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.