He went from rubbing his wrists to rubbing his temples, wondering how he was going to explain. It had been a long time since he’d had a dream like that.
“You’ve been dreaming a lot lately,” Janna said softly, getting up.
He could see her, he realized. There was a light on in the bathroom, fading sunshine coming through the curtains. He was in a hotel room in Santa Fe, not locked up in a cage in Vietnam; and he could see her, silhouetted by the light, all curves and sleek lines and .. .
“What do you mean, ‘dreaming a lot lately’? I haven’t had those dreams in a long time.”
She came back with a glass of water and a pair of pills. “Here. Take these.”
“What are they?”
She expelled a long breath through elegant nostrils. “Al. These are the pills Dr. Beeks prescribed for you. They’ll help you sleep without the dreams.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, not impatient, not accusing. You have dreams. This will help. Here—take them. Feel better.
“I don’t have dreams,” Al said, forgetting momentarily what had awakened him in the first place. “What the hell is going on?”
But if he stopped to think about it, he could remember: He had nightmares, memories that came back to haunt him. And Verbeena Beeks was a psychiatrist, had been treating him for PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disorder: Flashbacks to Vietnam, and the six years he’d been a POW, most of those years trapped in a bamboo cage too small to stand up or lie down in, each limb tied to the interlacing bamboo bars. This dream wasn’t even particularly bad, compared to some he’d had.
He rubbed his temples again and reached for the glass and pills.
“Okay.” It wasn’t easy to accept it. Apparently this version of his life had drawbacks as well as a wife.
He paused in the act of putting the pills in his mouth, wondering. Was Janna his sixth wife, or had he managed to skip a few divorces this time?
“Better close your mouth, you’ll catch flies,” Janna advised. The light from the bathroom, brighter than the sunlight, fell across his face, momentarily blinding him.
“Turn the room light on,” he said sharply.
Saying nothing, she reached past him to turn on the bedside light. Its illumination drowned out the spotlight from the bathroom. Al closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Okay. Thanks. Sorry—”
“It’s all right, dear. I should have remembered about the light.” She moved around the bed, sat down, began rubbing his back, kneading his shoulders. “You’re worried. We’ll go back first thing tomorrow. You need to talk to Sam, see that he’s all right. Go ahead and take your pills, you’ll sleep better.”
He nodded. She was right, of course. He would sleep
better. The pills would give him sleep, without dreams. Without nightmares.
Without memories.
The lieutenant wasn’t Sam Beckett.
He hadn’t abandoned anybody. He couldn’t have kept the snake from biting the other man; he couldn’t have saved him. Calling out wouldn’t help. He couldn’t reach the lieutenant. Couldn’t touch him. Couldn’t help.
If he’d said that in a session, Verbeena would tilt her head and raise one eyebrow at him, waiting for him to draw the obvious conclusion.
But when he stepped back into the Imaging Chamber, the chances were good that Janna would be gone.
His memories of two distinct pasts were blurring.
He was leaning against her, her arms were around him, his head leaned back against her shoulder. She was comforting, saying nothing. She was a very patient woman, was Janna. He could . .. remember. . . her waking him from other nightmares in the recent past. He could almost remember how they met, at the first Project Christmas party. He could remember the first time he had touched her face, the movement of her cheek under his hand when she smiled at him, that bright, lovely smile.
He could almost remember a whole life with her, and they were good memories.
He set the glass aside and turned to hold her. He couldn’t fall in love with her. He couldn’t. He had to go back and help Sam change the past. The future.
The now.
He buried his face in Janna’s hair and waited for the pills to take him back into the dark.
In the small, cluttered office in the back of the house down the road from the Polar Bar, Rimae Hoffman bent over the books, frowning as she riffled receipts in one hand and ran a calculator with the other. The locals weren’t enough to pay the bills, even with Ladies’ Nights and parties and every special event she could think of, even trying to peddle real estate on the side. Summer was always tough, but real estate and private parties usually provided a little cushion. This ;. ear neither seemed to be enough. It was starting out bad and she couldn’t see any sign it was going to get any better.
What the hell had possessed Wickie to take back that quarter keg anyway? Something about kids, but that was bull—Kevin was of age, and that was all that mattered. Sure, it was only one sale, but what if the local kids decided to have the Midnight Hour bar down the road cater their parties? What if this sudden picking and choosing of his started applying to their parents? That could add up.
She ran her fingers through her hair and swore. She’d have to talk to him. And he’d better not depend on having slept with the boss to keep him out of trouble, either.
The trouble was she liked Wickie, she really did. The way he’d started acting recently, though, that was nuts.
She’d talk to him. He’d straighten out.
Maybe he could start playing the piano during his breaks from the bar. She hadn’t known he could play—in the last ten months
