Soon the trees that separated the Whitfield and Beckett properties gave way to a clearing. In a few months, the field would be thick with seed corn. Now it was a snow covered flat.
         Home. Sam knew that was where he was going, but it did not feel welcoming. He was afraid and felt as though he were imposing. It was like he was staring a perfect Norman Rockwell print of Americana and he was about to paint black streaks over it's beauty.
         Sam crossed the field and made his way through the barnyard to the front porch. He stood a moment, hesitating before he knocked. He could see the battered reflection of a little boy in the glass panes of the door. Scared blue eyes seemed even brighter surrounded by blackened skin.
         "Go ahead," Al directed.
         "Tommy?" a voice called from behind. "What are you doing here?"
         Sam turned around slowly to face John Beckett. He was coming in from the barn where he had been milking the cows. It was one of the first chores of the morning, coming even before breakfast.
         "I--" Sam puased, seeing the appalled expression on his father's face. "I need help. I'm sorry. I didn't know where else to go." He felt very guilty about bringing his parents into this mess. They were good people who would want to help a child, but this was so ugly. He wished he could find another way to solve this problem.
         "Don't be sorry," John answered kindly. "What happened?" He put an arm around Sam's shoulder and guided him into the house. Tommy, a bruised and bloody little boy wrapped in a patchwork quilt, carrying a thermos of cold soup, was the most pathetic creature he had ever seen.
         "Come on over by the fire," he motioned toward the den. The smell of pine logs burning filled the air with a sweet familiar aroma. He led Sam to a cream colored sofa so he could sit close to the fire.
         "John? Did I hear you come in?" Thelma asked, walking into the room. She was wiping her hands on her floral print apron. "Breakfast is ready. I'll call the kids and you--Tommy!" she gasped, looking up from her hands. "My dear! What happened?" She rushed to him.
         Instinctively, Sam reached out to her, holding on as tightly as he could. It was easier to avoid treating his father like his father, but his mother was different. She had always tried to understand him, had always listened when he excitedly told her about things she did not comprehend. She encouraged him to use his mind for whatever good purpose he could. He knew she always dreamed he would be a doctor. And he was--seven times over in different fields, only one of which was medicine.
         Sam had never felt as close to his father. He knew his father loved him, but he never could have been what his father wanted him to be. Sometimes he even wondered if his father was disappointed by his intelligence and would have perferred another normal child like Tom and Katie. Tom was a war hero--Sam was too smart for the military to put him in the service. Katie was, well, Katie was Katie, the baby girl. That alone was enough to make John Beckett proud.
         "Honey, what happened?" Thelma asked softly.
         "He hit me," Sam told her, clinging to her for safety. "He wanted to kill me. That's why he gave me that drink with the pills. After you left, he hit me over and over again." Even though they saw him as Tommy, Sam stuck to using "he" instead of calling Charles his father.
         "I'll call the police," John got up from the sofa. It was overwhelming to think that his friend was responsible for beating a child so badly. "Thelma, why don't you help Tommy clean up?"
         "How bad does Tommy look?" Al asked Verbeena. Only Al could see Sam as Sam. "Terrible... he's black and blue, got blood all over."
         "A lot like Sam. I don't know which is worse--seing a child like that or seeing your best friend."
         "If you wre John or Thelma Beckett, it would be seeing your own child like that. If they knew that was Sam, the would be devastated."
         Sam did not hear Verbeena as his mother led him to the bathroom to wash up. He looked back to Al to see if he was going to follow, but the older man pointed to John to signify that he wanted to listen to the phone call. Sam nodded, understanding the silent message. Possibly, Al could tell him what to expect when he got back.
         "Do you think that it's good that Sam never told his parents about what happened to him, in the barn, I mean?" Al asked thougthfully, wondering how the Becketts would have reacted. They were very calm, yet compassionate, with Tommy. But Tommy was not their son and was not telling them about sexual abuse.
         "It's hard to say, Al. Sam obviously had a lot of pain burried for a lot of years and it affected him whether he realized it or not. Being molested leaves scars and affects a lot of things--self-concept, self-esteem, emotional well-being, sexuality. Sometimes repression is good because it allows you to go on when you can not otherwise cope with a problem, for instance if you can't understand it." Her answer was very nondecisive, the way it should have been to maintain her legal interests.
         "Like if you're eight years old, clueless about sex, and introduced to it in a violent homosexual situation." Anger flooded through Al again as it did every time he thought of what had happened. He could not recall feeling such an intense hatred for anyone as he had for Charles Whitfield.
         "Mmmm," was the only sound Verbeena made. It could have been interpreted as agreement or disagreement.
         "I don't get why Sam is so afraid of his parents knowing what happened," Al commented. "They're like a farming Mike and Carol Brady." He thought about what he had just said, trying to imagine the sitcom family dealing with an issue as serious as child abuse. "Maybe that's why."
         Sam and his mother returned from the bathroom several minutes later. He still looked terrible, but he felt better. His hair was damp and that brought more of a chill.
         "Are you hungry?" Thelma asked, sitting down with him by the fire.
         "Yes Ma'am," he nodded. His stomach rumbled as though he had not eaten any soup at all. "Thank you for the soup, by the way."
         "You're welcome. It was no trouble at all." Thinking of it brought back an uneasy feeling for her. She was both proud and afraid because her Sam was special enough to be contacted by an angel.
         John returned to the den carrying a bundle of firewood he had gotten outside. He set it down on the hearth. He was not sure why he had gone after it. They did not really need it at the moment. He was the kind of man who had to do something. He could not simply sit and think and did not want to sit and think about this situation. It was too disturbing. "Tommy, the police are sending someone over to talk with you," he told him. "They need to know what happened so they can help you."
         "That's about all I got out of what I heard," Al told Sam. "I think they'll be here within a half hour or so. It's not like there's all that much going down in Elk Ridge."
         Sam nodded, glad he was there to do the talking for Tommy. The thought of talking was frightening to him; he knew it would be more so to a child. Maybe what he could tell them would be enough to get Charles Whitfield arrested and Tommy into a safe environment. One look at his aura would convince anyone that what had occurred between Tommy and his father was much more than any kind of discipline. Somehow, Whoever was Leaping Sam around had made it so that any injuries to Sam showed up in the aura of whoever he Leaped into. Perhaps there was priest somewhere who came back to find he had had a bullet graze his head and wondered why he could not feel it and why it did not hurt; a young Sunday school teacher who had been slapped around by a rapist attempting a second attack that she did not remember, an attack where the rapist was the one left knocked unconscious.
         "Come on then," Thelma got up. "Let's go get you something to eat before they get here."
         "Thank you," Sam said, following her to the kitchen. The smell of bacon and biscuits greeted him. He became even more aware of how little he had consumed the past couple of days. "That smells so good."
         "My mom always made the best biscuits," Sam told Al and Verbeena softly.
         "Well, I hope mine can compare," Thelma answered him. "Sit down, dear. I'll get a plate for you."
         Sam took his usual seat and soon Thelma brought him a plate with three strips of crispy bacon and a golden-brown drop biscuit and a glass of orange juice. "Eat up!" she told him.
         Sam split the biscuit in half, smothered both sides with homemaid blackberry jelly, put the bacon inside and made a sandwich of it.
         "You remind me of my Sam," Thelma laughed.
         "Does the word cholesterol mean anything to you, Dr. Beckett?" Al asked, sounding a lot like Sam when he nagged Al about his cigars--back when he could actually smell them.
         "This is the best meal I've had in years!" Sam told his mother, ignoring Al.
         "Talking like that, you could charm yourself right into seconds," she laughed.
         "Mama's Boy," Al goaded. If the truth be told, he was enjoying watching Sam interact with his mother. After everything else he had been through this Leap, he deserved some happy moments.
         "And proud of it," Sam retorted to the hologram.
         "What did you say?" Thelma asked, turning away from the pot of coffee she had brewing for herself and her husband.
         "And I'd be proud to get them--seconds." Looking at his empty plate, he reconsidered. "But, I didn't eat at all yesterday and I'd probably get sick if I ate too much now." There was a hint of disappointment in his voice.
         "That's very sensible for a boy your age," she smiled. "You really do remind me of Sam. Maybe you ought to take some of those tests he's taken. You seem like a bright boy." Sam had gotten perfect scores on every intelligence test he had been given. None of them could produce a number high enough to measure his true IQ so psychometrists were left to make their best estimates.
         "Maybe," Sam agreed, getting up and taking his plate to the sink to wash it. He walked slowly so he would not hurt his ribs. He reminded himself he could not go to the doctor as a child, so no one could suspect any injuries requiring an x-ray.
         "Hey, Mom, I think Katie's got whatever Sam has." Tom Beckett announced as he came into the kitchen with his schoolbooks. "She wouldn't get up for breakfast and neither would Sam." He stopped when he saw the boy at the sink. "Tommy? Is that you?"
         Sam cringed. He knew what he must look like and did not want his older brother to see him even if it was not Sam he would see. "Hi, Tom," he said, focusing on the plate.
         "Tom, I need to talk with you," Thelma pulled him to the side to explain what was happening with Tommy.
         At the same time, John walked in with a police officer. "Tommy, Officer Harkins is here to talk with you."
         Sam turned around to face them. "Hi." He looked to Al and Verbeena with a "this is it" expression.
          Al sighed with relief--finally everything was falling into place. The police would take care of Whitfield and get Tommy to safety. "It's okay, Sam. You can do this. It's all going to be okay once you do."
         "Oh, man!" Tom exclaimed when Sam faced them. Thelma gave him his lunch, and whispered to him to eat his lunch for breakfast and to get some money from her purse to buy lunch at school. He looked at the bag and thought peanut butter and jelly would be okay for breakfast, even if the bacon and biscuits smelled better.
         "I need to speak to you alone, Tommy," Hal Harkins told him. He could not allow anyone to influence the conversation that was about to unfold.
         "Alone?" he repeated, frightened at first; then he realized he really did not want his family to hear about the hell he had been through. Besides, he would not be alone--he had Al and Verbeena.
         "Would you like to go into the den?" Harkins asked.
         "I guess so." Sam followed the man out of the kitchen.
         "It will be okay, Tommy," Thelma encouraged him.
         Harkins asked Sam to tell him exactly what had happened, so Sam started with the drink and continued through the Beckett's visit and Charles coming back drunk and enraged.
         "About what time was it that your father started beating you last night?"
         "I don't know what time it was." Sam answered. "I was kind of out of it. What difference does it make anyway?"
         "Just establishing the facts," Harkins responded. He had already heard from John about the Becketts taking him some soup because he was sick.
         "Sam, this isn't working," Al told him, consulting the hand link. "Whitfield is never formally charged."
         "What?" Sam exclaimed, wondering how that could be possible with his injuries. Just this episode should have brought charges, even if Sam could not share knowledge of the past history of Tommy and his father.
         "It's only '62. No one wants to admit this stuff happens, especially in small towns. Apparantly Tommy won't back what you've told them either."
         "I said does your father hit you often?" Harkins asked, more loudly than he needed to do.
         "I--I don't know," Sam answered reluctantly. He did not in truth know what happened in the Whitfield house and if Tommy was not going to back anything he said, he could not risk saying any more than he knew.
         "You don't know?" the officer asked skeptically.
         "Look at me!" Sam exclaimed. "This is obviously not the result of a fall or a whipping because I did not do my stupid math homework. He drugged me and beat me viciously. What more do you need?"
         "The whole story," the man answered, feeling sorry for the battered child.
         "Sam, Tommy still dies on the second." Al informed him with an urgency in his voice. Ziggy had just flashed that information across the screen.
         "He's going to kill me if you don't help me. I'm going do die!" Sam felt a surge of energy rush through him. "No!" he cried out, realizing he was about to Leap. A blue light surrounded him and in seconds, Tommy was sitting on the couch dazed and unaware of how he had gotten there.
         Tommy looked around frantically, "Where am I?" he asked.
         "Where are you?" Harkins repeated. He was not sure what had happened, but he noticed a definite change in the boy before the amnesia struck. "You're at the Beckett's house where you've been all morning. I think we should take you to the hospital," the officer told the frightened child.
         "Hospital?" Tommy asked.
         "Sam! Sam! Where are you?" Al called.
         "What's happening?" Verbeena asked. She had never witnessed a Leap before. She did not see the light that Al saw, nor could she tell when Sam left and Tommy came back.
         "He Leaped, but he's still around here somewhere, otherwise we'd be gone. Gushie, center me on Sam!"
         Al and Verbeena were transferred to Sam's bedroom where he had just Leaped into his eight year old self.
         "Al, what's going on?" Sam asked, jumping out of bed. Unlike most of his Leaps, he still clearly remembered what had happened on the last one. "I'm still here, but now I'm me."
         "The policeman is taking Tommy to the hospital, but he must be sent home soon. He is still going to die--trauma to the head. He's beaten to death." Al read the minscule monitor on the handlink.
         "Why don't they arrest that bastard?" He went to the bedroom door to peak out.
         "According to the police report from today, Tommy clammed up, wouldn't talk once you Leaped out."
         Sam started down the stairs."What do I need to do?" He stopped in a hallway outside the den, looking through to see Tommy and Harkins leaving out the front door.
         "Maybe," Al paused, not at all happy with what he was about to say. "Maybe you need to tell someone what he did to you." He made the suggestion despite knowing how much Sam would resist the idea. "Maybe that's why you're you. Now, that's Al's theory since Ziggy does not have all the information. And, I know, Al's theory sucks. But I can't think of anything else."
         Sam thought a moment. "I can't," he whispered, starting to feel small and weak again.
         "Maybe you have to in order to save Tommy."
         "I cannot tell my parents. They'll hate me," he whispered.
         He felt two big hands on his shoulders, turning him around. "Can't tell us what?" his father asked.
         Sam's heart stood still as he faced his father. "Nothing."
         "Sounds like something to me," he argued calmly.
         "I can't tell you," Sam answered in a short whisper.
         "I think you'd better tell me," John gently held Sam by his upper arms. It was a position that clearly indicated he was in authority.
         An image of bruises on his arms flashed through Sam's mind as he cowered to the floor. "Please don't hit me," he begged, his mind racing with memories of the night before. No more hitting. No more hitting.
         Al stepped forward, shocked by the scene. "You hurt him and I'll Leap back here myself and take you on, Beckett," he hissed. He never really met John Beckett, only observed him on a prior Leap. To him, Sam's fear seemed founded.
         "Al, Al," Verbeena touched his arm, hoping to sooth him. "I think Sam is reacting to Charles, not to his father. Look. His father is not hurting him." John was holding Sam's arms, but the grip was obviously not tight. There was no hint of a threat in his voice either.
         "And when have I ever hit you?" John asked, surprised by the genuine fear he saw in his son's eyes.
         "You will if I tell you," Sam answered, terrified. "You'll send me away."
         "John, Sam, what's going on?" Thelma asked, coming from Katie's room. The little girl had become ill overnight.
         "Tell 'em, Sam." Al urged. He hoped Sam would continue to respond well to his mother.
         Sam began to shake with fear, feeling trapped. His father would not let him go. Now his mother was there. Al was telling him to do something he did not want to do. Verbeena was watching, observing. There was no way out.
         "What's gotten into you, Sam?" John pulled him up from the floor. He was very worried considering the angel talk of the night prior.
         "Honey, what's the matter?" Thelma asked.
         Sam looked at his parents standing on either side. If it were not for his father's support, he would not have been on his feet. He willed the floor to open and swallow him.
         "Go on, Sam." Al told him.
         Sam opened his mouth, but only a trembling squeak emerged.
         "He's scared to death," Thelma commented to her husband. She reached out to him, "Baby, what's wrong?"
         "Is it that angel again?" John asked, thinking perhaps Sam was scared by some new message.
         "Charles Whitfield," Sam whispered. He glanced at Al with an easily read, "tell-me-I-don't-have-to-do-this" plea.
         "Tell 'em Sam," Al reapeated sadly. He knew Sam was feeling every bit of eight years old.
         "He... did... something... bad." Sam's words came very slowly as he struggled to force each one to the surface. There was an internal battle within his mind between telling the truth like Al told him to do and pushing the words and memories as far away as he could make them go.
         "He hurt Tommy badly," John agreed, thinking Sam was upset over that, but not understanding why he was so upset over it.
         Sam shook his head slightly, closing his eyes. "To me," he finished with considerable effort.
         "To you?" Thelma asked, rubbing his back to try to calm him.
         "What are you talking about?" John querried.
         "I can't," he whispered to Al. His mother's concern and his father's intensity were unbearable.
         "You can!" Al answered. "They love you."
         "Sammy, you can tell us anything," his mother soothed him. "We love you."
         He tilted his head downward and closed his eyes tightly, irrationally hoping his next words would not end that love. "He touched me and I didn't want him to." His voice was barely audible.
         "Sam!" his mother cried out, pulling him closely to her, wanting to protect him from something that had already happened.
         Sam did not look up to see his father's reaction. He did not have to see it to feel the heat of tension and rage.
         "I don't want to hear this from you," John told him. The only emotion in his voice was anger.
         Sam's breath stopped as the message sank in. His father's words were the emotional equivalent of Charles Whitfield's kicks to his stomach.The world stopped for a moment and he felt a pain so deeply that it physically hurt his soul.
         Al's mouth dropped open, stunned by the man's reaction. He was speechless. He could see the horror and shame in Sam's eyes. He could tell that a child's heart had just broken.
         "John!" Thelma exclaimed. "Let him talk. He needs to tell us." She was astonished by her husband's reaction as well. It was if he were turning his back on Sam when Sam needed him the most.
         "I don't want to hear it." John responded.
         Sam saw the cold expression on his father's face and bolted for his room. He slammed the door and locked it, vowing to himself that he would never come out. Overcome with the need to hide, he crawled into the closet to sit in the dark. He sat with his knees drawn tightly to his chest, his arms encircling them. He was as drawn into himself as he could physically be.
         He heard both his mother and Al calling his name. His mother was in the hallway, but Al was in the bedroom. Walls could not keep him out.
         "Are you under the bed?" he heard the gravelly voice ask and he could picture the Admiral looking for him. Suddenly, a face appeared passing through the door. "Sam, why are you hiding?"
         "He hates me," Sam answered. His voice was very matter-of-fact. Despite his turmoil, he could not cry. He hurt too much to let go, to feel it, and to wash it away with tears. He was afraid if he really felt it, it would overpower him. So, the pain stayed in a lump in his chest suffocating him as he tried to reason himself around it. "He thinks I lied and he hates me... or he thinks it's my fault and he hates me even more. He never wants to see me again. That's okay. I never want to be seen again." He spoke very much as if his past was his present. In his mind, it was.
         "Sam, he doesn't hate you," Al assurred him, though he was not sure what was going on in the man's mind or why he had cruelly cut Sam off the way he had.
         "Did you see the look on his face--pure anger and hatred. He wants me to go away, just like Charles Whitfield said he would. They're going to send me away, Al."
         "They won't send you away." Al told his best friend. Sam was definitely not in his own present. He was reacting just as he would have when he was eight.
         "Why do they hate me? Do you hate me now too?"
         "Hate you? No, of course not. It's not your fault. You did not do anything wrong and there is no reason at all for anyone to hate you, not me or your father."
         "Promise?"
         "Promise."
         Sam thought about what he said, though he was not sure he believed it.
         "Sam, would you please come out of the closet?" He was getting very irritated with the position of talking with clothes hanging around him.
         Sam smirked, "I'm gay and I'm in love with you, Al," he laughed sorrowfully at his own joke.
         A series of sounds that did not quite approximate words came from the frustrated and embarrassed Admiral. "Sam!" he finally got out, "Don't say things like that!" He could see Verbeena adding it to her notes and analyzing them both. "The Project shrink is out here!"
         "Leave Tina and admit it's me you want," Sam continued.
         "Sam, you're not gay and that's not funny!"
         "I might as well be," Sam answered. "That would be just one more way I could be a disappointment to my father."
         "Disappointment?" Al repeated.
         "You think you're a disappointment, Sam?" Verbeena asked. It was the kind of statement any psychiatrist worth her degrees would latch onto.
         "I know I am," he answered. "And I'm not in love with Al," he told her, just to be safe.
         "Thank you!" Al sighed with relief.
         "Why do you think you're a disappointment?" Verbeena asked.
         "I'm not what he wanted," Sam answered solemnly.
         "What?" Al was genuinely shocked by Sam's belief. He was not sure if the ideas were coming from the traumatized child or the adult. "You've got seven Ph.D.'s, a Nobel Prize, you're the smartest kid... ever. What more could a man want from his son?"
         Sam looked up and responded soberly, "A dairy farmer."
         "Any man should be proud to have a son like you," Al told him. "If you were my kid, I'd still be showing your baby pictures and bragging."
         "And passing out cigars?" Sam smiled.
         "No, I'd keep them for myself," Al laughed. "Look, I know your father is proud of you. There is no way he could not be."
         "Maybe he just doesn't know how to handle having a child like you, but it doesn't mean you're a disappointment to him," Verbeena offered.
         "He's disappointed in me now," Sam told them."Verbeena, maybe you should go check on me in the Waiting Room. I don't need to get any ideas before I get any ideas, if you know what I mean."
         "I should go back," she agreed. "We'll talk again soon." With that, Al opened the door and she left.
         "Al, can you see what my father is doing?"
         "Uh, sure." He got the distinct impression that Sam wanted to be alone for a while. He told Gushie to center him on John Beckett and found himself in the yard. John was walking toward the barn.
         "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Al yelled, wishing the man could hear him and that he could make him see what he was doing to Sam. "Your son just told you he was molested by the friendly neighborhood pedophile and you're going off to milk the fucking cows!" He was enraged by the man's insensitivity even though he had just spent time trying to convince Sam that his father cared. "You hurt Sam real bad and he was already hurting bad enough."
         John walked along, unaware of the lecture taking place years in the future.
         "If he were my child..." Al felt a pang of jealously. He had never had children with any of his wives. He joked that it was good because he could not afford alimony and child support, but he the older he got, the more he regretted not having any little Calaviccis running around. He supposed he was not meant to have a real family; he never had and never would.
         "You could have at least listened to him, you son of a bitch. He's your child. He's your responsibility. He's your gift from God." Al followed him to a blue pickup truck parked beside the barn. He watched as John opened the door, flipped the seat forward, and reached behind it to retrieve a hunting rifle. He put the rifle on the seat, got in, and started the engine.
         "What are you doing?" he asked as John drove off in the direction of Charles Whitfield's house. "Uh-oh."
         He considered telling Sam, but decided against it. John would be at Whitfield's in under five minutes. There was nothing Sam could do to stop whatever was going to happen. He could not get to the next farmhouse on foot quickly enough.
         Al stayed with John and could only observe. He prayed the man would not do anything that he or his family would regret.
         John parked his truck and got out, taking the rifle with him. He marched to the front porch and went into the unlocked house without knocking. He found Charles still asleep on the couch.
         "Wake up!" he yelled, poking the barrell into the man's chest.
         Charles awoke with a start. Jerking in surprise, he tumbled to the floor. "John! What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, realizing the scope of the gun had followed him from the couch to the floor. John stood before him, tall and looming and obviously angry.
         "What did you do to my son?" he asked.
         "What are you talking about?" Charles started. "I haven't--"
         "I think you know exactly what I'm talking about." He pushed the barrell more firmly. "What did you do to Sam?"
         "John, do you really need a gun? I didn't do anything to Sam. Whatever he accused me of was a lie."
         "Sam doesn't lie!" John growled. "You obviously do. And if you don't start talking and telling me the truth now, you won't live to regret it!"
         Al watched the exchange in part horror and part pleasure. He could not help enjoying watching the man squirm.
         "I didn't do anything," Charles maintained.
         John shoved the rifle to the other man's groin. "You lie to me once more and I'll blow your balls off!"
         "Good one!" Al exclaimed. He was beginning to like John Beckett.
         There was a knock on the open door and a police officer walked in. "What's going on?" the man asked. "Mr. Beckett, please put the gun down, he urged reaching for his own weapon.
         "I'm glad you're here," John told the policeman, keeping his eyes firmly on Charles. "Charles was just about to make a confession. You can be a witness to it."
         "He's crazy!" Charles called to the policeman. His brow was covered in perspiration.
         John cocked the gun. "Talk!" he ordered.
         "Okay! Okay! I-I-" His manner suddenly changed from panic to cold satisfaction. "I fucked your son." he admitted, savoring the words. "And nothing you can do to me will ever change that." He was still the one with the power.
         John and Al both felt sick for a moment. Whitfield was pleased with himself and it was disgusting.
         John lifted his rifle. "I'm a Christian man. Otherwise, I'd kill you." Then with as much force as he could muster, he kicked the other man directly in the crotch. "That will have to do."
         Both Al's and the police officer's mouths were agape with the shock of seeing one man inflict such punishment on another.
         As Charles writhed on the floor in the greatest agony he had felt in his life, Al flicked holographic ashes onto his face. Then he delivered a holographic follow-up kick. It might have been ineffective, but it felt good to him.
         "John Beckett, I like you!" He told the farmer, walking away from the man on the floor.
         "You heard him," John told the officer, hating that the man knew what had happened to Sam. "I have to get home to my family."
         "I'm going to have to talk with Sam," the officer stopped him.
         "No," John stated firmly. "He's been through enough, Balogh" He read the man's name on his uniform.
         Balogh pulled him to the side, careful that Charles did not hear. "Tommy's not talking about what happened to him. Without Sam to verify the confession, it's useless," he whispered. He had come there to take Whitfield in for questioning, hoping to get the man to admit to something that Tommy would not.
         "Uh, guys!" Al called, wishing they could hear him somehow. "Broken-balls seems to be recovering." He saw the man crawling across the floor to an end table. He slid the droor open and pulled out a pistol.
         "Watch out!" Al yelled uselessly. The two men were arguing over the need for Sam to make a formal statement.
         Whitfield pointed the gun at them. As he did, it gleemed in the light and Balogh noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye. He spun around, pulling the trigger on his gun before Whitfield had a chance. His fire hit the man directly in the chest. Whitfield fell dead in an instant.
         "Couldn't happen to a nicer fella," Al commented callously. He then centered himself on Sam.
         "Al, where have you been?" Sam asked. He had moved from the closet to his bed. His mother's pleas and promises of unconditional love had prompted him to go to the bedroom door and assure her that he would come out someday when he was sure everything was going to be okay.
         Knowing her son had a stubborn streak comparable to her spouse's, she had left, vowing to tell her husband exactly how she felt about the way he had hurt Sam and bracing herself for what she suspected would be the biggest fight in their marriage.
         "Short version," Al began. "Your father went over to Whitfields, stuck a rifle to his crotch, and got a confession."
         "He what?" Sam exclaimed, unable to imagine his noncombative father doing such a thing.
         "I guess when he said he didn't want to hear it from you, he meant that he didn't want you to have to tell him."
         Sam said nothing, blinking back tears. He was very grateful that his father had saved them both the embarrassment of that situation.
         "He believes in you, Sam." Al smiled, for the first time believing his own words about John.
         "Just like you," Sam returned the smile. "So what happens now?"
         "Nothing."
         "Nothing?" Sam's heart sank. They had been through too much for nothing to happen.
         "Whitfield's dead. He pulled a gun on your father and a police officer. The officer shot and killed him on the spot."
         "What about Tommy?"
         Al consulted the data passing across the monitor. "He goes to live with his maternal grandparents in Illinois. He gets counseling and eventually goes into law enforcement. You're telling what happened to you helped give that kid a life, Sam."
         "I guess I couldn't have helped Tommy if it hadn't happened then." Sam realized that if he had Leaped in in time to save himself the pain, nothing would have changed to improve Tommy's life. He had been given a second chance to make a difference in someone's life when he had been too afraid to take the first chance.
         He hesitated to ask. "What about me? Wait..." An odd sensation of a new memory that had never happened before floated through his mind. "Dad comes home, tells me he loves me and that it doesn't matter what happened because he still loves me." He switched from present to past tense as the memory became a real part of his past. "I never got to talk about it, even though I told them it happened. Whitfield was burried. Tommy left. I never talked to the police or anyone... until you, Al. Not until this Leap. I couldn't talk about it with them. Dad even got the policeman to agree to not tell anyone what Whitfield said about me. It's like they all wanted to pretend it didn't happen, so we did."
         "I'm sorry, Sam. I'm sorry that you still had to keep that pain inside so long." Al's words were genuine.
         "It's okay, Al. I could tell you because I know you won't ever be disappointed in me for it."
         "Of course not," Al agreed. "You still think you're a disappointment to your father? Even after what he did?"
         "I'm still not what he ideally expected in a son."
         "You're more," Al told him sincerely.
         "Al, thank you for being like my second father. I love my dad very much and he was a wonderful father, but he never understood me the way you do. There was always a distance--we were never truly friends."
         Al hesitated, his military background and masculine pride holding him back for a moment. "Sam," he started, realizing moments like these were few. "You're the closest I'll ever have to a son of my own and I'm damn proud of you."
         Sam smiled as the turmoil he had been through on this Leap began to fade away.
         "You're a good kid, Sam."
         "And you're a good..." Sam paused, considering words carefully, not wanting to diminish his relationship with his father, but wanting to let Al know exactly how much their relationship meant to him, "You're a good Pop."
         Al beamed with pride as the blue light enveloped Sam. "Bye... Son."