"I love you," Lorraine whispers softly, brushing at Martin's hair with gentle fingers. "Tonight was almost perfect... the dinner, the movie, everything...."

"Almost?" Martin answers, lost in her eyes.

A slow, sensual smile spreads across her face, "The evening's not over yet, Al.... Plenty of time to make sure that it ends properly."

Smiling in counterpoint to his wife, Martin lowers his head to brush his lips across hers - and blinks as someone shakes him awake, sending the fleeting peace of his dream spinning out of his grasp and into nothingness.

"Mrrmmpphhh?" he says sleepily, gathering the pillow in his arms closer to him. "G'way."

The relentless hands shake him again, more energetically this time, and compound their efforts by turning on the light next to the bed.

"Hrrrmmmpphh...? What...? Wha' the matter?" he grumbles, opening one eye a slit to see the pillow in his arms, and not the woman he'd been dreaming of. Damn you Lorraine, he thinks crossly. You're out of my life now, so why can't I stop dreaming about you? Why won't you leave me alone?

Opening his other eye, Martin rolls over in time to see his disturber as she shakes him again. "Dorothy? What's wrong?" he sleepily signs, blinking his blurry vision into focus. Don't need as much sleep as I used to, he muses, but I sleep about three times harder than before -- something else to get used to thanks to these damn powers.

Dorothy waits until she's sure he's paying attention, then signs, "Sick. Stomach hurts."

He sits up and pulls her down onto the edge of the bed. With a gentle hand, he checks her damp forehead and cheeks. "Good God," he mutters, then says/signs, "You don't feel hot. How does your stomach hurt? Do you want to throw up?"

She looks miserably up at him then, wide-eyed, claps a hand over her mouth and dashes for his bathroom. Martin tosses the covers off and follows to find her hunched over the toilet, retching.

He dampens a wash cloth and kneels beside her, wiping her face gently with the cool cloth and pulling her hair back from around her face. She leans against him a moment, then leans over the toilet again.

Her father steadies her, one arm around her shoulders, until the spasms pass. He wipes her mouth again, and turns her face toward him. "You stay here," he signs, repeating the words aloud carefully. "I will call the doctor." She nods and settles down on the floor, leaning against the tub. He hands her the wash cloth, winks at her and smiles encouragingly.

Returning to the bedroom, he punches the portable phone's speed dial button for Dr. Revere's paging service as he pulls a shirt on over his sweatpants. First time I've had to call her, he thinks. Hope she answers back faster than Dr. Kearney. When the operator comes on line, he explains the problem to her as he returns to the bathroom.

Dorothy is still leaning against the tub, her head back and her jaw clenched. Her father pats her on the knee and, when she looks up, smiles at her reassuringly. "I called the doctor," he signs/says, pointing to the phone. "I'm just waiting for her to call me back." God, I hate this; I feel helpless. Do other parents go through this?

Within minutes, the phone rings again. When he answers, an unfamiliar female voice identifies herself as Dr. Megan Revere and says, "What's the problem? My service said Dorothy is sick?"

"Yes," he responds. "She doesn't feel hot, but she's throwing up. I don't know what to do."

"Have you taken her temperature?" she says calmly. "Fevers are tricky things; you might not be able to tell without a thermometer."

"No. She just woke me up, and then started throwing up." Thermometer? I think there's one in the cabinet over the sink, he thinks rapidly. No - Lorraine cleaned the medicine cabinet out when she left - just like the bank account, dammit.

"Is she noticeably warmer than... than you are? Is she sweating?"

Martin gets a hand to his forehead, then pauses, This won't work, he thinks. Emori told me that my body temperature runs like 101-102 degrees normally now. If she feels hotter than me, she needs a fire extinguisher! "I can't tell. I'm sorry; I'm not very good at this." He hears Dorothy move behind him and turns. "Oh, God, she's throwing up again."

"Hold her head, and when she finishes, wipe her face with a cool cloth."

Martin drops onto the floor next to his daughter, propping the phone on his shoulder. "Right."

At the other end of the phone line, Megan Revere rolls her eyes skyward and sighs quietly. Why do I do this? Why couldn't I just stay in research? No, I have to work with kids. But Dorothy is an angel.... "It's okay, Mr. DuQuense. Has she been feeling all right the rest of today?"

"Yes," he responds. "She went to school just fine, and then we went to dinner with my mother." Dorothy has quit vomiting by this point, and he wipes her face again, cuddling her close.

"And what did Dorothy have?"

"Shrimp," he says, puzzled. "Why?"

"Because when I spoke with a friend of mine earlier, he said he'd already seen two cases of food poisoning at the ER tonight. From eating shrimp, at two different restaurants. He believes that a bad batch of shrimp got into the local market and he's trying to track it down. What was the name of the place?"

"I'm going to kill my mother," Martin says calmly.

"That's an odd name. Is that a translation or something?"

"No," he responds wryly. "It's what I'm going to do to my mother, who took us there. The restaurant was Mr. Ho's, on Fifteenth."

"Don't do that," the doctor replies soothingly. "Trust me; you'll regret it later." She pauses a moment, then says, "Tell you what. I'm still at my office; why don't you just bring Dorothy down, and I'll check her out. Do you know the address?"

"I don't think so," he says, then looks down at Dorothy and signs/says, "We're going to go see Dr. Revere. Okay?" She nods and leans against him again.

The doctor reads off her office address. "Think you can find it?"

"I think so; I used to work down in that district."

"Good. Don't bother to dress her, just wrap her in a blanket and bring her on in." 

Martin kills the engine, checking his scribbled note against the small sign in front of the Victorian "Painted Lady" that houses Dr. Revere's small clinic. Satisfied that he has the right address, he gets out and moves around the car to lift Dorothy from the passenger side of the 'Vette.

He closes the door gently with his foot and starts for the door, pausing to turn back and remotely lock the car doors and activate the alarm. Turning back, he maneuvers up the steps, pausing at the door to ring the bell. C'mon, c'mon, where the hell is she? he thinks irritably. A moment later, the intercom buzzes, and a voice says, "Yes?"

"It's Martin DuQuense, with Dorothy," he snaps. The door opens to reveal an attractive, dark-haired woman dressed in a lab coat and scrubs.

"Come in," she says. "Take her through there." She waves a hand toward an archway on the other side of the darkened waiting room and turns back to lock the door. Following Martin, she continues, "First door on the left."

Stepping into the examination room, he gently sets Dorothy on the table and grabs the trash can before it slides from her lap. He unwraps the blanket, wrinkling his nose at the smell, as Dr. Revere comes into the room carrying an electronic thermometer.

"Well," she says cheerily. "Looks -- or at least smells -- like her bowels have evacuated. Let's get her out of that gown." She slips the probe of the thermometer into Dorothy's ear and pushes the button. "No fever." She slips the thermometer into her coat pocket. "Look under that counter," she points, "and get me a gown and some towels. Dampen one of them, and we'll see about getting her cleaned up."

When he turns back, Dr. Revere has stripped Dorothy out of her gown and bundled it up in the blanket. "Got that towel?" He hands it to her, and she starts to wipe the child off. "Wrap her in another one and pick her up, please."

He does, noting gratefully that Dr. Revere seems to be careful to let Dorothy see her mouth movements as she talks. When he lifts her, the doctor pulls the paper cover down off the bed and rolls a fresh one in place. "Okay." He puts her back on the table, sitting down himself to support her.

"Dorothy," the doctor says/signs. "How long after dinner did you start to feel sick?"

"We had dinner at around eight; she woke me at midnight," her father replies softly. Dorothy's fingers are flying, signing roughly the same comment.

"Does your head hurt?" The child nods. "Okay, sweetheart; I think I know what's wrong." She looks over Dorothy's head and says "Probably a mild case of food poisoning. I'll need to have a stool sample checked to be sure, but with that bad batch of shrimp out there it sounds likely. I'll give her a broad spectrum antibiotic to help with that before you leave." She looks back at Dorothy and says/signs, "You'll be fine. I think it was what you ate for dinner. You should be feeling some better by morning, but I don't think you'll be going to school for a few days." She smiles reassuringly at both Dorothy and Martin. "We'll have to take some blood, just to make sure her electrolytes are in balance, but as long as she is eating and drinking she should be fine. You will be fine," she says again, her hands moving slowly in what is obviously not sign language, but rather a series of hand positions around her face. "Sorry," she says/signs, "I'm not very good at signing for Cued Speech yet; I'm just learning." She winks at Dorothy, and returns to the other hand movements. "Dorothy is much better than I am."

Dorothy manages a weak smile, then gets a panicked expression, puts her hand over her mouth, and hops down from the table, making a bee-line for the attached bathroom. Martin starts to follow her, but the doctor catches his arm. "I'll go with her. Do you have some clean clothes for her? I can give her a gown if you don't...." She moves quickly into the small bathroom.

"No," Martin replies, "I have some. I'll go get them." He winces at the sounds Dorothy is making and moves toward the door.

"Right. I didn't reset the alarm; just leave the door unlocked until you get back in." Dr. Revere's voice floats from the next room.

"Okay," Martin answers, moving out into the hall and towards the front of the clinic. Glad I had enough sense to pack those spare clothes, he muses. It might've been even more embarrassing for Dorothy - though from the look on her face just then I'd say that wasn't real likely.

Stopping in the lobby area for a moment, Martin locates the water fountain over in the corner and pauses to fill one of the provided paper cups . I should've brought something to eat, he grumbles to himself. I'm already hungry and it looks like we'll be here a while. Sighing, he downs the water, then refills the cup several more times as he drinks thirstily. Maybe this will lie to my stomach long enough to tide me over until I can get home.

In the middle of his fourth cup, a scratching sound penetrates his thoughts, and he turns to see a pane fall from the window next to the front door, landing quietly on the carpet. Glass cutter, his mind observes calmly, then continues, They must've deactivated the alarm. No, Dr. Revere said she'd turned it off and not reset it. Great, just great - like I really need this.

Reaching for his hip, Martin encounters nothing but empty air and the waistband of his sweats. I don't believe this, he curses silently, slipping over to the corner to stand in the shadow of a large rhododendron. The first time I go out of the house without a gun in seventeen years, and I'm trapped in the middle of a burglary with a sick daughter and a lady doctor. Raising his eyes heavenward for a moment, he asks silently, Why me, God? Was it something I said? Something I did? Just let me know and I'll stop it, whatever it is - okay?

A gloved hand inserts itself through the space left by the excised pane of glass, and gropes a moment before unlatching the window. Okay, Martin thinks, if I just cut the lights on that ought to scare them off...

Looking around, he spies the light switch - on the other side of the lobby behind the receptionist/file area and a pane of glass. I can't win, he groans. This is as bad as the damned base in the Nevada desert was.

Angling his head, Martin peers around the plant to check the now-opening window. Hope there's only one of... Damn - there's someone behind the guy at the window... no two people behind him... that makes three. God hates me.

All right, he thinks. Three to one suck as odds unless you're Bruce Lee and have the fight choreographer in your corner. Can we just give them what they want? No... this late at night they're after something besides money - that means the drug supplies Dr. Revere has on hand... and that means there's no way I'm trusting Dorothy's safety to these guys. I'd get better odds on Joe Montana coming back to play pro ball.

If it has to be the hard way, then I'd better start it now while they're coming in the window, he thinks calculatingly. If I can control their access, maybe they'll leave rather than stay and fight. It also means that I've only got to fight 'em one at a time as they come through.... Moving quietly, Martin slips around the concealing rhododendron and moves towards the window.

As he approaches, the whispered words of the trio become clear in the quiet of the waiting room. "I'm tellin' you, Sammy, that 'Vette wasn't here when I cased the place an hour ago - she must have the boyfriend over or somethin," one of the two figures behind the lead one says in hushed tones.

The lead figure pauses, one leg inside the clinic, and whispers back, "So we take care of him and score the keys to the 'Vette too - big deal. The Dutchman'll give us a good price for it."

Whoa there, Martin thinks, threatening me is one thing, but nobody touches the car! Your ass is mine, buddy.

Stepping up to the speaker, still half in and half out of the window, Martin calmly shifts his weight and drives his foot into the burglar's groin.

With a wheezing gurgle, the burglar folds over at the waist, arms flailing, and begins to fall into the waiting area. "Sammy?" the second figure whispers, "What's wrong man?"

Grasping Sammy's right arm as it passes him, Martin slaps a hand behind the elbow and pivots powerfully, the leverage and momentum pulling the burglar into the waiting area, and sending him smashing face-first into the wall with a satisfying thud. A smear of blood from Sammy's newly-broken nose and smashed lips follows him down the wall as he slides into a heap at the baseboard and lies there.

"Damn," the voice outside says, drawing the 'a' out almost absurdly. "Sammy just tripped and fell clean inside the place. I think he's hurt."

"Don't just stand there, you idiot," a third voice adds, "get in there and help him!" The third figure shoves at the second, "Do I have to tell you guys everything?"

"Okay, okay, I'm going," the second figure says, slipping inside the window quickly. "Quit pushin' me."

Stepping back to the shelter of the potted plant, Martin curses silently, "Dammit, I didn't want them getting inside. I'll have to wait for this one to bend over his partner...."

The second figure looks around the gloom and shadow-filled waiting area for a moment, then spies the figure of his friend against the wall at his feet. "Sammy?" Bending over, he examines the unconscious body of his companion. "You all right, homes?"

That's it, Martin thinks silently, stepping out again and moving towards the kneeling youth, just another second of running that mouth and I'll introduce it to 'Mr. Reebok' - I'm sure you'll get along just fine...."

As he draws his foot back, Martin freezes as the unmistakable metallic 'snick' of a handgun safety sounds from the window. "Freeze, homie," the third figure snaps. "There's somebody in there with you, Joey - I can see 'im movin' around."

Guns, Martin gripes to himself as he pulls up sharply, Everybody has a damn gun nowadays. Why doesn't anyone just carry a knife anymore? As if on cue, Joey produces a double edged knife from his waistband and rises into a crouch with his back to the wall. Me and my big mouth, Martin sighs. I just had to say it, didn't I?

The third figure slips through the window, the silhouette of a large-frame handgun filling one hand. "He's over by that plant to your right, Joey; I've got him covered."

"I think I see 'im Chuckie," the knife-wielding burglar says, moving along the wall towards Martin without crossing the pistol's line of fire. "Lemme take care of 'im and we can figure out who he is later."

Okay, the ex-cop thinks quickly, the knife isn't so bad, he's going to have to come around the loveseat there to reach me, which'll slow him down a lot. The guy over there with the gun though - he's the real problem. What am I gonna do about him? Can't reach him from here, especially not with him.... Oh. Damn, that's stupid of me....

The memory comes unbidden, stabbing into Martin's mind, and he flinches involuntarily as he recalls the sledgehammer impact of the bullet striking his chest and carrying him to the floor. Schiavelli's brutal laugh at Lorraine's cry that he'd killed Martin echoes in Martin's ears, and he winces, feeling the phantom pain subside as he stands up again. He blinks, registering the gun in Tony's hand, his finger tightening on the trigger again - and then the gun's gone, a heavy weight slapping into his hand and his own finger tightening on the trigger reflexively to send Tony crashing to the floor along with the remnants of his life.

Can I do this? Martin asks himself. I don't see any other way out of this that doesn't involve me getting shot - and if that happens Dorothy and Dr. Revere are going to be helpless....

Dr. Revere's voice calls down the hall, "Is everything all right?" Footsteps sound in the hall.

No time to come up with something better, Martin thinks. Gotta be now. "Call 911!" he yells suddenly, reaching out with his thoughts as he speaks, wrapping them around the pistol and giving it the mental TWIST that he's practiced only occasionally since the night his life collapsed. "Burglars!"

The pistol vanishes with a jerk that snaps Chuckie's wrist to one side, and Martin feels the brief touch of metal against his fingertips before the weapon spins off into the darkness of the waiting room. Oh, that was good, he chides himself, lashing out with a foot to send the loveseat sliding across the floor and into Joey as he starts to run forward. I wasn't aiming for unilateral disarmament here.

Joey stumbles and goes to one knee as the loveseat overturns in front of him, cursing in rapid-fire Italian as he scrabbles for the knife he dropped in the fall. "Damn! Shoot 'im Chuckie!"

Chuckie blinks, looking at the empty hand where his gun used to be, then looks up, confused, "Hey - that ain't right!"

Hate that for you, pal, Martin thinks, side-stepping the downed Joey to bury a fist in Chuckie's solar plexus, following it up with a knee to the jaw as the burglar doubles over. Jesus, I hope none of these guys gets a good look at me after that. Better try and finish this fast.

Grabbing Chuckie's arm as the burglar begins to fall, Martin duplicates his earlier hold and runs the dazed criminal into the wall head-first twice more before turning him in a complete 360? arc to build up momentum, and propelling him up and over the clipboard-covered reception counter and through the glass partition to slide down the receptionist's desk on the other side and lie still.

Hope you've got good insurance, Doc, Martin thinks, starting to turn back to the last burglar. Otherwise.... "Ahnnn!" he gasps aloud, his thoughts scattering as Joey jams his knife professionally into his thigh, twisting it viciously.

"Gotcha, you bastard!" Joey crows from his kneeling position on the floor.

That did it, you little maggot, Martin thinks past the red haze of pain from his leg, I'm pissed off now. Crashing his fist down on the crown of Joey's head twice, he staggers backward, pulling the knife from the momentarily stunned boy's hand. Now it's personal.

Joey scrambles to his feet as Martin staggers back, his healing factor already starting to clear the pain away. Assuming a stylized pose, Joey's hands beginning to wave in front of him in some sort of martial arts kata. "Better back off Mr. Superhero-man... I been taking lessons in case I met one o' you guys. C'mon -- I'm ready for ya!"

Squinting at the dancing figure of his opponent, Martin shakes his head, You've got to be kidding me.

Distracted by his amusement, and hampered by the fading pain as well as the physical presence of the knife lodged in his leg, Martin fails to step out of the way in time when the burglar leaps forward with a shrill cry and kicks him squarely in the chest. The blow's impact drives the wind out of Martin, sending him stumbling back into the wall. Great, now I have to fight Bruce Lee too.... Why can't anything be simple anymore?

I'll be damned if I'm playing this game, Martin thinks, glancing around the room for something to use as a weapon. Chairs are too big.... Coat rack's too unwieldy.... There were some crutches or something over by the water fountain.... He's going to kick me again....

Throwing himself aside, Martin dodges the next kick, hits the floor, and slides on the carpet for several feet, gouging his thigh as the knife snags on something and twists again. "Arrrrhhhh!" he snarls in pain.

"Ohhh.... Hurt yourself there did'ja Mr. Superhero-man? Thas' okay - I'll be gentle wit' ya," Joey chuckles, circling around the room. "I al'ays knew you guys were nowheres near as tough as ya' made out."

That, Martin thinks, concentrating past the throbbing pain receding yet again from his leg, is just about enough of that. From his new vantage point, he eyes one of the crutches in the corner by the water fountain and concentrates, reaching out to TWIST it as he had the gun earlier.

This time, the wood slams into his waiting hand as he wants it too, and he rolls over quickly to scythe the crutch at ankle height, cutting Joey's feet out from underneath him as he moves forward. As the burglar falls, tangling with the overturned loveseat once again, Martin levers himself up on one knee and brings the crutch down on him repeatedly, stopping only when he accidentally catches one of the loveseat legs and splinters the crutch.

"Damn," Martin gasps in relief, struggling to his feet in the suddenly quiet waiting room. "I'm glad there weren't four of them."

"The police are on their way," Dr. Revere's voice echoes warningly down the now-quiet hallway. "Mr. DuQuense? Martin?"

Surveying the damage to the waiting room and the formerly glassed-in receptionist area, Martin sighs to himself. Great. Just great. I'll be filling out police reports for the next month. Not to mention how I'm gonna explain this if the Doc sees it, he thinks, examining the knife lodged in his thigh. Oh well, no other way around it, he sighs, gritting his teeth and easing the blade out. Damn, that hurt a lot less when it went in.

"Mr. DuQuense?" Dr. Revere's voice echoes down the hall again.

Oops; better say something quick. For all I know, she has a machine gun back there and is just waiting for an excuse to use it. "I'm all right, Doctor. If you can bring me some adhesive tape, that would be good." He pauses. "Duct tape would be better...."

Dr. Revere rounds the corner cautiously, an aluminum baseball bat clutched in her hands. "Are you...?" Her voice trails off as she catches sight of the disaster in the waiting room. "What...? I heard glass breaking...?"

Martin waves a hand toward the receptionist area. "That would be him, I think."

Dr. Revere's eyes widen as she takes in the two denim-clad legs ending in expensively sneakered feet sticking up over the receptionist's counter. "How on earth?"

While the doctor is looking in the other direction, Martin uses the knife to cut the blood-soaked portion from his sweats, wipes the blood on his leg off with it, and moves over to the punk mated with the crutch and couch. After a quick glance at the doctor, he rolls him over and uses the material as a pressure bandage on a copiously bleeding head wound, surreptitiously wiping the knife and the crutch clean at the same time.

Dr. Revere shakes her head and moves over to Sammy, checking for a pulse, then looks up. "Well, he's not dead. But I don't think I should move him until I can immobilize his neck. What about that one?" she asks, moving toward the receptionist's desk. "What happened here? You said something about burglars?"

Damn, I've gotta come up with something quick here, Martin thinks. Wait a minute, what was that this one said... superheroes? Yeah, that's it, I'll blame it on one of those spandex guys! This is McKenzie's territory; he won't ask any questions if I say that. But who? Dragonfist could do it, but he's kinda retired now. Ummm.... Oh, the hell with it; I'll go for the big guns. "I don't know, Doc. If a broken nose and maybe a broken jaw is fatal, then he's in a bad way. I really think he's just not going to be talking for a while." He pauses. "The Specter wasn't real gentle with these guys." Standing up and brushing his hands off, he continues. "Personally, I'm just glad he didn't laugh."

Dr. Revere straightens up from checking Chuckie. "This one is unconscious, and I think some of his ribs are broken. There's blood on his mouth, but I think it's from his lip and the superficial facial abrasions he sustained going through the glass." She comes back into the waiting room, her lab coat spotted with blood. "I hope the cops...." She breaks off, spotting a wide-eyed Dorothy standing in the doorway. "It's all right," she says/signs reassuringly.

Martin looks up. "What's all ri...? Oh." He moves quickly over to Dorothy, taking her in his arms. "It's okay, honey; I'm here and I'm fine. A superhero came and beat up the bad guys for me." Great, I'm already lying to my daughter about this. What a perfect ending to a perfect evening. Still, it could have been worse. Martin shoves the thoughts that follow out of his head violently. I'm not going to imagine what it would be like losing you too, honey, he thinks, hugging Dorothy fiercely.

As the blue and red lights from the patrol car flash through the front window, Dr. Revere unlocks the front door, leans against the doorjamb and sighs. "How am I going to explain this to my insurance company? 'Oh, the Specter bounced some guys around in my waiting room after they....'" She trails off. "What were they doing?"

"They said something about drugs when they first came in," Martin replies. "Then he showed up, and any further conversation was out of the question."

"Are you hurt?" she asks abruptly, surveying him in concern.

"No." He glances down at his clothes. "Mostly I just hid. Burglars are a little out of my line of work now - and paranormals never were."

She smiles in relief. "Want to borrow some scrubs? I'm afraid those sweats are a loss." Martin nods his thanks and drops into a chair, pulling Dorothy into his lap, as the police come in through the door. Okay, he tells himself. Maybe these damn powers weren't the worst thing that's ever happened to me... but that doesn't get them out of the top ten... yet.