An Unchanged Soul
Chapter Fifteen


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"A bug in your soup?"  Sam caught up with her
outside the theater.  "Are you saying I'm cheap?"

They'd made it past a glowering Mr. Willis, who'd
glanced at his watch without a word.  Emma had
simply smiled and offered thanks, knowing to linger
would be asking for trouble.

It was only when they'd reached the corner that she
acknowledged Sam, stopping in her tracks to give
him an apologetic look.  "Of course not.  I had a
great time sneaking past Mr. Willis.  I've decided
to look at it as free movie passes; he certainly
got enough work out of me for his quarter a week." 
Sam's gratification at her statement made her
smile.  "It seems I owe you an apology."

"For what?"

"For not wanting to take the chance at first.  I
enjoyed taking a chance again."

In more ways than one, she added silently.  For all
her trepidation at the start of their 'date', she
was glad now she'd gone through with it.  She was
having a good time, something she'd not had in
ages.  Chin tilted up, she let her happiness shine
through, hesitation forgotten for the moment.

It didn't dawn on her that Sam watched her until
she found him close, a look of what could only be
pleased surprise slowly lighting his face.  It
began in his eyes, creeping down his cheeks until a
brilliant show of teeth nearly blinded her.  Dear
Lord, what had she done?

"You're so beautiful," he said softly, his smile
fading as he swallowed hard.  His gaze seemed to
caress every part of her face, as if he touched
with hands and lips.

Maybe if he said it often enough she might start to
believe it.  There was no denying the sincerity of
his words at that moment, and the trickle of hope
slowly undermining the dam around her heart forced
its way through another crack.  If he kept up the
lovely words, the flood of emotion he'd cause would
certainly sweep away any remaining resistance.

"You don't have to keep saying it," she said, only
half serious, as she admitted to a certain thrill
every time he paid her a compliment.  "If you don't
have enough money for dinner, I understand."

He seemed to take her joking more seriously than
she'd intended, as he looked away.  "That's not why
I said it."

"I know it isn't."  She exposed a bit more of her
inner self, more than she wanted in her attempt to
correct her bungling.  "Look, it's just going to
take me some time to get used to the things you
say, Sam.  I've never had anyone say such things to
me before."

"Why not?"  He looked at her, quiet emphasis in his
voice.  "They're true."

"I just wish you wouldn't talk about it quite so
much."

She fell silent, wishing they could backtrack a few
moments.  Sam had a knack for making her feel
awkward, when in truth, she was usually pretty deft
at handling most situations.  It spoke volumes of
the effect he had on her.

"Look," he said, his tone now light and playful. 
"Let's get some dinner and we can talk about
anything you want."

"Anything?"

"Anything."  He was sincere, and she welcomed the
opportunity to find out more about the man who'd
upset her neat little world.

"Then let's go.  I'm starved."  When he captured
her hand again with a smile, she hesitated.  "Must
you keep hold of me like this?"

"You can make me let go anytime you want.  Just
pull away."  He led her down the street, giving
their clasped hands a long glance.  "But you won't. 
It's been a long time since anyone held your hand,
Emma."

His soft statement, layered with double meaning,
coupled with the knowing look he gave her, held her
in speechless thrall.  The way Sam had of
uncovering her deepest insecurities was eerie and a
bit frightening.  But the way he also sensed her
need for independence in tandem with a need for
simple assurances like handholds eased that fear.

"No one's ever held my hand, Sam," she replied,
letting him take hold bit by bit.

"Someone should, and often."  He was decisive, and
a little angry.  "Everyone deserves to feel
protected now and then.  To feel like there's
someone there for them."

"And will you?"

"Will I what?"

"Be there for me?"

He stopped, bringing her fingers to his lips as he
faced her with a solemn stare.  "I will always be
there for you, Emma.  To hold your hand."  Again,
he kissed her fingers, opening their clasp to
whisper into her palm, "To give you anything you
need."  A warm mouth pressed into her flesh.  "To
tell you how beautiful you are."

Mouth dry, she watched his dark head bend to her
palm, her heart tripping with excitement and dread. 
This was neither the time or place to get so deep
in uncharted waters; she cursed herself for letting
her needy side ask the question of him, when she'd
known his answer would stir unsettling feelings
within her.  She swallowed, pulling her hand away
as she croaked, "Dinner?"

Disappointment creased his brow for an instant; it
was gone by the time he straightened, his smile
easy.  "I did promise you dinner, didn't I?"  He
deliberately kept his eyes up, but she knew he
didn't miss the way she pocketed her hands.

"You did.  Shall we go?"

"After you."  He gave her a slight bow, letting the
hand she'd held for so long wave her on.

Emma started forward, her tongue finally loosening
up.  "Antonini's is around the next corner."

"Is that what you want?"  Sam fell into step beside
her.  Something in his voice told her he didn't
care much for her choice.

She was going to regret her reply, she just knew
it.  But truly, if he didn't have enough money to
do dinner in style, then she had no right to
embarrass him by suggesting an expensive
restaurant.  Antonini's wasn't expensive by her
standards, but Sam had only been working for her
father for a week, and his funds were bound to be
tight.  A sudden thought made her slow - maybe he'd
wanted to sneak into the theater because he
couldn't afford the tickets!  She felt badly after
that realization, and she forced a lightness to her
answer.

"I'll tell you what - let's just go back to the
house, and I can fix something for us.  Da would
like to see you, I know he would."

The curl of Sam's lips told her he cared for that
suggestion even less.  "Actually, I had something
in mind all along.  Something I think you'll like."

"Oh?  What's that?"

He held out his hand in silence, a little grin
challenging her once again.  It wasn't wise, but
she couldn't resist the warmth that waited for her
there.  With an inner sigh at her foolishness, she
put her hand in Sam's and let him take her away
from sanity once again.


**********


"Keep your eyes closed.  That's it.  Just hold on
to my hand."

Intrigued beyond imagination, she muttered for the
fifth time, "This is ridiculous," but she let him
lead her on.  Her shoe bumped into something and
she stumbled, feeling his hand steady her.

"Easy."  Sam let go of her hand and moved her
around.  "Now, sit."

She did, wondering what he had up his sleeve. 
They'd passed any number of decent, affordable
diners on their way to an unknown destination.  It
was only after they'd gone several blocks he'd
asked her to close her eyes, saying he wanted to
surprise her with dinner.  Her protest was weak in
the face of his twinkling, pleading smile, and
she'd relented shortly afterward.  He left her
standing on the street corner for a couple of
minutes, though he'd always stayed within earshot
as he shouted a warning or two her way about daring
to open her eyes.

Then it was a few minutes more of blindness, as he
guided her to wherever they now sat.  The seat
beneath her backside was cold, and she shivered,
picturing them at a local bus stop.  Maybe her
remarks about him being cheap had steered him to
take her to Baltimore, or Washington.  If so, she
would quickly disabuse him of that notion; she had
no need for fancy food and fine wine.

"Okay, you can open your eyes."

Emma slowly cracked open her eyes, taking in the
field before her with surprise and confusion.  Sam
sat beside her, his full hands offered with a
tentative smile.

A hot dog and a bottle of Coca-Cola.  She
remembered seeing the street vendor across the way
the moment before he'd asked her to close her eyes. 
The smell had been mouth-watering, and it had
stayed with her after Sam had joined her once
again.  This was his idea of dinner?

She was mildly disappointed.  Of course, she
remembered he wasn't exactly Rockefeller at the
moment, and she gave him a small smile as she took
the food and drink.  "Nice."

His smile faded.  "You don't like it."

"I do," she said quickly.  Too quickly, because Sam
stiffened beside her, giving her his profile.

He grabbed his own hot dog and soda, standing. 
"C'mon.  I think we can still make Antonini's
before it closes."  He was halfway down the
bleacher steps before she found her voice.

"Sam!"  Great.  Now she'd insulted him.  "I didn't
mean to make you angry.  It's just that I know you
don't have much money, and I don't mind cooking for
you, really -"

"How many times do I have to tell you, Emma?  I
*have* money!  I didn't always make twenty-one
dollars a month, you know," he said, quoting the
salary he'd received when he joined up back at the
beginning of the war.  Her brothers had thought it
a great deal of money at the time, but Sam
obviously looked at it with disdain.  Just more
proof he was used to the finer things in life.

He spread his hands; soda flew from the bottle in a
spray against the night.  "I made a good deal of it
when I played baseball.  Fox took control of what
I'd saved when he thought... anyway, it's still
there.  I can afford to take you *anywhere*, damn
it.  I just thought I'd..."

As he trailed off, she took up her attempt to win
back his favor.  "You just thought you'd what?"

"Never mind." He half turned, a lonely figure
against the backdrop of the field lights.

Emma went to him, still clutching the food like it
was caviar.  "Tell me," she pleaded softly, looking
up at his frown with a quiet request for
forgiveness.

Sam's cheeks, seemingly sculpted of stone, relaxed
a bit as he lowered his chin.  Whatever he wanted
to say embarrassed him, and Emma wanted to kick
herself for ruining their good time.

"I told you I'd tell you anything."  He looked up
at her; perched as she was on the steps above him,
he faced her on equal ground.  He nodded at the
baseball diamond beyond.  "This is the best part of
me, Emma.  I wanted to show you the best part of
me."

He was wrong.  Baseball wasn't the best part of
him.  It was his ability to stay normal in his
chaotic world; to bounce back from a void that
would cripple any other man and simply go on
living.  She admired his tenacity, his capacity for
finding just the right things to say and do.  To
show little pieces of himself to her when she knew
he wasn't a person who easily trusted.  It was the
last she considered the best of all.

She wanted to tell him all this, to pour out her
growing feelings for him on these cold steps amidst
an unusual December thaw.  But she didn't; it
wasn't the right time.  She knew the right time
would come soon, despite her reluctant heart.

"Then show me, Sam."  She went back to her seat,
taking a healthy bite of the hot dog.  She made a
big production out of chewing, just like a child at
her first game.  Excited, in awe, and downright
squirming with happiness.  "I've never seen 'the
best' before."

Still a little skittish, he took his time climbing
the bleachers.  "Can I eat my hot dog first?"

"Sure.  It's the best hot dog I ever tasted."

He flopped down beside her, unwrapping his dinner
with a sigh.  "It's cold."

"It's just right," she said, speaking of the
company more than the food, meeting Sam's gaze.

"It is, isn't it?" he said in return, giving her a
smile.

She sat back, enjoying the hot dog and his return
to happiness.


**********


"If you have all that money, why are you working at
Da's?"

He wondered how long it would take Emma to catch on
to that little detail.  Ten minutes - not bad. 
Just enough time to finish a cold hot dog and sip
at the soda with those plump, pink lips.  He took
the remains of her dinner, and along with his,
stuffed them under his seat, ignoring her
admonishing look.

"Why do *you* think I'm working there?" he replied,
giving her a narrowed stare.

It was the first time all night she'd blushed.  But
it wasn't the first time she'd hedged his obvious
advance.

"Okay, then."  With typical poise, she sidestepped
his question.  "Why would a man like you turn your
back on all that money?  From what I understand,
you were raised in privilege.  Don't you want to
return to your old life?  Baseball players are like
movie stars - they never want for anything."

"You forget - I never made it to the majors."

"But you were going to, Dana told me so."

"You've been talking to Dana about me?"  This time,
she clammed up instead of blushing, her lips
pursing at the way he avoided the subject.  "Okay,
okay.  I did have it all, Emma.  Doesn't mean it
made me happy."

"How could it not?  You loved the game, didn't
you?"

"I did."  That, at least, was the truth.

"You're not too old, Sam.  Lots of ball players
went off to war and came back to play again.  Look
at Joe Dimaggio, and..."  She trailed off; he could
see her mind working behind those clear blue eyes. 
She wasn't much of a fan, but she recognized name
players.

"And Ted Williams, and PeeWee Reese, and Warren
Spahn..." The list was endless.  "You're leaving
out one important detail, Emma."

"What's that?"

"Those men weren't declared dead.  They didn't turn
up out of nowhere, naked, with no memory of where
they'd been."

"So?"

She waved it off like it was of minor importance. 
But Sam knew that baseball was apple pie and
America all the way.  Even as a minor-leaguer, he'd
found his carousing covered up by management.  Fans
wouldn't appreciate reading about their supposedly
squeaky-clean heroes.

"That doesn't mean you can't still play," she
continued.  A sudden thought made her wide-eyed. 
"You *can* still play, can't you?  I mean, you
haven't forgotten how, have you?"

Sam laughed, loving how Emma could switch gears in
an instant.  He hoped she showed the same easy
ability when it came to upping the speed of their
relationship.

"No, I haven't forgotten."  He sobered, taking her
hand.  "I just don't know if that's what I want
anymore."

"You'd rather sling beer?"

Sam frowned.  Truthfully, he missed the game
terribly.  If it weren't for Emma, he would be
hounding his former agent for a chance at a
comeback.  He was in excellent shape, and he
figured it would take only a few weeks of training
for him to regain his pre-war form.  But a cloud
lingered over his return, and he could not shake
the feeling there was something more he had to
resolve before he could think about things like
baseball.

However, it didn't stop him from thinking of Emma. 
He didn't care what waited for him around the next
corner, as long as she stood by his side.

The conversation had taken a serious turn, one he
didn't care for.  He'd told her he'd talk about
anything, but the night was waning and time was
precious.

"I'd rather take a turn around the diamond, that's
true."  Standing, he pulled her up with him. 
"C'mon.  Time for the best."

Emma resisted, eyeing the field with fear.  "But I
didn't bring my galoshes!"

"I've been coming here every morning to exercise,"
he explained.  "The field is built up and drains
well.  It's not wet at all."  Actually, he'd been
delighted to find the park had a baseball diamond -
a good one, from all appearances.  Several faded
posters still lined the dugout fences, advertising
local league play and tournaments all summer long. 
Maybe if he stuck around, he'd hook up with one of
the teams for a bit of coaching or playing.

"You promise?"

Sam helped Emma over the low gate at the edge of
the grass, lifting her with ease.  "I promise."

For the next half hour, they played at imaginary
hitting and pitching, laughing like kids all the
while.  Emma dove into the play like a tomboy
reborn, huffing with disappointment when he'd beat
her to first base.

"You're pretty good," he told her at last, as he
swung at her imaginary curve ball.  "For a girl. 
Home run, by the way."

"For a girl?"  She stood on the pitcher's mound,
arms akimbo and ire raised.  "And that was not a
home run.  It was foul."

"You're just mad because you're losing 52 - 0."  He
took off like he'd hit it out of the park, with
arms raised, his face plastered with a cocky grin.

"Oh no you don't."

Sam felt a pair of hands grab his coat from behind. 
He didn't budge from his steady trot around the
bases, listening to Emma mutter all manner of slurs
- did she call him a 'puce woodpecker'? -  against
his prowess with a giddy heart.  As he rounded
second, he turned and picked her up amidst her
burgeoning laughter.

"And the crowd goes wild!" he shouted, carrying her
with ease to third, her hair spilling over his arm
like a banner of victory.  She laughed in earnest
now, her hands circling his neck and her legs
kicking like a child's.

"Mulder makes it 53 with room to spare!"  She was
so light, she barely made a dent in his breathing,
and pure joy raced up his spine as he touched home. 
"Even with an extra hundred and twenty pounds, he
still has it, ladies and gentlemen!"

"Hundred and twenty?  I'll have you know I weigh no
more than one hundred and fifteen, soaking wet." 
Still smiling, she managed a reproving glare.

Sam was in no hurry to put her down.  In fact, he
bounced her a bit, grinning at her little squeal of
distress.  "Feels like one hundred twenty to me." 
She was a lightweight, but curved in all the right
places; from the slight dismay in her tone, he knew
she wished herself thinner.  He lowered his voice,
leaning down to capture her gaze with his.  "Nice
and soft.  I like a woman with a few curves and
dimples."

He saw the rebuke flash in her eyes, then saw her
make the conscious effort to do away with it, as
she lowered her voice to match his.  "I only have
one dimple - see?"  The side of her mouth lifted,
showing him the perfect little dip in her cheek.

His lips barely brushed the enticing little notch,
and he swallowed back the urge to refute her words. 
He'd lay money on it she had more interesting
dimples.  Instead, he breathed in, letting the
scent of powder and perfume fill his head.  "I
see," he whispered, lifting the arm beneath her
head to bring her closer.  "Think our children will
have dimples?"

Where the hell had *that* come from?

Sam froze above her, waiting for the inevitable
Emma slam.  The tensing of her body, the fire in
her eyes, the pierce of her tongue as she lashed
out with defensive retreat... already, he heard her
breathing change in anticipation of her barking out
the 'no kissing' rule once again.

"Sam?"  Her fingers curled into the lapel of his
coat like talons; he couldn't see her face, he was
so close.  But he felt her sudden anxiety like a
slap in the face.

"Yes?" he sighed, moving away.

"Kiss me."  The fingers gripping his coat pulled
him back, sliding up to touch his cheek.

"Emma?"  He couldn't believe she meant it.  No way.

But one look at her slumberous gaze told a
different story; she licked her lips, her eyelashes
sweeping up then down, as if she was deciding which
part of his face she wanted to taste first.  Oh,
boy, he thought.  There was no mistaking that look. 
Still, he had to be sure.

"Emma, are you sure?"

"Are you deaf?" she huffed.  "I asked you to kiss
me, Sam Mulder.  If you don't hurry up and do it,
I'm liable to lose my nerve and tell you to put me
down and then we'll both go home very unhappy -"

It didn't take but a second for him to shut her up. 
This time, he was the aggressor, using all his
experience to woo her with his kiss.  He felt her
fingers caress his face as it went on and on; he
came up for air after a while, then dove back in,
separating his kisses into little increments as he
tasted first one corner then the other, then slowly
slid his tongue inside her welcoming mouth.  She
didn't waver under his onslaught; actually, he
imagined he felt a giggle of delight purr up her
throat.  She wasn't laughing at him - she was
ecstatic with emotion, and he almost threw his head
back and yelled like a caveman who'd conquered his
woman.

"I guess this means it's okay to kiss you now," he
breathed over her mouth, biting at the lush
fullness of her lips.

"Kissing, sure," she murmured right back, offering
him her neck.  His tongue darted into that dimple
before traveling down in a path to the pulse that
raced under the skin.  "Necking, maybe."

"This could count as necking, you know," he said
against the location in question.  Her dainty ear
beckoned, and he made a beeline for the tender
flesh, giving it a pinch between his lips.

Emma jerked in his arms and sucked in a ragged
breath.  "I - I guess," she stammered, her nails
reacting with a snaking curl into his hair.  "Sam?"

"Yeah?"  Oh, the skin beneath the collar of that
prim dress was ever so warm.  If he just pushed
with his mouth a little bit, he could find out if
it tasted even better than her cheek...

"Can you stop now?  Please?"

The bucket of cold water splashed on him by that
small plea made him come to a screeching halt,
though he took a moment to rest his head in the
crook of her shoulder with a sigh.

"I'm sorry to do this to you," she continued in a
voice filled with jittery tears, but he cut her off
before she could finish, accepting his
responsibility for the kiss.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Emma."  He
looked at her pinkened cheeks and distressed eyes
and sought to ease her worry.  "All you have to do
is ask me to stop, and I will.  I'm not the type of
guy who doesn't take 'no' for an answer."

It was the truth.  Even when he'd seduced any
number of women before the war, he'd always stopped
when they asked.  Which wasn't often, he admitted. 
It had never been easy to walk away from a
beautiful woman, and Emma - well, this was liable
to kill him.  But he'd do it.

"I didn't think you were," she said, her chest
relaxing on an exhale that gave lie to her
statement.  She was still very unsure around him,
and he supposed he couldn't blame her.  He hadn't
exactly endeared himself to her the first few days
they'd known one another.  "I just... I just liked
it a bit too much."

A slow grin split his cheeks.  "Oh, I bet that
hurt," he drawled, watching her bristle.

Like a cat, she slipped away from him, scrambling
from his arms to get her feet under her.  She
pulled her coat together and patted her hair,
missing the wayward lock that spilled over her
forehead.  Her ribbon lay askew, and he wanted
nothing more than to steal it from her hair,
letting the whole mass frame her face.  The image
nearly felled him like a redwood and he took a step
back.

"Just for that, Sam Mulder, I expect the whole nine
yards next Sunday.  Champagne, violins and
something a bit more tasty than hot dogs.  Got it?" 
Head held high, she stormed off.

It took Sam a moment to suspend his disbelief; he
caught up with her, more out of breath than he'd
been running the bases.  "We're on again for next
Sunday?"

Her profile was a study in control.  "Of course,"
she replied, as if there were no other say in the
matter.  "Now that I know you're filthy rich, I
expect to be treated with some style."

He stopped in his tracks, his chest tight.  "I'm
not 'filthy rich', Emma."  If that was all she was
after, she'd be sadly disappointed.

She stopped a few feet ahead of him, slowly turning
with a twinkle in her eye.  "Can you spring for a
spaghetti dinner?  Served on nice plates with maybe
a candle or two?  Because to me, that's grand
living.  I've never eaten by candlelight, you
know."

"You witch."  She'd made him think she was like all
the others for a second - only after his face and
his money.

Emma lazily curled a lock of hair around one
finger.  "Goes with the hair, you know.  Ask anyone
from Ireland."  She laughed, tossing back the
strands with a careless gesture before extending
her hand.  "C'mon.  I've got to get home before Da
comes looking for me."

He stared at her hand for a moment before enfolding
it in his; he was silent as they walked back to the
pub, feeling as if she'd given him the world with
the offer of her hand.


**********


"Well, this is it." Emma stood beside him on the
sidewalk, giving her car a nod.  "I don't suppose
I'll see you until Saturday at the earliest.  Try
not to get into any trouble until then, okay?"

"Who, me?"  Sam touched her cheek; he couldn't stop
his fingers from caressing her skin.  She was so
soft and warm, just as he'd said at the beginning
of the evening.  Infinitely more soft and warm than
brown cashmere.  "I don't get into trouble, Emma."

"Trouble finds you," she finished for him.  "Just
remember we have another date next Sunday.  I'd
hate to have to miss out on that great dinner
you're going to feed me because you decided to run
around naked again.  Or play with a man with a
knife."

"I won't," he promised.  He'd act like a choir boy
until then.  Avoid any and all temptations, as well
as buckets of mopwater.  "Same time next Sunday?"

She nodded.  "I'll meet you here."

He'd really have to see about getting himself some
wheels; he fancied pulling up in Emma's driveway
with a bouquet of flowers - letting her father and
the whole world know his intentions.  But he could
sense she still wasn't quite ready for that,
despite the kiss on the baseball field.  Until
then, this would have to do.

Emma shifted before him, suddenly unable to stand
still.  "Are you going to kiss me goodnight?"

He almost complied without thought, then tilted his
head to one side with a narrowed gaze.  "Do you
want me to?"

"Well, it would be nice, I think."  Hope bloomed in
her face, and Sam leaned in.

But he didn't kiss her; he stopped a mere fraction
of an inch from her lips.  "Nah.  Don't think I
will.  You've had enough kissing for one night.  I
want you to still respect me in the morning."

"Oh, you -" Emma punched him, albeit ineffectively. 
"Fine."  She walked around her car, heading for the
driver's side door.  "If you think you can just
call the tune, Sam Mulder, you've got another -"

He was getting pretty good at silencing that smart
mouth.  Pressing her against the door, he drank
deeply of her anger and even more deeply of her
passion.  Her arms went around his back, his
trapped her against glass and steel as he
insinuated himself between her legs.  He let her
feel his instant arousal, rubbing his body slowly
over her smaller form.  Her breath caught and she
tore her mouth away.

"Dear Lord," she choked out, as he sucked in air
above her.  "Is that what I have to look forward
to?"

Sam looked at her lovely face, with its closed eyes
and kiss-bruised mouth.  "Only if you say yes," he
groaned, wondering how long he'd have to wait. 
He'd go out and buy the biggest diamond tomorrow if
she even sighed her consent at that moment.

Her eyes slowly opened, twin stars in the night. 
"If you ask the right question, I just might." 
Before he could reply, she gave him a swift peck on
the cheek.  "Good night, Sam.  Sleep well."  She
was in the car and gone in the time it took him to
stagger back.

He watched her drive away, standing in the street
like an overheated car that finally gave up the
ghost and sputtered to a stop.  Sleep well?  She'd
just implied she'd give him his most ardent desire
and she expected him to sleep well?  Hell, he
wouldn't sleep all week!

He'd have to get flowers.  Lots of 'em.  And though
she hinted she favored the little Italian place
down the block, he'd give her a dinner to top them
all, even if he had to take her to Washington.  Top
of the line champagne, and maybe some dancing... no
hot dogs and awful movies this time, no sir.

Movement on the opposite side of the street broke
him from his foolish grin.  A lone figure, hunched
over in the darkness beyond the street light,
looked his way as it stumbled to a stop.  Sam went
still in a staredown of sorts with the man,
wondering who the hell it was and why he'd been
spying on him and Emma.  He was a moment away from
asking just that when the guy moved - right under
the light then quickly away down the street.

It was him!  The man who'd tried to rob Mike's! 
Sam took off at a run.  "Hey you!  Stop right
there!"

So Emma had told him not to get into trouble.  This
wasn't trouble; the guy looked like he did a week
ago, except more skinny, as if he missed another
few meals.  The short, thin legs were no match for
Sam's, and it wasn't long before Sam had him by the
collar.

"Don't hurt me, please!"

Sam shoved him face first into the nearest brick
wall, hearing the slap of the man's cheek against
the hard surface with satisfaction.  "Who the hell
are you?" he growled, doing a quick search of the
guy's pockets.  No weapon found, Sam turned him
around to snarl once again, "Who are you?  What the
hell are you doing?  Get a thrill from watching
people, is that it?  Some kind of Peeping Tom? 
Answer me!"

"I - I just wanted to see if you were okay, that's
all!"  Small, gloved hands came up in a gesture of
total surrender.  "Honest!  I didn't mean no harm,
mister."

"You're the guy who tried to rob Mike's the other
day, aren't you?"  Though he was almost positive he
recognized the guy, Sam wanted to be sure before he
called the police.  "Aren't you?"

"It wasn't my idea!  Really!  All I wanted was some
money for my wife and kid, that's all!  I never
meant to hurt you, honest!"

Sam stilled at that, giving the guy a look of
pointed suspicion.  "Not your idea?  You mean,
someone sent you in there?"

"Sent?  No, no, not really like 'sent'," the guy
said quickly.  "He was kinda spooky, ya know?"

"Who?"

"The guy who told me there was better pickin's
across the street.  I was gonna hit the diner, but
then this guy says I should go to the bar -"

Sam gave the guy a shake.  "*Who*, damn it!"

"I dunno!  I didn't see his face!  He kinda stayed
in the alley back there and had his hat pulled over
his face.  He told me I'd get better pickin's
across the street, like he knew what I was lookin'
for - weird, I'm tellin' ya!"

Fear made Sam grip harder; he almost choked the
fellow now with his own jacket.  "What did he look
like?"

"I don't know, I tell ya!  I think he had a beard,
but it coulda been the way he had his coat turned
up like some real pappy, ya know?"

"A wiseguy?" Sam said, picturing a suave criminal. 
Someone smart enough to dress well and use others
like this poor sap to do his dirty work.

"Coulda been.  Talked real nice."

"And he told you to come see me?"

"See you?  Nah.  He just said there was better -"

"Pickings across the street, I know," Sam finished
for him.

"I didn't mean to hurt you, honest."

Again, Sam was assaulted by a prickling of dread. 
"You didn't hurt me."

The guy swallowed hard, looking Sam up and down. 
"But I did.  I slipped and the knife -"

"Went over your own palm," Sam said, nodding at the
fellow's raised hand.  "C'mon.  We're going to the
police."

"No!"  Caught by surprise by the guy's slip from
his own coat, Sam was left holding nothing but
threadbare wool.  "I stabbed you!  I did!  I came
back tonight to see if you were okay - I didn't
want no murder charge on me!"

"Look, I don't want to have to chase you all over
Annapolis," Sam said, walking forward.  The guy
backed away slowly, stepping into the street with a
desperate look.  "C'mon, buddy.  If what you say is
true, then they'll go easy on you.  Mike has
friends in the police department.  If all you need
is a little help for your family, that can be
arranged."

"You don't understand, I stabbed you.  Right here." 
The fellow laid a hand over his heart.  "You should
be dead."

"I'm not, as you can see.  Now, c'mon -"

"What are you?  Some kinda zombie or somethin'?" 
Real fear raced over the guy's features.  "Don't
come near me."

"Gimme a break, fella," Sam said, catching the
approach of a bus from the corner of his eye.  "And
get out of the street before you get yourself
killed."

But the guy was having no part of him, shaking his
head with wild confusion.  He frantically stripped
off his gloves, throwing them to the pavement.

"Get out of the street!" Sam warned, not really
feeling like tackling the guy to make him comply. 
Surely he'd see the bus in a moment and get his ass
out of the way?

"See?"

"See what?"  Sam was pissed now; he stepped off the
curb, intending to drag the guy out of the road.

"My hands."  The lights of the bus cast the guy in
a ghostly glow, and Sam stopped.  "Look at my
hands."

No marks at all.  No bandages, no scratches,
certainly no slashes.  That couldn't be.  Sam
recalled the amount of blood on his sweatshirt, and
he raised a hand to his heart as he stood there
stupefied.

"See?" the guy whispered, his words almost lost in
the roar of the bus.  "I stabbed *you*.  You oughta
be dead."

Sam snapped out of his shocked stare the second he
heard the horn.  "No!" he cried, but it was too
late.  The guy made a run for it, and he almost
made it - but was a split second too slow.  The bus
clipped his leg and flipped him over like a rag
doll.  Amidst the squealing of brakes, Sam heard
the body hit the pavement with a thud.  He ran
across the street, kneeling beside the guy, who
laid bloody and bruised, his eyes wild.

"Don't talk," Sam said, wrapping the coat around
the fellow.  "I'll call an ambulance."

"Don't touch me," the man hissed, his voice
scratchy with pain.  "You're a devil!  Don't touch
me!"

"Easy, buddy, easy."  At the approach of the open-
mouthed bus driver, Sam barked, "Call an
ambulance!"  The driver ran back to his now silent
bus; Sam heard the crackle of a radio over the
hushed whispers of his few passengers.

"Get the hell away from me!"  With the last of his
strength, the would-be robber shoved Sam away. 
"Don't touch me!"

Sam sat and listened to him cry until he heard the
first siren, feeling the sudden cold wind drift
over him until there was nothing left but icy fear.



End Chapter Fifteen