Lost Souls in the Hunting Ground

Penelope Hill

Convergence; coalescence. I come into the Leap with a sense of breathlessness, a gasp of self-existence, as if my arrival has been a struggle, as if I have fought to be here through unseen barriers. I arrive misbalanced; turning on my heel with reaction to a call I have not heard, a warning meant for the soul I misplace.

"Chris! Look out...!"

Chaos awaits me. A tangle of poles and cables and other gear; boxes topple with balletic insistence, and I am engulfed in a tidal wave of impetus I have no chance to avoid. It ploughs into me, forces me further off balance. I grab with instinctive bewilderment; my hands close on fragile cargo, the weight of the collapse carrying both it and me to the unforgiving ground. Metal poles ring about my ears, box tops bouncing past my dazed perceptions.

It seems to rain forever.

The last thing that descends is peace. I am lying on my back, a weight on my chest, staring up at the gothic thrust of an ornate building: a skyscraper of the old school, all curlicues and jutting architecture. The sky is blue, the building clad in art deco colours.

A shadow falls between me and the light.

"Don't tell me," drawls an ironic voice. "You thought you'd save time by unloading the entire van at once, right?"

I focus on the speaker: a slender built man, in his thirties at a guess, wearing an impossibly wide-collared shirt in equally impossible colours. Acid yellow circles on a dark blue ground; it's topped by an embroidered vest that seems to be edged in sheepskin. I blink, not quite believing my eyes. Uh-huh. He is wearing a thick gold chain around his neck, and his hair is cut in that overdone blow-wave style beloved of aspiring soap stars back when I was young. The hand that reaches to relieve me of my burden is equally adorned with heavy gold.

I'm either on a B-movie set, or I'm back in the early seventies. Neither thought appeals; both might be right. The weight that pins me to the ground is the reflective bowl of a heavy duty spotlight.

"Is he okay?" another voice enquires. A breathless, little-girl voice that comes complete with the breathless blonde to match it. She looms over me, the short peroxide cut that frames her pert face pushed up into a floppy peaked cap, while her figure is hugged by a skintight strapless top that seems to defy gravity. She's cut in half by her clothes, the top in fluorescent green, the strip of PVC that might be a skirt if you added enough imagination a darker emerald. It matches her boots. Thigh boots. I take one look, let my head drop back to the ground in sheer disbelief.

"Oh, boy," I breathe.

Al is just gonna love this one...

The owner of the blow wave helped me to my feet, and I took the opportunity to check out what I might be wearing. My worst fears did not materialise; I was not a match to the anxious blonde. No high heels. Not even boots. I was wearing a pair of open toed, strap leather sandals - below a pair of jeans that came complete with patchwork flares that ran from knee to hem. Above those sat a tie-dyed teeshirt in purple and white, and over that a denim jacket patched with the same fabric as the flares. Trumpet sleeves, patchwork collar and lapels: I was a walking fashion disaster.

Why me? I wanted to know. I didn't get an answer. I never do.

"Are you all right, Chris?" The girl was picking up equipment and throwing me anxious glances. I assumed that I was Chris, and nodded what I hoped was reassurance.

"He's okay," the man grimaced, giving me an amused oh, god kind of look that told me a great deal. I was a friend, not - or not just - an employee, and he wasn't mad at me, which was a relief given the circumstances. There was gear scattered all over the sidewalk. Studio gear by the look of it; lights and support poles, power cables, battery boxes and tripods. Now I stopped to take a closer look, my company was draped in cameras as well as the ostentatious jewellery.

Okay - so he's a photographer. Where am I?

I glanced around as quickly as I could. A wide street, an equally wide sidewalk; baroque towers on one side, trees and greenery on the other. A number of people walking by in the sunshine. None of them stopping to help.

"Let me-" I darted to intercept the young woman's attempt to lift a bundle of metalwork. She smiled, stepping back to give me room, and I heaved an inner sigh of relief. I'm not a chauvinist by nature and perfectly well aware that a woman can be just as capable as any man. It was just that I wasn't entirely sure that her outfit was obeying the laws of physics and I suspected that the wrong move could give the passing public more of a show than they were already getting.

Which was quite a bit. I didn't know where to look.

"Lucky I keep the bulbs packed under the seat, huh?" The man was glancing around the disaster with a resigned patience that suggested this wasn't the first time this had happened. "Oh well, no harm done, I guess. Get that stuff into the lobby, Chris and I'll let the man know we're here. Hey, Dix," he added, pausing by the shapely blonde as he headed for the building and giving her the kind of look Al would have been proud of. "Love ya, babe."

She preened; the haughty glance away was cover for the coquettish way her hand smoothed down her non-existent skirt and the little shimmy of her hip in his direction. "Uh-uh," she pouted, feigning indignation. "You don't get round me that way, Joe Hallam." She followed the statement with a sidelong glance from under her false lashes, and the knowing smile that answered it held promise and anticipation. I think I went a little pink.

I know I was tempted to throw up.

Oh please...

Quantum Leaping has made me learn to be adaptable. I'm never sure of what I'm likely to have to do from one Leap to the next. I've shared lives that have ranged from the utterly mundane to the totally bizarre, and in the course of doing so have accumulated a variety of talents, some of which I sincerely hope I never have to employ again. This Leap seemed positively tame compared to some - which just goes to show that leaping to conclusions can turn out to be as dangerous as Leaping in the first place...

My mind went through the usual assessments as I wrestled armfuls of gear through the ornate entrance to the building. My name was Chris, I was working for a guy by the name of Joe Hallam, who apparently had the hots for a lady by the name of Dix. Who had the hots for him in return, and whom my mother would never call a lady. Not in that outfit, at least. Joe seemed to be some sort of photographer, so maybe Dix was a model, and we were all here for a shoot. It was somewhere in the late sixties or early seventies at first guess, and the architecture said big city.

"New York," Al's voice helpfully supplied from behind me as I dumped my second load of equipment in front of one of the building's elevators. "Don't you just love this place?"

"Not right now, no," I muttered. The gear was heavy, and the day was hot. So was I. I shrugged out of the nightmare of a jacket and hung it on one of the angled support poles, wincing at Chris's garish reflection in the mirrored wall of the vast lobby. He was young - maybe twenty two or three at most, and his long dark hair was caught back with a plaited leather band. The bright chemical dyes of the teeshirt and the scarlet and orange flares made him look decidedly out of place in his upmarket surroundings. At any other time I might have stopped to admire those surroundings. They were beautiful, an elegant expression of early thirties' taste and style, all curves and mirrors and tiled surfaces; pale colours contrasted with lined black and a hint of gold.

Which more or less described my attendant hologram when I turned round.

For once I was more the fashion victim than he was; he was dressed in a pale peach suit and a pastel swirled shirt. His narrow black bolo was held in place by a gold clasp, and there was the discreetest of black and gold pins resting on his right lapel. And he was watching me with amusement.

"Don't say a word," I warned him, settling the jangle of Indian bracelets that had stirred into action on my arm when I'd turned. He looked mildly affronted, putting up his hands as if to deny the possibility of any comment.

"Sam," he admonished me softly. "Would I...?"

"Yes," I interrupted, then chuckled. "With reason, I think. Will you look at me, Al? Who is this guy?"

He suppressed a chuckle of his own, and paid deliberate attention to the handlink. "Ah - well, your name is Chris Kneally, you're twenty one, and it's August 1971. Which explains-" His hand indicated my outfit and I grimaced in resigned reaction. I hate the early seventies. Something to do with trying to handle late adolescence and cope with being a child genius I suspect, although Swiss cheese denied me the details there and then.

"So?" I prompted, heading back toward the main doors for my next load.

"So," he continued, falling into step beside me, "you're a bit-part actor who's currently 'resting' and - uh - you're helping out a friend who's some sort of photographer."

I resisted the impulse to hold the door open for him and let it swing back behind me instead. He walked unconcernedly through the glass panel beside it, pausing to admire the pattern in the stained glass as he did so.

"I'd figured that much," I hissed. Dix had been busy during my absence. Most of the scattered gear was now neatly stacked at the side of the van. I bent to pick up the next obvious bundle, and Al glanced down at the stuff with interest.

"Joe - Hallam," he read off Ziggy's interface. "Professional photographer, and rising star in New York society. He specialises in cataloguing collections."

Not a model shoot, then. I was somewhat relieved. I had vague suspicions as to the kind of photos Joe might want to take of Dix, and I didn't think they'd end up on a gallery wall. Not for public consumption, anyway.

"Apparently," Al was saying brightly, "you got the job because Joe is dating your - I mean Chris's - sister. She's his Girl Friday. And Saturday, and Sunday and Mon..."

Emerald PVC and tanned flesh wiggled out of the back of the van and the bantering words tailed off into dumbfounded silence.

Say hi to Dixie, Al...

"That's all of it, Chris," she announced warmly. "I'll go stash the wheels. See you in a few, okay?"

"Okay," I answered with a grin. My sister, huh? I tried not to watch her walk round to the driver's seat of the van, her hips swaying with perfected appeal as she did so. Al's face was a picture; she sashayed past him and I heard him sigh. Longingly. Regretfully. I threw him the expected frown; inside I was really trying hard not to laugh. I sometimes wonder if Al puts on the voyeur act, whether - aware that he cannot be seen or heard by the women whose attractions he so openly admires - he plays up the matter so as to keep me distracted from my situation. But there was no question about it where Dixie Kneally was concerned. His reaction was pure Pavlovian - and pure Calavicci, right down to the half-step he took in pursuit and the little shake with which he recovered himself. To tell the truth, I was having trouble keeping my eyes off her; she wasn't really my type - not a classic beauty, too aware of her own charms - but she did have a certain something. What were the words of the song?

"A wave out on the ocean would never move that way..."

I bent to pick up the next load of boxes and lights while she slid into the seat of the van; Al sighed a second time and sidestepped back toward me, his eyes fixed to catch the very last glimpse of her as she pulled away.

"Sam," he decided happily, "I think I'm gonna like this Leap..."

Now, why doesn't that surprise me...?

I suppressed a grin. "Well, whoop-di-do," I drawled with intended sarcasm instead. "Maybe when you've finished indulging your prurient fantasies you'll get round to telling me why I'm here."

"Ah-" He hurried after me - although not without one final glance after the van as it turned the corner - and frowned at the handlink as it emitted its usual squeal of protest. "Ziggy doesn't know."

"Doesn't know?" I staggered into the lobby and added to the growing pile of gear by the elevator.

He looked embarrassed. "Doesn't know, Sam. As far as we can tell, nothing of any importance happened this weekend. To any of these people. Hallam's here to record the collection of a reclusive art dealer by the name of McFarlane. He does just that - gets paid, goes on to other work for the next three, four years, then-"

"Then what?"

Al tapped at the link, frowned, then tried again. "Then - he hits the bottle bad, disappears from public view."

He made it sound personal. I winced inside and mirrored the frown. "What about Dixie? And Chris?"

He checked; his face fell even further. "Beautiful Dixie - commits suicide, Sam. She takes too many pills one night and never wakes up again. But that's not for a couple of years yet. Ziggy seems to think that might be why Joe-" His hand tipped up in unmistakable pantomime.

Oh, Dix, I thought, trying to comprehend why someone so obviously full of life should choose to take her own. And Joe - well, I guessed it made a kind of sense. But it didn't explain why I was here now.

"And Chris?" I repeated softly. His anxious look became one of total puzzlement.

"Chris," he identified, "becomes a star. He gets a break in about six months' time, appears on Broadway, never looks back. He stars in a number of highbrow productions, makes a couple of controversial movies and retires at the peak of his success."

I mulled that one over.

He gets to be a star? Bright lights and Broadway? Or bad company and cover-ups? Was it really Dixie's idea to take those pills deliberately, or was there some other reason?

"I don't recall the name," I hazarded, warily. There are, as Al well knows, a lot of things I don't recall. He flashed me a brief grin.

"You wouldn't. He changes it. To Christopher Marlowe."

I didn't quite believe my ears.

"To what?"

He shrugged. "It's no worse than Samuel Beckett," he offered, deadpan. I threw him my oh, come on look and he quirked a quiet smile. It didn't last long; he was still worried about the reason for the Leap. So was I.

"So nothing happens in the next few days that will affect any of that?" I asked. He shook his head.

"Not as far as Ziggy can tell. We're working on it, Sam. Maybe it's just one of those Leaps. You know - cat out of tree, directing a stranger to the right hotel, that sort of thing."

"Right place at the right time," I sighed, knowing what he meant. There's no way Ziggy can predict odds on that sort of thing. "Well, let me know if anything comes up, will you? And find out about this McFarlane, whoever he is. Maybe he's the reason I'm here."

He nodded, then looked up as an internal door opened, spilling Joe and his accumulation of cameras into a passageway off the lobby. I heard him mutter thanks to someone I couldn't see and then he headed toward me. He looked pleased.

"How we doing, kid?"

"Ah - Dix went to put away the van, Joe. I've got one more load to bring in."

"Great." He paused to check his reflection in the nearest mirror and comb the wave in his hair with his fingers, looking through Al's non-existent figure to do so. Al tilted his head slightly to one side so as to study him better.

"This is the nozzle that don't take care of that work of art?" the hologram enquired. His assessment was belligerent. "She deserves better. Much better."

I felt tempted to agree with him, but I know better than to judge on surface impression. Hallam oozed the kind of brash confidence that implies a shallowness of character, but then Al does that on occasions. As a matter of fact, I suspected the two of them shared a number of common qualities. Their taste in women, for one thing...

"Stack the gear in the freight elevator round the back and send it up to fourteen will ya, Chris? We have to go up to twelve." Joe was blissfully unaware of my friend's attempt at character assassination. "Seems the man owns the building. Just imagine. Owning this place. He's having the whole thing renovated. Restored, the supervisor says. He kicked everybody out to do it, too. Nobody lives here right now, except him."

Al checked this out, confirming the facts as I headed back toward the street. "He still does, Sam. Owns the building, and several others in the city. Ziggy's not found anything much on file about him, though. He's got money, he deals in art. No background, no great items of note."

"Okay," I acknowledged softly. "Al, see if you can find out what happened between Joe and Dix, will you? And talk to Chris. He might be able to help."

"Will do," he agreed, summoning the white light that marked his personal exit to the future. "Catch you later, Sam."

He vanished with his usual encouraging smile, and I was left alone in 1971, lugging studio lights and wondering what I was there to do.

The McFarlane building did not appear to have a thirteenth floor. All the elevator buttons were numbered straight from twelve to fourteen. Joe made some remark concerning superstitious architects, and I remember that I laughed appropriately. It was an old building, beautifully baroque and filled with stylish touches. Even the utility area was carefully designed to match the whole, the freight elevator's wrought iron cage worthy of more public display. The core of the building was filled with a curving stairwell that rose behind the elevator shafts. I looked up as I closed the doors on the last of my load and sent the whole thing upward; the illusion of endless ascent spun above me with carefully designed curvatures. It made me feel dizzy just looking at it. I shook a sudden sense of unease away with irritation and went back to the tiled lobby. Joe was leaning in the doorway to one elevator car, a deliberate barrier to Dixie's attempt to enter it. She was poised with kittenish defiance right in front of him.

"Joe," she was saying in that little-girl voice, "don't you start all that again. You promised you'd be good."

"I always am, baby." He leaned forward, his face creased into an attempt at pitifulness. "But you never let me show you how."

She blushed a little and looked down at her feet. "You know what I meant," she accused, pouting as she did so. It was a nice pout. Joe obviously thought so too. He grinned and stepped back to let her into the car.

"Come on, Ditzy Dix," he implored, a touch of laughter behind the words. "You know how I like to kid around."

"Yeah," she allowed reluctantly. "I know. You don't do nothing but most of the time. Joe, this is important, okay? If you do good on this job then you'll be set for life. Everybody will want you to do their pieces for them. You know how hard I worked to get McFarlane's contract..."

He sighed. "I know baby. I know. I do appreciate what you do for me. Honest I do."

"Huh," was all she said to that, stepping into the car and leaning her shoulders against the back wall of it. I crossed the polished floor to join them, carefully reassessing my first impressions. I'd thought - well, wouldn't anyone from appearances? - that Dixie worked for Joe because she was decorative and he liked her that way. Mark one point down against yourself, Sam Beckett. It might have been 1971, and she might look like an archetypal dumb blonde, but I'd had no right to make that kind of assumption on the little evidence I'd been presented with. It sounded like it was Dixie who'd organised this piece of work for Joe, and if that were the case she was a lot smarter than appearances would imply.

The elevator car was lined with mirrors and studded red leather; all the brasswork was carefully etched and polished. It was also the smoothest elevator ride I could remember having in a long time. Dixie flashed me a grin as we ascended. Joe had stuck his hands in his pockets and was trying to look bored.

He's really excited about this, I realised with sudden insight. This is a real opportunity for him.

I wondered if that were the reason I was there. To make sure that he took advantage of the fact, and didn't kid around. If he made a good impression on this McFarlane, maybe he'd get more work and Dixie wouldn't...

I glanced at the shapely figure beside me and suppressed a sigh. I had too little information to work with. What could I do now, to prevent this bundle of energy taking her own life in two years' time?

I hoped Al and Ziggy could come up with some answers.

And soon.

Twelfth floor; the car stopped, the door opened - and for a moment I thought I'd Leaped back another forty years.

The downstairs lobby had been impressive, a match to the building's exterior, an affirmation that, when done just right, art deco has an elegance and style all its own. But this...

We emerged into a sweeping reception hall, its floor paved with a skewed checkerboard of pale marble, its height supported on fluted columns, each topped with geometric precision. A Tiffany style lamp glass some fifteen feet in diameter was set into the ceiling, and beneath that was a sunken area in which was built an artfully constructed fountain. Beyond this centrepiece was a panoramic window. Not just any window, but a darkly tinted curve taken straight from the inspirational heart of pre-Depression America; we might have been standing in the mansion of Citizen Kane or the palace of Ming the Merciless, so perfect was the match of style and intent.

Pure Hollywood, my heart sighed with delight. The original Hollywood, the place where the American Dream was first manufactured, and the city of Babylon was rebuilt practically overnight...

Only this wasn't wood and plaster. This was all real. Real marble, real gilt, and real elegance. Right down to the carefully chosen pieces that occupied the niches in the walls.

"Wow," Dixie said as she stepped out and looked around. I had to agree.

"Welcome," a voice announced from somewhere above us. We looked up; up at the curving edge of the window and its imposing strength. A spiral staircase ascended into the vaulted ceiling there, a twist of angled steel rather than spiderweb fretwork. There was nothing delicate in the entire room. It had been designed to impart dignity and grandeur and it did so with superior ease. The man who descended into its splendour was a perfect complement to its imposing air.

He was tall; tall and graceful in the manner of the perfect aesthete, his dark blond hair just long enough to convey a hint of decadence, his features cut with angular precision into a striking face. He wore pale flared slacks, a white shirt and a casual quilted jacket printed in subtle pastels, a soft elegance against the strength of his chosen environment. But there was nothing effete about him; his approach was confident, his smile assured, and his manner commanding.

Charisma, they call it.

He had more than enough to spare.

"Hi!" Dixie stepped out from between Joe and me and waved with pert enthusiasm. The man laughed, dropping down the last few steps and then strolling across the expanse of his marbled floor. He held out his hands and caught up one of Dixie's, lifting it to his lips in gallant greeting; she coloured. Joe frowned.

So did I.

I wish, now, that I had paid attention to my first disquieted reaction to Cameron McFarlane. There was nothing about him to inspire distrust - quite the opposite, in fact - and his welcoming smile seemed genuine enough, but there was something about him that sent a shiver of warning down my spine. Perhaps he was too perfect, too confident, too imposing; or maybe there was just a hint of coldness in his eyes that did not match the curve of his smile. I should have noticed it, should have been put on my guard.

Instead I inwardly berated myself for reacting with pointless macho jealousies and resolved to like the guy.

I don't need to compete, I told myself, secure in what self-confidence I do have. I'm Sam Beckett, not Chris Kneally.

In the world I had left behind, McFarlane would be counted among my peers. I felt sure of that, even if I couldn't remember my days of lobbying in Washington, or the honours and awards I had garnered over the years. Just as I was sure that I had never possessed the perfect poise and confidence that now turned its attentions toward me.

McFarlane looked me up and down; his assessment included a glance toward the mirrored doors behind me, as if to affirm that the garish colours of my clothes were not mere optical illusion. His expression slid into a vaguely puzzled frown.

"Mister McFarlane," Dix was saying, her little-girl voice more breathless than ever. "This is my brother, Chris."

The puzzlement in the man's eyes did not go away, but he extended his hand courteously. "How do you do?" he smiled.

I took the hand - it was cool and his grip was strong - and assumed what I hoped was a suitably abashed expression. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr McFarlane," I said.

"Of course it is," he agreed, then laughed. So did the rest of us. Joe at the joke, Dixie because he had, and me - well, I laughed mostly from relief. For a few anxious seconds I had thought the man had looked straight through Chris Kneally's image and had seen me underneath.

"Let me tell you the layout here." McFarlane launched into authoritative explanation, abandoning my hand to lay a proprietory curl of fingers over Joe's shoulder. Dixie sidled up to me and grinned with girlish delight. I grinned back. Things seemed to have got off to a good start.

"This level is where I hold my receptions and my shows," our host explained. "Upstairs are my private apartments, the guest rooms and the restoration workshop, and the bulk of the collection, which is currently packed for storage. You'll be working in the workshop - most of the pieces there won't get hurt if they have to be moved - and my people will bring in the items I want in the catalogue when you're ready for them. I expect it will take you a while to set yourself up, will it not?"

His voice held the softest of accents; one of the southern states, at first guess. Georgia, perhaps. It added a pleasant note to the smoothness of his tones.

"Right." Joe had recovered his aplomb; he responded to the friendly approach with equal assurance. "Couple of hours, maybe. I should be able to get though twenty or thirty pieces by the end of today."

"Splendid!" McFarlane looked pleased. "So it will only take about a week to do the whole collection."

A week?

How many pieces did the man own?

"I guess so." Joe made an effort to sound confident. "Another week or two for the prints, of course..."

"Of course." His employer accepted this sagely. He led us up a less exposed staircase, this one nestled between the elevator shafts, pointing out some of his collection as he did so; an original Picasso, a Dürer print, a self-portrait by Adolf Hitler...

Adolf Hitler?

I stopped to look. It certainly looked like the leader of the Third Reich, and it was a crudely executed watercolour that demonstrated a little talent...

"Isn't he wonderful?" Dixie hissed, catching my arm and pulling me after our rapidly ascending host.

"McFarlane? I guess he is. He's certainly got money."

"Not him, you doofus. Joe. I told you he could get his act together. He just needs the occasional push in the right direction."

"Oh," I acknowledged, somewhat thrown by this tack. Chris didn't approve of Hallam? Why not? Was I there to get Dixie away from him?

"I know he kinda went to pieces when he came back from - you know-"

I did? Wait a minute. 1971, right? Joe was in his early thirties or maybe only his late twenties. Which might mean...

"Lieutenant Joseph Hallam spent six months as a guest of the VC, Sam."

Al's voice almost made me jump; he'd appeared right behind Dixie and might have been taking full advantage of the fact but for the nature of the information he'd brought. There are some things my friend takes very seriously indeed, and this was one of them.

"He was in 'Nam," I muttered. Al nodded. Dixie frowned.

"Don't," she pleaded. "You promised..."

Promised what? Not to name names perhaps. Not to raise old ghosts or issues that opened fresh wounds. Among Chris's bracelets were a couple with the peace symbol stamped into them. The kid was barely out of his teens. He'd clearly not faced the draft, had never been sent to fight in a war his country neither wanted nor would win. He wouldn't understand.

But I did.

I'd been a victim of its terrors for half my life. I'd lost my brother to causes I could not - in all honesty - support or comprehend. I'd even been there. Briefly. In a tumble of events I barely recalled I had won back my brother's life - but at the cost of too many more. I remembered that. Just as I remembered what else it had cost - the reason for the sympathy and pain that sat in my friend's eyes right there and then.

Six months.

What was Al thinking? About the price Joe Hallam had paid? Of what he might have endured?

Or was he just looking at the man and thinking - the lucky bastard...?

That was unfair of me, wasn't it? Wasn't it?

Dix was smiling up at me, her eyes hopeful and her expression appealing. My intangible Observer was right behind her, watching me...

And then he found me a determined smile and jabbed his cigar toward Dixie's tush with a definite hint of envy.

"Now that musta been worth coming home for," he announced, and followed it with an exaggerated sigh.

I couldn't help it. I cracked a grin. I know he said it for precisely that reason; coming home from 'Nam is not an amusing subject where Al's concerned. He had a right to be resentful of Joe, and the fact that he clearly wasn't - just a little bit jealous - said a lot; both about the kind of man he really is, and the kind he likes to pretend to be...

"I guess so," I said, answering both his remark and her reminder. Dixie looked relieved. So did Al, although he tried to cover it.

"Miss Kneally?" McFarlane's voice floated down the stairs, followed by the man himself. He stepped to a halt as soon as he could see us, either wondering what had delayed us, or a little paranoid about his collection. Al had looked up at the sound of his question.

"We can't talk here, Sam," he realised, and gestured toward the upper floor. "I'll meet you up there, okay?"

I risked a bare nod of affirmation, and he hit a key on the handlink, vanishing almost immediately. McFarlane walked down three steps, his handsome face briefly creasing into a wary frown. For a moment he stared right at Dixie with decided concern.

"We're right behind you, Mr McFarlane." She didn't appear to have noticed the look - it was quickly subsumed by that charming smile. She tugged at my arm and I followed her hasty ascent. "Chris just stopped to look at your pictures. You have such an interesting collection."

"Don't I?" He sounded amused. "You should see the rest of it..."

We didn't get to see the rest of it right away, of course. McFarlane ushered us into his workshop, where space had been cleared among the worktops to accommodate Joe's gear. There were two men carrying it in from the freight elevator; nondescript workmen types who'd probably been pulled away from the restoration work to lend a hand. Joe shrugged out of assorted camera straps and put me to work; McFarlane hovered for a while, making small talk and various suggestions.

It took me twenty minutes to find an excuse to seek privacy; I figured that was probably long enough to make use of the obvious one, and asked my host for directions to the nearest bathroom. He looked me up and down for a moment, then led me out of the workshop and pointed me down the hallway.

"Just down there," he directed. "Around the corner, third door on your left."

I thanked him, called out to let Joe and Dixie know I wouldn't be long, and headed in the appropriate direction. Al must have been waiting for me to get away; he fell into step beside me as I walked down the passage.

"Nice place," he observed, glancing around with interest. I had to agree with him. The hall was as carefully decorated as the lower level had been; soft carpet, pale walls, draped fabric framing impressive pictures. "Guess there's money in art, right, Sam?"

"Guess so." I found the relevant door, pushed it open.

Is this - sheesh...

I've visited a lot of restrooms during my time Leaping from life to life. They've ranged from two-bit shacks equipped with a plank and a lot of hope, right up to executive washrooms that included personal service and individual perfumed handtowels. They all paled into insignificance beside the palace into which I now stepped.

More mirrors - floor length ones - occupied the side wall opposite a line of washbasins. They reflected a vista of black and silver grey elegance. There were three stalls, each behind a lacquered door, and the air was replete with the scent of pine.

"Hey," Al remarked, following me in. "Even the john's a work of art. Not even the White House matches up to this." He paused, thought about it, then grinned. "The Hyatt Regency in Vegas maybe..."

I refrained from enquiring as to how he had acquired the experience to make either comparison - one was obvious, and the other I could probably guess - and leaned back against the nearest basin instead.

"What you got for me, Al?"

He pulled the handlink from his pocket and focused on serious business.

"Not much. We dug out the background on Hallam - he's been out of regular counselling for a year now, and the doctor's report figured he was gonna be okay."

Figured, huh? What did the military psychologists really know about the long-term effects those kind of experiences have? Some people are survivors, some aren't. Maybe Joe hit the bottle because he couldn't cope with being expected to cope.

I found I was considering my company with wary concern.

Or maybe he was just walking so close to the edge that Dixie's death pushed him over it...

"The business with the pictures was meant to be therapy, but he turned out to be pretty good at it, so he took it up full time. He'd known Chris and Dixie before he was drafted. She's got a degree in business, volunteered to help him get started." He allowed himself a small smile. "Beauty and brains, huh, Sam? He's a lucky guy.

"Or rather-" Al corrected himself reluctantly. "He was. They split up just after Chris gets his break. She becomes her brother's manager, and Joe gets involved with a socialite wannabe who marries him, then divorces him, and takes him for every penny she can get in the process."

Uh-oh.

No wonder he was sounding so sympathetic. Joe Hallam's life story held uncomfortable echoes of his own.

Sometimes a Leap can get too personal; sometimes it can cut close to the bone, raking up old memories and stirring unhealed wounds. Sometimes it can hurt.

Can you deal with this?

 Do I have a right to ask you to...? "So is that why he hits the bottle?" I asked tentatively. He gave me an odd look, then smiled quietly, shaking his head at my expression.

"Sam," he said softly. "Just don't, willya?"

"Don't what?" I asked, trying to sound innocent. He wasn't fooled for an instant.

"You know," he accused. There was a note of exasperated affection in his voice. "Read more into this than there is."

I half-opened my mouth to protest, then closed it again. Maybe I was making assumptions here - and if he was prepared not to take this too personally, what right did I have to try and protect him from his own truths? Particularly as I couldn't remember most of them.

Besides, for all either of us knew, Joe Hallam was a louse and deserved everything that was going to happen to him. Or maybe - just maybe - I was there to make sure it didn't happen at all.

"Tell me about Dixie," I suggested. My hesitation would have been apology enough. Anything more would have laboured the point.

"Dixie," he agreed, lifting the link again to key up the relevant information. "Beautiful Ditzy Dix ..." His sigh was heartfelt. "Well - all we have is the coroner's report, Sam. She overdosed on barbiturates. Washed 'em down with vodka."

I winced. "Did she leave a note?"

"Yeah, she did. It just said, I want to be free. Nothing else."

Free? Free of what?

"And this was - when?"

"July '73. Nearly two years from now. Chris was in Europe at the time - making an art movie."

The emphasis on art caught my attention.

"An art movie?"

"Yeah," Al said, studying the readout with interest. "You know - all angled shots, black and white film, scenes cut out of order, gratuitous sex and violence. It won an award at the Venice Film Festival, too." He shrugged. "There's no accounting for taste, I guess..."

I was curious. I had to ask. "You've seen it?"

"M'mm," he acknowledged abstractedly. "Someone told me it was highly erotic."

"Was it?"

He frowned, punching a couple of buttons on the link. "Only if you're into sadism and necrophilia," was the distracted reply. "Now that's interesting..."

Sadism and ... what the hell did Chris Kneally get himself into?

"What is?"

"The movie," Al announced, looking up with a gleam in his eye, "was financed by Cameron McFarlane."

An art dealer financing an art movie...

"So that's the connection." I paced the length of the washbowls, putting what little evidence we had together. "In six months' time, Chris is going to get his big break, right? Then Joe splits with Dix and everything falls apart... So, what happens this weekend that's going to affect any of that? Al, was it McFarlane who discovered Chris? Sponsored him, or something like that?"

"We can check. The guy's finances are convoluted, Sam. And he's practically off the record where everything else is concerned. We've no background, no history - nothing Ziggy can substantiate, anyway."

"Keep digging," I suggested. My restless energy brought me face to face with the earnest features of the young man I had replaced. Chris Kneally. Christopher Marlowe. Had he wanted so desperately to be somebody that he'd dragged his sister and his friend apart to achieve it?

And was I there to deny him that ambition? Because the price it had eventually demanded had been so high...?

I almost ran into McFarlane as I left the room; he was reaching for the handle on the door as I opened it.

"Are you all right?" he asked with solicitous attention. "Your sister was worried about you."

"I'm fine," I assured him, relieved that he hadn't come to check a few minutes earlier. Of course, Chris was an actor, so the excuse of practising my lines would easily cover my apparently one-sided conversation, but even so... I made an assumption, certain he wouldn't challenge it. "Dix is always worrying too much."

He smiled knowingly. "I'm sure she is," he said.

I couldn't figure the man out. He seemed to be charm incarnate, and not at all what I might have expected from a man shrewd enough to have amassed the obvious fortune he possessed. I wondered how old he was; he looked to be in his mid thirties at first glance, but his self-confidence suggested he might be older than he seemed.

He'd make the perfect politician, I thought to myself. For all his up-front pleasantries, there was a hint of astute assessment that lay behind his eyes.

"Do you know much about art?" he asked as we walked back toward the workshop.

"Not as much as I might like," I extemporised. It seemed the safest comment to make; Swiss cheese robs me of details I might once have called upon without a second's hesitation, and I doubted that Chris knew much about the subject at all.

"It's a fascinating subject," McFarlane considered, pausing by a painted battle scene in order to admire it. "It encompasses the whole of the human heart, and tells truths that mere men dare not utter of themselves."

Now that sounds like an art critic...

"Makes money too," he added with a grin. "This piece is worth - oh, twenty thousand dollars, give or take a penny in either direction."

I took a second look. On the surface of the heavy canvas men in blue and grey uniforms dispatched one another in a scene of senseless carnage. A Union flag lay trampled underfoot, and smoke and fire filled the sky. I blinked, suddenly reminded of the reality of such a scene; the screams of dying men and horses, the stink of blood and sweat and pain...

When did I...? The memory escaped me, despite the starkness of its imagery.

"It's contemporary, of course," my host was saying. I caught a hint of directed consideration in his sideways glance, quickly lost in his pleasure with the piece. "Such an interesting period in this country's history. Making an art of death is a talent mankind has pursued with such an avid passion, don't you think?"

I didn't know how to answer that. I don't call killing a talent, nor would I ever label war an art, despite the protestations of history. But in some ways he was right. And that made me feel very uncomfortable.

"We can all learn from the mistakes of history," I said, and he gave me a pensive look.

"Yes," he breathed. "I suppose we can." The look became positively thoughtful. "You think the War Between the States was a mistake?"

"Don't you?" I challenged him. "Brother fighting brother, and thousands dying because of the incompetence of their Generals?"

"They fought for a cause," he pointed out mildly. "Or do you believe in the validity of slavery?"

"Of course not," I responded hotly, then realised he was deliberately baiting me; I recovered my composure with a certain level of self-annoyance at having fallen for it, and gave him a guarded look.

What are you up to, Cameron McFarlane?

"Bigotry and prejudice are not things that can be eliminated by brute force," I pointed out softly. "That kind of change can only be brought about by education and understanding; by a willingness to change. And the causes of war are all too often hijacked by the unscrupulous, the opportunist, and the glory seeker."

McFarlane returned my look with a measured one of his own. "So you would condemn all wars as hopeless, all makers of war as fools, and all those who fight them nothing more than lost souls in pitiful pursuit of equally lost causes?"

It was a fair question. I thought about my answer very carefully, turning back to consider the youthful faces of the painted soldiers who fought and died forever on the canvas beside me. Thought, as I did so, about the warriors I knew - had known throughout my life: my father, who had struggled through each day of his life, to make a living, to give his family a place to call home; my brother, who'd been proud to serve his country, understanding what duty and responsibility meant; and my closest friend, the stubbornest, most obstinate, most pig-headed - and the most valorous - of the three. Al had fought his way up from the backstreets to touch the stars - and he'd done it despite obstacles, despite setbacks, despite his own faults and fears... "No," I said after a moment, looking up from the brushstrokes to meet eyes that were suddenly dark and compelling. "I think it all depends on the nature of the war..."

Dark eyes, deep and fascinating. They spoke of hidden truths and unspoken secrets, of concealed power and cloaked mastery. Trust me, those eyes said, impelling, assertive, commanding... I was falling into them, tempted by their promises, by what they offered me. Seeker, they whispered, seek your truths if you dare...

I pulled my thoughts into focus with a bewildered effort.

What the...?

McFarlane smiled. Slowly. "You see the passion that true art can stir?" he asked, as if that had been what we'd been talking about all along.

"Yeah," I agreed, bemusedly. "Ah - shouldn't I be getting back to work?"

"Of course," he said, waving me in the right direction with a benevolent gesture. "And so must I. Please," he added as I started to turn away, "stay for dinner tonight. You and your - friends. I have no other engagements, and I hate to dine alone."

"Sure," I found myself answering, aware that something had just happened, and not all sure what it might have been. "I'll look forward to it."

Joe seemed less than enthusiastic about the idea. He protested several times while he set up for his next set of photographs, getting me to adjust the lighting so that the contours of the delicate porcelain figurine were perfectly defined. Dixie perched on the edge of a chair and waited for him to finish complaining.

"... and why he'd want us to stay for dinner I can't possibly imagine. Just turn that a little further would you, Chris? Thanks. I wouldn't know what to say to the guy."

"Joe," Dix considered slowly, "if you want to work for these people, you're gonna have to socialise with them. They'll expect you to. You're an artist - just like the other artists they encourage, right? So let him encourage you. Please?" she added, an irresistible plea. Joe looked up from his viewfinder and turned to throw her a forbearing glance.

"Pretty please?"

"Okay," he acceded reluctantly. "For you, baby, we stay for dinner." As he turned back he winked at me. Deliberately, and with amusement. I tilted back the sheet of reflective material and let my eyes roll heavenward, wondering which of them was being more manipulative - Dixie with her little-girl act, or Joe, who so obviously had wanted to stay but hadn't wanted to say so in case she objected.

The hunter and the hunted, I thought to myself. But which is which?

It was a marriage made in heaven - and somehow I had to stop it all falling apart.

I wished I knew how.

Al turned up toward the end of the shoot; he arrived to let me know a few pertinent facts, and stayed to admire the scenery. Since I couldn't even acknowledge his presence without making myself look a complete idiot he took the opportunity to pass authoritative comment on every single work of art in the room.

Dixie included, I might add.

I'd been right in thinking that it was McFarlane who'd sponsored Chris's meteoric rise in his career; Ziggy had uncovered his name among the backers of the theatre production in which he'd made his first notable appearance. She'd also sent me even odds as to what I should do: encourage McFarlane's interest in Chris but dissuade Dixie from abandoning Joe, or screw up the kid's big break in order to preserve his sister's life. I decided to opt for the first suggestion. It didn't seem fair to rain on Chris's parade, even if the thought of award-winning art movies was nagging at me a little. But then, I only had Al's word as to its contents, and I had little evidence on which to assess his expertise as a movie critic.

Among the items that McFarlane's team appeared to be restoring were several antique weapons, mostly swords and daggers, which had been placed out of our way on one of the side benches. Having admired the sturdy piece of Chinese woodcarving that hung on the wall behind where I was standing (he liked the motion implied in the dragons, he said), and waltzed across to compare Dixie's figure to that of the delicate statuettes under the lights, Al had ended up beside them, pausing to pay careful attention to the detailed work on their hilts.

"Civil War sabres," he informed me sagely. "The man seems to like the period. Did you see the paintings in the hallway?"

I nodded a surreptitious uh-huh, just as McFarlane appeared in the doorway. Our host had abandoned his pastel look and replaced it with dark pants and a soft scarlet shirt. It gave him a Byronic air, an oddly gothic figure amongst his art deco world. He paused as he made his entrance, his eyes sweeping around the room with commanding presence.

"Hi," Dixie greeted him, "thanks for the invitation."

"My pleasure," he acknowledged, closing the door behind him and walking down to join us. His route took him past Al and the display of weaponry; he hesitated as he came level with them both, then reached down and lifted a blade from the bench, the sweeping gesture he made as he did so swinging the gleam of steel straight through the intrigued image of my friend. Al looked momentarily startled, then grinned.

"Hey," he said, knowing the man couldn't hear him, "you should be careful where you wave that thing. You could do someone a great deal of damage."

McFarlane was admiring the weapon, turning it this way and that as he did so.

"This was taken from a Union officer on the field at Bull Run," he said. "You can still see evidence of the blood it spilt that day. Rebel blood," he added, the hint of accent in his voice strengthening slightly as he did so. "The battle raged back and forth all day, and in the end no one could claim victory.

"Except the dead," he concluded and laughed, as if that were some kind of joke. Al frowned at him.

"War is nothing to joke about," Joe muttered, not particularly wanting to contradict his host, but clearly feeling strongly over the matter. McFarlane glanced at him, then dipped his head in acknowledgement of the rebuke.

"Of course not," he agreed, reaching to lay the sword back among its fellows. This time Al stepped out of the way. "It was a time of great upheaval for this country. Many of my kindred were scattered and displaced because of it. But history cannot be ignored, or we never learn from it. And don't you find the thought of martial deeds quickens the heart and stirs the soul?"

"Nope," Joe answered shortly. He took another shot and nodded his satisfaction with it to me. "All that pomp and parading is one thing; standing up to your waist in swamp water in the middle of a fire fight is something else entirely."

I knew exactly what he meant. So did Al.

"I'd change the subject if I were you, kid," he suggested quietly. It sounded like a good idea.

"Is this the last figurine?" I asked, removing the piece in question from under the spotlights and making a show of examining it. "They're beautiful, don't you think, Dix?"

"I liked the one with the sheep," she answered, picking up my lead with enthusiasm. She hadn't liked the direction of the conversation either. "Are they all by the same artist, Mr McFarlane?"

"Please," he insisted, leaving his display of weapons and moving to join her, "call me Cameron. And yes, they are. I have a complete set of his work. Late seventeenth century. I prefer the earlier pieces, but they all have a certain quality, don't you think?"

I left them discussing French sculptors and walked across to place the delicate porcelain in among the other works that Joe had finished with; Al came over to take a closer look.

"Did you catch that comment about his kindred?" I hissed, and he nodded. "Get Ziggy on it. See if you can trace his family that way. The more I know about him the better, right?"

"Right," he agreed, lifting the handlink to punch in the request. "Sam - try and keep him off the subject of war at dinner, huh? Joe's only going to stand with so much before he takes offence."

I figured that was good advice too. Twice in a row? Al was excelling himself for once...

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Lost Souls in the Hunting Ground. Part One. Disclaimer:This story has been written for love rather than profit and is not intended to violate any copyrights held by Donald P Bellasario, Bellasarius Productions, or any other holders of Quantum Leap trademarks or copyrights.
© 1996 by AAA Press. Written and reproduced by Penelope Hill. Artwork by Joan Jobson