If It Were Not So - Part Four

By Jo Anzalone and Sharon Ferguson

The door closed. He sat a long moment, looking at it, blew out a long, slow breath, and slid his legs over the side of the bed. He wanted to test his strength again, see if he were better able to stand. He felt stronger.

Grinning to himself, he knew why. Yes, yes, as he took a few steps...he was on the mend. Still not back all the way, but better, much better. He lifted his right hand, frowning at it. Was possible, very possible, he'd never be able to use it again, not the way he needed. Despite the meds in his system, it still hurt fiercely, and he knew Ratsy's gun butt had done it's work well. Still...he'd fought using it...firing both rifle and handgun with it. His adrenaline had been in full pump, blotting out the pain in the necessity of the moment.

After, though, it had cost him. Cost him dear. As soon as Ellen had gone, he wobbled to the steps and had to sit, his hand ablaze with the fire of the pain. Now, even if the rudimentary splints had not been in place, he knew he'd not be able to move his fingers. The entire hand was swollen, tissue, cartilage mashed, bones cracked.

Something on the bedside table caught his eye, a roundness reflecting the light through the window. He picked it up, holding it close to his face with his left hand, studying it curiously.

It was Rachel's watch. He smiled, liking to have something that was hers in his hand. But...then...its oddness captured his attention. It had no dial. It was obviously a watch, but it had no...dial. The numbers were just right there as though they'd been written out in blocky black script. As he held it, they changed before his eyes.

He squinted at it, trying to figure how the heck it did that. It even had extra parts to it where it gave the time in several different cities of the world. And the temperature. The blasted peculiar thing gave the temperature! He turned it over, finding tiny words engraved on its back... "Geneva 2006".

Why in hell would it have a date like that?

He turned, watch still in hand, at the sound of his door opening, expecting Rachel. But it was a man, someone he'd never seen before, who entered without the courtesy of a knock. He stood still, taking the man's measure with a practiced eye, watching how the man moved, held himself, his eyes. Licking his lips, he felt the hairs rising on the back of his neck and wished he had his gun belt.

"Good day, my dear Cortland Wells," the man said, using an accent Cort had never heard.

"You have the advantage of me," Cort replied, inclining his head slightly while maintaining a watchful gaze.

"More than you know, Cortland," the man chuckled. "More than you could possibly ever know."

Cort's legs were getting tired. This was the longest he had stood. But he would be damned if he let the man see his weakness. He moved just slightly so that the back of his calves rested against the side of the bed, giving him some support.

The man walked toward him. Cort had no where to back up, so he remained where he stood. The stranger stopped a mere yard in front of him, smiling, pleased at something.

“My," he said, "ever so much like you are supposed to look."

What the hell did THAT mean?

"Listen, mister," Cort replied, "this is a private room. I'll ask you to state your business with me and then leave."

"My...business?" the man cocked an eyebrow sharply. "I suppose you...could...phrase it like that." His eyes traveled slowly the full length of the younger man. "You, Cortland, you are my business. I'm here for you."

Cort blinked, a bit taken aback by the man's manner and his words. He licked his lips again, suddenly dry. "And what business would that be?"

"Ah, then young Miss Rachel has not...told...you, now has she?"

"Told me...what?" He was breathing faster. Couldn't stop himself. His heart was racing and the effort of standing so long was making telltale beads of sweat form on his face. "What have you got to do with Rachel?"

"As little as possible," he purred. "The woman is a nuisance. Nothing more." Again his eyes traveled over Cort. "I see you've discovered her watch. How careless of her. But, then, inferior training does show up in the details. I find that to be true, don't you?"

Cort's mind whirled. If only the man would stop...smiling...stop looking at him like he was some prize turkey at the county fair.

"Who are you?" he demanded, hating the slight crack in his voice.

"Dimetri," the man said, bowing slightly. "Dimetri Zoloft, at your service." He smiled. "Or not." He cast his grey eyes toward the ceiling then back at Cort. "Probably not...in this case."

"Why are you here?" Cort's voice was getting harder to command as his legs began to wobble. A development not unnoticed by Dimetri.

"A bit weak in the knees, are we?" He made little 'tsk tsk' sounds with his lips. "Comes, one expects, from too much passion wasted in the room down the hall. That Ellen is such a slut." Again he smiled. "You should have known she would leave. She always leaves...always. Don't you get tired of that, Cortland?"

"Always...?" What was the man TALKING about? How could he know about Ellen? Nobody, nobody, knew about that but Ellen and him.

"I tire of the chitchat, Cortland," Dimetri said. "Rachel seems to find it...useful...but it's really not my style. I'm more of an 'in and out' sort of fellow myself. Much more efficient, less...time-consuming." He took a step closer to Cort, pulling something out of his pocket as he moved. As Cort's eyes dropped to see what it was, it was only then he noticed the man was wearing a sword belt under his jacket. What in blue blazes was that all about?

Dimetri moved slowly, deliberately, again the hunting cat, it's prey cornered. In his hand now rested a small, oval object with a single button. Simple. Effective. He pushed the button with his thumb and the object began to hummmm, the tone of it growing steadily louder. Cort could not seem to take his eyes off it. He felt...drawn to it...and he let Rachel's watch fall, unheeded, to the floor.

Katie (*God bless her pea-pickin' little heart* Rachel thought with amusement) had been so inspired by what Rachel had told her of Sindri, she had "conjured" up a sword of her own and had been batting at imaginary foes all afternoon, only to miscalculate stairs she had stepped over all her life to go tumbling down on a foot that bent to the side and skidded her knee. A nice round slice of skin had been scraped off in the impact, which didn't even bleed or hurt, Katie said. It was her ankle that turned purplish blue and was swelling fast. Fortunately, Horace had just received some precious ice from the ice house, and the two of them wrapped some in some rags and applied it to the various strained ligaments, as Katie's pain eased and she returned to her previous breathless ebullience.

This time, however, Rachel found herself not wanting to linger too much with other company and when she saw Katie and Horace begin to chat with each other about the girl's imagination, Rachel took that as cue to make her way back up the stairs. Too much Cort on her mind, too much of his warm hand on her face, firm mouth...chest...

She felt sweat trickle down her breastbone, an echo of Cort's mouth completing the path he had been exploring. Late afternoon sun punctured every opening in the upstairs hall of the saloon, but it wasn’t the heat outside that made her skirts cling to her legs, made her hips feel elastic...it was the thought of returning to....

Almost dreamy, she opened the door to Cort's room, ready to find whatever heavy thing she came across to bar across the door...no more interruptions, no more mishaps....

Instead, she found something that made the pit of her stomach go as cold as the ice in Horace's ice-box.

Cort was standing in bewildered preparation to fend off the Russian man that had been so curious about her earlier. Cort was tall, but Dimetri was powerfully taller, like an Arctic bear, filling the space between her and Cort with all the menace a bear could exhibit. She had gained as much insight with her earlier appraisal of him, even though Dimetri had lounged in his chair in the saloon with all the arrogant confidence of a man who always got what he wanted...always. Now he stood over Cort, whose face was turning grey once more, a smug look greeting her as Rachel closed the door behind her and froze.

What was most frightening though, wasn't that he towered over her small five-foot-two frame; it was the long...oh so very long...rapier drawn and leveled at her.

She met the man's gaze, fear hardening to dread under the pall of his oily smile.

"Miss Rachel," he said, softly, a voice that carried even when he barely breathed. "It's a good thing you join us now. I was about to invite your...patient...on an excursion."

"It's rude to point sharp objects at people," she replied, when she regained her ability to take in air. "What are you doing, coming in here? Can't you see that Cort is..."

"He is a fine man, Miss Rachel,  and he is not harmed," Dimetri assured, the rapier never wavering. "You, however, I have questions about."

Then the sword moved to indicate that she pick up the box in the far corner of the room. Sindri.

"The little girl has sprouted a love of swordsmanship, no? I wonder where she learned it from? I suspect someone with a minimal appreciation for the fencing arts," Dimetri went on. "Would that be a sword in the casement there? I would very much like to see it."

Glancing at Cort, who looked even more confused, Rachel slowly walked to the long box holding her rapier. She knew what Dimetri was going to try and do. She just couldn't figure out why he was interested in Cort. Alarms had been ringing about the Russian since she had found him watching her come down the stairwell, drawing her in to some bizarre game he wanted to play.

She paused before bending to pick up the box, looking back at Dimetri, wondering if she just couldn't talk to him...find out why....

"Oh come, come, little blue moth," he snapped impatiently. She saw Cort shift some and instantly Dimetri was standing opposite of them both, rapier still pointed at Rachel, but in full watch of Cort, who now rested a hand on the bedside table, straining to remain standing...for her sake... "Do you not know a challenge when you see one? I should think in this town a lady is now expected to fight like a man," he sneered. "Unless you would prefer the wounded priest here to defend you."

His laugh made her feel like a slug.

Rachel flipped open the case, lifting Sindri with the light expertise of someone who found a part of herself that had been cloaked for moments like this one.

"I know a challenge when I see one," she answered, bringing the beloved little blade into an en garde position, trying not to worry about the interference of her skirts, the smallness of the room. There would not be much space for a mistake. "And when I am done with this challenge, you will tell me what you really want."

Dimetri met her stance in a perfect mirror, bearish frame turning fluid with expertise.

"We shall see," he said, and lunged.

Cort, barely able to stand, watched them as though in a dream. This could not be real, could not be happening. Rachel? Sword fighting with...with...whoever this Dimetri guy was.

No. He was delusional again. The fever had obviously returned.

He wiped his forehead, his hand coming away wet with his own sweat. What had happened anyway? He'd been looking at Dimetri and then suddenly the world was fading away. What the hell was that? Then what? Yes...Rachel. Rachel had come in and...and... had gotten a sword out of a slender case. It was all too fantastic.

And so he watched a moment. People in dreams never really got hurt. She would be fine. The clash of steel filled his ears, a sound he'd never really heard just like this before. Cavalry sabers had a different tone. Maybe he needed a glass of water? He looked at the bedside table. The glass was gone. Oh, yeah. He'd broken it, hadn't he? Maybe that wasn't real, either? Maybe he was back at the mission where he belonged and this whole thing was some ghastly nightmare.

Rachel. Rachel couldn't be in a nightmare. His mind was wandering. Something had affected his ability to...think.

Dimetri knocked over a chair.

Silly dream. As if Rachel knew how to use a rapier. He was hungry. Was the toast gone? Why couldn't he think?

Rachel cried out, short and sharp. Dimetri laughed. He looked and there was a little tear in the shoulder of her blue gown, a small flow of blood. Something in him cleared at the sight of her blood.

"Rachel!" he cried, grabbing the small clock and flinging it at Dimetri. Good Lord in Heaven!

His fingers searched for something else, anything else, to use as a weapon. Where were his blasted GUNS? Probably in the armoire on the far side of Dimetri. His knees started to buckle. Not now! Not NOW!

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stay upright, grabbed a small statue, and flung it in the general direction of Rachel's opponent. He took two steps toward them but Rachel screamed, "NO!"

He stared at her in amazement. How did she know how to do what she was doing? Dimetri had the advantage of height, a longer reach. He had to help. He couldn't just...stand...there.

Again he walked forward and again she shouted, "No, Cort!"

Dimetri laughed. "Your priest thinks to help you, my little piece of blue fluff. Shall we let him? Shall I skewer him for you and toss him on the barbecue?"

At first parry, Rachel knew she was going to have to use the challenging footwork she had been learning from her instructor, Mel, a big burly man himself who liked to throw his muscle in on her at every chance he got, using techniques for other swords as well as the rapier. It had been good practice to find her weaknesses, and worked well in sharpening her skills for contests; but it often wore her out fast, used up her stamina when putting every muscle on alert to anticipate a lumbering broad stroke or a crushing slice of the katana.

With the exception of a few moves that Rachel had personally dubbed "Uruk-hai," after the pulverizing monsters of Tolkien's Middle Earth, she had become quite proficient at outwitting her master’s exercises, displaying a speed and wit with her blade that became relatively well known in her circle of friends. Rachel was fast with her timing, if not entirely accomplished in technique, and that often saved her from some devastating blows. That was what she thought she was going to have to do with Dimetri. Big men always seemed to think girls like her would be frightened by their strength, their show of force, their size.

Only...it appeared Dimetri had some vanities of his own, a Russian proclivity for waiting...*revenge is a dish best served cold*...that old saying kept running through her mind as they circled each other, testing each other's reflexes, blade sliding against lade...and in a few well placed, well timed arcs, displayed some particularly sly feints of his own. The long blade whisked between them in an almost hypnotic pattern, there for every advance she attempted: patient, luring, lethal.

Dimetri parried, thrust. She slid Sindri past it and away, the sharp little thing whipping through the air with a rasp. Dimetri advanced, unrelenting. Rachel threw the one chair in the room in her path, trying to buy time to get her balance. The room was too damn small!!

Dimetri tossed aside the chair like so much kindling. He was gritting his teeth...good, she was making him work. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Cort watch, unable to absorb all of this at once, in a trance.

*Flurry, parry, parry, thrust, whisk!* Dimetri lunged again and with stunning rapidity forced her back, back. She found herself panting...parry, parry, slide, parry, swipe!, clash! Dimetri was almost on top of her as their swords intersected and they glared at each other through crossed blades...push, slice, parry, whisk…swipe.

"AAAA!" she shrieked, her hand flying to her shoulder.

Dimetri rocked back slightly on his feet, a slimy smile distorting his features. First blood was his.

Rachel's cry of pain seemed to wake Cort from his trance and now he was animated to the point of desperation. He flung the clock at Dimetri. The bear-like man side stepped almost with a disdainful shrug, but Rachel tried to make herself use that split second to gain an advantage of her own. No use, Dimetri saw her coming...parry, clash, slide, their crossed blades pointed down, Sindri's point buried in the wood. Dimetri moved to finalize one blow and a small statue struck him in the shoulder.

Rachel saw Cort move forward...Oh God, no..."NO!" she screamed, a sudden blazing red image of Cort lying slashed on the floor, life's blood pouring down through the floorboards...

Cort didn't seem to hear her. "No, Cort!" She tried again. “I've got this!”

Dimetri laughed.

"You're a piece of filth," Rachel seethed, as they circled one more time, pausing for a breath. Dimetri was unwinded, but Rachel found it harder and hard to breath, to move with the corset...God, that thing wore her out! No wonder they had fainting couches in this time period!

"Ah ah! My little moth to the flame," the Russian chuckled. Swoop. “What grace, what finesse!” Lunge. The sarcasm in his voice was particularly infuriating. “Tell me, do all women where you are from always carry swords?”

“Where I am from has no bearing on Cort,” Rachel shot back and pushed with as sudden burst of energy as she could muster. Clink, clink, parry, thrust…damn, Dimetri was good! “What do you want?”

“Oh, be assured, it is not what you are prepared to hear,” Dimetri continued his greasy smile, slowly advancing, pushing Rachel toward the bed. Cort had fallen back, unable to stand any longer, holding the lamp ready to use.

“Oh, be assured,” Rachel imitated with every bit of venom she was capable. The wound in her shoulder had made her angry. Pain made her angry and she was using that as a fuel to keep from collapsing altogether, for the interference of her clothes was fast dragging her down. “I am far more prepared than you think.”

Dimetri froze slightly, apparently trying to suppress laughter. He regarded her briefly, his smile growing even broader, oilier, if that were possible. Disturbingly smug.

“I am glad you think so, although,” he replied, and returned his blade to attack position, “you will be surprised by what you find. Yes, very surprised.”

“I’m full of surprises myself,” Rachel parried.

“So you say, but let’s not be hasty,” Dimetri shrugged. “In fact, I’d like to know if are you prepared for this?” And the tall man seemed to burst, his strokes broader now, but still precise, still focused on her mid-region, still undeniably scathing. Rachel could hardly react in time to the silver-flashing blur slicing the air, feeling sand in her muscles, body protesting she was too slow, her wound beginning to sound its own alarm. Her left side was soaked with blood.

Suddenly, Dimetri stopped, pausing once more, grinning with pleasure to have found a way to wear her down.

The air between them was horribly still.

Another burst. Rachel reacted, her motion, her weary muscles, sending her into a spin, her backside suddenly vulnerable.

THWAP! Through her skirts she felt the flat of Dimetri’s blade strike her backside, and she was sent plunging to the bed with a push, her face colliding with the mattress, momentarily suffocating her. Seconds later, she was flipped over by Dimetri, who fell atop her, pressing her down suggestively, paralyzing her beneath him, cutting off the circulation of her sword hand with his knee.

“You are a clever little moth, but…,” his nose hovered centimeters above hers. Rachel could see yellow flecks in his grey eyes. The smile now crawling across his thin lips was like a snake pouring out of its hole, and his next words came out with a hiss: “…you are not a Jedi yet.”

If the bed had opened up beneath her and dropped her into an everlasting abyss, Rachel could have felt no less in freefall, no less ripped from her balance; and it showed in the widening of her eyes, sounded as a long intake of air.

Dimetri held her gaze for a moment more, satisfaction in every line of his face.

Now she understood.

A large boot shoved all of that aside as Cort, wedged into the corner of the bed and largely ignored up to this moment, used the only other weapon he had available and kicked Dimetri with his foot, sending the Russian bear flying back, his head colliding with the wall. There he lay momentarily stunned.

Cort was on his feet again, pulling her up with his one good hand. Wordless, he yanked her over to the door and opened it to shove her through. One last glance showed Dimetri recovering swiftly and springing up, sword in hand, ready for more battle.

“Go, go, go! ” Cort yelled, trying to push her down the hall to the stairs.

“Out of the way, Cort, out of the way!” Rachel yelled back. Dimetri came crashing through the half-closed door and this time it was Cort who fell against the far wall. Rachel could hear doors behind her flying open, guests wondering about the commotion.

The hall was wider, but darker. Rachel rubbed her thumb along the smooth metal of Sindri’s handle, fine-tuning her grip for her next move. Dimetri seemed to grow in size, to expand and fill the hallway even more.

Rachel took off, feet drumming on the steps as she raced down. Horace looked up from the bar in surprise, Katie staring at her with a similar look. Rachel turned to watch Dimetri follow. He paced himself, like a cat, his eyes never leaving her face. Sunlight flashed off Sindri.

A drunk in the corner groaned. “Oh dayh-um, not another duel!”

Cort hovered at the top of the stairs, looking gray, looking frightened. Others in the hallway followed them, suddenly unwilling to interfere. Looked like Redemption still had some entertainment value.

Dimetri reached the bottom step. Paused. Then smoothly stepped sideways to gain access to the wide open space of the saloon. With the ever-present smile, the Russian bent into a grandiose bow, then his sword returned to its infuriatingly annoying position.

Rachel did the same.

My God! My God! My God!

It was the litany that just kept going through his mind, over and over, as he watched the scene unfolding below him in the saloon. Rachel was bleeding, spent. And now it was all about to begin again! She couldn't keep this up much longer. He saw how she heaved with the effort merely to breathe. Sweat dripped into his eyes and he brushed it away, angry, frightened, confused....everything welling in him all at once.

His guns! In the armoire back in the room. Dimetri may be a master swordsman, but a sword was no match for a man with a gun. He turned quickly, almost losing his balance but managing to gain the top of the stairs, and staggered down the hallway, his shoulder smashing against the wall several times in his unsteadiness. His fingers fiddled impatiently with the latch on the heavy, carved armoire door.

Damn! Damn! Damn! There was no time...no time!!

He finally flung it open. Thank God! His holster hung there on one of the side hooks.

As he grabbed it eagerly, he did a sudden sharp intake of breath at the thought he would have no bullets! Then the sigh of relief when he saw that someone had shoved into his left holster a gun he'd taken off one of Herod's henchmen.

Yes! Three bullets! Dropping the gun belt, he made his way to the door, back down the hallway to the head of the stairs.

The fight was still on. The saloon regulars had backed behind the bar, but were hooting and cheering, enjoying the rare spectacle. One of the round tables was between Rachel and Dimetri, but he shoved it aside, sending it crashing into the front window. Rachel was circling to her left, her blade flashing, but obviously slowing to a dangerous level.

Soundlessly, not wanting to distract Rachel's attention, he came down the stairs...hard to do because, with the gun in his left hand, the railing could not be grasped, and not falling took way too much of the concentration he'd rather have directed toward the fight. He'd hoped to have been able to fire from the top of the stairs, but the sweat was in his eyes and his hand refused to stop shaking. Rachel, hold on...just a bit more...he urged soundlessly as he came.

Neither of them were aware of his presence now on the ground floor of the saloon. He sidled to the right, trying to keep out of Dimetri's line of sight. Suddenly Dimetri lunged, his movement sending a chair crashing into Rachel's legs. She fell to her knees and he pushed her with his boot, sending her to her back in a puddle of spilled whiskey.

"Enough," he said, his voice entirely deadly. "I'm late. I despise being late. I have places to go. People to snatch. You, my dear, well...you have delayed me long enough." He smiled down at her, his attention riveted on her face as his arm curved, raising his rapier for one quick...last...downward thrust.

Dimetri stumbled back, only saved from falling because he had collided with a wooden post. Cort was just setting down his right boot, completing his long step over Rachel's prostrate form.

"I don't think so," he said, a slight grin twitching the left corner of his mouth, though the expression in the seagreen eyes bore nothing resembling mirth. Without taking his eyes from Dimetri's, Cort asked quickly, "Rachel! You all right?" He could feel the movement of her long skirts behind his legs and she murmured, "yes."

The gun pointed directly at Dimetri's chest and with everything in him he managed not to let its barrel waver. He wanted to kill the man for what he'd done to Rachel. He was a killer. It should be easy. His trigger finger moved, tightening just a bit. His heart was pounding and the sound of his own blood was filling his ears.

He licked his lips. Still he had not blinked. The man had intended to kill Rachel. He deserved to die.

"Kill the bastard!" someone yelled from behind the bar. "Shoot 'im!" called another. Even Horace said, "Good Lord, man, pull the trigger!"

A runnel of sweat dripped from his brow into his eye, salty, stinging, forcing a blink. He was aware Rachel had gained her feet and was standing close behind him. Then she put her hand on his shoulder and the feel of her touch made a tremble run through him.

He had killed men just the other day. Another one was...nothing. Had his sickness stolen his guts?

No, it wasn't that. It was Rachel. He didn't want to be that killer Herod believed he was. He didn't want to be that...for her...because of her. Yet, he couldn't let this man escape. Not this man. His finger tightened more. Sometimes. Sometimes things were...necessary.

Dimetri, completely aware of Cort's entire history, watched the battle in the eyes of the man facing him. It was because of that very battle that he was even here. Mikol had been fascinated by Cort's battle. He wanted him, even more than he wanted the others, he wanted Cort because of that. Dimetri knew, though, that Cort was capable of pulling the trigger. Had he not seen him do it a hundred times? Always Cort pulled the trigger, just as Ellen always left. He watched the finger begin to tighten. Never one even to consider death an option on an assignment, no matter how important that assignment might be to Mikol, he moved the fingers of his right hand into his pocket, curling them around the small device resting there.

"A grand exit is always a glorious thing," he said, pressing the button. The hum was sudden, almost deafening, and a blue glow quickly surrounded Dimetri, leaving only the outline of his form, then even that was gone.

Cort sank to his knees, the gun falling from his fingers.

Despite the burning slash in her shoulder, the sticky feel of sweat and blood, the exhaustion and sheer adrenalin, the utter devastation of the true nature of Dimetri's presence in Redemption, it was the sight of Cort falling to his knees, gun unspent, that pretty much undid Rachel's last bit of nerve. He looked so pale! She threw her arms around him, holding him close, trying to support his wilting body by leaning him against her.

"Hold on to me, sweetheart," she murmured fast and low. "Hold on!"

He looked up at her, gave the barest nod, wrapped his left arm around her, leaned into her with relief.

"I'll hold on," he murmured back. She could feel him tremble, his powerfully built frame shake, his grip tighten. "Just don't let go of me, not in this storm. Let me hold on in this storm," he whispered and hid his face in the curve of her neck.

She heard their audience gather around, variously cheering, clapping, or bitching about the lack of resolve to the show, the astonishing spectacle of someone disappearing before their eyes. She blocked their voices and questions out. To hell with them and their questions! Cort had come between her and death with every bit he could give her. He had saved her, despite his own flagging strength, ready to kill so she might live.

They knelt for several moments, lost in thought, in pain, in fatigue. Horace tried talking to them, Katie did too; the entire audience circled around, commiserating, condemning. Rachel felt rude doing it, but she ignored them all, too tired to move, too tired to try and make Cort move. She just wanted to bury her face in his hair and make them all disappear. Let them go find a more comfortable scene.

Her pulse ran down and thirst replaced it with screaming urgency. Cort was melded to her, as limp as a sleeping baby, his own breathing ragged with pain.

*What the hell happened?* was the repeated question, not just among the patrons, but in Rachel's mind, trying to collect her thoughts in sequence, to have some semblance of intelligence to take back to Terry...oh God, how would she explain this to Terry?! And Sid...! Do they even know who Dimetri is? Did they have any idea that there was an interloper... a copycat...crossing the Warp into the alternate reality of movies?

How did Dimetri obtain a Warp?

Her thoughts swirled, trying to piece the words, images, impressions, reactions, ideas, revelations together into actual sentences, actual thought. *Oh God oh God oh God Dimetri was a retriever, too!* From the moment he pronounced the word "Jedi" the horrible realization had frozen her, sealed her in that moment, trapped into looking up at ice-cold eyes, the image of his gloating forever burned in her mind: Dimetri had caught Rachel completely unaware and was ready to kill her for her prize.

But she had been so careful! Hadn't she?!

Even if she hadn't been, a small voice argued, that cold-hearted bastard had the same technology she had used to come into the movie and was after the same thing she was...and he'd nearly gotten it! What she should have completed days ago had been to that awful man's advantage.

But...but how?! She'd been with NanoCorp too long to not have heard about competition. Sid would have said something...wouldn't he? Terry, at least?! One of them to say "hey Rachel, keep a lookout for... because they are doing what we are doing!" But no...in the three years she had been with them, nothing. And Dimetri had known about her...how had he known?! He had played her like someone who had been studying from afar, like he knew where she had come from...as though he had only the right moment to set things up...

His words..."you will be surprised by what you find..." - damn him...what did he mean by that?! Something in his tone had tinkled a bell in her mind. He practically squashed her with the news of his origins...there was no "finding" in that...

So many bells were going off…there she had been, so worried, so smitten by Cort, so taken up with comforting him...what the hell had he meant?

Rachel found herself rocking to and fro slightly because it seemed to help ease the pain in her shoulder. Horace planted himself in plain sight, arms akimbo, voice stern.

"Miss Rachel, I don't mind the ruckus you've been raising in my saloon these last few days...God knows Herod done worse when he was in a good mood, but I'm gonna have to ask you to either get up off that durn floor and order a drink or be hauled out like sacks of potatoes," he pronounced. Katie stood behind him, holding Sindri like a precious babe.

Both Rachel and Cort looked up at him. As if regretting his words, Horace bent down to pick up Cort's gun, which no one had dared to rescue. Cort may have been weak in the knees and unwilling to shoot this last time, but that didn't mean people forgot his speed.

Rachel accepted the gun. "Can you make it just a bit further?" she whispered down to him. "Just to the chair at least?"

With great effort, Cort nodded once more and Horace obliged by helping, tugging the young man up with an arm under Cort's shoulder. They wobbled to a couple of nearby chairs and Katie placed Sindri in Rachel's lap.

"That was one good fight," she said, smiling slightly, and then scampered off to help her father.

"Cort...sweetheart...please listen to me," Rachel whispered to the faded priest, who was trying to sit up himself in the seat but finding it easier to find purchase against her unharmed shoulder. She was finding it a bit easier to clear her head now that they were near an open window. A soft breeze blew in, cooling her forehead, bringing some sanity back to her mind. She had checked her shoulder. There had been some blood, but now the sliced wound was crusting over with black and as long as she didn't move her shoulder much, it didn't look like it would reopen.

"I need to go upstairs and collect my things. I'm leaving tonight...and...and I'd like you to come with me. Please," her tone turned to begging, the sound of her voice almost disappearing in the fear she had of his reaction. She was out of reason, out of time, out of any focus to say such things diplomatically. She had to stop messing around and get Cort over to NanoCorp. "Please, if you can understand me, think about it while I go clean up the mess upstairs. I'll be back, okay? I won't be far."

When Rachel left, he found it impossible to remain upright in the small wooden chair, so he folded his arms on the table in front of him and buried his face in the dark nest they made. He needed to think. Damn, he needed to think. But it was...hard.

His thoughts scattered like a sack of marbles dropped on the floor. Desperately he tried to grab at them but they skittered every which way, eluding the reaching fingers of his mind. Exhaustion didn't help. Nor did pain. He gathered himself, forcing concentration, forcing focus by will alone, trying to make sense, any sense at all out of recent events. Things seemed to want to tumble about in his mind. Almost as though they were playing games, one thought would come, then roll away and hide in some lost corner before he could discover what it was.

The mission burned, objects hummed and Rachel fought her way down the stairs with a sword. Chains clanked and he was thirsty, then she said "I love you" and Dimetri said she was not...what was the word...a Jedi yet? Bodies thudded into the dirt and he hid in the hay from his Grandmother. His hand screamed and shouted in pain but Rachel touched his wet cheek. Too many thoughts. Too many. God, he was tired. His body jerked as the sudden remembered sound of one explosion after another rushed through his head. He needed to think about something...something in particular.

Mentally, he clawed his way through the hovering clouds of dust and debris that cluttered his mind, that were too much...all at once...too much to think about. Finally, he saw a small spot of blue and took his mind in that direction. It was Rachel...dressed in blue. Yes, that was what he needed to think about...must think about. So he left the debris behind and stepped into the blue to be with her.

He gasped. That was it! Be with her! She'd asked him to think about coming with her. Where? She'd not said where. Had she? He couldn't remember. She said she was leaving. He let his mind play with that concept. Redemption...without Rachel? Did it...matter...that she had not said where? Truly. Did it? If she were gone and all he had left were the horizon...and beyond that the next horizon...each as empty as the one before...did any of it matter any more? He knew there was no going back for him. Not now.

He had to go...where? Where would forward be for his life? He didn't know. Was there even a forward?

His mind floated back to her, to her in her blue. She was holding out her hand to him. He felt as though he were sinking in quicksand...and she was holding out her hand. How could 'where' matter? She was, truly she was, his only link to anything. He stepped over the very last bit of burning debris, and smiled at her...everything he was shining in his eyes...and reached for her hand.

At that moment, she came down the steps. He lifted his head and looked at her...with everything he was shining in his eyes.

She hated leaving him there, in the hubbub of evening clatter, forlorn and utterly drained. A flashback to the time she managed to drag him from the steps outside...back to square one...and she had to slow herself down to go up the stairs because tears turned the steps into watery slides that were too dangerous to navigate. She should have picked him up by carriage and just left, explanations later, she accused herself. A vague thought that this is what it was like to be caught in the alternate limbo of the movie, that space that no one else outside could ever see. That was what the Warp was for...and she had bungled it, thinking to outwit it. Instead of extracting what she came for, she chose to muddle around in it, and Cort was no better off than before.

She reached the room, and closed the door. Had she just been here in a fight, in the drifting dream of love, hovering over a man who never quite got well? Rachel forced herself to start moving through the room...satchel, Sindri's case, clothing...ah yes. She looked down at her shoulder. Yuck. Okay. Cort would just have to wait a few minutes. She was so sick and tired of the corset! She had to move more cautiously than before to keep from tearing open the fragile binding her blood made in the wound, but she got the petticoats, the skirt, the blouse, the corset off. She put on the pants and blouse she wore the other night, returned her boots to her feet (being careful not to cut herself on the glass still shattered on the floor, stepped...

At her feet lay her watch...had it fallen in the turmoil of the fight? She had placed it on the bedside. She swept it up. Did Cort manage to see it? Don't think right now...get out of here! She slung the satchel over her good shoulder and took one last look around.

Three days. Three days of futile care, three days of watching that poor man struggle with his own battles, wanting to see him better, wanting him lucid so she could explain...and all she really did was throw the gates of her heart open. She glanced at the bed once more...there had been brief ecstasy...she would hazard to guess greater and more intense than any whore in this house, than any man who ventured here would ever know. A slight sob escaped her, a doubt descending. Would he feel the same once on the other side? Would he awaken to find he didn’t recognize her, didn't care, wouldn't want to stay?

Don't be ridiculous, she scolded that doubt. She'd been through three retrievals already and every manifestation they had brought had retained everything that had come before...to the point that it had been difficult convincing them that what they knew was encased in a fragile medium.

She sniffed to pull back the tears washing down her face. The room looked so disheveled...and for all the wrong reasons. But she had everything now, including Cort's vest and jacket.

The star. The brief thought to pull it out of its drawer passed her thoughts. No. If Ellen wants it, let her look for it. Let her find it and realize that Cort wouldn't let her do to him what Herod and all the others had done: choose his path for him.

With one final glance, she closed the door. Cort wasn't coming back.

So now the next step, she thought pacing her way to the stairwell. How to get to the shack, how to get Cort...

The fear of sounding like some raving lunatic overwhelmed her before she reached the top finial, before she started down into the saloon. He should now have some idea, some clue that she was not what she appeared to be, she mused, with a rueful laugh. No, not that at all. But how does one explain, compress 120 years in time, in technology, in reality to someone who has no idea he is living a virtual Groundhog Day?

*More than that, Rachel, and you need to face facts: if he gets there, he may decide he doesn’t want you anymore.*

*Well. You've been hired to do a job haven't you?* She reasoned with herself. Its the least you can do for Terry, the one who put a lot of faith in you to carry through...

*You want him to want you the way he kissed you back in that room...that's why you wanted to stay there...*

She didn't look up from the steps she was descending until she nearly reached bottom. And when she did, she knew she'd never have to return to that room again, for Cort, in all his weary pain, in all his tattered and shattered strength, sat staring at her with all his world in his face.

He watched her come, saw that she was lost in thought and not looking at him...but then. Almost at the bottom. She stopped. And she looked at him.

He was waiting for her in that small spot of blue that she had made in the midst of the wreckage of his life. He wanted her to know, wanted her to...see...that he had stepped into that spot, had planted his boots in it with nothing that looked at all like ground beneath them. It was, for him, an act of faith to make that step and something in him knew that, was glad for it. Something in him...that he no longer had a name for. She paused there, just looking, not coming.

And so he stood, leaning the front of his thighs against the table edge to keep from falling, held out his hand to her and said her name, said it in that voice of his that took its letters and formed it into a sigh, a lyric, a prayer.

"Rachel."

She couldn't remember crossing the final floorboards to his arms. The silk thread binding them had contracted somehow, with brilliant knowing, until she was in his arms, pressed into his embrace. Only when Cort's body decided on its own that it had had enough did Rachel step away, smiling down at him in reassurance.

"Just a bit more...wait here," she told him, and strode to the bar.

Horace granted her audience with a smile.

"I have one last favor to ask, Horace, then we'll trouble you no more," Rachel said, hoping there wouldn't be much argument for the request. "I need a carriage out of town."

A frown. Oh great. "Just a small one, not a coach. Just something I can borrow even. There's a place just beyond the town where I can stay and someone can pick up the horses in the morning," said she, thinking as fast as she could manage. The patrons were slowly getting louder.

"I'll see what I can do. I'll send Katie to let you know," Horace replied.

Good enough, Rachel nodded. She returned to Cort and sat as close as she could manage, her head on his chest, his head leaning on hers.

Several minutes later, Katie swerved by on her way to the kitchen.

"There's a phaeton on its way from the barn. You can take that, and I'll send Waller out to get it tomorrow," the girl told her, eyeing Sindri one last time as Rachel returned it to its case.

"Katie..." Rachel said, remembering all the moments when she had talked with the girl. "I want to thank you for all your help. All your father's help. I know we've stretched his patience and I don't know how to repay him, but I shall always be grateful," Rachel told her, holding the girl's gaze so that Katie saw how serious she was. Cort echoed her thanks.

Katie laughed, patting her on the hand, patting Cort on the shoulder.

"Weren't nothin'," she replied, swinging a dish towel. "Reckon you two were the nicest people ever to come through Redemption. I'm glad you stayed," she said, brightly, and cantered off.

Cort indicated he was willing to try and make it to the veranda for the phaeton, and the carriage was just pulling up as they settled in a spot, both of them looking towards the sunset where the skies were painted brilliant hues of incandescent orange, pink, purple and blue. It took some doing with Cort's bad hand, but they were both situated in the plush carriage by the time the orange in the clouds had turned to dusk.

"Don't you know how...?" Cort asked, looking at her oddly as Rachel grabbed the reins and tried to get the two horses to move.

She turned on her sweetest smile. "Show me please?"

Amused, he took the reins, gave them a good whip, and they were off. As they moved, he explained in faltering voice how to control the horses, finally slumping back against the hood of the phaeton to relinquish all control to her.

The motion of the carriage was bumpy over the rough track that was called a road, but he was so tired he didn't care. He was leaving Redemption...and leaving so differently from how he'd entered a few days ago. When he'd first been dragged into town and flung into the saloon, he hadn't expected ever to leave. Figgered he was just there for Herod to kill. Nothing more. From the moment the mission had burned and the chains had been affixed, he'd known his number was up.

How strangely, though, had things changed. He looked up at the sky, watching the colors blend and fade, feeling like some bird with no ties to the ground, nothing to keep it from riding the thermals. Everything was different. Everything. And, yes, like the bird...there was no ground beneath his feet. He couldn't even let his mind go there. It was too big to think about. So he turned his gaze on Rachel's face, watching her intent efforts to handle the reins and prop him a bit at the same time.

They had passed the graveyard and were traveling along a smoother stretch of road that led up a long ridge. He didn't even know where she was going. It didn't matter. Wherever it was, he was going there, too. There was something strangely freeing in the not knowing. So he just lay there and watched the last of the sunset reflect on her beautiful face. They reached the height of the slope just as the sun settled on the horizon, lingering there as though reluctant to end the day. It was enormous, dark orange, streaked with yellow, a single peachy-pink cloud stretching partway across.

"Stop," he whispered, startling her out of her concentration.

"Why, Cort? I need to check...."

"Whatever it is, Rachel, it can wait." Painfully, and with a great deal of assistance from her, he straightened into a seated position at her side. He gently removed the reins from her hand, looping the leather about a peg, then pulled her hands into his lap, covering them both with one of his. He studied that for a moment, the orange light making his hair glow chestnut as it swung about his cheeks. She had been his shield for three days, now he wanted to be hers, to give back to her in some small measure the care, the...covering...that she had given him.

"It's all I have, Rachel, " he whispered, moving his gaze to her eyes. "All I have to bring with me...to... to...give to you...is what is here." He lifted his hand, touching his chest briefly. "I have nothing...nothing but that." He sighed heavily, tired beyond measure, his body sinking against hers. Lifting his head slowly, he watched the last curved top of light sink below the desert's edge, then closed his eyes as though the sun's departure had taken the last of his strength with it.

"Is it...enough?" he whispered, so softly he wasn't quite sure she'd hear him.

What the turn of the earth had taken away in one tick toward midnight, the words falling from Cort's lips replaced. She did not see sun or moon now, only Cort's face; not the chill stars popping out like fireflies, or the breeze blowing in from the rough plains, carrying the scent of cactus fruit and sand...just the offering of his hands and the burning of his heart. But even as the round globe insistently clicked toward the apogee of its rotation, Rachel felt all time had come to a halt, to become a pure soul, igniting and forming between herself and Cort.

Is it enough, he asked! Dry sobs leeched their way from her chest, filled her throat. She leaned against him in return, willing every particle of her to soak up the weariness emanating from Cort, straining every nerve to replace it with what she knew to be true: here was Love.

She had never been very good at learning Bible verse...funny how her heart turned its sphere around a priest, then....but there was a phrase now running through her mind, one completely unbidden, as perfect an answer to Cort's question as could ever be, one a deeper part of her sensed was not her own formation. It was a small grace filtering down in the palest light of the stars.

Rachel moved her hands under Cort's just the barest to show she was very much present in the moment. She waited until he returned his eyes, now large and haunted in the twilight, to hers.

"If it were not so, Cortland Wells," Rachel said, letting all her world show in her face. "I would tell you. As long as your hands hold mine, that your heart take mine, it is enough."

Holding his gaze, she reached up and pressed her lips to his, a holy kiss.

"More than enough. It's all I need."

His heart beat slowed like the engines of a great ship pulling into its pier, careful to come home gently in the night. The moment was possibly the most tender he had ever known in his life. He felt absolutely reverent in the presence of her response to his words and in the mood of that his lips returned her soft pressure without lust or need for self-gratification...but only lingering there upon her own as a sign and symbol that the thread between them had no length to it longer. For days he had been pulled about in the dirt at the end of some chain, forced to go where he would not. The bond he'd been forming with this woman, with Rachel, pulled him, too, but he came with it willingly, reeling it in as he came so that it grew ever shorter...and now...in this quiet moment, with his lips touching hers...all distance ceased to have meaning. He'd never, not really, known such a moment was possible.

Slowly, gently then, he moved his lips around her face, coming to the hair that waved along the line of her brow. There he paused, pulling his mouth back only a fraction so he could speak. "If...," he barely whispered, "if...this is all I ever know of love...." His voice cracked then and he could not continue but only buried his face in her hair, his left hand cupped about the back of her head

She couldn't speak another word, only let him entwine his hand in her hair, pressing close to her. She could only return the angel-kisses on his cheek, curve her hands around his shoulder. Words were so hard for her to come up with for something she had never experienced before; she feared using them sometimes because they always seemed so inadequate. She had always thought of language as a gift given by God to do what no other natural thing could do, but with things like this....she sighed. Contentment and peace were words themselves, but came nowhere near the emotion. There were just some things that couldn't be explained.

Maybe she dozed off for a few minutes; she wasn't sure. His lips had been so warm, his breath so sweet upon her skin, and his long body against hers so surrounding, that she submitted to the drift of comfort with little resistance. But her eyes flew open seconds, maybe hours later, probably when Cort's limp hand slid down into her lap; or the horses stamped in the dark.

*Come on, Rachel, get a move on. It's not that much further* she scolded herself, guiding a sleeping Cort to lay in her lap, and picked up the reins again, hoping the horses wouldn't decide to be contrary.

They were not, thank goodness, all too glad to trot along to warm up, as the desert nights were chill. She had to think for a minute to get her bearings. The shack where she had hidden her laptop, her comm device, the Warp-shell, everything she needed to make the quick get-away that never happened. When she finally pulled up to the dilapidated hut, Cort was snoring gently. She hitched the reins as he had demonstrated, and tried to slide out from under him without waking him which, given his level of exhaustion, was a moot point.

The moon rising over the horizon was waning, so its light was not quite as full as it had been a few days before. She covered Cort up with the blanket stuffed under the buckboard, trying not to become enchanted by the way his features were outlined in blue, the way fine hairs covered his cheeks like a dusting of sand. Finding her flashlight in her satchel, she stepped over some fallen boards and knelt to pull out the compartment.

Only...she didn't have to do so. At the tip of her foot lay an odd blue-gray object, L-shaped and broken, as if it had been snapped off...and there...wires...diodes....

She flicked her light into the darker shadows of the shack and fell to her side, weak with dismay, horror. The compartment had been dragged from its hiding place, opened to spill its contents and those very contents trashed, so thoroughly trashed! Her laptop had been ripped apart, diodes scattered, key board shattered, motherboard cracked and in ruins in the glittering sand. Her power source appeared unaffected, but the wires had been ripped out and there was a faint hint of scorch emanating from it. Her Warp-shell....gone!

Rachel shoved the original debris of the shack aside...maybe it had been kicked away, tossed away, hidden by something else....

The flashlight dropped from her hands as a final tremble of outrage shook her.

"Nooooo!" She wailed, forgetting the sleeping Cort, forgetting the necessary silence, every ounce of frustration and despair welling up in her throat. At her knees was the one means of immigration for them both...and Dimetri's triumphant prophecy of surprise reflected back the moonlight in full ruin. He had won after all.

Cort jerked awake, his hand reaching instinctively for his gun. His right hand. He struck it hard against his hip, a small exclamation of pain escaping before he could clamp his lips. Rachel! He jerked his body around, looking for her in the faint light of the moon. She was standing in tall, dry grass, staring in horror at something that lay on the ground near her. A strange light sent a yellow beam off toward a ruined shack. He jumped out of the buckboard, wincing as his boots landed hard on the packed earth, jarring him. He'd not taken more than three running steps in her direction, when he stopped dead in his tracks. A man was walking out from the shadowed side of the small building. Slowly, cautiously, Cort stepped up to Rachel, putting his left arm around her shoulders protectively.

"Rachel, Rachel, Rachel," came a familiar voice as the man, dressed in impeccable Armani, approached. "Tsk, tsk, how often must I tell you junior broom-handlers to cover your butts?"

She stood there, speechless, both appalled and relieved at the same time. Cort squeezed his arm tighter, opened his mouth to say...something, but she shook her head and he remained silent, watchful, on guard with every muscle. She closed her eyes briefly, not more than a long blink, then a single word passed her lips. "Sid."

Sid walked in a slow circle about them as he talked, cocking his head, studying them as though they were a museum display that needed upgrading. "Made a botch of it, eh?" he remarked, stopping to touch Cort's bandaged hand with a well-manicured forefinger. Cort jerked it away, glaring at him. Sid laughed. "Testy, are we? Just because we've been hauled off in chains, beaten, almost hung...though not quite, thanks to the lovely though overly stolid Miss Ellen...been bashed, battered, bruised, lost our home, our work, our...um...calling, shall we say..., our whole life. Now, now, now, Cort. Can you not be a bit more...light-hearted about it all?"

He took a couple of more steps, pausing now in front of Rachel. "And, you. You give new meaning to the word 'incompetent'." He raised his eyes heavenward. "And I'd so hoped you'd show at least a...little...intelligence. Alas, it was not to be." He held up a small piece of something, jagged edges and wires hanging loose. "Trust you with something...just one simple something that even a four-year-old could accomplish, and what do you do? You end up with....this." He dropped it at her feet, staring at it in disgust as though it were fecal matter on his shoes. "And just how, may I ask, did you think to...return....with...him?" He inclined his head toward Cort, whose breathing was growing more shallow and rapid by the moment.

He kicked the dropped object slightly with the polished toe of one exquisite shoe.

“Wasted," he growled. "Do you have any idea what one of these...costs?" He glared at her. "Do you have any idea how...displeased...I am? I was," and here he smiled, his eyes far away, "in the midst of something...pleasurable. And then YOU, you and your bungling interrupted. And, now, well, now I must correct what you, in your great ineptitude, have allowed to occur."

He studied Cort a bit more. The priest was obviously sagging. "And him," Sid added, "were you not supposed to...fix...him?" He glared at Rachel again. "Can you do nothing right? Just look at him. He's a mess!" Cort was wobbling and would probably have sunk to his knees were it not for his arm around Rachel and his determination not to...not in front of THIS guy.

"Who...are...you?" Cort asked. Then looking at Rachel, added, "Why is he talking to you like this? Do you KNOW him?"

"KNOW me?" Sid interrupted. "Why my good Mr. Wells...it IS 'Mr.' now, isn't it? Not 'Reverend'? She is in my employ. The woman works for me." He glared at her again. "Or, at least, she did."

Cort's head was beginning to spin. "She...she...works for you? Rachel? Is he telling the truth? You work for...him?"

Part 5

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