An Unchanged Soul Chapter One Disclaimer, etc. in Headers Free fall. Like a dream, almost - soaring above the clouds like a bird in flight. He used to have those dreams, he thought, with a mind mesmerized by the sensation of movement without hindrance. Something told him he used to live those dreams as well. A vague prickling of his consciousness made it true, inasmuch as he had conscious thought in the endless stretches of time without seconds or hours. A colorless void surrounded him, but it wasn't frightening. As he floated, his arms wide and free, a memory came to him of doing this before. In the sunlight, the crisp, thin air taking his breath - or had it been fear? No, he loved this. Day or night, but especially at night, with the wind and stars his twin guides to exhilaration. He felt the same now, as excitement stirred within him. The free fall was familiar, and he smiled, enjoying every moment. Until the light came. Blinding, hurtful light that seemed to pierce his body through every pore. The brightly lit tunnel he dropped into was narrow and he plummeted through it, suddenly dead weight. Trying to slow himself, he grabbed with his hands and feet - at nothing. The tunnel had walls, but it didn't. He could find no purchase, no way to slow himself. He hit the ground like a sack of potatoes, feeling his lungs contract at the hard landing. For a second, he could not breathe. Then he gasped, rolling from his back to his side with the intake of cold, frosty air. The pavement beneath his skin was cold. Huddled as he was in a large, naked pile, he trembled like a newborn babe, unsure if he had the strength to open his eyes. Maybe that was it - maybe he'd just survived his own birth. Someone help me, he thought, unable to give voice to the words. A flash of red skittered across his closed eyelids, and he cracked them open. Fright grabbed at him at the sight of the bright lights and the harsh, masculine voice. "You there!" Not the light again. No! The hard earth beneath him was sure to give way at any moment and he'd fall again, this time to hell. He inched away from the approaching terror, his legs and arms burrowing into his torso with a feeble grasp at defense. This was a nightmare, it had to be. He didn't know where he was, who he was, or why the man in blue pointed the gun at him like he was a criminal. Forcing himself to get to his knees, he crawled out of the line of light; he stood, fear making him dart forward as adrenaline kicked in. But he didn't get far, as he smacked head on into something huge and cloaked in the night, his nose filling with the stench of rotten garbage. Groaning, he fell down to the icy surface once again. "Gotcha," the voice said, and he felt his arms pinned behind him. A double click of metal against metal, and he was trapped. He tried to see, but found he couldn't. Something clung to his eyelashes, and made it hard to open them without the sting of grime-laden pain. "Boy, I thought I'd seen it all," the voice chuckled. "But I ain't ever seen a bum without even a pair o'pants in the middle o'winter. C'mon, Adam. Time to sober up." Dragged along, he felt a wave of nausea climb up his throat. Stumbling, he gave in to it, dry heaves doubling him over. "Shit! Don't puke on me, boy." The hand holding the chain around his wrists let go and the figure backed off. This was his chance. Wherever he was supposed to be, he was sure it wasn't with this devil. His feet moved quickly, slapping against the pavement. Get away, he had to get away. "Hey!" No, don't stop. Keep going. He headed past the blinding lights, for the sounds that came from the street ahead. Warmth waited for him across that street. Still not steady, he lowered his head and ran. "Watch out!" The blare of a horn was the last thing he heard. Then there was nothing. Again. ********** November 27, 1947 Annapolis, Maryland "Slow night, huh?" Emma looked up from the desk, shoving her wayward glasses up her nose. "I'm about to fall asleep," she said, giving Pete a smile. The janitor took up his broom again, laughing. "Now you know how I feel every night. And I had my Thanksgiving turkey early this afternoon, thinking it wouldn't make me any sleepier." He rubbed his generous belly, yawning. "Turkey always makes me sleepy." "Me, too," she replied, thinking of the big dinner that was probably finishing up at her father's house. He hadn't been too pleased she'd volunteered to work the late shift in the Emergency Room on Thanksgiving Day. But she felt sorry for the other nurses, most of whom had husbands and children at home. Besides, her brothers would be plenty of company for her father, and their wives and children would more than fill the gap her absence would leave. Still, she missed the boisterous sounds of a typical family gathering; especially when confronted with the tomb-like silence of the hospital halls. Pete seemed to notice her melancholy, and he cleared his throat, straightening. "Well, guess I'd better get back to work. Got two more floors to finish up before midnight. Happy Thanksgiving, Emma." "Same to you, Pete." She watched his large form amble down the brightly lit corridor. The hospital's Emergency Room was so quiet, she could have heard a pin drop. In the year she'd been a nurse at St. Catherine's, she worked several holidays, most of them quiet like this one. But the occasional stomachache and staggering drunk always interrupted the peace. The lone doctor had commented on it an hour ago, right before he'd given up his vigil of the empty Emergency Room and sought a couch in the waiting room. Jack and Harry, the two orderlies who, until ten minutes ago, had been hovering over her, trying to see down her uniform, had adjourned to the lounge to play poker. This silence was unusual, and she thanked God for the breather, knowing it meant everyone in the immediate area was safe and sound so far. But she was bored. The daily crossword before her had ceased to hold her interest a half hour ago, and she still had the whole night to go before relief would show up in the form of Edna Stevenson. A single woman like her, Stevenson had quite a few years on Emma. She'd never married, and spent her off hours taking care of her elderly mother. Her youth long gone, she was pinched in the face and stout as a butterball, too many years spent sitting around on holidays just like this one. Emma wondered if she'd end up the same one day. Though she was small and definitely feminine, her looks were nothing extraordinary. She'd spent hours with her nose in books instead of the latest fashion magazines - well, with the exception of Photoplay. She dreamed of looking like Lana Turner or Hedy Lamarr, with flawless skin and come-hither poise. She wasn't bad- looking, she had to admit. Her father had called her beautiful; but then again, he'd been biased. The reading glasses gave her oval face a bit of an owlish look, but the eyes behind them were blue and clear, with long, light eyelashes. She'd tried mascara years ago, but all it did was make her eyes itch. Her fair skin could have used some makeup, especially when emotional upheaval of any sort always seemed to make her cheeks flush a bright, sassy red. She hated the reaction her body had at such times; it was like a sign that said, Look at me! I'm a clown! The only physical feature she could say had any distinction at all was her hair. A deep shade of auburn, it fell to past her shoulders in a thick swathe of wavy silk that defied all attempts at straightening. Mostly, she kept it confined in a braid. It was easier to manage while at work, though it had a mind of its own, anyway. She seemed to always be brushing back several wayward strands from her face. One thing she'd change about herself if she could was her height. Her short stature, combined with a body in her most congenial moments she thought of as 'healthy', made it difficult for anyone, especially men, to take her seriously. Most of the time, she was either patted on the head like a child, or ogled from the neck down like a floozy. Thank goodness the end of the war had brought about a return to fuller, softer dresses. The clinging, efficient fashions of the war days had always made her feel like an hour glass - and the looks her breasts and hips got back then seemed to make the material just as transparent. She had cousins - females who were tall and willowy. Females who were short like her, but dainty and fragile. Emma wasn't fragile. Not by a long shot. Her father had deemed her a petite Venus who took after her mother's good farm stock. And in the next breath, he swore to castrate any man who touched her without benefit of marriage. Her teenage years were spent under her brothers' watchful eyes. Nursing school was more of the same, living at home to watch her older brothers move out one by one. After her mother passed, it was naturally assumed she'd take over the running of her father's household. And she had, with no arguments. Not even a complaint. She loved her father and younger siblings, and taking care of them was not an obligation, but an honor. Then the war had come. Barely twenty, she'd watched friends and family take off for service at the edges of the world, wishing she could join them in the exciting journey of courage and patriotism. But her degree had been still two years away, and even if she could have, she wouldn't have joined up. The sight of her father seeing off each of her older brothers at the train station had put an end to her Army aspirations. He'd died a bit at each departure; she could see it in the lined shadows on his stoic face. Wrenching them from her father's bosom like a sweeping lion, the war threatened to dismantle the family with swift slices of a machete poised to strike. She couldn't leave him; the decision was a quick one, though not easy, as she felt like the world passed her by in the war years. Praise from friends at her vigilant home presence hadn't dimmed the desire to branch out. It remained, simmering for five long years. Now, with all her brothers back safe and sound, with the younger three firmly ensconced in the Naval Academy and her father happy once more, she found herself living in a haze of contentment, wondering if this was all that her life was meant to be. She had a job, all her family around her, and the occasional date under the watchful eyes of said family. But sometimes... late at night, doing crosswords as another year faded away... sometimes she wished for more. Not just a few more inches to go with those extra pounds, nor a breather from her male relatives' constant worry. Not even for the excitement of travel, like she'd once wanted and thought the war could provide. She wished for love. For someone to take notice of her mind and humor, not just her generous curves. For someone to treat her as if she were the most fragile piece of crystal; a prince who would take her hand in his and look beyond the workhorse to the woman beneath. He wouldn't ask her to play catcher in the stickball game because she was 'a wide, yet compact target'. He wouldn't look at her hips and automatically count the number of children he could sire on her. Emma sighed, closing the newspaper as she dropped her eyeglasses to the desk. With most of the available men snatched up by eager women after the war, there wasn't much left but widowers much older than her, or youngsters fresh out of high school. She'd just as soon look for Mr. Right to drop out of the sky into her lap, with the pickings so slim these days. A burst of cold air accompanied the breathless man who shoved open the outer doors. Spying her at the desk, he stopped, his voice carrying over the quiet. "Quick! There's been an accident outside!" Jack and Harry, apparently hearing the commotion, came running from the lounge. "What the hell -" Harry began, but was cut short by Emma's bark. "Get Doctor Belden from the waiting room." She pulled on her heavy cape and reached for the first aid kit on the wall, snapping at their hesitation. "And bring a gurney. Now!" The man who'd summoned her had already turned for the door. Emma rushed through it as he held it open, following his instructions to turn left for the cross street, the one that ran directly in front of the hospital. Already, the scene was lit by the red flash of a squad car's lights, giving it an eerie, surreal glow. The few passers by had gathered in a circle just beyond a Buick that still spewed exhaust from its back bumper. Though the front glass was cracked in a few places, there didn't seem to be another vehicle involved, so she went first to the man leaning against its driver's side door, asking, "Are you hurt?" Though pale, he nodded, "I'm fine. I didn't see him. I wasn't going that fast, honest! He just darted out in front of me!" He gestured to the crowd on the passenger side with a trembling, gloved hand. "Rolled right over the hood like he was Superman or something! I swear to God I didn't see him!" Emma made her way around the front of the car, shoving her way through the crowd. A stout policeman bent over a huddled form in the road; Emma could see nothing but bare, hair-dusted legs. Naked? On a night like this? Drunk. He had to be drunk. The cop had shrugged off his jacket and was tucking it around the unconscious man when she approached. He looked up, relief palpable on his face. "He just ran out into the street, the damn fool. No way the guy could have avoided hitting him." Emma crouched on the other side of the victim, feeling the cold seep into her stockings at the knees. Her cape came flying off as well, and she draped it over the man, uncaring of the cold that made her shiver. Noticing his arms still bound behind him, she growled, "Get those off. Right now." The cop eyed the handcuffs, then sputtered, "Ma'am, I can't just -" "You can and you will," she insisted, breaking open the first aid kit. The victim was covered with street filth, obscuring his features. But in the moonlight that filtered between the clouds, she could see his lips were blue; at the least, he was going into shock and he must be attended to quickly. "Now, get them *off*." He mumbled his displeasure as he unlocked the handcuffs, but Emma was past the point of caring. She grimaced as the limp body, no longer supported by the bound wrists, flopped to its back with a dull thud. Ignoring the gasps of the women in the crowd, she pulled away the makeshift blanket, quickly scanning his body for injury. None that she could see, but that didn't mean he wasn't seriously injured internally. Cradling his head with one hand, she wiped at the dirt on his face with a light touch of the gauze bunched up in her other hand. "Idiot ran into a brick wall back in the alley, drunk off his ass." The cop rammed one fist into his hand for emphasis. "Wham! Rung his bell, I guess. Next thing I know, he's rolling up the hood of this car." As she swiped at the injured man's face, Emma cursed the inept policeman under her breath. This unfortunate soul wasn't drunk, from what she could tell. For one thing, there wasn't the smell of liquor that usually permeated the air around the bums who frequented St. Catherine's emergency room. And she'd seen enough of those to know when someone had a problem with alcohol. Even when they weren't drinking, the bums exuded the pungent odor of alcohol through their skin. For another, she'd never seen a bum with such a cleanliness about him, even if he'd just been rolled across the pavement. This man's skin was so purely pink beneath the dirt, with just a tinge of a healthy glow that could only have been put there by strength and good living. The hand that peeked from under the jacket was callous- free, its fingernails short and relatively clean, despite the grime elsewhere. She wondered at its frailty; it reminded her of the paintings of 'incorruptibles' that hung in Mother Superior's office back at Our Lady of Mercy School. Of course, back then, she'd spent quite a bit of time under the Mother's censure, so she'd had the opportunity to peruse the portraits of Jesus and the saints. She mentally chastised herself for her wandering thoughts, wondering where the hell that doctor was. Surely Jack and Harry should have been out there by now with the gurney? The man lying beside her began to move, his groan almost lost in the cacophony surrounding them. But Emma heard it, and rushed to comfort him. "Shh... still. Lie still." The cheek under her hand jerked, and she knew he was trying to open his eyes. Grabbing a fresh piece of gauze, she wiped them clean. A clamor over her shoulder told her the gurney had finally come. "Get down," he muttered, his head moving with increasing panic. "Help is here," she quickly assured him. Her cap flopped over her face, and she pulled it off impatiently, feeling her hair go wild with freedom. She brushed the uncooperative locks from her forehead, feeling his grime stain her face. "Please... be still." But his fidgeting grew, and his voice pierced the night with anguish. "No!" Eyes squeezed shut, he thrashed, and Emma was powerless to stop him as he kept on shouting. "I'm hit! God damn it, no!" "You're okay," she said clearly, trying her best to calm him. "Just lie still... *please* lie still." A burning at the back of her eyes was unwanted, but she couldn't stop it. His terror - something she'd never witnessed in her life - made her chest ache with sadness. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she tried to make him see he wasn't in whatever hell he imagined. "Open your eyes. Please, wake up." Doctor Belden replaced the policeman across from her, his stethoscope ready. He glanced at Emma, apology on his face. "I was in the restroom," he explained. Emma ignored him, concentrating on the man who had quieted to a heart-wrenching whimper. Her fingers drifted through his short, dark hair, and a wave of helplessness threatened to overwhelm her in the face of his despair. "Franklin... get her out... dead... leave me..." "You're not dead," she whispered, hoping his condition would not later make her shaky statement a lie. Doctor Belden worked swiftly, muttering his findings as he moved. "Pulse is thready. Going into shock." A flash of his pen light illuminated the face before her. A face she was most familiar with... one that was unique. Emma sucked in a shocked breath. No, it couldn't be. He wasn't supposed to be here. God, this was all wrong - how would she ever tell - The hazel eyes, so familiar to Emma, squinted against the intruding light of the doctor's examination. He was awake now, and no longer mumbling. Doctor Belden looked over his shoulder. "Get that gurney in here, now!" The man's eyes blinked and rolled, trying to focus on one person among the many who gawked at him now. Emma, her tears beginning anew at her awful discovery, wrapped both hands around his face, her words forcing him to look at her. "Be still. You're going to be fine. Trust me. Everything's going to be okay. Just lie still." The blue-tinged lips parted with surprise, and his face lost all trace of agitation, relaxing into a loopy grin as he whispered shakily, "Hey, Red. How 'bout th-th-" He swallowed hard, forcing his frozen lips to complete what he seemed most desperate to say to her. "Those - those - Yankees?" End Chapter One