Quantum Leap:
The Unrightable Wrong by Rebecca R. Baker

Chapter 7

The Present

         "You're very protective of him," Verbeena commented as she and Al stepped out of the Imaging Chamber. There was a leading tone in her voice.
         Al did not respond. Verbeena could not tell if it were because he was ignoring her or because Gushie was rushing toward them.
         "Did it work?" he asked. "Was Dr. Beckett able to hear you, Dr. Beeks?"
         "It worked beautifully, Gushie," Verbeena smiled.
         "Good job," Al offered his praise, something he rarely bestowed upon anyone. "I'm glad you worked out that kink."
         "Thanks!"
         "Has Ziggy come up with anything on Tommy yet?"
         "No, not yet. Sorry."
         "I'll have some notes for you to add in based on my observation of his father," Verbeena told him. She wanted to lend credence to the idea that her only reason for going back with Al was to do a profile on Charles Whitfield. She had barely observed the man at all, but could reasonably assume he was the type of abuser who was in denial about the fact that he abused. He did seem to care for Tommy's well-being, even though he was the greatest threat to it.
         When they walked out of earshot again, Verbeena stopped Al for a moment. "If you need to talk about this, come to me."
         "What makes you think I need to talk?" he asked defensively. One thing military men did not appreciate was having their psyche evaluated.
VWithout a word, Verbeena held her sore, fingernail indented hand up for Al to see.
         Al's eyes widened. "I did that to you?"
         She nodded. "You're very angry, I think. Maybe you need to express that away from Sam so he won't believe that it's him you're angry with." Abuse victims tended to think that they were the root of any negative feelings and anger in those they cared about.
         "I didn't mean to hurt you," he apologized. "And, hell yes, I'm angry. If I could get a hold of that man, I'd tear his fucking balls off and shove them down his throat. If he weren't dead, I'd go to Elk Ridge, track him down and do just that."
         "It must have been difficult for you to hear what Sam went through."
         He glared at her for stating the obvious, "Well, of course it was." He could not imagine that it would have been any more difficult to listen to his own child tell that story, if he had a child of his own.
         "I appreciate that you stayed out of the session for the most part. I know it was hard for you to restrain your comments."
         Al grinned. "I thought about tuning you out when you kept pushing him."
         "I know it hurt you to hear what happened. I know you wanted to make it all better. But, Al, the good news is that Sam covered more counseling in one session than some people do in months of therapy. I've had clients who took years to realize they were not to blame. Don't get me wrong, just because he realized it, it doesn't mean he will continue to believe he's blameless for long, but it's the first step to accepting that he is."
         "Huh?"
         "He had one moment of knowing it wasn't his fault, but those moments start out fleeting. It takes a while to accept the truth, even when the truth is good."
         "Why?"
         "Even subconsciously, he's been blaming himself for years. If you blame yourself, then it means you had control. Accepting you have no control is one of the most difficult things a person can face."
         "I think he's accepted that already, and dealt with it pretty well." Al had seen Sam struggle with not being able to control where he went, not being able to come home. Somehow he managed to do what he had to do and go on, wherever he was led.
         "Sam has a very special mind."
         "Dear lady, tell me something I don't know. Right now, his very special mind is troubled and I've got guard-dog duty." Al motioned to a technition. He told the young man to have a chair brought into the Imaging Chamber. Then Al went to his quarters to change into a more comfortable outfit and get a night's supply of cigars and reading material.
         He stopped by a vending machine to get a supper made mostly of sugars, fat, and perservatives. And while he did all he did in haste, his "few minutes" had spanned close to an hour.
         Before he left, Gushie stopped him with some new information. "Charles Whitfield married a Mary Ann Chapman from Boothtown, Illinois in '51, Tommy was born in July of '53. They moved to Elk Ridge in '57. Before getting married, he had moved 6 times within Illinois between '40 and '51. So, it appears he was not hanging around any one place for long before he got married."
         "He probably left a trail of abused boys," Al figured. He stopped himself from saying anything more. No one else knew anyone other than Tommy had been abused.
         Gushie continued, "Tommy was absent from school an entire week before his father reported he was missing to the police. Theres' no record of him after the 26th."
         "That was yesterday." Al told him. "Are you saying he could have vanished before the 2nd?"
         "Ziggy says there is a 30% chance. Dr. Beckett might be in more danger now than we originally thought."
         Al nodded. "I'm not sure how long I'll be. Probably a while." He stepped into the Imaging Chamber.

February 27, 1962

         Sam was almost asleep when Al arrived. He was lying on his back, and very still. "Al?" he looked in the direction of the sound without moving his head. It was very difficult to keep his eyes open. "Al?" he whispered again.
         "I'm here." Al answered, stepping closer. "Sam, you don't look so good." His eyes were glassy and bloodshot.
         "I... can't... move." Each word was a struggle. His eyelids partially closed and opened again every few seconds.
         "Uh-oh," Al consulted the handlink, but Ziggy offered no help. He thought about the shot glass. Charles had said it was whiskey, lemon juice, peppermint and "other stuff."
         "Sam, I'm going to find out what was in that shot." He popped out of the bedroom and into the kitchen.
         On the counter, he saw a bottle of whiskey, some lemons, two candy wrappers beside a dish filled with peppermint disks, and two plastic bottles. "Oh no!" he exclaimed on futher inspection. One was marked with the name of a common pain reliever\fever reducer and the other was a common motion sickness tablet. Charles had obviously mixed the pills with the alcohol and more than likely had used the adult dosages despite Tommy's age.
         Al popped back into the bedroom and saw Charles sitting on the side of the bed. Sam had not moved a muscle, but was looking at the man with terror. "No," he whispered.
         "Touch him and I'll kill you!" Al warned. "Sam, you've got to get up and make yourself vomit. He mixed medicines in with the whiskey and on your empty stomach, they're hitting you fast and hard."
         Sam looked to Al. "I can't."
         "You have to," Al stressed.
         "I knew that medicine would make you rest," Charles felt Sam's forehead. Then he began to unbutton the flannel pajama shirt Sam was wearing.
         "Stop that!" Al yelled to no avail. He was swinging at Charles, but only passed through his image. He thought he would be sick, watching Charles touch Sam while he was unable to fight back. "You did this on purpose, you sicko! You wanted an easy victim!"
         Then to Al's suprise, Charles picked up a vapor rub that he had beside him on the bed. "This will help you breathe, get rid of that cough too," he told Sam. He began to rub the salve onto Sam's upper chest.
         Sam felt sick all over. Any help that Charles could have given was poisoned by the past. "Help me" Sam mouthed; terror gripped him. He tried desperately to move his arm to fight, but it felt like it had turned to lead.
         "I can't, Sam. There's nothing I can do." He needed someone to physically help him.
         "Don't you see that he's loosing consciousness, you idiot? He's not resting!"
         Charles had finished administering the horrid vapor rub. "Feel better tomorrow," he hummed. He smoothed the covers around Sam and left, turning the lights off as he did.
         "Thank God, he's gone," Al murmured. He saw a slight twich as Sam tried to move. Then as if he were struck with a surge of energy, Sam rolled onto his side. He panted from exhaustion.
         "You have to throw up!" Al urged him. "C'mon, Sam. Just lean over the edge of the bed."
         Sam inched closer to the edge of the bed with another mustering of energy.
         "You have to do this, Sam," Al coaxed.
         In the fog that was his mind, Sam realized that the vapor rub with it's pungent aroma was helping him remain aware of his surroundings. Feeling his strength grow again, he made a sharp moment to reach the edge. It was too sharp. The hardwood floor padded with only a small braided rug rose to meet him. He groaned and slipped into the welcoming blackness.
         Al called to the listless heap on the floor. It was no use. His thoughts raced, wondering how he could get someone to help Sam since his own best effort had failed.
         "That's it!" he said aloud. "Gushie, center me on Sam, the eight-year-old."
         Al found himself back in the Beckett house, back in Sam's bedroom. "Sam, Sam, wake up!" he called to the sleeping child.
         "Al, you came back!" Sam rubbed his eyes as he sat up. He had been sleeping with an extra blanket around his shoulders and he pulled it close, shivering.
         "You have to help me," Al began. "You have to give your parents a message. They can't see me and don't ask me to explain why because I don't have time to explain it right now. That part is not important. Sam, this message is a matter of life and death."
         Sam waited with wide eyes. He figured Al must be powerful to know he was going to ask a question before he had the chance.
         "Tommy Whitfield is very sick--he could die. He's been poisoned by his father."
         Sam cringed when Al mentioned the Whitfield name. He pulled the blanket even tighter to himself.
         "Sam, listen to me. Don't worry about that nozzle. He's not going to hurt you again. Right now, you have to tell your parents. Tommy will die if you don't."
         Sam got up too quickly and stumbled, but ran down the stairs to the kitchen where his parents, brother, and sister were eating a supper of roast, potatos and green peas.
         "Mom! Dad!" he called, rushing to the table. He dropped the blanket on the way. "Tommy Whitfield is dying. You have to help him!"
         "Sam, what are you talking about?" John Beckett put down his fork and knife, surprised by his son's outburst.
         "Al told me you have to help them"
         "Al?" Thelma repeated. They did not know anyone named Al.
         "The angel."
         "Mom, he's lost it," Tom, Sam's older brother started. "Really smart people sometimes go over the edge. There's scientific proof. They snap. Wunderkid has snapped." He announced his diagnosis flatly, as if he had no doubt.
         "Tom--be quiet!" John snapped, turning his attention to his oldest child for a moment. He turned back to Sam who was standing next to him by the table, "Sam, I think you must've had a bad dream." He looked for a rational explanation to his son's claims.
         "No! It wasn't a dream. Al woke me up and told me. He's right here now, but I know you can't see him. I don't know why you can't see him because he wouldn't tell me, but he's here. I'll figure out why you can't see him later, but right now you just have to believe me."
         "His fever has been pretty high today," Thelma told her husband softly. "He was talking to the cat earlier. Maybe we need to get him to the hospital."
         "No! Not me! Tommy!" Sam told them frantically. "Al said his father poisoned him!"
         "Al. The angel?" his father asked skeptically. He may have read and believed stories about angels in the Bible, but that did not mean he believed angels would visit Elk Ridge, Indiana in the 1960's.
         "Yes!" Sam grabbed the edge of the table as dizziness swept over him. He was too weak to be this excited over something.
         "We're taking you to the hospital," John got up and braced Sam so he would not fall. "You're hallucinating and you're about to pass out."
         "No! No! No!" Al exclaimed. "Listen to him, please!"
         "This is too out there," Tom muttered, having long forgotten the bite of roast on the fork he was holding. "Genius boy has cracked."
         "Al says 'no, no, no,'" Katie, Sam's little sister, giggled. "You better listen to Sammy!"
         "You can see me? Of course you can see me! You're still so young." "Katie, tell your parents that they have to help Tommy." Children under the age of five, animals and the mentally incompetent could see and hear him. Between Katie and John Beckett's opinion of his middle child, two of the three were present.
         "Al says you have to help Tommy" she relayed.
         Thelma and John exchanged concerned looks. One sick child rambling about an angel was unnerving. When a second healthy child chimed in, it became frightening.
         "Katie, do you really see an angel?" Thelma asked. Katie tended to copy her big brothers, especially Sam.
         She nodded. "He's wearing funny clothes and smoking a cigar," she laughed with delight at the funny looking little man standing before her. His pants and jacket were a shiny purple with hints of silver threading throughout them. He sparkled like an angel.
         "Okay. On the count of three, I want the two of you to point to Al. One, two, three."
         Sam and Katie both pointed to the same place by the table.
         "What color is his shirt?"
         "Black." They both answered.
         Al was glad that he had made the unusual choice to wear at least one article of clothing of a solid color that could be described simply.
         "Angels don't wear black," Tom watched his siblings in amazement. It's a good thing at least one of us is normal, he thought, pitying his parents. "Or smoke cigars," he added remembering Katie's description.
         "It could be a coincidence," John reasoned away the children pointing to the same place in the otherwise empty kitchen.
         "Or Tommy Whitfield could be dying," Thelma gasped.
         "Now you get it!" Al commented.
         "We can't go into a man's house and say 'Our children said an angel told them you poisoned your son.'" John argued.
         Al told Sam to tell his parents that Tommy had been sick and missed school, so they could use the excuse of taking soup to him for a reason to go over. He wanted Thelma to offer to take it to him while the men talked so one of them would be sure to see Tommy.
         Sam delivered his instructions. His parents were frightened by how well thought out they were. It made sense, even though Sam did not seem to be making any sense this day.
         "Tommy did miss school today," Tom told them. He had not gotten on the bus this morning.
         "Most of all, Al says to hurry." Sam added.
         John felt Sam's forehead. "You definitely have a high fever." His primary concern was his own son. He felt guilty about going to check on another child when his own so obviously needed medical attention.
         "Katie doesn't have a fever and she sees Al," Sam told his father. "You can't let Tommy die because you don't believe me." There was a definite pain in his voice. He did not lie to his parents about anything. Why would he make up something so serious?
         "You're coming with us. I'll get your coat. If Tommy's all right, and maybe even if he's not, you're going straight to the hospital."
         "I can't go there!" Sam exclaimed, backing away from his father. "Please don't make me," he stopped at the doorway to the kitchen. "Please help Tommy, but don't make me go back there." He meant he could not go back to the Whitfield's, but his parents thought he was afraid of the hospital.
         "Are you afraid they'll give you a shot?" Tom asked, laughing.
         "If you only knew," Al replied. Knowing the true source of Sam's fear, he knelt down beside the child. "It's okay, Sam. I know what he did to you. You did not do anything wrong, nothing at all. He hurt you terribly, but it's not going to happen again."
         "How do you know?" Sam turned to him with tears in his eyes. To his family, it appeared that he was having a conversation with thin air.
         "What did who do?" Katie asked the same air, able to hear Sam and Al's conversation.
         Al ignored Katie. "You're going to be okay, Sam. I promise. He won't hurt you anymore."
         "What's wrong, Sammy?" she asked, able to understand something had happened to him and it had hurt him.
         "Will I see you again?" Sam asked, fascinated by Al and not hearing his sister. He had the sinking feeling that this was goodbye and he knew he would miss the angel.
         "Oh, yeah, you'll see me again," Al laughed. "Right now, you have to help me save Tommy."
         "You have to save Tommy," Sam told his parents again.
         "Okay, okay." John threw his hands into the air. "Thelma, get some soup. If Tommy's fine, Charles will never have to know about our hallucinating children. And, Sam, you might still be going to the hospital tonight, depends on how you are when we get back."
         "Thank you!" Al exclaimed.
         In a few minutes, Thelma had some soup ready to take to the Whitfield house. They bundled up in their coats.
         "Tom, watch your brother and sister," John ordered his oldest son. "Especially Sammy."
         "Dad! He's completely out of it," Tom protested. "He's the one who needs help."
         "Do as I tell you. Now don't let him out of your sight. As dizzy as he has been, he could fall and get hurt. Make sure he gets back to bed safely and watch him until we get back."
         John and Thelma were out the door and on their way in moments. Little did they know they were going to save their own child.

Chapter 8

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