"They always return to the scene of the crime," Sam muttered to himself. After Al had left, he had first taken a long, hot shower. Then he investigated the Whitfield house for anything that could give him a clue about what had happened to Tommy.
         The house was rather dull. It was obvious that there had not been a mother's influence in years. While the house was generally clean, it was by no means spotless or tidy. The curtains all looked as if they were the same ones hung by Mary Ann Whitfield at least four years prior. Pot holders were ragged. There were no flowers or plants inside the house. The clothes in the closets were wrinkled. A search of Charles' bedroom had revealed some pornographic magazines featuring children hidden under the bed in a box. Their covers had given away their content. In disgust, Sam had dropped them back into the shoebox and shoved it back under the bed. He had thought of getting rid of them, but knew if he did Tommy might get in trouble.
         Sam had found nothing useful or informative so he ventured outside. The farm looked much like the others in the area. It was divided between pasture land and fields. To the left side of the house was a wooden shed where the truck was kept. To the right was a huge wooden barn with a rusty tin roof. It had been painted white at one point, but was now a dingy peeling grey.
         Sam stood at the barn, staring at it for a little while. It was bigger than the house and even less inviting. The winter wind stung his exposed hands and face. The barn seemed enormous and foreboding, still he pushed the door open and went inside. The temperature change was noticable immediately. He had left the bitter cold of February outside, trading it for the smell of animals.
         Inside, the barn was divided into different sections that would accommodate whatever animals that needed to be housed and cows that needed to be milked. There was a loft above filled with hay. A tractor with a hay bailer was parked on one side so it could be protected from the elements. Shovels, pitchforks, saws and other other tools lined the walls. A saddle was hung on a post and next to it was a bridle.
         There was a single black horse and cows in some of the stalls, but a small one to the far right was empty. It was probably used for birthing or holding a lone animal that needed some kind of special attention, medical or otherwise.
         Sam slowly walked to the empty section and went inside. He glanced from empty wall to empty wall to the bare dirt floor that had hay piled in one corner and scattered throughout. A rusted out metal bucket was turned upside down in the corner as if it were a make-shift stool.
         Sam sat down on the soft bed of hay, "I'm too late," he whispered. He drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them.
         He heard the whoosh of the Imaging Chamber door and the electronic squeak of the handlink. Al walked through the wooden door of the stall.
         "Hey, Sam, what's going on? How are you feeling?" Al was suprised to find himself centered in the barn.
         "Okay, I guess," Sam answered, looking up to his friend.
         "I'm glad you're feeling better than you were this morning." Al looked around, grateful that holograms could not smell their surroundings. "Sam, you're sick. You don't need to be sitting in a cold, dank barn. You'll get pneumonia."
         Sam did not respond, staring at his knees instead.
         "Why are you sitting in a cold, dank barn anyway?" Al positioned himself so that he was sitting next to Sam. Surrounded by the walls and unable to see anything outside them made him wonder why Sam had chosen this spot. It was not for the view.
         "Just thinking," he shrugged. "I'm not sick, Al. What made you think I was?"
         If Sam was not sick, that blew to pieces Al's theory of his personality change. "Uh, it was this morning. You told Whitfield that you didn't feel good and he said you were clamy. And you coughed." Al decided not to tell him he had visited eight-year-old Sam who was sick or that he thought he was acting strange so he was searching for the reason.
         "Seeing him made me nauseated and made me break out in a cold sweat. And I didn't want to go to school." Sam's voice was mellow, without animation. "The cough was to give credibility to the story."
         "Oh," Al was puzzled. He had expected Sam to try to get home to see his family, to want to go to school to see his friends and teachers. Instead, he was more content in the company of cows.
         "Sam, what's wrong with you? You're not yourself today."
         Sam glared at him. When was he ever himself? It had been so long since he had seen his own reflection in a mirror that he wondered if he would even recognize it.
         "You know what I mean."
         "I don't want to be here. I want to leave this place far behind. I want to forget."
         "Sam, you're home. You're in Elk Ridge. You should love this Leap." Al did not really want to encourage Sam with the idea of seeing his parents and syblings, but he needed to say something to cheer him up and help him focus on Tommy.
         "I am not home. I'm Tommy Whitfield and I'm a farm and a family away from home. And I'm too late. I just want out, Al. I can't help Tommy. Not as long as Charles Whitfield is alive."
         "Since when does Sam Beckett use the word can't?"
         "Since I realized I have no choice, in anything."
         "Look, Sam, I don't know what's come over you, but there's a little boy whose life depends on you." There was anger in Al's voice. He had little tolerance for self-pity after the curves that had been thrown to him throughout his lifetime. "Pick another Leap to focus on yourself and what you want and how you have no choice. Right now there's an innocent little boy who has no choice. He can't help himself, but you can help him if you'd stop wallowing in it and do what you're here to do. Are you going to stop him or are you going to let Charles Whitfield continue to beat and molest that poor kid?"
         Sam avoided eye contact as Al berated him. Then it happened--the dam broke and Sam's pain came through in his tears. "I can't stop him," he choked. "I couldn't stop him then and I can't stop him now." He put his head down on his knees, wanting to hide his face from Al.
         Al was speechless for a moment. His irritation with Sam's mood quickly dissapated into concern. "What are you talking about, Sam? Why--why are you so upset?"
         "I just wanted--to see--the kittens." His sentence was broken.
         "Kittens?" Al repeated, wondering what kittens could have to do with anything. He wanted to reach out to Sam, but could not. He was just a hologram.
         "He said there were kittens in the barn. So, I came in here. He locked the stall." Sam grimaced. "I--I couldn't get away."
         "Oh, my god, Sam!" Al closed his eyes, realizing the horrible truth. "You poor kid." Al put his arm around Sam's shoulder. He knew Sam could not feel it physically, but hoped that it would connect somehow on a deeper level.
         For a few minutes, Sam cried quietly. It was the first time he had let go of any of the pain.
         Al remained by his side. "It's okay," he repeated softly, even though it was not. The things Charles Whitfield had done to his son, to Sam and to God-only-knew how many other children were far from okay.
         Soon Sam's tears subsided, "I'm sorry, Al."
         "For what?"
         "For letting it happen. And being selfish. And being afraid. And for telling you."
         "It's not your fault it happened, and now I understand why you're so afraid of him. Don't be sorry for that. You can't help it. And why are you sorry for telling me?"
         "I should have kept it a secret. I should make it go away again like I did before. I should concentrate on doing what I have to do to help Tommy so I can get out."
         "Sometimes you can't."
         "Since when does Albert Calavicci use the word can't?" Sam asked, starting to feel more like himself and less like a scared eight year old version of himself. Somehow it was a relief to tell his best friend the truth after so many years of hiding it from everyone, including himself. There was a great amount of pressure in keeping it to himself. It was as if the memories were bubbling to the surface, ready to explode.
         "Since he realized what a blind horse's ass he's been. Sam, you have a right to all these feelings. It doesn't have to always be about someone else."
         "The right... just not the time," he responded, again overwhelmed with the idea that he had no choice and his life was not his own or subject to his own will.
         Al moved his arm away from Sam. "Why didn't you tell me before now? Years ago? I thought we knew practically everything about one another."
         Sam shrugged. "I think I forgot. I don't mean Swiss-cheesed forgot. I think I forgot a long time ago."
         "Repression," Al diagnosed. It did not take an expert like Verbeena to know that defense mechanism when one heard it. He had done his fair share of repressing over the years. Some things like POW camp in Vietnam were best buried.
         Al felt anger filling his chest and stemming to every nerve in his body. If only he were not a hologram. He could single-handedly tear apart Charles Whitfield. It was bad enough that he hurt Tommy, but now it was personal.
         Over the years, Sam had restored Al's faith in humanity and the goodness the world had to offer. He had seen many wrongs made right. He had learned that some children do grow up with loving families in happy homes. If evil could reach into Sam's childhood, there was no place that was safe.
         "Why couldn't I have Leaped in and stopped him from hurting me? There. I said it. See, I am selfish." The thought had plagued Sam from the moment he realized the point at which he had arrived in his own past. It gnawed at him and made him feel like he was somehow horrible for even thinking it when he needed to help Tommy. Tommy had endured a lifetime of abuse. How dare he wish to rid himself of one insignificant occurrance?
         You, Al thought, looking upward. You make Sam undo the evil things that happen in the world, but won't allow him to stop something like this from happening to himself? Why does he have to help others and suffer himself?
         "I don't know, Sammy. I just don't know," he replied sadly. It was difficult to know the past could be changed, but not have a say in which parts got changed. Sam had been given the mind to figure out the method, but someone else was directing the show.
         "Kittens.... I came out here now, wanting to find kittens. It seems like if there were actually some kittens out here, it wouldn't have been a trick. I wouldn't be so... stupid."
         "You were eight years old. You couldn't have known what he planned to do to you. He's a sick bastard. Sam, he lured an animal-loving little boy into a sadistic trap. No matter how smart you are, or were then, you had no reason to doubt him. Anybody could have fallen for that."
         Sam said nothing, trying to reconcile logically knowing Al was right with the feeling that he himself was to blame, even if he did not know why he should be to blame.
         "I'm right about this one, kid."
         Sam nodded. "It's hard to believe you though."
         "Did you ever... talk to anyone about it?"
         "No, I guess we all have our secrets."
         Sam's words slapped Al in the face, reminding him what he had just said to Sam the eight year old. Two people, not his idea, did something wrong. "Oh, no!" he exclaimed. Had his conversation with Sam prevented him from telling anyone? No, he reasoned. He never told anyone before I saw him.
         "What's wrong?" Sam asked, startled by Al's outburst.
         "Uh, nothing." Al hit the side of the handlink for no reason, like he sometimes did when he was nervous, or keeping some information from Sam. "Stupid handlink," he laughed nervously. "Maybe you should talk to Dr. Beeks," Al suggested, getting back to the point of the question he had asked moments before.
         "Beeks?" Sam repeated, unable to remember her.
         "A wonderful woman," Al explained. "You love her. Everyone loves her. She's a shrink and I even love her. But don't you tell her I said that."
         "You think I'm crazy?" He looked down, his self-esteem plummeting.
         "No, of course not. I just think she could help you. You know, help you see that it's not your fault and that Whitfield can't hurt you now. Maybe she can help you overcome your fear of him."
         "I can't talk about it, Al. I've never told anyone. No one knows about it."
         "What am I, chopped liver?" He faked a hurt expression.
         Sam laughed, "No, not chopped liver. Grilled Chicken, maybe."
         Al laughed heartily. It had been years since one of them had said that to the other. "Your Swiss-cheesed brain amazes me, sometimes." He smiled over their long-running and once frequently referred to joke born of a very long night of work that had dwindled into friendly banter.
         "Do you really think I should talk to her?" Sam asked, turning serious.
         "Well," Al considered. "There would would be a few problems. You could only see her if I held her hand. And you may not be able to hear her unless Gushie's been able to fix that problem." There had been one time that a girl had to come into the Imaging Chamber so that Sam could hear her and deliver her testimony in a criminal trial. However it had used so much power in such a short period of time that it would not be feasible to employ the same method for more than twenty minutes.
         "Does Gushie know?" Sam asked, panicked again. He could not remember anything about the man, other than his bad breath. He could not recall if they were friends, or merely coworkers. Either way, he did not want the man to know his deepest secret.
         "No. Gushie can't hear you and he can only hear me when I access a microphone," Al assured him.
         "Good," Sam sighed with relief. It was okay that Al knew, but he did not feel that it was safe to tell anyone else.
         "So, what I'm saying," Al continued, "Is that if you talk to Verbeena, I'll be there too, which may not be good because you wouldn't be alone with her like you should be for counseling."
         "It's okay, Al. I trust you far more than I would ever trust her."
         No amount of training could earn a person the kind of faith and trust instilled in a long-time friend. Al had believed Sam's dreams. Sam had believed in Al. They saw and supported the best in each other.
         "What do I need to do to save Tommy?" It was time to focus on the problem at hand, why he had Leaped into Elk Rigde in the first place.
         "I don't know," Al answered. "It would help if we knew whether or not foul play was involved in his disappearance."
         "He's eight years old. Of course, foul play was involved."
         "Not necessarily," Al argued. "He's an eight year old in a horrible situation. He could have run away."
         "Or his father could have killed him and gotten rid of the evidence," Sam offered. "What if he got angry and couldn't stop hitting him?" Sam had seen first hand the anger inside Charles Whitfield. There was killer potential.
         That thought had crossed Al's mind as well. "Or, he could have been abducted." He finished the list of alternatives.
         "What about the police report?"
         "They found no evidence that linked his father to the disappearance. There was nothing, Sam. His father reported him missing on March 2, 1962, and that's basically all they ever got. No blood, no trail, nothing."
         "Great. So we have to figure out a solution that will keep Tommy from running away or being kidnapped or keep his father from killing him and at the same time, stop the abuse."
         As Sam focused more on Tommy's problems, he thought less about his own.
         He realized it was getting late. "I better get back to the house. I'm supposed to be sick."
         "Don't want to make him mad, right?"
         Sam nodded. The last thing he wanted was another encounter with Charles Whitfield's wrath.
         "I'll go talk to Verbeena, see if Gushie can make you hear her without blacking out the entire state of New Mexico, and see what Ziggy has to say."
         "Hurry back," Sam requested. "I don't want to be alone with him."
         "You won't be," Al promised. Then he disappeared.