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Murder at the Mission

Episode 11 written by Martha
Original air date: January 3, 2002

Disclaimer: The characters in the following fan fiction do not belong to me. They belong to CBS and Viacom and other powers that be. I am only using them for the purpose ofwriting this story. No money is being made from this writing it is for entertainment purposes only. And now on with the show...

"CJ, you're a big boy now, you have to walk. Mommy can't carry you all the time." Amanda Livingston rolled her eyes at her friend, Dr. Mark Sloan, as she put CJ down and took his hand. "I knew I should have brought the stroller."

"Maybe we can rent one. Did you see any at the entrance?" Mark asked helpfully, taking CJ's other hand in his.

Amanda shook her head. "No. No rental wheelchairs either. Just Conquistadors and Native Californians and Franciscan padres and lots of informational brochures about the California missions."

"Well, we'll manage. I'll sit with him and soak up the atmosphere when he gets tired of walking and you can look around on your own for a bit."

"Strange how he can run around the house for hours on end and never show any signs of tiring, yet after just fifteen minutes here, it's 'Mommy, pick me up! Pick me up!'"

Mark smiled. "I'm glad my back was younger and stronger when Steve and Carol were at that stage."

"They're probably the reason your back isn't what it used to be," Amanda said, stretching her back with an exaggerated sigh.

Mark grinned, and they walked off with CJ between them, sometimes walking, sometimes swinging on their hands. They stopped to admire the reconstructed campanario and listen to the bells being rung by the robed padres. Then Mark buttonholed one of the docents who was working in the herb garden while Amanda chatted with one of the leather-armored Spanish soldiers.

CJ shook free of their hands and each let go, thinking the other adult still held the four-year-old's other hand. CJ, free of adult restraint and surrounded by a fascinating world of men and women in strange costumes, wandered happily off to explore.

* * *

"Oh my God, Mark, how could he disappear so fast? He was just here! CJ! CJ!" Amanda's eyes were huge with panic as she called her son's name.

"Calm down, honey, we'll find him. He can't have gone far. You keep looking. I'll contact security and get them to help."

As soon as Amanda disappeared around a corner, Mark pulled out his cell phone. He speed dialed a number, waited a second, and then said, "Steve? It's Dad. I'm at the mission with Amanda and CJ's disappeared. If you're free, we could use some help here." He paused, then continued. "No, I don't really think so. I think he just wandered off. But still, these days, well, you can imagine how Amanda feels." He paused again, listening. "Great. Bring Jess then too. See you in a few." He folded up his phone and headed to the security office.

* * *

"Dr. Livingston, we have every employee searching for your little boy. Please try to relax. Can I get you a cup of coffee?" Dr. Redville, the mission historical park's head curator and director, graciously offered. Mark was ensconced in a luxurious leather chair opposite the director's desk, while Amanda paced the office frantically, wringing her hands and looking out the windows.

"I should be out there looking for him," she moaned.

"Honey, there are a hundred people looking for him. Better for you to stay here and wait for news. That way, when they find him, they'll know where to find you to let you know," Mark said soothingly.

Just then, an electronic crackle echoed throughout the room, followed by a metallic voice. "Dr. Redville? I think we've found the boy." Amanda wheeled to face the desk, eyes wide.

The director punched a button on his radio. "Bring him up."

"No can do, sir," came the response. "He won't come out. He's in a culvert and it's too small for any of us to go in after him." Amanda's sharp intake of breath revealed that she feared the worst.

The director followed her train of thought. "Is he hurt?"

"Doesn't seem to be, sir, just scared. He's definitely not stuck. Just won't come out. Maybe if you bring the mother here. We're close to the dig site, at the west end of the old dormitories."

"Dig site?" Mark asked, as the three hurried out of the office and into the California sunshine.

"We're excavating a new location," Dr. Redville explained as they walked across the quadrangle. "It was covered up by a convenience store until recently. The state bought it back because it was part of the original mission grounds. We removed the store and are now excavating the site prior to reconstructing the Indian village that was there during the mission era."

Amanda, three steps ahead of the men, turned around for directions. Dr. Redville nodded to the left, and she hurried on. As they rounded the corner of an adobe structure, they saw a small group of costumed interpreters gathered around a dark circle in the wall. Amanda rushed to them and knelt in the opening. "CJ?" she called, sticking her head as far into the pipe as it would go. "Honey? Are you in there?"

"Momma?" a timid little voice replied.

"Oh, CJ, thank God!" Tears of relief sprang to Amanda's eyes. "Honey, come out of there. Are you okay?"

"Make the soldiers go away."

Amanda's eyebrows met in a puzzled frown. She looked over her shoulder at the young men wearing the reconstructed leather helmets, weapons and armor of the ancient Spanish soldiers who protected the missions in their early days. They shrugged, and backed away. "OK, honey, they're gone. Can you come out now?"

Some rustling noises came from the pipe, then CJ's frightened voice again. "They're still there!" Amanda waved the soldier-reenactors further away, and they moved around the corner of the building, totally out of sight of the pipe opening.

"They're gone now, really. Come out." More rustling noises were followed by CJ's small head emerging from the pipe. As soon as he was within reach, Amanda grabbed him almost roughly and hugged him to her in such a grip that he squeaked.

"Momma!" She loosened her grip a fraction and covered his face

with kisses.

"Don't you ever, ever, ever disappear like that again, young man," she admonished him in a voice too full of relief to be truly angry. "What in the world possessed you to crawl into that pipe and hide?"

CJ's eyes widened as the memory came back. "I saw a soldier kill an Indian," he whispered to his mother. She frowned at him, and he nodded emphatically. She stood, holding her son, and turned to the director, who was standing by with Mark.

"Dr. Redville," Amanda began. "I know that re-enactments bring history to life, and I know that there were a lot of ugly incidents between the Spanish soldiers and the native Californians, but do you think that it is really necessary to re-enact such violent and frightening incidents in an environment where little children can..."

Dr. Redville held his hands up, palms toward her, and interrupted. "Dr. Livingston, please believe me that we do not re-enact any such things. We don't believe in bringing the uglier parts of the mission history to life. Our Indian and soldier re-enactors are instructed to get along at all times. At the worst, the soldiers might boss the Indians around a bit, encourage them to get back to work, that sort of thing. But we certainly don't re-enact murders."

Amanda turned to CJ. "Tell me exactly what you saw and where you saw it, baby." She put him down and held his hand, and he led her around the corner and into the quadrangle in front of the mission chapel.

"Here," CJ said, pointing with his free hand. "The soldier poked the Indian with his spear, and the Indian fell down here. There was lots of blood, and the Indian screamed." CJ turned and buried his face in his mother's legs, frightened all over again at the memory of the scene. Amanda picked him up and hugged him.

Just then Steve Sloan and Jesse Travis appeared around a corner. Their anxious faces relaxed as they saw CJ safe in his mother's arms.

"False alarm, eh?" Steve said to his father as Jesse greeted Amanda and CJ.

"Sort of," Mark agreed, then started to fill his son in on what had happened and what CJ had said. Just then, the walkie-talkie that Dr. Redville carried crackled to life.

"Dr. Redville?" came the electronic voice.

"Yes?" the director replied, holding the device to his mouth and clicking the talk button.

"We have an incident here, sir. At the dig."

The director's forehead wrinkled in a frown. "An incident? Please explain."

"We've found a body, sir."

The director frowned again. "A body?"

"Yes, sir. A dead body."

"I assumed that," the director replied with exasperation. "How old?"

The electronic voice paused a moment. "Oh, I'd guess mid-twenties, maybe younger."

The director rolled his eyes. "Ancient or modern?"

"Oh!" The light dawned. "Modern, sir. Definitely not 18th century."

Steve Sloan flashed his badge at the director, and took the walkie-talkie away from him. "This is Lt. Steve Sloan of the LAPD. Who am I talking to?"

"The name's Wilson, sir."

"Wilson, describe what you found."

"Well, sir, it's the body of a young man dressed as an Indian."

* * *

"Dad, it's out of my jurisdiction."

"I know that, son. But can't the LAPD loan you to the Lompoc force to help out?"

"They can if the Lompoc force asks for help. They haven't. It's not a high profile case."

Mark frowned. "My godson is still having nightmares about the soldier killing the Indian. That makes it a high profile case in my book."

"Dad, there's no guarantee that finding the killer will help CJ at all."

"I know, I know," Mark agreed grudgingly. "But it might. If we can tell him we found out who killed the Indian and that he's safely in jail, he might feel more secure."

"Besides, didn't you say Amanda pulled strings and got a copy of the autopsy, and the vic wasn't run through with a spear or even stabbed?"

Mark sipped his coffee. "He was drowned--in tanning fluid."

Steve's eyebrows shot up. "Tanning fluid?"

Mark nodded. "They have a real tanning operation going up there, recreating the one that they had at the mission in the 1700s. Troy Hudson was drowned in a vat of tanning fluid."

"Troy Hudson?" Steve grinned crookedly. "Was that the vic's name?"

"It was for the past six months. That's when he moved to California from Ohio. Back there, he was Don Williams." Steve raised his eyebrows quizzically at his father's wealth of information. "I asked around," Mark continued defensively. "Talked to his girlfriend. She said he was a sweet guy who was in love with the whole southern California scene. He thought the whole place was Disneyland."

"More like Fantasyland," Steve muttered.

"Well, he thought he was the luckiest guy in the world to be living in it, finally, after wasting the best years of his life in the boring midwest. Or so his girlfriend says. She also says he was a true innocent and that everyone he met loved him more or less on sight."

"Everyone but one," Steve interjected.

"Afraid so," Mark agreed.

"Aspiring actor?"

"Not really. The interpreter's job was the first thing he got when he arrived and he seemed perfectly happy with it. That's where he met the girlfriend--she's an Indian interpreter too."

Steve turned a kitchen chair around backwards and straddled it, giving his father his full attention. "Did he get into the nightlife?"

"Not according to the girl. They swam, surfed and camped when they weren't working. Healthy outdoorsy types all the way. Squeaky clean."

"Hmmm," Steve muttered. "Sometimes there's a lot of muck lurking behind that squeaky clean exterior. I don't suppose you brought up the possibility of suicide with the girl?"

"Suicide by drowning in a vat of tanning fluid?" Mark was deeply dubious about that idea.

Steve had to agree. "OK, there would be better ways. How about an accident? How big was this vat and how easy would it have been to get out if you tripped and fell in?"

"About six feet across, but only two feet deep, if that. Unless he was knocked out, he could have just stood up and stepped out."

"And no sign of head injury?"

"No sign of injury at all. Some faint marks on his neck and collarbone that could possibly indicate someone held him under, but that's almost pure speculation."

"And someone had to move him from the vat to the dig where he was found. It is a mystery, isn't it?" Steve said with a faraway look in his eyes.

Mark's eyes sparkled as he saw his son getting intrigued with the case. "It certainly is," he agreed. "And I know how we can help solve it."

Steve's eyes widened as he pulled back to reality. "Dad...." His father just grinned.

* * *

"How do I let you talk me into these things?" Steve asked as Amanda spirit-gummed a sharply-trimmed false beard and moustache to his face. He wriggled inside the hot, heavy, leather armor and stretched a long finger up under his leather helmet to scratch his scalp.

"You?" came the voice of Dr. Jesse Travis. "At least you get to wear more than a loincloth." Steve eyed his young friend up and down and snorted his appreciation.

"Be glad you get a loincloth," Mark piped up, pushing back the hood of his padre's robes. "In real life, the local natives didn't wear even that when the Spaniards arrived."

"You wear less than that surfing, Jesse," Amanda chided him, then took a look at her nearly-naked colleague and giggled. "Well, okay, maybe not less, but not much more."

"Everyone else is in bathing suits then," he protested. "And I'm in the water most of the time. It's not like I'm walking around on dry land with everyone else fully clothed."

Mark opened his robes and flapped the edges, trying to create a breeze. "At least you won't pass out from heat stroke. I'm not sure I'll be so lucky. How did those padres work in these things?"

"OK, boys, enough grousing," Amanda said. "We're here to gather information, not to be comfortable." Glancing in the mirror, she arranged her long, braided wig on her head and took a last look at herself in her cool, comfortable, form-fitting and attractive Indian outfit. "Let's get out there and find out what happened to Troy Hudson."

"Don Williams," Steve corrected her grumpily, then grinned wryly and followed her out into the summer sunshine.

* * *

"More iced tea!" Mark begged.

"Mark, you're going to float away," Amanda said as she poured a fifth glass of tea for her friend.

"No way," he said. "I'm just replacing what I sweated away all weekend." He gratefully guzzled down the cold brew and sat back with a sigh.

"Pizza's here!" Steve's voice came from the beach house's entryway, as he and Jesse appeared with huge flat boxes in their hands. They plopped them down on the kitchen table, ripped off the lids, sat down and tore into the pies.

For a few minutes, everyone was too busy eating and drinking for discussion. When only a few pieces of pizza were left, Jesse sat back, patted his stomach and sighed. "Boy, being a costumed interpreter sure gives a guy an appetite."

"I'll say," agreed Steve around a mouthful of pepperoni and sausage. "Walking around all day in that heavy armor is worse than pounding a beat."

"Breathing gives you an appetite, Jess," Amanda laughed. "And you haven't walked a beat in so long, Lieutenant Sloan, that you probably don't even remember what it's like!"

"Wanna bet?" Steve slurred around his pizza.

"I have a feeling that's something you always remember, Amanda," Mark agreed. "My dad never let us forget his days on a beat, at least." He propped his aching feet up on an empty chair and waved a pizza lid at them. "And historically-accurate 18th century Spanish sandals aren't exactly the best footwear to spend two days walking in."

"Well, did we find out anything?" Amanda asked cheerfully, bringing the conversation around from aching feet to murder. "Steve? Did you find any murderous soldier re-enactors?"

Steve chewed, swallowed, and shook his head. "I didn't see or hear anything that made me suspicious of murder," he said, emphasizing the word murder.

His father picked up on the cue. "But...?" he led his son on.

"I'm thinking the Lompoc police might want to send in some drug-sniffing dogs on a surprise basis one of these days."

"The soldiers are doing drugs?" Amanda asked.

"Dealing. Not doing. They at least have sense enough to not use on the job. But I definitely would want to look into what was being passed quietly from hand to hand when they thought no one was looking." He took another bite of pizza. "Of course, how I'm going to explain to the Lompoc cops that I was unofficially undercover poking my nose into their murder case when I came across this possible drug connection is going to be a challenge."

"Just tell them you were there as a tourist," Mark said. "They don't have to know anything else."

"None of them had anything to say about Troy-Don?" Amanda probed, keeping them on track.

"Nope," Steve answered. "Apparently, the re-enactors get into their roles to the point that the soldiers don't socialize with the Indians and vice versa. The guys I talked to mostly didn't even know who Troy was. A couple did recognize the name, and said he just always seemed like a nice guy to them."

"Well, I might have something important," Jesse chimed in, not waiting to be asked. "It's like Steve said--the Indians hang together and don't mingle with the soldiers. So the Indians I was with all knew Troy and they all said he was a nice guy. Almost too nice--a real boy scout."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Steve asked.

"Well, for example, they said one time when one of them was more hard-up than usual, financially, they were kidding around about lifting some of the relics from the mission museum and selling them on the black market. Troy got all upset, said it would be a crime against history. Even when they finally convinced him they were just kidding, he said it wasn't funny."

"I didn't hear anything about any missing relics," Mark mused. "And I've been working pretty closely with Dr. Redville since it happened. I think he would have mentioned something like that."

"Yeah, but who knows what they might have turned up at the dig that hasn't been cataloged yet. Didn't the mission fathers have to bury their treasures sometimes to hide them from pirates when they came up the coast?"

Mark's eyebrows went up in pleased surprise. "Jesse! You've been studying your history!"

Jesse rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, it's required reading for loinclothed interpreters. But it is fascinating. So, say, maybe they forgot exactly where they buried some of those treasures, or maybe one of the floods happened right about that time and washed the treasures into a different spot, or..."

"They could have dug up something really spiffy," Mark interrupted, to stop Jesse's flow of maybes.

"Spiffy?" Steve asked.

Mark threw him a look. "Old. Beautiful. Collectible. Valuable."

"And even the director wouldn't know about it?" Amanda asked.

Mark thought about that. "I would think he would hear about it ASAP if something exciting turned up. So, if the murder is tied to an archeological find, the person who found it would almost have to be the same one who appropriated it."

"So we need to go undercover in the dig crew?" Jesse suggested eagerly. "Hey, I could wear cut-offs, a t-shirt and sneaks and fit in there."

"They might recognize you from your days as an Indian, Jess," Amanda teased. "Besides, wouldn't you feel overdressed?"

Jesse gave her a look.

"That's not a bad idea, Jess," Mark said. Jesse's evil glare at Amanda turned into a satisfied smirk. "We didn't really consider the archeological crew," Mark continued. "Maybe we should have."

* * *

"Paul, this is Dr. Mark Sloan, a consultant with the police." Paul Markowitz brushed some sandy dirt off his hand before extending it to Mark, who shook it warmly. "He'd like to know some things about how your finds are handled. I'll be back in the office if either of you need me." Dr. Redville smiled at the two men, nodded, and walked away, hearing Mark's questions begin before he even got out of earshot.

"Excuse me, Dr. Redville." A soldier interpreter fell into step beside the head curator as he walked briskly toward the park headquarters.

"Yes, what is it...Michael, isn't it?"

"Yes sir, " the soldier replied, pulling on his uniform gauntlets. "Did I just hear you say that man was from the police?"

Redville paused a moment, glanced back over his shoulder at Mark and the archeologist, then looked at Michael again. "Yes, he's investigating Troy Hudson's death."

His look became more penetrating as he noticed the expression on the soldier-reenactor's face. "Why?"

Michael widened his eyes and smoothed the frown wrinkles in his forehead quickly. "Just curious, sir. We've all just been kind of nervous since it happened. When it happens so close to home, well, you can imagine. Like, is there a nut out there who is targeting historical re-enactors, you know?"

Dr. Redville smiled warmly and patted the young man on the shoulder. "I don't think that's the case, Michael. Tell all the re-enactors that security is on the alert and they should feel perfectly safe on the job." He grinned and nodded pointedly at Michael's spear and sword. "Besides, at least you soldiers are well armed. You should be able to hold off any attacker until security arrives."

Michael smiled back, as expected. "Yes sir, that's true sir. Thank you, sir." He saluted the director and turned back the way they had come.

"What a nice, polite young man," Dr. Redville thought as he continued on his way. Then mission business returned to the front of his mind, and his meeting with Michael was all but forgotten.

* * *

"Hey, Mark!" Jesse Travis called across the quadrangle in surprise at seeing his friend.

"Jess! What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to pick up a cute little Indian I met last weekend. We're going out for lunch. Did you find out anything interesting about missing relics?"

"Not a thing. Their crew is small and dedicated, the area doesn't lend itself to hiding anything, and their records are immaculate."

"Oh. Sorry."

Mark shrugged. "Well, dead ends are par for the course in a murder investigation, as you should know by now." When Jesse stifled a giggle, Mark thought back over what he'd said. "No pun intended."

"Yeah, sure," Jesse grinned. "Hey, there's my Pocahontas now." He waved and a cute young woman with long dark hair in braids waved back. "See you, Mark."

"Have fun," Mark replied absently, smiling benevolently at the girl. "I think I'll check out the tannery again, since I'm here." But Jesse was already heading toward his date with a big grin on his face, so Mark turned and walked toward the shop area on his own.

* * *

The tannery shop seemed dark and dusky when Mark came in from the sunshine. The pungent scent of the tanning fluid assaulted his nose and he snorted loudly. Then his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he saw the Indian interpreter near the vat, looking up at him with astonishment.

"Sorry," he said, flushing bright red and fishing his handkerchief out of his pocket.

The young woman smiled. "That's okay, you just startled me. The smell is pretty bad at first. I get used to it after working in here for awhile. Did you have any questions about tanning?"

"Why don't you wear gloves?" he asked, noticing that the skin on her hands and forearms was irritated and slightly discolored.

She glanced at her hands. "Not historically accurate." She grinned. "It isn't hazardous to your health, of course, or they would let us wear gloves no matter what. It's just mildly irritating. I always wash after working in here and use lotion and it goes away."

"Use lotion before, too," Mark replied. "It will help protect your skin."

"I'll keep that in mind, thanks," she answered. "Well, it's my break time, so if you don't mind, I'll duck out for fifteen. If you come up with any more questions while I'm gone, I"ll be happy to answer them when I get back." She smiled and left Mark on his own in the tannery.

Mark walked around the small room, noting the exposed beams, the adobe bricks, and the tiled floor, before focusing on the vat full of tanning fluid and hides being processed. Racks on the far side of the vat held more hides--some already tanned, some waiting to start the process. As he stood contemplating the scene and trying to reconstruct in his mind what may have happened the day Troy Hudson met his fate in this room, he heard the door open and close.

"That was a short break," he said as he turned, but stopped when he saw that it wasn't the Indian maiden who had entered, but rather a Spanish soldier. He backed slowly around to the far side of the vat when he saw that the soldier had latched the door from the inside, and was leaning wearily against it, staring at Mark in a half-angry, half frightened way.

"You couldn't leave it alone," he stated flatly. "You couldn't just let it die with that boy scout, Hudson, or Williams, or whatever he called himself."

"No, I couldn't," Mark responded cautiously, tripping over an uneven tile as he moved to keep the tanning vat between himself and the young soldier. "Could you?"

The soldier laughed. "You bet I could. I could just let it go and never think about it again. But you won't let me, will you, old man?"

"No, Michael, I won't," Mark answered.

The young man straightened, surprised at Mark's use of his name. "You know who I am?"

"I asked Dr. Redville who you were after I saw you talking to him. After I noticed that your hands and forearms were slightly irritated and discolored." Michael glanced down at his hands, now covered by the long leather gauntlets of his interpreter's uniform. "You didn't have those on when I saw you earlier. Or when you held Troy under the tanning fluid long enough to kill him."

"Smart guy," Michael said, walking slowly toward Mark, who kept moving, keeping the tanning vat between himself and the soldier. "What a shame to have to silence such a smart guy--and after you've managed to live this long, too."

* * *

"Steve! What are you doing here?" Jesse stopped to greet his friend. "Steve, this is Barbara. Barbara, this is Steve Sloan, the other half of BBQ Bob's."

Steve smiled and engulfed the young woman's small hand in his big one. "Pleased to meet you. Jess, have you seen my dad? He called and asked me to meet him here. Sounded like he was on to something."

"Yeah, he was wandering around poking his nose into things," Jesse grinned.

"As usual," Steve responded.

"He didn't seem to have any big breakthrough when I saw him, though. I think he was talking to the archeologists over at the dig."

"I'll check it out," Steve responded. He smiled again at Barbara and then waved as she and Jesse headed toward the exit, arms around each other. He strode off purposefully in the direction of the dig.

"Hey Steve!" He turned at the faint call. "I think he was going to the tannery next!"

Steve nodded to show he heard, and changed the direction of his steps. He headed at a brisk walk for the tannery building.

* * *

"Put that thing away, Michael," Mark said in as stern and commanding a voice as he could muster. Michael still brandished the authentic Spanish spear menacingly in his direction, though, and Mark, in addition to circling the vat to keep his distance from the threat, now prepared to duck and dodge at a moment's notice.

"Hold still, old man," Michael said as he lunged toward Mark, then feinted back the way he had come to try to catch him.

"Why did you kill him, Michael?" Mark asked, circling away from him, hoping to buy some time by distracting the killer.

"I didn't mean to," Michael said. "He just stumbled into a drug buy and didn't have enough sense to stumble out again and pretend he hadn't seen anything. The dope. He just gaped at us and then said he was going for the director. I had to stop him."

"You didn't have to kill him."

"I didn't mean to, I told you!" Michael burst out. "He tripped and went into the vat, and I was just going to hold him under long enough to scare him, just till he stopped struggling. Figured that would teach him what happens to boy scouts." He raised his spear into throwing position and aimed it at Mark. "God damn it, old man, stand still!"

Mark froze, every muscle poised, ready to dodge the thrown spear. "But when he stopped struggling, it was too late, wasn't it?"

"Yes, damn it. I tried to get him to start breathing again, but he wouldn't. He'd swallowed too much of the fluid. And I couldn't exactly call 911, could I?"

"Sounds like a great idea right now," Mark thought, praying that the Indian interpreter would get back from her break soon but keeping his eye on the spear. He saw Michael's muscles tense, saw his arm draw back preparatory to throwing. "If you kill me, though, it will be deliberate," Mark pointed out quickly. "You won't be able to say you

didn't mean it if I turn up with a spear through me."

"I'll do a better job of hiding you, old man," Michael said, and threw the spear with deadly accuracy at Mark's chest.

* * *

Steve circled the tannery building, puzzled at the closed and locked door. It didn't seem right that the exhibit would be closed while the mission was open to the public, especially without any sign to indicate why or how long it was closed or when it would re-open. He pressed his ear against the door and said questioningly, "Dad?", but heard nothing from within, the thick adobe walls and heavy wooden door blocking all sounds.

He rattled the door, testing the latch. Just then, a costumed Indian interpreter appeared at his side.

"Can I help you, sir?" she asked.

"Is this exhibit closed?" Steve asked.

"No, actually, I'm supposed to be in there demonstrating tanning techniques. I'm just getting back from my break."

"Did you see an older man before you went on break? Tall, white-haired, blue eyes?"

"Oh yes, he was so nice. He was concerned about my hands in the tanning fluid--suggested I use lotion, so I did while I was on break." She held her well-anointed hands up for Steve to see. He frowned at them.

"Did you notice where he went when he left the tannery?"

"Actually, he was still in there when I went on break. I said I would answer any questions for him when I got back and he said okay, so I really thought he'd be here when I got back. He seemed very interested in tanning."

Steve turned again toward the wooden door. "Dad!" he yelled, as he pounded on the door and shook it hard. "Dad!"

He felt more than heard the latch being thrown inside the door and braced himself for whatever was about to come out. The door started to open slowly inward, but Steve's sun-dazzled eyes couldn't see inside the darkened hut. He kicked hard against the door, slamming it back against the wall and leaping into the hut, putting his back up against the door in a defensive position. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he saw his

father sprawled on the floor.

"Is that how I taught you to come through doors, son?" Mark asked as he carefully pulled himself together and rose from the floor, brushing dust off himself.

"Dad! Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Mark answered. "Or I was, until you knocked me galley west with that dramatic entrance."

Steve looked shamefaced at his father. "Sorry. I thought you might be in trouble."

"Oh, I was. Big trouble." Mark gestured toward the far side of the tanning vat, where Michael, the Spanish soldier interpreter, lay dazed on the tile floor, wrapped in hides.

"Who's that?" Steve asked, puzzled.

"Our murderer." Mark said.

* * *

"So I grabbed a hide off the rack and used it to deflect the spear, and then when he rushed around the vat to grab me he tripped on a loose tile, hit his head on the edge of the vat, and I was able to tie him up with hides while he was still dazed."

The white-haired, elfin woman shook her head in amazement. "Your life is a constant series of adventures, Mark. I don't know how you do it." She smiled warmly at him. "Hearing my clients' adventures second-hand is enough for me at my age. At our age," she added pointedly. "And here are my newest clients," she said as Amanda and CJ entered the office. She rose gracefully to meet them, giving the same attention and respect to the four-year-old as to his mother.

"Amanda, CJ, this is Dr. Rosenbloom." Mark made the introductions.

"Oh please, call me Claire," she laughed. "Everyone does."

"Claire," Amanda said as she took the small, weathered hand that was offered to her. "I'm so grateful that you'll see CJ. I know how busy you are."

"Never too busy for a friend," Claire responded with a smile for Mark. Then she turned her attention to CJ. "CJ, would you like to have a seat in this big chair here? It leans back so you can get very comfortable."

CJ silently climbed in to the big leather recliner, and experimented with the positions it could assume.

"Your mom and Uncle Mark tell me you're having some bad dreams," Claire stated. CJ nodded and pushed against the back of the chair, making the footrest pop out from the bottom. "You know that the man who killed the Indian at the mission was caught and is in jail, right?" CJ nodded again and kicked down against the footrest, collapsing it and bringing the back of the chair upright again. "Will you tell me about your dreams?" CJ

looked directly into her eyes for the first time and, after a pause, nodded.

"A soldier kills an Indian," he said with the brevity of childhood.

Claire nodded. "Do you remember any other details?" CJ shook his head. "Will you let me help you remember more details?" CJ just looked at her. "It might help the nightmares go away," she added. He thought another second, then nodded. "OK, then, sit up in the chair and make it lean back." He did. "Now, listen to the sound of my voice. Let everything else just slide away. Close your eyes and take long, slow deep breaths."

In no time at all, CJ was in a deeply relaxed state, "Children are very easy to hypnotize," Claire explained softly to Mark and Amanda. "They have no preconceived notions about hypnosis to get in the way. Now let's see if we can get at the roots of this situation."

"CJ, you are very very relaxed and comfortable. Keep breathing deeply and slowly, and listen very carefully to my voice. You will be able to answer my questions while still staying totally relaxed, totally comfortable. Now, let's go back to the day when the soldier shot the Indian."

"Didn't shoot him," CJ said, his words slightly slurred with the deepness of his relaxation.

"Oh, that's right," Claire said, pleased at CJ's response. "What did happen?"

There was a long pause, which had Mark and Amanda on the edges of their seats, but Claire waited patiently for CJ to gather his thoughts and respond. Finally, he answered.

"Diego speared Montowoc." Mark and Amanda turned questioningly to Claire. The soldier and the Indian had never had names before, that they knew of. Claire shook her head at them, put a finger in front of her lips to remind them to be silent, and turned back to the boy.

"Who is Diego?" she asked.

"Diego Francisco de Buenaventura," CJ answered. "A soldier of the Crown."

"And Montowoc?"

"A native. Son of the local chief."

Amanda shook her head in disbelief. Her son's speech patterns no longer sounded like those of a four-year-old.

"Why did Diego kill Montowoc?" Claire asked.

"Diego defiled the chief's young wife. Montowoc wanted revenge. He challenged Diego in the mission square. Diego did not accept the challenge like an hombre. He stabbed Montowoc with his spear like a coward when he was not prepared."

Mark and Amanda's eyes grew wider and wider with astonishment as they listened to this sordid tale coming from the lips of a four-year-old.

"What year did this happen?" Claire asked softly.

"The year of our Lord eighteen-hundred and thirteen. The year after the big earthquake that brought down so many of the missions."

Mark could see the goosebumps rise on Amanda's arms as he felt them on his own.

If Claire shared their amazement, it didn't show in her voice as she continued to guide CJ through his memories.

"CJ, listen to me very carefully. What happened to Diego and Montowoc happened a long, long time ago. It was ugly, and it was sad, and it was frightening, yes. But it is over and has been over for a very long time. Let go of it. It has nothing to do with you." Claire continued to reassure the little boy, and to plant suggestions in his subconscious to free him of the frightening memory that he had somehow acquired on his visit to the mission. She then counted backward from ten, suggesting with each count that the little boy be more wide awake, more refreshed, and more free of fear, until on the count of one he opened his eyes, wide awake and full of normal little-boy energy.

"CJ, would you like to go out in the waiting room and play with the toys while I talk to your mother and Uncle Mark?" Claire asked, and the little boy toddled happily out of the room.

"What was that all about?" Amanda burst out as soon as her son was out of earshot.

Claire shook her head. "All I can give you is a best guess scenario, Amanda, Mark," she said. "We're treading on the edges of science here. Actually a step or two beyond the edges."

"Children are naturally very psychic, or so those who believe in psychic powers say. It may be because they are closer to the time when they were on the Other Side and all the psychic planes were available to them. Or it may just be that they are free of preconceptions about what they should be able to see and what they shouldn't be able to see, so they see more than adults would. We just don't know."

"My guess would be that the tragic and emotionally-charged death of this young man, so long ago, left a psychic imprint on the area where it happened--an imprint that can be sensed by those open enough to be aware of it. That's one current explanation for ghosts, at least. Perhaps the present-day death of another young man somehow awakened or strengthened the imprint, making it more likely that CJ, or another young or psychically-open person could pick up on it." She smiled. "I honestly don't know. But I do know that things like this have turned up often enough in my work with young patients that I no longer say it isn't possible."

Amanda digested this speech in silence for a moment. "Do you think the nightmares will stop now?"

Claire nodded hopefully. "It has been my experience that in most cases, yes, a deep hypnotic session like this one usually frees the subject from the recurrent dream. But all we can do is wait and see."

The three adults rose and walked to the waiting room, where CJ was happily flipping the pages of a beginning reader. "Look, Momma, Clifford!" CJ waved the book at his mother, then ran over to her. She picked him up, book and all. "Read me!" he laid, shoving the book under her nose. She smiled.

"I wish I could read you, young man," she said to her son. "But I have a feeling there is more between your covers than I ever before suspected."

THE END

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