was a soul in possession of what was not hers) and reflection, but he finally came around.

The priest's assignment of course, went to his obvious strength delving into the texts and ancillary material of the known religions - the Koran, Torah, Kabbalah and of course the Bible, searching for the answers. He also prayed over them to keep them from harm, and hopefully, Lucy from the eternal tortures. Betty and Janet did the preliminary searches, finding the books for Alex to investigate, in addition to checking on the reputations of psychics and the likes for Lucy's inquiries.

But the pensive look on Father McCormick's face told Alex something different was going to happen this Sunday. He had never seen the priest with this much weight on his shoulders, even after learning of Lucy's true nature and fate.

"Did everything go okay is mass this morning Father?"

Alex asked, trying to place the reason for the priest's look of misgiving.

The priest reached up and rubbed his forehead. He was obviously in great distress.

"I had Father O'Hare give mass today."

The priest's visitors showed surprise. Father McCormick never missed mass; he took great pride in bragging on how he was always healthy as an ox come Sunday. Looking at him now, he was obviously not ill. Lucy leaned forward attentively waiting for his explanation. Her breasts, practically fully exposed, created even more discomfort in the already anxious clergy.

Father McCormick, never one for unneeded words, cut straight to the chase, "I had a dream last night. Not any dream, mind you, but one where I was guided to Lucy's dreamscape."

The room became silent, only the sound of the congregation's post-mass gathering could be heard faintly down the hall. It had been years since anyone had been to the dreamscape. Not since LM was destroyed.

"But its more than that," the father continued, "I felt a malevolent force which had been spreading across eternity, stop and begin the journey toward reforming. But not just reforming as it was, but in a more powerful, darker, vengeful entity."

Every one in the room, thought they knew whom ... or what this entity was. Betty interrupted, "If LM isn't destroyed any longer, what does that mean for Lucy's soul? Is she safe now?"

Father McCormick looked up, "That cannot be known right now. In the eyes of God, does a man who attempts murder but fails escape the fate of one that attempts and succeeds? What if the victim was evil? These are age-old questions Betty. In Lucy's case, we can only hope she has been spared," However, it wasn't the question of Lucy's long term prospects that had the clergy worried now, "But if what I felt on the dreamscape was real, Lucy ... all of us ... have more immediate problems".

Jack Wallace knew something was wrong immediately. It was the sky. Diffused light seemed to bear down on him from everywhere, from every object, yet no sun could be seen above. Just a seamless bright white sky hung over head.

Despite being what should have been a balmy Miami afternoon, Jack wasn't the slightest bit warm. Nor could he feel the breeze, which blew the tops of the palms. Impossibly, the air was still without temperature.

Jack made a careful assessment of his surroundings. He was standing in the middle of the street in front of his home, except the neighborhood looked wrong. The normally manicured lawns, cleanly washed cars, up-kept homes, were ragged and in disrepair. The normally smooth asphalt of the street was full of potholes which looked to stretch endlessly down a road which seemed to span into infinity.

Jack focused on his own home. While it too was disheveled in a manner it had never been, it was the front lawn that caught his attention. There, underneath a ladder, was a body. He didn't need anyone to tell him who that was. It was his body.

Before he could react, a hand touched him on his shoulder. Jack turned to find himself facing some sort of beast. It was far larger than Jack, perhaps seven feet, looking roughly to be in the form of a female.

All the attributes, legs, breasts, long hair were there, along with the remains of what must have once been a sundress.

However this creature was like nothing he had seen before. Its skin was metallic with colors washed over it like a mad kaleidoscope. Although it moved fluidly, it had the look of being thrown together haphazardly by an impatient creator. Looking at this outrage of human form, Jack knew he should have felt afraid. However, fear was as missing as the sense of temperature in this place.

"Ladders are dangerous things, Mr. Wallace." The creature's voice, despite its horrendous appearance, was melodically pleasant (what Jack imagined a beautiful opera singer must sound like when engaged in speech).

"I can sense in your thoughts that you are just beginning to figure out what has happened here. Nevertheless you are wrong. You are not quite dead yet, you were close, but you are in a short coma. It will be less than a few hours, in fact. The doctors probably won't even call it that. Under normal circumstances, as with millions of others in your state, you would walk over to that body, touch it, regaining consciousness remembering nothing which has passed here."

The creature's grip on Jack's shoulders tightened, "however its unfortunate for you it will not happen this way. Not now that my journeys have made me strong enough to prevent it. Besides, I have just so much unfinished business to attend to. I hope you understand."

With that the creature squeezed harder, splitting open Jack's shoulder. Through the opening, Jack did not feel the spill of blood as he expected. Except his very essence was escaping, like gas from a balloon. Jack knew with sudden clarity, in mere matter of seconds his existence was to be shattered forever, left to spread apart forever across this dreamscape on which he found himself.

The creature laughed as she felt his soul wash through her body. Pausing for a moment to savor her triumph, the creature walked over to the prone body, reaching down to touch it. She felt its life force merge with hers as she was being pulled back into the land of the living.

Before disappearing off of the dreamscape completely, the creatures words echoed through the tattered, empty neighborhood.

"Time to look up some old friends."

"Where am I?"

The gentle faced red haired woman stood up at the sound of Jack Wallace's voice. She smiled upon him kindly, but her eyes could not conceal the concern.

"You're in a hospital room Jack, you had a small accident. You fell off of the ladder when you were cleaning the gutters and were out for awhile."

Jack Wallace lay in bed, he had raised his arms off of the bed, opening and closing his fists while watching his forearms bulge as he flexed his limbs.

"I'm a powerful one aren't I?" He said to no one in particular, lifting the sheet to take further note of his body. The body was strong and in tune from years of hard exercise. "Yes, I am a powerful one indeed."

Jack turned his attention away from himself, studying the red head standing beside his bed. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail. She donned thick-framed cat eyeglasses. She also wore a pair of bell-bottoms and long jean jacket coat with fur around the collar, each piece of clothing far more expensive than they looked. If she were anything like her Los Angeles counterparts, she looked like she was taking great pains to hide her beauty behind her hip "nerd-chic" look.

"I should get the doctor," she said. His strange behavior was throwing her off balance.

"Fuck the doctor. Just tell me, who are you? My daughter? My wife? My sister? My secretary?" Jack asked.

"I'm Kaetlin. I'm your girlfriend." The pain from his lack of recognition and aggressively changed demeanor showed clearly on her face.

"Really? But you're, perhaps, what, twenty one, twentytwo ?" Jack began.

"Twenty-three." She corrected.

"And I'm like thirty, right? Maybe older because I seem to have a pretty nice house, at least the dreamscape's version of it was." He stopped to ponder his situation, "Am I fucking you?"

Dreamscape? Fucking you? Kaetlin was growing more uncomfortable with the conversation as it proceeded. She wasn't sure what brain centers were knocked out of whack from that fall, but she didn't like the end result. She looked over her shoulder trying to catch the attention of a doctor.

There was no one within earshot. She would have to go out of the room and grab one. She decided not to let him see how upset he was making her. After all it was Jack, not her, who was lying in a hospital bed obviously suffering from head trauma.

She answered him far more calmly than she felt, "You are thirty-four Jack. And yes, we are intimate. Now... I'm going to get the doctor." She turned quickly on her heels, practically dashing out of the door.

In the background she heard Jack say to himself, "Cool. I'm a fucking stud."

After meeting with their patient, Jack's doctors debated in consultation quietly among themselves in the hallway. The malpractice ramifications of releasing a man who didn't have anything resembling a full memory back onto the streets loomed large on all of their minds. The doctors were wary of their patient's demands to be let go immediately, especially coupled with his girlfriend's concerns.

She had pointed out Jack's radical change in behavior, leading the doctors to believe the head trauma was perhaps more severe than they were seeing. Although the patient did have a point (they had done the tests, there was nothing physically wrong him). If he wanted to leave AMA (against their medical advice), they couldn't stop him. Plus, there was something oddly persuasive about him, even knowing they were in the right. They all found it difficult to argue with this charismatic man. They decided to stall his exit while hedging their bets with further tests. Barring his complete refusal, they could probably keep him another nine or ten hours.

As the hallway conference went on, Kaetlin Cox sat against the wall watching the enigmatic behavior of her boyfriend. In tentative, exploratory manner, he had rubbed his entire body with his hand. He now, at least as much as Kaetlin could determine, was lightly squeezing his genitalia underneath the sheets with obvious delight.

Kaetlin hadn't said a word to him since she went to retrieve the doctors. He was always a man of confidence, some would say ego, but that's what she found attractive in him. However, he was never crude and rudely direct like he was now. It was like he was consumed by something dark, despite his being oddly... alluring. When she asked the doctors about the altered personality quietly beforehand, they couldn't assure her this would pass, however noted they didn't see evidence of anything large enough to cause a wholesale change in personality. At least in the long term. Nevertheless, one of them gave her his card and told her to call him if this behavior persists.

Despite his best efforts, Jack was not able to waltz right out of the hospital once his tests were finished. He apparently needed time just to get his motor skills in sync. When he tried to walk, his motions were spastic, slightly out of control as though his brain was firing the wrong signals to his limbs. He moved around the room in a jerky fashion for some while, cursing his every misstep. Kaetlin had never seen anything like this, it was as if Jack's puppet master had gone mad, it only alarmed her even more. Not allowing her to recall the doctors, Jack was insistent that it was just a "glitch" and he would work through it. As good as his word, after some half an hour of intense concentration, he began moving with far more fluidity.

Kaetlin wondered to herself, what kind of person calls not controlling their limbs a "glitch", giving it no further thought than a cramp. Something was wrong here. Jack was hiding something, but she couldn't imagine what it could be.

Once in the passenger seat of the car, Jack became visibly less agitated and his mood moved slowly toward near giddiness. During the drive he watched everything race by the window carefully. It was obvious, to even the most casual of observers, that he was seeing this landscape for the first time. If it were not for his disconcerting habit of fondling his genitalia with palpable pleasure, he would look the part of your average first time Miami tourist.

Sounding more reasonable and calm than in the hospital, he turned and spoke to Kaetlin, "Sorry about all that back there. The hospital, I mean, with the rude questions and the doctors. This knock must have really done something screwy," He grabbed the back of his head in emphasis. "I'm a little sketchy on the memory, but things are starting to feel right. I'll be fine soon enough. I just wanted to apologize that's all.

Kaetlin nodded, but he didn't sound completely sincere. It reminded Kaetlin of the plastic apologies offered by politicians with their hand caught in the cookie jar by their mother. This was not the way the Jack she knew, would go about apologizing. His strong suit was making a selfdeprecating joke of even the harshest things, always doing it in a boyish and charming fashion. Still, Kaetlin decided, this was a welcome change from his behavior in the hospital. Perhaps, as the doctor said, he would be normal soon, this change of demeanor she was seeing was just the first step.

"Kaetlin, sweetheart?" the endearment sounded hollow, "are you in school, or do you have a job or something?"

"Actually Jack, I work for you."

"For me? Really? Also you're my girlfriend as well? Interesting. Any way, that's really good to hear because I have some business I need to take care of in Los Angeles actually. I would love to take you out there with me." He smiled warmly, seductively. Kaetlin wondered how he could so casually mention flying to the West Coast for business, while she was fairly certain he, at this point, had no idea what he did for a living. This was Kaetlin decided, beyond just a knock on the head. He was up to something. What was it? Some sort of insurance fraud?

"Are you sure you're okay Jack?"

"Not as okay as I'm going to be in Los Angeles, darling."

Again, he similed the smile of warmth and seduction. While it was definitely not one, which would have made it to the face of pre-accident Jack. Kaetlin found she was afraid of it, but at the same time she found the raw power of it exciting. It was unnervingly magnetic. She, despite herself, began to get the warm feeling of becoming turned on.

He snored beside her, asleep for over an hour. Kaetlin sat up, her body still wired with feeling. She wasn't even sure how it happened so quickly. There was a knowingness, and a compelling presence in Jack that seemed to have that made it all happen so fast. One moment they were talking, the next moment they were in bed together.

Of all the times they made love it had never been like this. Jack was at once clumsy like a teenage virgin within his own body, yet almost prescient in anticipating her needs and desires. His lovemaking carried none of the confident nonchalance usually associated with it. Every touch she made to his body was greeted with near child like wonder. When Jack plunged deeply into her, moaning and shaking with his own orgasm, he did the unfathomable, and kept attending to her until she had hers.

She exploded in orgasmic delight, even as his refractory period was ending. He sat above her, hard-on in hand, marveling at his own stiffness. They continued to slither together in wet sweaty harmony until Jack, seeming to understand her body as well as she guided his hard-on for the last time creating a dual orgasm which made Kaetlin scream in delight.

Afterward now watching him sleep, she quietly masturbated herself again thinking about their sex. Whatever had gotten into Jack, it was at the same time gentle, uncertain, firm, and rough. But she had also seemed to feel... something... when they were in closest contact of sex,. It was something seductively and powerfully strong, although in an almost savagely dark, frightening way. It was like making love to a great beast, a beast that knew all the pleasures of satisfying a woman.

The following morning Jack looked more confident and relaxed. His jerky movements were completely gone, and he possessed a sense of self-satisfaction.

Kaetlin was already downstairs on the outdoor patio reading the paper when he came down. She began to hand the sports section over. She knew how Jack needed to check up on his hockey scores first thing, however he waved it off picking up the front page. He read the paper with great interest, absorbing every word of every article; much like last night where he spent hours-absorbing CNN and the newscasts. His only comment, other than the occasional non-specific sound of surprise at certain events, was the enigmatic, "I've been gone a long time."

Putting the paper down, he smiled at Kaetlin. "So, honey..." Even after sleeping together, she was still uncomfortable with the indifferent way he used endearments. Jack must have picked up on this, because he started again anew without it,

"Kaetlin, as I said last night, I know this is rough on you. I greatly appreciate that a woman like you, who could have any man, is willing to at least try for a awhile to stick through this. So don't take this the wrong way, but... explain to me exactly why I am a thirty-four year old man, with a twenty-three year old girlfriend, and am living here?"

He made a wave of his hand to indicate the considerable size of his home, "While you're at it, maybe you can explain why a man who appears to have gardeners and housekeepers, is climbing on ladders risking his neck cleaning out his own gutters?" The entire time he spoke, he continued with his new, extremely distracting, habit, of casually stroking his penis through his pants.

"You occasionally like to do things yourself. Like the gutter. It goes with your fitness thing," she shrugged. This conversation was surreal to her. She decided she was going to skip over the part about their relationship completely. Despite it being Jack sitting across from her, memory loss or not, she couldn't shake the feeling she was talking to a stranger.

"You're a senior vice president for a financial firm," she continued, thinking about how to explain the rest of the information delicately, but accurately, "your father runs the company, owning something incredible like sixty percent of the stock. When you go back to work you may catch vibes that you were given this position because of your... connections... but you are well qualified, and have proven over time that... "

Jack held up his hand indicating for her to stop, "No need to flatter me. I know how those positions work. In fact, you wouldn't feel you had to tell me I was well qualified, unless of course, I wasn't. So... I'm a figurehead of sorts. A well paid vice president on the payroll because my father runs and owns the company.

Fascinating. I must be a big fucking deal. Do I even bother to show up every day? Probably not, nothing in this house indicates work crosses my mind for a second. I don't even own a computer, but I have a hell of a set of golf clubs. Well this will make getting the time to make this LA trip a breeze, he paused for a moment before saying, "not that I give a shit about keeping this job one way or another any way."

He stopped his musings, focusing on Kaetlin, "I hired you right out of college didn't I? Never mind, if you're twenty-three I had to have. I hope at least I was the one who got partially used, and you seduced me into hiring you, as much as the other way around. The other way around would bore me. Nevertheless you look like a woman smart enough to use those feminine charms of yours to nestle yourself into the good life. If so, I respect you for it. If not, don't tell me."

He sat quietly in thought for a long while. He seemed to make an internal decision, and changed gears, "How fast can you be ready to hit the Coast?"

Kaetlin was still stunned. She was more than disoriented by Jack Wallace's new, detached honesty, and brutally selfassessing mode of thinking. She wasn't sure she wanted to be around this man, at the same time she was becoming further drawn to him. There was something exciting about his self-analysis; completely without pretension or selfdoubt, like an actor getting his mind around a character for a film.

There was an undoubted power, inconceivable self-confidence that surge within him. Here was a man not the least bit concerned he didn't remember or understand any of the world around him, as if he himself were bigger than any worldly circumstance. Yet his lovemaking held an uncertainty, despite its power, that Kaetlin found newly endearing.

She imagined for a moment this is what it was like for those who fell in love with serial killers. She knew it was at this point she should get off of this train that would surely derail. Whatever plans he had in LA, could not be for the good. Yet, all of the wavering protestations forming in her mind were unable to come out of her mouth. Instead she said, "I can be ready this afternoon."

Jack looked her up and down with his eyes, almost sensing his new hold on her, before saying, "Wonderful."

Jack packed his bags upstairs in his bedroom. Socks, underwear, a few shirts, and a few pants. That was it. The single pair of well-heeled black shoes on his feet would go with everything he had. For so many days of clothing, it was going to be an incredibly sparsely packed bag.

"It's unbelievable how easy men have made it on themselves. It used to take me two suitcases for a trip like this," Jack said to the room at large. "And this fucking thing," he said, groping his groin for the untold time that day, "is great. But how they get anything done with this weighty, hypersensitive thing always there is a mystery to me. After awhile, you have to figure they become able to ignore this constant rubbing feeling putting them on the verge of getting hard all the time. Otherwise men would fuck everything that moves," Jack laughed and said, "Wait, they do try to fuck everything that moves."

He stopped in his tracks, listening for Kaetlin. She apparently was still packing downstairs. Realizing he had speaking aloud for quite some time, Jack admonished himself and turned his speech inward. "This is not the Dreamscape," he thought to himself, "speech and thought are not the same. You know the rules, it hasn't been that long."

Nevertheless for "Jack Wallace", who was no more than the sprit of LM looking through Jack's stolen shell, it had been a long time. What was merely a few years to those on this side of death, was far longer in a plane where time moved backward and forward at once, where fleeting moments are years, years are fleeting moments.

Moreover Jack had quite a bit of work to do now that he was alive again. Certainly he was planning to pay a visit to... Lucy Maya... that impostor... to pay her in kind for destroying her soul and nearly condemning her to drift in pieces throughout eternity. However, he had much more in store than that.

He looked down at the bulge in his pants. The very thought of vengeance had made this new toy between his legs grow in response; hate and sex tied into one stiff feeling. What kind of animals were men, the former LM wondered in equal parts amazement and disgust. He wasn't sure, but he knew he was going to find Kaetlin, making sure this did not go to waste.

Warm, but not Miami humid, Southern California. Kaetlin still loved it here, even though she didn't see Los Angeles through the same magical prism as she once did. She had been here a few times with her father as a girl falling in love with the mystique of it all - Hollywood, films, the glamour. She discovered as she became older that this was the stuff of make believe. Granted, being in the right neighborhoods you could see a film star sitting in the booth next to you while eating. However, you were more likely to see a disillusioned want-to-be film star serving you your breakfast, or dealing drugs on the street.

She and Jack had been in the city for a little over a week. Jack had rented a fully furnished luxury apartment. Jack left her largely to her own devices during the day while he "took care of business". She asked him a couple of times what he did when they were apart, however he would only discuss it in the most vaguest of terms despite intense prodding.

At first, Kaetlin suspected another woman, his sexual appetite which was ravenous and continuous (they made love several times a day). He never came back to her smelling of another woman or a fresh shower. She thought briefly that perhaps he was involved in shady dealings, although being associated with such actions were far too inconsistent, extremely difficult, with his memory loss. Kaetlin was fairly certain the memory loss could be no act.

Having sorted these issues in her mind, she became more relaxed. As with all things that begin feeling odd, the strangeness wore off, as they became more routine. After awhile, Kaetlin felt as if this was almost normal. He gave her a credit card in her name, telling her to entertain herself in any way she saw fit, which she was able to do easily. With her days occupied she obsessed less over his.

Two weeks to the day after they arrived, this routine changed. Jack came home, announcing an old friend of his was arriving from out of town and would be staying with them for a short while.

Kaetlin greeted this latest pronouncement with great reservations.

"An old friend?" Kaetlin asked. This revelation made her vary wary, "how is it that you can remember an old friend, but not your damn middle name?" She had become agitated.

"My middle name's Albert, isn't it? I'm not really sure why I remember my old buddy though, the brain being such a funny thing and all."

Jack shrugged off her concerns as he did them all. He reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a cold slice of pizza. Kaetlin didn't cook, so all prepared food in the rental apartment was takeout or delivery.

"That says nothing Jack. And you know it. Where did you meet this guy? I mean... this time... here in LA?"

"Well originally I met him in LA, but he doesn't live here now. He's in prison, or more accurately, getting out of prison. Tomorrow. I'm going to meet him at the bus station. To keep him out of the half way house and such. I had to hire him on as a driver, personal assistant, and so on. The parole board jumped at it. I was surprised at how far my name... dad's name it turns out... goes."

Kaetlin was upset and pulled him back on track, "Wait, wait, wait. You said nothing about meeting a prisoner when we came down here, no less having one stay with us. I don't know if I can deal with this."

Jack was smiling his enigmatically charming smile. Once again Kaetlin was swept up in the serial killer girlfriend's feeling of being willing bound to someone exciting, passionate but dangerously unknown.

"Don't worry," Jack said, "he was in for a white collar crime."

Of course he was, Kaetlin thought as she sighed with relief. It was embezzlement, fraud or something equally non-violent. Recent strange behavior or not, what other kind of criminal could someone of Jack's ilk know anyway?

"So what did he do to land him in prison... this whitecollar crime? Tax evasion? Fraud? Why are we putting him up?"

Jack finished chewing his mouthful before delivering the punch line, "Well, he went in because he shot... an old friend of mine through the chest. I figured we'd put him up for a while because I was the one who convinced him to do it. Even more than that," Jack smile wickedly, "I can say with complete earnestness, he made me the man I am today."

Kaetlin watched him for reaction. Surely he was kidding. He had to be.

While LM ran things, Lucy Maya had never been in a bus station. LM was fairly certain that the previous owner of this current body, Jack Wallace the blue blood, had never been in one either. Taking note of the neighborhood this particular Greyhound station was in, it was no wonder why. But here they were.

LM/Jack watched Arnie Williamson step off of the type of vehicle he formerly held a license to drive. The Presidency may differ from prison in every way possible, but they obviously both aged a man just as fast. Arnie at once struck Jack as having grown ultimately defiant yet quietly broken. This was a man who had obviously suffered the worse prison had to offer, only pure survival allowed him to build his outward shield of bold resistance he really didn't feel. Jack noted with some irony, that Arnie's spirit had been as shattered figuratively, as his had been literally.

Although Arnie was given a description of Jack, he wasn't exactly sure who he was looking for, so Jack approached him to shake hands. Arnie at once seemed glad almost in awe of Jack's presence. It was through Arnie's solemn eyes that reminded Jack exactly what he was, a spirit of a woman once twice dead, returned in the body of a man.

Arnie whispered tentatively, "Lucy"?

"No, not Lucy. I don't belong to that name any longer. Nor do I allow myself to think in those terms. Let's get this straight, Lucy is the woman with a hijacked body, living a life that rightfully should have been mine. I am," he bowed theatrically, "Jack Wallace. I am a product of extreme wealth whose only job in life is to do just barely enough to keep my father off of my back. I have more money than I can imagine spending, and no one to account to. I am, perfect for what lies ahead Mr. Williamson."

The sun caught the former bus driver's round spectacles, making it look for a moment as if his eyes sparkled upon hearing the revelation.

"That is why it made perfect sense that, you as a former bus driver, and I, being all about giving people a second chance at life, came to this agreement that you would drive me around town. Just what the parole board loves to hear - gainful employment."

"Now," Jack said placing his hand between Arnie's shoulder blades, "Let's get you a real suit, and maybe a steak. I'm sure prison grub is shit."

Despite himself, Arnie ate his streak greedily. Jack had been right, prison grub is shit and it had been years since he had a good meal. In fact, when Arnie was a free man earning bus driver's wages, never had a steak quite like this.

Arnie watched his new employer. Even knowing what (and who) he was. Jack Wallace was an odd collection of attributes. Jack was obviously a very fit, powerfully built man, in the easy way of gyms, running and perhaps the occasional manual labor when he fancied it. His body did not have a ruggedness to it. His manner was easy going, but nevertheless contrived. He had the occasional, but definitive female affectations of his current owner, which simply came across as being somewhat effeminate as opposed to what it really was, female. Nevertheless because of his well manicured, obvious cultured looks and clothing, Arnie was certain much of Jack's behavior was being contributed to his upper class pampered life.

But Jack also had the underlying, energy of the afterlife... not just the afterlife, but something else, something stronger... radiating from him. It was magnetic almost certainly couldn't be missed, even by those who didn't know of his origins. Arnie wondered how this was interpreted by those who happened across Jack's path. Intense sexual attraction maybe? Or perhaps, charisma - the kind which makes men go to war and down poison drinks to please their leaders? However they interpreted it, Arnie could feel it now, as he felt it in his dreams so long ago. This was the power, which made him shoot a woman in the chest and give up his own soul to bring LM in the form of another back into this world.

As Arnie listened to Jack speak, he realized Jack didn't just have a simple plan of destroying the invader of his old body and have her meet the eternal tortures. Jack had a long thought through plan, which would wreak havoc on her and all those who protected her.

The small voice of reason in the back of Arnie's mind told him that what Jack had in mind was going way too far, but he was long past listening to the voice in the back of his head. He was enslaved. With a creeping smile, he let the words flow over him willingly allowing himself to get pulled into Jack's scheme. All the way in.

Janet took him to be a little less than twice her age, thirty-five, perhaps. Simply saying he was handsome and obviously in great shape. Looking him over, his clothes, especially his shoes, screamed "money". He watched Janet, as all men do, however he did it with a calm confidence which neither spoke of cockiness or lechery. He didn't seem to be in a hurry to approach her, perhaps he was married or thought he was too old for someone so young. But after a while, Janet began wishing he would, there was something... magnetic... about him.

He sat calmly sipping his drink and looking around the restaurant, and just as Janet felt like she needed to get some air, he seemed to sense it, stood up and approached her.

Without being asked, he sat down directly beside her at the bar and spoke with almost unnerving familiarity. The tone of the conversation was as easy going as one being continued after a trip to the rest room, "You're probably not using the fake I.D. half as much now. You look young, but damn close to twenty-one. This early, the day shift bartenders don't card as much. Besides, these guys that work the pre-dinner shift don't get a lot of nice looking women sitting right at the bar, so they're not as used to it as the more blasé night shift guys. They'll scrutinize your fake I.D. far less, as I said, if they ask for it at all." His voice was low enough so the bartender could not hear, but not enough of a whisper to attract attention.

"Is this your pick up line? Telling me how to get past the bartenders?" she asked.

"Nah. My pick up lines are better. You probably already know this since I'm not one of those guys, which you are probably growing weary of I'm sure, who keep stealing glances at your boobs."

Janet was about to object before he interrupted.

"Besides, with my luck, they would be real," He leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, "I'm going to tell you something really off of the wall considering we're complete strangers. However, I have a fetish for small-breasted women who wear hugely padded bras. I know its strange, but that's me," as quickly as he threw out his admission, he brushed it away, "But let's not talk about me anymore, I'm boring. Let's talk about you."

Janet instinctively cast a glance at her padding, realizing there was no way he could tell, then looked back at this stranger with great interest. There was a certain familiarity about him.

"So, what makes someone at your young age drink in the middle of the day? Let me guess. You're skipping classes at the local college because you're disillusioned that you're going to a school just around the corner, and its not challenging enough for your sharp mind. You wanted to go to another school, I'll guess Stanford, but your mom just couldn't afford it." He smiled knowingly, "Of course, I could be wrong."

He stood up, brushing off his immaculate clothing, "Listen," he said, "I didn't come over here to be a pest, tell you about my sexual quirks, and bum you out about college. You're just so cute and attractive I just had to say hello. I'll simply go back to my table, read my newspaper and leave you alone."

Janet smiled at the stranger warmly. How could she let him go, he was so understanding, so...comfortable. Despite him being so much older, Janet noted, he was handsome and probably very well off. She touched his arm lightly, "No, please stay for awhile. I didn't catch your name."

"Well, people call me Jack. Please to meet you."

"I'd knew I'd find you back here Father. Always pulling weeds and working on that garden."

Father McCormick stabbed the garden tool so that it stood up in the soil. Wiping the sweat from his brow he stood and turned. However, he wouldn't have needed to turn around to know who belonged to that voice. It was one he had known for many years.

"Hello Arnold," Father McCormick never called him "Arnie", he was not a man who believed in nicknames.

"You don't look so glad to see me. I would have expected, after all the years we've known each other, and how passionately you spoke on my behalf in court, that you would be a little more excited to know I was out of prison. You know, paid my debt to society and all of that."

Prison. Father McCormick understood their need, but despised them all the same. They served their purpose of keeping people off the streets, and some people, he agreed, should not see the light of day again. As a priest, even with his capacity for forgiveness, he understood clearly that there were those who were just plain evil. However, as a priest, he also understood that most men were not evil. Most, he felt, if guided properly in the teachings of the Lord, could become model citizens even if society had a need to make people "pay" for their crimes by locking them in a violent box.

What the cleric hated most about prison was the way it hardened people. Facing the prospect of incarceration, many, whether in earnest or in a desperate ploy to reduce their fate, came to see Father McCormick to "find god". He had seen streams of these, mostly, young men. He also saw many of them when they returned from their time; hardened, bitter, a cynical hard shell of what they once were.

Arnold Williamson, a man whom Father McCormick had known since he was just a teen, was now one of them. The priest didn't have to even look past the way he held himself when he stood to know; Arnold was a man who held his prison time right on his shoulders for every one to see.

"You know that I am glad to see you Arnold. Why wouldn't I be?" The father's eyes could not hide the conflicted weariness of his feelings, "Why don't you come along inside, we'll have ourselves some tea."

"That would be nice Father. You know how I always loved your tea."

Arnie followed Father McCormick inside his humble kitchen. Father McCormick was one who took his vows of poverty seriously, though he wasn't necessarily living like a pauper. His kitchen was filled with nice things, many of them gifts practically forced upon him. It was decorated in a simple, but classy manner.

One of the few perks he always allowed himself, however, were his teas. He drank his tea like an Englishman, never skimping on the expense. "God's work," as he often joked in the past, "never meant drinking anything manufactured by Lipton, a company best suited for making bland cups of soup."

Arnie sat down at the table where he had sat so many times in the past. The priest put the kettle on the fire to bring it to a boil. The room remained silent, as the priest prepared the cups and saucers, and finally serving the hot beverage.

"I understand why you may have some conflict Father," Arnie said as he sipped his tea, "I understand that you're keeping a little different company than before I went in," Arnie quickly waved off Father McCormick as he was getting ready to speak, "Father, Father, its okay. Obviously I know, and I'm not really asking. I don't want to put a man of God in a position to hedge and beat around the truth. Besides, I don't mind. Why would I? I have done my time. I want to put this whole shooting and demons possessing bodies business behind me. I just want to get on with my life, and bring the Lord back into it. That's all. If I saw Lucy Maya today I would beg for her forgiveness. Whether she were the original Lucy Maya or not."

Arnie finished his tea, standing up reaching out to shake Father McCormick's hand, "I'm sorry to pop in then run Father, but I really just wanted to let you know I've done my time, and that I'll be back around. A lot".

The cleric walked Arnie to the front door, despite the fact that the former Metro Transit employee had entered his property through the back gate. They exchange some airy, non-substantiative niceties, before Arnie went on his way.

Father McCormick returned to the kitchen, poured himself another tea, sat down, reviewing the entire conversation in his mind. Other than references to the company the priest kept, which is understandable considering what Arnie had been through, he had said nothing out of the ordinary. In fact the tone Arnold used was exactly as it should have been.

Then why, thought the priest, did this visit feel like a clear warning?

Lucy left the small Mexican airport on the way to a nearly (if maps were any indication) invisible Mexican village. She was breaking one of her primary rules, investigating a fortuneteller below the border. Her hesitation in the past stemmed from the heavy belief in superstition in these places. It made it fairly difficult to get any accurate accounts on the ability of any particular soothsayer. To a peasant who wanted badly to believe, and didn't have the benefit of education to discern otherwise, they were all awe inspiring.

But Madam Garza was different. Her reputation went up and down the coast extending from the top of South America, well into Washington State. Of all her kind, Lucy had never encountered someone with such a mass of believers. The sheer mystique of her notoriety demanded that Lucy try to keep an open mind, but it was growing more difficult having encountered the number of fakes she had.

For a price that wouldn't have gotten her two miles from her doorstep in a Los Angeles cab, she got an hour trip to and from the airport with a driver who would serve as a translator and guide. He was open-faced and had a pleasant demeanor, along with a large build that gave her an added sense of safety. The rifle that he kept in his front seat went a long way toward that feeling as well. When she asked about it, by one way word of explanation he patted the rifle and said, "banditos".

The trip into the village was by long dusty roads, many of which she was not sure were roads at all. The village was built around a small, run-off creek from the surrounding mountains, which appeared to be stagnant this time of year. The village itself was dirty, underdeveloped, and scarcely populated.

Pulling down the single road leading through what was the "heart", they were greeted by an old man who looked to be in his eighties. He was sitting roadside reading a book, looking up at them languidly, and not the least bit surprised, when the arrived. As Lucy suspected, the only visitors of her kind in this town were for the seer. She was directed by the old man to Madam Garza's abode.

Lucy noted with some curiosity the fortuneteller did not work out of a tent or house with fancy trappings indicating a reader of fortunes inside. It was a shanty, made up of corrugated metal sheets, not much different than the other barely livable abodes in this town of the most abject poverty.

The driver and Lucy were ushered into the shanty to await Madam Garza by the old man who seated them. He left with out uttering a word. The room was furnished with nothing more than three barrels to sit on, and a table, which was most likely used to lay out cards or the various symbols used in all such rituals. There were no tapestries or charts of stars hanging on the wall. No crystal balls or skulls present. Whatever money was made from this operation, was obviously poured into trying to stop the leaks in this family's undoubted floodgate of poverty.

They sat waiting for fifteen minutes wordlessly. The cab driver drew circles in the dirt with the toe of his sandal. Lucy was beginning to wonder how far away anyone could actually be in such a small town as this, and suspected this may be for effect. A moment later, to Lucy's great surprise, a young girl, perhaps 10 years old, walked into the room and sat behind the table. She shocked Lucy further by turning to the guide, telling him, in heavily accented English, to leave. He frowned at the request, then glanced at Lucy angling his head to let her know he would be just outside.

The young girl carried a gravity far beyond her years, much like the pretentious child actresses Lucy had seen so many of back in LA. The child, obviously used to objections over her age, spoke before the driver made it through the heavy towel that represented the front door.

"You," she let the first word hang in the air, "of all people, should not let somebody's appearance fool you. I am from a long line of readers. Our gifts, while long lasting, are the strongest right before our coming of age. I am a just few years from coming of age."

Lucy, assuming "coming of age" meant puberty, was fascinated. This was not the tired dog and pony show of most fortunetellers she had seen. This young girl, speaking perfect, but accented English in the middle of this mud hole village, fascinated her that much more. Nevertheless it was, by far, how she had started the conversation that made Lucy sit silently to hear what this girl had to say.

The girl folded her hands on the table, as if she were going to pray, but did not close her eyes. As much to herself, as to Lucy, she quietly wondered, "I am amazed that no one can see through you. Even now, you move in that skin like a stranger to its ways. It doesn't fit you."

A shock struck Lucy through her spine, causing her to visibly shiver. Her mind crept toward the idea, but didn't let her quite believe, that she had finally found the real thing.

"I'm not sure what you mean," Lucy put forth cautiously.

"No, that is not it at all. You just want me to say more so that you can be certain that it is I, who know what I mean,"

Her eyes sparkled with knowing humor, "I am not going to spell it out in front of your cab driver. He stands nearby that he may overhear outside, but I will say this; when someone doesn't go where they are supposed to, yet they land back here, people like us know by just looking.

There's a glow that shines through you. Almost like a fantasma... no that is the Spanish word... what is the English... oh, yes, 'ghost'." She glanced at the towel covering the door. Lucy instinctively followed her glance. The shoes of the driver could be clearly seen a few yards away shuffling about. However as of now he was too far to be within earshot.

Lucy could feel her muscles tightened with anxiety. She began breathing deeply to alleviate the light feeling, which was beginning to take over her head.

The child had no need for Lucy Maya to ask questions, it was she who guided the conversation, "What you have done is a mistake. The first time was an accident, now you have doomed yourself by... stealing what is not yours.

You know this; you feel this. There is no way to proceed like this and escape your fate," she raised her hand toward Lucy, "look within yourself, allow the truth to come in.

But... there are ways, ways which you may be able turn the tides of time, for the..." again she glanced at the sandals of the driver, "place you were at runs backward as it runs forward. Getting back there, you may be able to arrange to face the decision again. I sense in you that you believe this is not the answer, that you would do the same again, to save your friends.

But it is not that simple any more. You will not be saving your friends at all. You are doing them even more harm. You see, there is another, one like you, one connected to you, who has taken your path and returned. This person has an agenda that I cannot fully see. Be very careful. If this other is powerful enough to cloud even my vision from its intent, it is very powerful indeed."

The child Garza had finished. She rose waving off Lucy attempts to give her money, "No I will not accept this from you. Everything you touch is tainted with evil. Go now, try to save your life and that of those around you. If you are not, as I think you are, already too late."

Upon returning to Los Angeles, Lucy got more news to ponder along with her strange experience with the reader in Mexico. She was been informed by way of an anonymous phone call that Arnie Williamson had been released from prison. At first Lucy thought this was a sick joke. She was certain the former bus driver had several more years on his sentence. Why should she trust someone who refused to identify herself in any case?

"Who are you? Why are you doing this?" Lucy asked, "This is not funny at all."

The caller only identified herself as a "concerned citizen". She explained that men, who commit crimes against women, often single those women out when the criminals are released. The legal system is slow to alert the former victims, so she takes it upon herself. She went on to explain, a simple call to the prison, or her lawyer, would confirm everything she was telling her to be the truth.

Lucy wondered why someone who seemingly made so many of these calls, sounded as nervous as this woman did now. Perhaps she was inexperienced. Nevertheless she decided to take the woman at face value, and thanked her for the call. Lucy made a mental note to check with her lawyer later. She hung up the phone slowly pondering what she had just learned.

She wasn't sure what to expect now that the man who shot her was now free on the streets. Has the knowledge of Lucy's true nature eaten at him while he was behind bars did he still felt the need to "right what's wrong". Or did that time make him realize that you can never get the parts of your life back that are taken from you? There was just no way to tell.

Joshua, Alex Morton's son, woke him up from his nap on the couch. Alex noted with amusement that the page of the book he had been reading was damp with small spittles of drool.

"Yes, what is it son?" he asked kindly of his only child, one which he saw far too infrequently now that he and his mother were no longer a married couple.

"It's a phone call dad. I can't believe you slept through the ringing. I tried to tell him that you were sleeping, but he insisted. He said you told him to reach you whatever you were doing."

Alex rose moving toward the phone. Clearing the nap from his mind, he inquired of his son, "Who did you say it was again?"

"I didn't. It's a Doctor Chang." Joshua said casually, going back into the kitchen to continue making the sandwich, which this phone call rudely kept him from.

"Good to here from you Wade. How are things in Chicago?"

"Splendid. My daughters are driving me crazy, but you should know, your son is about the same age," the coma specialist on the other end of the phone paused, "I wish I had time to chat, but I just wanted to let you know. We got a report down in Florida, Miami actually, which is very similar to the case of your friend Lucy - "

"Go on," in the two years since Alex had first befriended the doctor by constant long distance telephone calls (all under the umbrella of helping Lucy) the doctor had never heard of a case anything like hers.

"Well the duration of his coma was much shorter, so the doctors weren't calling it that. However, they faxed me the particulars, it is, was definitely a coma. The patient emerged exhibiting radically different behaviors and a complete loss of memory concerning identity, but no loss at all in over all memory - speech, motor functioning, etc."

"And who is this patient?" Alex asked.

"That's the catch. The doctors wouldn't give me a name, just that it is a 'he'. I tried to get it out of them, believe me. In any case, the patient demanded he be released from care. I suspect the doctors down in Miami General are concerned they let him go a little too quickly. This is, by the way, the reason they were quick to contact me. They wanted to see if there was anything they missed."

Alex nodded, although Wade Chang could not see him. It made sense. Alex looked the doctor up a few years ago purely because he was a giant in the field of coma medicine. Although their friendship began as pure business, he truly liked the respected the doctor and his flexible ways. He was willing to bend the patient-doctor confidentiality rules a little, if he thought it would help Lucy - although Dr. Chang was, obviously, not aware of the real cause of Lucy's memory loss. Alex could see how the doctors in Miami felt comfortable double-checking themselves with Wade. They knew he would not make a federal case if they had slipped up somehow. But, oddly, their not giving Doctor Chang the full facts flew in the face of this trust.

"That's odd they didn't give a name. That makes it hard for Lucy to get together, share experiences and learn more about her condition," Alex said reiterating the old lie, which disguised the reality of her looking for people like her from the other side who may hold the knowledge of her salvation.

"I can't be certain," the coma specialist speculated, "but I suspect the patient is some sort of big wig. Possibly he's a guy who could get them in a great deal of trouble if this comes out they may have screwed up - maybe a politician. Or, perhaps he is someone rich enough to hire an army of lawyers it takes to win a malpractice suit. No telling,"

Wade Chang spoke more quickly, belying his hurry, "listen I have to go. If I find out more on the patient's name or where abouts I'll let you know. If I do, same rules apply, just be sure and be careful not mention any of us at the hospital. Take care, Alex."

"Thanks Wade."

Alex sat back on the couch. Wade, as always, had been a great help. Whether the doctor could find who this patient was and whether this second coma victim could answer some questions for Lucy, or whether he just turned out to be a man with a memory loss, was obviously unknown at this time. Until he found out more, Alex decided, there was no reason to worry Lucy or himself about it any further.

Looking at the small puddles on the page, Alex discarded the book he had been reading and picked up the paper he had not finished from this morning. He paged through the local section aimlessly before coming across a tiny headline which caught his attention: Local Priest Accused of Years of Molestation. Although the article was couched in plenty of obligatory "alleged" speak. The paper refused to give the name of the priest, there was one small fact, which sent a small shock into Alex's brain - the name of the church: Hillshire's St. Mary's.

Father McCormick's church.

Betty didn't usually run this early, but she had read something in the paper - a report about a child-molesting priest in Father McCormick's church, that set her on edge this morning. Unsure whether it was the priest she knew, or not, who was being implicated, she felt shaky and disturbed and needed to run it off.

It was in this mood of not wanting to deal with strangers at all when the handsome, well groomed, despite his running gear and perspiration, man in his mid thirties trotted up beside her. There was no question he was going to start a conversation, it was at this point, Betty began to question her opposition to Walkmans.

"Here's the irony," he began, "I hate it when people jog up beside me and try to talk. Especially on this trail with all of the young hard bodies showing off, you'd think it was a damn nightclub instead of an exercise path. I will not be surprised the day I see someone wearing a neck full of gold chains as a torso weight."

Despite herself and her cloudy mood, Betty laughed, "Then what brings you to my side this morning, if you're not one of these pick up guys?"

The jogger flashed a magnetic smile, "Well this is not like me at all. I promise you I'm not trying to disturb your jogging or to pick you up. I just woke up this morning and had to vent, even if it is to a perfect stranger. In fact - honest to god - the best thing you could tell me is that you were in a relationship, gay, or better yet, gay in a relationship, so I could trust that my forwardness here isn't taken the wrong way."

She wasn't sure what to make of this seemingly off the cuff statement, which was a little too close to home. Thusly she went straight to the core of her concerns in her typically blunt manner, "You know that's pretty screwed up. What made you say that business of being gay? That is a very strange thing to utter to a stranger."

He looked momentarily pained before saying, "Well actually... I'm gay. Didn't figure it out until I'd been married for years and had a daughter. I guess since I've only come to terms with it recently. It's been on my mind lately and I say stupid things like that. Sorry if I was out of line. I also didn't mean to say that my forwardness was some sort of aphrodisiac that you couldn't resist. Unless, you were a lesbian in a relationship - which you may or may not be, I obviously don't care. I was trying to say that it would be nice to chat with someone without all the stupid pick up games getting in the way."

He didn't wait for her to respond, "Again, I just have to get it out. I don't know if you can imagine what it's like to raise a eighteen year old girl by yourself, not having a clue on how to do it, but that's the boat I'm in. I know this is probably too much information, but I came to this realization this morning.

Okay yes. I was snooping where I shouldn't have been - that my daughter may be having relationship with boys. Well at least, I found out that she's been putting about a pound of some kind of rubber falsies in her bra to get the boys heated up. I don't know why you would do this, unless it was leading toward sex. I don't even know how to approach her about this subject.

It's not just the bra thing. It's the whole growing up, wearing heels and all of these things I can't relate too. She continually reminds me that I can't. She uses it as leverage to blame of the divorce on me. If there was a woman around, she alludes, these problems wouldn't be happening. I've done the birds and the bees thing, but this is way beyond that. How do you explain to your adult daughter, that you've been in her underwear drawer? How do you tell her that you object to her fake breast size? I can't find a real way to do this without, at worst, being the creepy dad or, at best, coming out as the sneaky enemy."

He finally stopped his rapid-fire speech. They both ran in silence for a few minutes as their footsteps pounded the pavement in rhythm. Betty was a little disturbed by the eerie closeness of this man's story to her own. For a moment, she thought perhaps he knew about her and was using it to create a false closeness for some sort of gain. But that, she decided, was blatantly impossible. Betty has never admitted to anyone, not even her own daughter, that she was gay. She doubted very seriously this man could know her daughter stuffs her bra too, or that she even had a daughter at all. She was certain she had never seen him before. Only Lucy could connect those dots, and Lucy was, understandably, the most closed-mouth person alive.

The coincidence was near impossible, but it was just that, a coincidence. As randomly as he may have appeared this man turned out to be a kindred spirit of sorts. Betty, looking at him again, could remember why she fell for her husband. It wasn't romantic love actually, she didn't have the capacity to love men in that way, perhaps it was a close caring like two very good friends.

"Listen," he said, "I didn't mean to lay all of this on you. Again I turned myself into an ass on the running trail. Worse, because I gave you the history of what's wrong with my life. To tell you the truth, I would love to see you again to just chat. I feel a... I guess strong instant friendship toward you, like I've known you before."

He had the look of a man who was digging himself further into a hole the more he tried to dig himself out, "Look, I'll just speed up and you'll never see me again. Sorry."

He increased his pace slightly and was ten yards in front of Betty before she made up her mind. Not even sure why she did it herself, she shouted to the nameless stranger.

"No, wait. Wait for me."

Kaetlin Cox would be described by most as thin and athletically built, but looks can be deceiving. In this case here they did, for Kaetlin Cox was not an athlete at all. She could run fast enough that some would consider it a decent distance. But, she could not run anywhere as quickly enough to keep up with the two runners that were ahead of her. Still she had run long enough to see Jack approach the woman, talk to her, and then speed up only to be rejoined by her again. At that point Kaetlin's lungs demanded she stop.

Despite witnessing the liaison, Kaetlin still didn't suspect Jack was having an affair. She was however, concerned that he was up to something far worse. It was not in her nature to sit by passively only to find out something bad has transpired when it was too late. So she began taking a very active hand.

This morning, she tailed Jack from the house. He sat outside of an apartment complex in his car waiting and watching the front door. Once he saw the woman leave in her running clothes, he drove quickly back to the park, and ran in slow circles, before approaching her as if randomly. But, it was far from that, it reminded Kaetlin of nothing more than a predator circling its prey. It was a perfectly orchestrated maneuver, showing great skill on Jack's part. The fact that he was able to do it so smoothly concerned Kaetlin even that much more.

She glanced at her watch, realizing she needed to go. It would take her a half an hour to get back to the apartment. She wanted to be there when Jack returned for a meeting he had scheduled with the ex-con who resided in their residence. Kaetlin knew this, as she knew many things these days, by spying. Today was going to be no different, she fully intended to listen in on the meeting this morning.

The spying, she felt, had become a necessity. Jack's strange behavior, his inexplicable comings and goings had alarmed her. Once he took up with the former inmate, she had a burning need to know what had happened to this man to make him change so much since emerging from his coma.

However, knowing what he was up to, and doing something about it, were two very different things. Despite her resolve, when it came down to it, she wondered if she could even face up to him if she discovered he was up to something nefarious. He had a power over her, sexually and charismatically, that was far stronger than before. The objections she held seemed to melt away with a stare or a kind word from Jack. It was as unnatural as it was pleasant.

Checking her watch again, Kaetlin jogged slowly toward her car.

As he always was, Arnie was on time. The life of a prisoner and the life of a bus driver were similar in at least one respect: the schedule was everything. Although, admittedly, the consequences of lateness in prison could be described kindly, as more "punitive".

Slipping his key in the door, Arnie wandered into the large apartment to the quick, but withering glance, of LM's sex toy Kaetlin. She could shoot all the scathing looks she wanted (the former inmate thought) it meant nothing to him. He was here to serve a purpose larger than she could imagine. Besides, after years in prison without the benefit of female companionship every single look she gave Arnie regardless of emotion, had the same effect: it caused a tingling and slight hardening of his penis.

Nevertheless, in some ways he understood the hostility she held toward him. She didn't understand the change in her boy friend Jack, or the reasons for the "dubious" company he now kept, and it worried her. Arnie was unable to determine whether she genuinely cared about Jack and his state of mind, which she at least appeared to, or she cared about a change in what had to be one of the cushiest meal tickets around. But either way he could see how he represented a threat.

Thinking about all of this, Arnie gave an invisible mental shrug. It was a shame for her, but it was a shame all around. The situation created by that impostor Lucy Maya had made it hard on all of them.

"Jack here yet?" he asked politely. He was always very polite.

The red head tilted her head toward the apartment's den. Arnie watched her, soft, red lips press together in disgust, feeling himself grow.

Arnie walked into the den, still in awe that there were apartments of such size that could house rooms of this magnitude. Jack was seated on a leather chair, with several Los Angeles newspapers piled around him.

"Good job, my friend. I see here our cleric friend finds himself in hot water."

Arnie shrugged, something he learned to do a great deal of in prison. Shrug off the good and the bad, trying to keep an even existence.

"Just doing as I was told," he said, sitting down in the chair across from Jack, "I reported that the priest had molested me for years. I told them I thought that he was doing it to both the boys and girls in his congregation. As I was instructed, I made sure to emphasize that I am willing to go under hypnosis to prove it."

Arnie shifted, comfortably sinking in his chair. From prison, to the lap of luxury. He would have never guessed.

Arnold Williamson continued, "I managed to get it in the paper, using that reporter you told me about - "

"Yes, now that was very amusing. It's a wonderfully capitalistic world we live in, isn't it? A little monetary incentive even motivates the untouchables of the press."

Jack giggled, and Arnie held back a shudder. As much time as they spent together, Arnie had never grown accustomed to Jack's decidedly female mannerisms which appeared when Jack was relaxed.

"Any way," Arnie said, "they're not real big on the hypnosis thing. It was too long ago. Retrieved memories can't be trusted, and they couldn't use it in a court of law. All of those things we expected. As we discussed before, I told them that I wanted a police psychologist to do the retrieval. I'm not doing this for my sake. But so they know to keep an eye on the priest for what he's doing to kids now, not what he did to me then."

Jack nodded, "Good, good, what did they say?"

"They would think about it, and get back to me. I don't think my being an ex-con going against a priest is helping to grease the wheels."

Jack's eyes narrowed in contained angered. When he looked this way you could feel the power of his darkness shine through. Arnie, for the second time in as many minutes, shuddered. However this time, not from disgust, but fear.

"You must," he placed powerful emphasis on the word "must", "no, you will, make sure that they dig into your subconscious. I know I only gave you enough information to complete your tasks, nevertheless I will explain the importance of this one, so you will understand."

Jack took a sip from the water on the table next to him, "I have planned my vengeance long and hard. Between becoming whole again, and returning to this plane, I laid out some things very carefully. One of them is in your head. It is a hypnotic trigger."

"Trigger?"

"Yes, while on the dreamscape I crafted a host of false memories and images that are waiting for the psychologist to pop them, like a very fragile soap bubble. When this bubble is popped, not only will your mind fill with the memories of molestation from our traitorous friend the cleric, but other bubbles will float into other dreams and pop."

"Other bubbles... other dreams?" He asked, before answer his own question, "other memories of people... youngsters... in the congregation. They're going to suddenly remember, all at once, your false memories that Father McCormick was an evil man. Dear god..."

Jack leaned forward in his chair, "You see Arnie, it's not just about me. I understand how you must feel after your priest, who had been your friend for all those many years, turned his back on you for... the abomination. He will suffer, but not even as badly as the rest of those who helped that body thief, will suffer. Now go, and see what you can do about getting that psychologist to push that first domino."

Jack flashed his impossibly enticing smile, and for Arnie, all was right in the world.

In the bedroom, Kaetlin lie still by the vent, uncertain what it was she heard (so much of it didn't make sense) but nevertheless she was terrified. Her heart beat a thousand miles an hour as she tried to make sense of the talk of dreamscapes, dominos and revenge. Her mind tried to force the connection between the false memories and the disgraced priest she read in the paper, however she couldn't quite connect all the dots.

All she knew was that she was very frightened.

But not nearly as frightened as she would have been, if she knew, that Arnie had gone, and Jack was sitting in his leather chair, with his eyes glued to the vent, listening to breathing that no man with normal hearing would have a right to hear.