Chapter Text
For Sam and Al, finding themselves saddled as each other had to’ve been one of their strangest leaps yet, and Sam had at different points become pregnant and a chimp. But for all of the bickering and embarrassment, they’d come away with a better understanding of their best friend and themselves. Not to mention, it felt wonderful to have a leap where the objective had not involved death, dismemberment, or any otherwise horrific scenario. Potential destruction of their personal timeline notwithstanding.
Every once in a while GTFW tossed them a bone, and Al for one was grateful for the reprieve. Fingers crossed, this could be the start of a trend. He preferred the brief trip home to getting shot in the jungle or driving off a cliff, that was for sure. Now if only they could leap back on a more permanent basis. In the meantime, he was hoping their latest route put them in Vegas.
The warm, fuzzy feeling of a leap well done faded slowly as whoever was sending them through time deposited Al in their next destination. He was feeling pretty good about their last leap, all things considered. Hell, if they could handle being each other, they could handle anything. In fact, he was starting to like being a leaper.
The blue sparks dwindled away, and it took Al a moment to orient himself to his new surroundings. He was crouched down, wobbling to stay upright. Gradually his balance came back and his vision cleared, and he was able to get a decent look at where he’d landed.
In front of him was a woman’s colorless face, glassy-eyed and motionless. She was naked in a tub, the water red, and her wrists slit open.
Filled with sudden hysteria, he slipped in the blood on the floor and fell on his backside. He couldn’t breathe. But he did manage one jagged whisper.
“Oh boy…”
His limbs were frozen to the spot, he was so terrified. His gaze was glued on the woman’s face. She’d been dead for a while, but he couldn’t help but feel that if he dared move, she’d stretch out her ghoulish arms and pull him under the water. His stomach churned dangerously as unwanted memories haunted him. Oh boy. Oh, god.
“Should’ve put up a ‘caution: wet floor’ sign,” someone joked.
Al jumped and slid in the blood again. Jeez louise! He hadn’t realized he wasn’t alone. Next to him was a man with a camera, who stopped taking pictures and shook his head at Al’s perceived clumsiness.
“Careful with the crime scene, Stokes.”
Crime scene? Al looked down to find himself dressed in a policeman’s uniform. Still in a daze, he managed to twist his head around. No, he wasn’t alone at all, in fact the apartment was quite busy. Other officers were investigating the area and taking statements. Behind him he spotted Sam, also in uniform, only now adjusting to his new environment. They locked eyes and Sam kept quiet...but when he caught sight of the body, the color drained from his face.
Feeling like he was gonna ralph at this point, Al staggered shakily to his feet, sticky hands outspread and afraid to touch anything. He had to get out of here. Even with his back turned, he felt her eyes on him. The walls seemed to be closing in as that familiar sense of dread sunk deep in his stomach.
A few people stared at his odd demeanor. “I...” he gasped, “I can’t...I’ve gotta...” Hyperventilating prevented him from finishing, so he simply stumbled past Sam and out of the apartment.
A skinny officer with a mop of curly brown hair hitched an eyebrow curiously. “What’s his problem?”
Sam realized he was addressing him. It put him on the spot, as he was still trying to take in the entire situation himself. “Uh...breakfast didn’t agree with him,” he covered.
“Breakfast? It’s 5 o’clock.”
“...he didn’t have lunch,” Sam told him quietly, only half paying attention as he slowly inched closer to the tub.
The scene before him was grisly. The water was so saturated it was hard to see the body beneath, and the arm dangling off the side had dripped down the porcelain and onto the floor. The woman’s blonde hair was stained, framing a haunting, empty expression. It was difficult to look at her, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
This was not the first, second, or even third instance where Sam had leaped in to find a body, but every time he felt the same. Something unthinkable had happened, and he was too late to stop it. The violent energy was so palpable it surrounded the room like a thick fog.
The officer who had spoken to him stepped up with a notepad. His name tag read Pitts. “This is, uh, Victoria Hershey. 34 years old, second grade teacher. According to the husband, she had a history of depression, so…seems like we’re dealing with another suicide.” He glanced down at the body and whistled. “Damn shame. I never had any teachers who looked like that.”
Sam shot daggers at him. “Do you mind? The woman’s dead.”
Chuckling, Pitts lifted a shoulder defensively. “Alright. It was just a joke.”
Sam imagined the classroom of children wondering what happened to Mrs. Hershey and failed to see the humor. Somehow he doubted Pitts’s assessment. It couldn’t be suicide. If that were the case, why would they leap in after the fact?
Spotting something hidden away, Sam crouched down and furrowed his brows. “Hey, come look at this.”
Pitts peered over his shoulder. “Whoa, nice catch! Hey Brown, got a shot for ya.”
As the forensic photographer began snapping pictures, Sam inspected closer. Wedged between the tub and the trash can was a piece of bloodstained flannel. It had been torn off of something—a piece of clothing, maybe. It would be easy to miss if, say...you were staging a suicide.
Sam’s instinct had been right. This was murder.
“Excuse me, excuse me—” The sound of a struggle caught Sam’s attention. A chubby woman with a sharp bob of black hair and a tape recorder was trying to get past a few officers who were keeping her at bay. She yelled at Sam. “Officer Bowman, can you tell me the name of the deceased?”
“Jeez, how did she get in here so fast?” Pitts complained, striding toward the combative woman, “Okay, Mahoney, it’s time to move along.”
“Get your hands off of me! The public has a right to know about the news as soon as it hits!” She jerked herself free and spoke to Sam again. “Was this suicide in any way linked to a recent tragedy? The loss of a loved one, perhaps?” Sam stared at her with incredulity. Did she have no respect for the dead? “Stop manhandling me! I’ll sue you!”
“You heard me! Out!” Pitts pushed her through the door and her loud protests faded away.
Sam returned his focus to the body. “I’m sorry, Victoria,” he murmured, “We’ll find out who did this.”
Someone had to speak for her. She was silent now.
-------
The bathroom mirror offered Sam a glimpse of the person he’d leaped into—Bowman, was it? A slightly heavyset black man with close-cropped hair stared back at him haggardly. This had been a rough leap in. He’d spent far too much time in this room today; he hadn’t noticed how used to the smell he’d gotten until he stepped out.
Exiting the apartment, he found Al waiting in the hallway alone and looking much worse than he did. Traumatized eyes scanned the floor as he leaned against the wall. Sam held no blame for him running away; he knew how dead bodies affected him. Whenever a corpse had shown up when he was Observer, he’d always made a hasty exit.
Sam was careful to not sneak up, but he walked softly. His friend’s gaze flicked toward him with embarrassment. “You okay?”
With some chagrin, Al kept his head low and nodded. “Uh…I’m sorry I ran out on you.” He rubbed the side of his face with his freshly-washed hand. “I just, uh…I don’t like being surprised like that.”
Sam shook his head to dismiss the unnecessary apology. “I understand.” A pause. “We’re done here, so we don’t have to go back in.”
Al nodded appreciatively. He was hoping he’d say that. But if Sam asked, if he’d prepared himself…he would’ve. As long as he knew what he was in for, he’d be able to keep himself together. He could handle being with a body for a bit if he had some forewarning; it was just an unexpected cadaver turned his stomach inside out. Still…he was glad he didn’t have to.
Sam prepared himself to tell Al what they’d found, although he suspected he probably had an inkling already. “It looks like she might not’ve killed herself,” he told him, “It could be murder.”
“And lemme guess. We’ve gotta track down who did it?”
“Correct. Ziggy places the chances of that at 88.2%.” Both of them jumped. They were so absorbed in the conversation, they hadn’t even heard the Imaging Chamber open. Gooshie approached them, appropriately solemn given the circumstances. But he was glad to’ve missed the part with the corpse.
Sam ran his hand down his face, full of self-condemnation. “Wrong. We’re here to not save someone…again.”
Al’s gaze shifted toward him. Now was not the time for a pity party. “We can’t save everyone, Sam,” he said gently. He pushed the afterimage of the body out of his mind. “Some things are just meant to happen.”
Sam gave him a reproachful look. It was a crummy answer, but they’d had this argument too many times already. “Tell us what we need to know, Gooshie.”
“Y-Yes, Dr. Beckett.” Gooshie inclined his head and lifted the handlink. Even outside of the apartment and decades in the future, this environment made him uneasy. “It’s November 6, 1982, and you’re police officers in the NYPD; you’ve been partners for five years. Dr. Beckett, you’re Derek Bowman; Admiral Calavicci, you’re Brandon Stokes. And you’re here to...”
“Solve a murder,” Sam finished.
“Yes, but…that’s not all of it.” Gooshie scratched at his mustache nervously. His image flickered for a moment, as it sometimes happened with their iffy connection.
Al felt a twinge in his head again. This leap was stressing him out.
“There was a piece of torn clothing found at the scene,” Gooshie continued, beady eyes bulging, “and that cast doubt not only on Victoria Hershey’s death, but three other alleged suicides that occurred in the last two months. They suspected they all shared the same perpetrator.” He lowered the handlink anxiously. This was a terrible job for someone who hated being the bearer of bad news.
Sam and Al gave him their full attention now. Sam worriedly stepped closer. “You mean we’re…we’re dealing with a serial killer?”
Reluctantly, Gooshie nodded yes. “When that evidence was found, the killing stopped. They assumed the killer felt they were getting too close; they were never caught.”
Sam rubbed his hands over his thighs in deep thought. Leaping perplexed him sometimes. “If we’re here to catch them, then why did we leap in after the murders ended?”
“Because the victims need justice,” Al said grimly. He was staring at the floor, hands in his pockets, considering what he’d like to do to whoever this sicko was. Justice didn’t seem enough.
“…and it’ll give their loved ones closure,” Gooshie pointed out with an unassuming shrug. He ducked down and focused on the handlink.
Sam began to feel guilty for adding even more negativity to the situation. Of course he thought these were worthwhile goals, he just wished they hadn’t needed doing in the first place. He sighed and softened up. “Does Ziggy have any clues as to who the murderer might be?”
“Sorry, it’s still too early.” Gooshie opened the Imaging Chamber and stepped inside. “She’s going to run some more scenarios and I’ll get back to you two.” He stopped with his hand over the button, unsure of what to say. “Er—be careful.”
Sam grinned tightly. “Thanks, Gooshie.”
The door clunked shut.
Al was still studying the floor, thoughts adrift. While he was certainly looking better, there was no denying this leap in had left him shaken up. Sam leaned closer. “Hey. You going to be alright?”
Letting out a deep breath, Al lifted his head. “Yeah. Let’s just nail this nozzle, huh?”
Sam had no problem agreeing to that.
-------
The photos of four smiling women were spread out on Bowman’s desk: One of them was Victoria Hershey, the other three were Sophia Landon, Emily Quigg, and Sadie Walsh--their mystery killer's previous victims. Inside their folders were gruesome images of the crime scenes, and Sam examined one of them now. Al, however, wasn’t much for the pictures, and had avoided those in favor of the reports. Both of them were searching for clues that perhaps Bowman and Stokes had missed, but neither of them had come up with anything yet.
They were women with no seeming connection other than the proximity between them: they all lived in the same ten mile radius. But they were different body types, ages, lifestyles. None of them knew each other. And they all committed suicide, except they didn’t.
Sam was feeling sick inspecting these photos; he compared them to the happy pictures on the desk. None of them knew what horrible end they’d come to. Who were these women prior to this, before they were numbers in a body count? He’d likely never know.
“We’re looking for a guy,” Al said.
“What makes you say that?”
“Well he’s gotta be pretty strong to overtake them like that, right?”
“You’ve seen enough leaps to know women are just as capable,” Sam said softly into his folder, leaning back in his chair, "But statistically, you’re right. Most serial killers are men.”
“Exactly.” Al smacked his report onto the table and shuddered. “Oh I don’t like this leap at all, Sam. It gives me the heebie-jeebies. Some monster killed at least four women, and he’s out there walking around with the rest of society.”
“Not for much longer,” said Sam resolutely.
A familiar whistle. Pitts stopped mid-stroll, eyes skimming over the photos. “Wow, there’s some babes in there. You two putting together a calendar?” He wagged his eyebrows.
Sam glowered at the callous remarks. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Hey, this is Homicide,” Pitts replied with a shrug, backing away, “If I cried over every dead body I saw, I’d be a basket case.”
“Well you can keep your comments to yourself,” Sam told him icily. He picked up another folder and tried to ignore him before he said something he regretted.
Pitts rolled his eyes. “Pfft. Fine, whatever, princess.” He leaned forward onto the desk--a little too close to Al, who distanced himself with disgust. This was the first conversation he was privy to with this guy, and he wasn’t winning him over. “But just so you know, you’re under a microscope right now.” He jerked his head toward a nearby office. “Captain Eads is pissed about your case. She doesn’t think it looks good, her having a serial killer on the loose. She wants this solved fast.”
Captain Eads was a stern-looking woman, red hair streaked with gray, and she could be seen through the blinds speaking to another officer. Her words were unheard, but the agitation was clear in her body language. She glanced up at them momentarily, her gaze frigid, and then turned her attention back to the man in her office. She didn’t seem like someone whose bad side you wanted to see.
Pitts snorted. “Man, she can be a bitch. Like permanent PMS with her, I swear.”
“So what’s your excuse?” Al piped up, stone-faced. He’d had his fill of this slimeball.
A pause. Pitts wasn’t so amused anymore. He left without another word.
-------
Captain Sherry Eads was, in fact, very pissed off. She was already under pressure being the first female captain in this precinct, and now there was a serial killer three months into the job. If she didn’t catch this bastard and quick, her critics would use this against her. She was incompetent, she couldn’t hack it, a woman couldn’t lead as well as a man. They were all waiting for her to fail.
But Bowman and Stokes were her best officers. Their records spoke for themselves. If anyone could solve this case, it would be them. But…she couldn’t give anyone an inch here. Without that fire under their asses, this case would be gathering dust while the noose wrapped tighter and tighter around her neck. She couldn’t show them anything but demanding fury...even if she did like them.
Except for Pitts. She hated that guy’s guts.
“Lee.” The officer stopped in the doorway. “Tell Pitts to get his ass back to work.”
“You got it, Captain.” Lee left to do exactly that.
Eads narrowed her eyes through the blinds, a watchful hawk. Like it or not, she was going to get some respect around here.
And then...she began to feel peculiar. Light, woozy, like her mind was floating away. A tingling sensation prickled across her skin. It wasn't like anything she could describe, and it would’ve been terrifying if she’d had the time to consider it. Something was pulling at her, dissolving her atoms, transporting her elsewhere—there was a flash of red light, and, before she could comprehend it, she was gone.
In her place stood Sam Beckett.
Not the Sam Beckett of this timeline. A Paradox Sam Beckett, a person who shouldn’t exist but did. After the evil leapers had kidnapped Sam when he was sixteen, he’d spent the next thirty years being forced to commit heinous acts in their name—and oh, he was good at it. Until one day in 1957, when he’d met Al Calavicci and his whole world changed. Al had presented him a way out, but instead the Paradox Sam--along with that timeline’s version of Al--had become stranded anomalies. Once again in the vile clutches of the demons who had held him captive for so long, his sole goal now was vengeance on the Sam and Al of this timeline.
Wherever the hell they were. It was hard to get revenge when one of your enemies was trapped in time and the other was protected in a top secret government facility in the future. Another cruel joke fate had played on him.
So in the meanwhile, he had a job to do, and that was also difficult to accomplish when leaping put a bunch of holes in your brain. But that was what Observers were for.
Right on cue, Calavicci opened up the rainbow-hued door to their prison and stepped inside. “Evening, Sam,” he greeted him, pressing a few buttons on their triangular handlink to shut the door behind him. He straightened the lapels of his deep purple jacket and took in Beckett’s shoulder pads and pencil skirt. “You’re looking…buxom.”
Beckett peered down, just now noticing his attire. “Oh, damn!” he exclaimed with irritation, “I’m a woman.”
“I dunno, cinch in the waist, add a tie…could work.” Calavicci smirked teasingly through his cigar. He was in an unusually cheery mood and it was infuriating.
Beckett glared. “You live to torture me.”
“What else am I gonna do?” Calavicci asked with a shrug, his eyes twinkling darkly, “I torture you, they torture us…it’s all we got goin’.”
Maybe after thirty years he wouldn’t find their situation quite so amusing. “Tell me what I’ve leaped here for, Pollyanna.”
“Okay, let’s get down to business.” Calavicci lifted his handlink, plunking in a few keys. “You’ve leaped into Captain Sherry Eads of the NYPD, 1982. And there’s been a string of murders all within the last few months, only now they’ve suddenly dried up.”
“Don’t tell me. I’m here to give our killer a higher score.”
“Bingo.” Calavicci stuck the handlink back in his pocket, pacing the room. “Should be simple; just make sure you get rid of any potentially incriminating evidence and let our buddy get back to it. Easy peasy.” He squinted in thought. “Funny they never caught the guy. He must be good.”
“I’ll have to ask him for some tips,” Beckett joked. He leaned against the desk and picked up Eads’s name plaque. She must’ve worked hard to earn this title. As soon as he was done with her, she’d probably be back to desk duty—or in jail, depending on how badly he screwed her over. “Does Lothos know who it is?”
“Not yet,” Calavicci answered, “but we’re workin’ on it. In the meantime, enjoy the, er…scenery.” He glanced at the dimly-lit, somewhat depressing office. Even their quarters at the Project were less crypt-like than this. His gaze traveled along the slightly dusty window sill to the blinds, then the rest of the station, and crept along to— “Hooooly shit!” His eyes popped out of his head and he ducked out of sight.
Extremely confused as to why a hologram would need to hide, Beckett scrunched up his face and closed in. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Ya-da-da-da-da! Stay out of the window!” Calavicci waved his arms frantically and Beckett, now even more puzzled, slid behind the wall. “You can’t let them see you.”
“Let who see me?” Beckett peeked cautiously around the corner.
And when he finally spotted them, his blood began to boil. The Sam Beckett and Al Calavicci of this timeline were here.
His nails dug into the wall so tightly little half-moon marks were indented in the paint.
Then...his anger mixed with adrenaline, a war of red-hot excitement, the enraged exhilaration pounding into his ribs. He smirked. He didn’t just have one of them. He had them both, right here, and fragile enough for his furious hands to break into a million pieces. Except…
The Project wouldn’t allow him. Not when they had plans. He’d gotten so excited, he’d forgotten what they’d told him. If he killed the other Sam Beckett…they’d make sure he stayed alive a good, long time. His vision flashed red. It wasn’t fair.
But that didn’t mean he still couldn’t make them suffer. He was astounded at their amazing fortune.
“It’s them.”
“Can you believe it? Of all the places and times to leap into, we land straight on those two!” Calavicci chuckled and began to dig in his pocket for the handlink again. “It’s like Christmas!”
“What the hell is the other Al doing leaping?”
“Probably some stupid mix-up on their part; I think the two of them switched places at one point.” Calavicci shrugged. “Who cares? Now we’ve got ‘em here all to ourselves. They’ll never see us comin’.”
"...so why are we hiding?”
Calavicci screwed up his mouth and breathed through his nose impatiently. He held up the handlink. “Because,” he said, “you and I are tuned in to each other’s brainwaves, which means we’re tuned in to their brainwaves, which means they’re tuned in to our brainwaves. If we can see them, they can see us.”
“Shit!” Beckett pulled at his chin worriedly. This could really throw a wrench into things.
“Not to worry,” Calavicci assured him, “I should be able to use Lothos to scramble the signal from their computer and we’ll be back in the clear. So just gimme a minute.” He began to press more buttons on the shrieking handlink. He smacked it, hard.
-------
“…we should ask Ziggy about the flannel; she might be able to find something forensics in 1982 couldn’t.” Sam held up another folder close to his face, lost in thought.
Al, listening intently, was suddenly assaulted with a shooting headache, bad enough to make him physically recoil in reaction. Jeez louise! What was that about?
-------
“Hang on. Did you see that?”
Calavicci looked up from the handlink. “What?”
Beckett furrowed his brows and inched closer to the glass, the gears turning in his mind. Maybe he was only imagining things, but he had to be sure. “Do whatever you just did again.”
Keeping his eyes on their counterparts this time, Calavicci complied. And as soon as he repeated the sequence, he could see Al react in pain and grip his head. “Oh my god…”
Their jaws dropped. The pieces clicking into place, they faced each other happily.
“His chip’s still active,” Beckett concluded, stunned, “He’s still connected to their computer.”
Calavicci’s mouth curled up wickedly. “Which means we can jam the signal.”
Stepping closer to the window and pulling at the blinds, Beckett chuckled as he watched their unsuspecting prey. What had started as a fairly standard, tedious mission was twisting in some wonderfully unexpected directions. “What do you say we have some fun this leap?”
-------
Derek Bowman lived in a modest apartment for New York. Not run down, but about what he could afford. While it wasn’t extravagant, his bedroom offered a gorgeous view: across the street was an old clock tower, and the entire window was taken up by a giant, stained glass clock face. The colors were a work of art, casting rainbow shards of light across the floor.
It reminded Sam of leaping. Each color in the collage was a person whose life was touched, and they all coalesced inside him.
He sat in the dark for a while and admired the beauty. It was rare for a leap to offer him such a quiet moment of contemplation, even if just for a short time, and it helped calm him down after today’s miserable start. He lifted his hand and twisted his fingers in the light, letting the rainbow hues reflect off of his skin.
Someone knocked on the door.
-------
When Sam opened it, he was greeted by the sight of a curious two-year-old boy. A pair of arms around him led to a woman, a bit more stressed than Sam was, who shook a few stray dreadlocks out of her face and gave a weary, gap-toothed grin. “Oh good, you’re here.”
“Yeah, I, uh…just got back from work.”
“I never know when you’re working anymore,” she sighed, moving the toddler to her hip and reaching into her bag, “They got you going all sorts of crazy hours.”
The little boy’s interested stare turned into a grin, and he pointed at Bowman’s name tag. “Dada.”
“Mmhmm, Patrick, that’s your daddy,” the woman murmured as she continued rooting through her bag.
Patrick shook his head. “No.”
“No?” The woman laughed. “Well who is he? Oscar the Grouch?”
Sam momentarily panicked when he realized Patrick could see him—but luckily toddlers said contradictory things all the time. And actually, he was more thrown by the fact Derek had a wife and child. He hadn’t seen anything in the apartment that clued him in to the fact anyone else lived here.
“Oh, here we go.” His wife took out a sheet of paper, handing it to him. “This is the grocery list for tomorrow. You gonna be okay with me dropping him off a couple hours early?”
“Uh—yeah,” Sam answered uncertainly. Was she going somewhere?
“Great. That gives me some time—my mother’s been bugging me about going to see this new play about cats…” She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I figure I should go with her before it disappears. Who knows how long it’ll last?”
Sam hid his grin and shrugged. “I don’t know, you might have a few years…”
“Yeah, right. Y'know, I wouldn’t have to make these lists if you just ate healthy,” she teased, “And I wouldn’t worry about Patrick eating a bunch of candy and frozen pizza whenever you have him.” Maybe not wife then. Ex-wife? She laughed. “I swear, it’s like we’re still married sometimes.” Bingo.
Sam chuckled and scratched his temple. “Yeah, heh. It’s a good thing I have you to look out for me.”
She pointed her nose down. “I ain’t doin’ it for you.” Sam snorted. “Anyway, I gotta get going. It’s past someone’s bedtime.” She directed her last sentence at Patrick, who shook his head again.
“No!”
Sam leaned close to him, very serious. “I heard a rumor that if certain little boys don’t go to bed on time, they get a visit from…the tickle monster!” He lightly tickled his feet, and Patrick squealed and bounced with delight.
“Is that my grandson I hear?” An older, balding black man came up from behind them, cheerfully waving at Patrick.
The woman’s smile immediately wiped off of her face. “Jeffrey.” She adjusted Patrick on her hip and cleared her throat. “Well, we’re gonna get going. See you tomorrow, Derek.” And they disappeared down the hall.
His father made his way inside, frowning. “What was Nancy doing here?”
“She was dropping off a grocery list,” Sam answered, staring after Nancy and wondering about the cold exchange. He shut the door and turned around as Jeffrey was taking a beer out of the fridge.
He humphed. “She doesn’t trust you to be able to feed your own son. I’m telling you, that woman hasn’t ever treated you right, before or after you were married.”
Sam shrugged. “I think the list is actually pretty helpful.”
Another snort. Jeffrey sat down on the couch and turned on the TV. Apparently he was expected. “Well, enough about that. I came here to spend some time with my son.”
Sam smiled. He might as well go with it. Taking a beer out of the fridge for himself, he took a seat next to him. George Jefferson danced his way across the screen as the audience burst into laughter.
Jeffrey looked at Sam and crinkled his brow with concern. “You look tired, boy. You want me to go?”
“No, it’s—” Sam sighed, setting his beer down. He pressed his fingertips together. “It was a rough day. It’s this case I’m working.”
“More of those suicides?” Sam nodded. His father pursed his lips solemnly. “Damn shame. You gonna be alright?”
“Oh yeah.” Sam grinned tightly. “It’s part of my job.”
Jeffrey placed a firm hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “You’re doing the Lord’s work. Keeping these streets clean for my grandson.”
Sam hoped so. “Thanks…Dad.”
“No matter how down you’re feelin’, remember I’ve got your back.”
-------
Al’s new living situation smelled like cat pee, which was weird because he was fairly certain Stokes didn’t own a cat. Located in a shady part of town, the apartment offered thin walls, dirty laundry on the floor, and old beer bottles. Al hadn’t heard anything about Brandon's family, but his detective skills told him he was a bachelor and had been for a long time.
He checked him out in the mirror, and it was evident from his face that he’d done some hard living. A craggy black man, dark circles under his eyes, on the thin side. Gray hair was starting to creep in, but that might not’ve been due to age. Everything Al had gathered about him so far indicated that he was a mess.
Well, no food in the fridge, but at least there was booze. A true set of priorities. Al groaned in disgust and shut the door.
He was already in a rotten mood. This day had started out about as well as cancer, and it took a dive when he’d gotten that miserable headache. This was the worst. Maybe the stress was getting to him. He’d been having headaches like these infrequently since he’d started leaping, but never one that was this persistent. And it felt like it was getting worse. Yipes, he hadn’t had one this bad since he’d married his sixth—no, fifth wife.
Six? Why did he think six? He’d only been married five times…this time around, anyway. He didn’t think much about the history where there’d been six, actually. It’d lasted about a week, between Sharon and Maxine—and had ended when her family found out. Huh. What a thing to get mixed up for a moment.
He laid down on the creaky bed and blew out a breath. He'd finally been able to get a minute away from the nastiness of this leap, and yet he couldn’t erase the image of Victoria Hershey from his mind. He closed his eyes, but she remained there, her hair floating around her still frame in the murky water.
He shuddered. This was his first time…leaping into a murder. Hrm, he shouldn’t think “first” time. Only time. He’d never liked them when he was an Observer either, and it was even more horrible in person. But he knew that already. He never wanted to glimpse another dead body again, never wanted to see that vacant stare, to smell the decaying flesh, to feel as helpless and insignificant as—
He opened his eyes. No. He wouldn’t go back there.
That’s it, he was gonna kick his butt back into the now! Now was what was important, because now he actually had the power to do something about it. That’s why they’d leaped in, after all. They were gonna make sure that whoever did this was put away forever...and those women were worth fighting for. Time to pull himself up by the bootstraps, help Sam, and do right by them.
Before the heroics though, a shower. If the bathroom was clean enough. Jeez, he hoped so.