*****

"I should be committed.  I am out of my damned *mind*."

Samantha muttered the words under her breath as she climbed down the rickety ladder
attached to the tiny commuter plane.  She breathed a sigh of relief once she was on solid
ground, then began to walk toward the little shack that passed for an airport in these parts.

She couldn't believe that she was actually back in Otis, California.

And not even at gunpoint or under threat of some horrible blackmail, mind you.  She'd
been invited, and she'd *accepted*, and that alone should earn her an all-expenses-paid
trip to the mental institution of her choice.

She opened her purse and shook her head in half-amusement, half-disgust at sight of her
travel companion, a Beanie Baby shaped like a little black cat holding a red rose in its
paw.  She sighed; apparently Sheriff Post was still a bit clueless about just how badly roses
freaked her out.  Of course, Sheriff Post was also a bit clueless about other things, such as
how to walk and chew gum at the same time.  But the note he'd sent to her at the VCTF
had touched her in some deep, mysterious, dorky kind of way:


"Dear Dr. Waters, oops, I mean, Samantha,

We in Otis need your help. 

We just lost five more solid citizens and I don't like the looks of things.  At first I thought
the diner deaths were just coincidence, I mean, spoiled meatloaf happens, right?  But the
last victim, Skeet "Elvis" Presley (helluva bowler, pardon my language), was found dead
next to a half-eaten peanut butter and banana sandwich, and I'm pretty sure those don't
spoil.

I think we have another killer on the loose.  At this rate we'll lose the entire bowling team
and be the laughingstock of the Otis-Brackwater Intra-Town Bowl-Off.  You're truly a
rose among thorns, you saved us before.  Won't you help a friend in need?

Yours, 
Ed Post"


At first Sam ignored the note, thinking that what they really needed in Otis wasn't a
profiler but a health inspector to shut down Mabel's Diner.  Besides, she'd gotten the
distinct feeling that Ed had developed a little crush on her and it wouldn't do to encourage
such things, he definitely seemed like the delicate type who wouldn't take rejection very
well.  But she kept looking at his note, and then the Beanie Baby, and before she knew it
she was calling Ed and telling him to meet her at the Otis Airport.  She'd come up with
some painfully lame story for Bailey, something about having to visit a sick friend in San
Francisco.  He'd given her a skeptical "I know you're blowing us off and going
shoe-shopping for the weekend" look, but he'd let her go without a fuss, none the wiser
about her true intentions.

Besides, it wasn't like anybody needed her in Atlanta right now.  Chloe was visiting her
grandparents for a couple of weeks, and Angel was on a romantic road trip with her new
boyfriend.  All of the serial killers seemed to be on summer vacation at the moment, and
Donald Lucas...*eeeeesh*.  

It wasn't that she was sorry they'd finally caught Jack of all Trades; hell, she was ecstatic
to move out of the firehouse and into a nice home in Buckhead with green lawns and open
windows and a big lion's-head door knocker.  It was just that, after years of playing cat
and mouse games, enduring the loss of her loved ones, being terrorized and taunted on a
daily basis...eh, well, after all that it was a bit of a let-down to find out that her nemesis
was a big loser.  Frankly, it bummed her out.  If the man who proclaims himself your
soul-mate turns out to be nothing more than a metamucil-drinking, prematurely balding,
tai chi obsessed dweeb-boy, just what exactly the hell does that say about *you*??  She
really didn't want to think about those ramifications, life sucked enough as it was.

"Dr. Waters, oops, I mean Samantha!  Over here!"

The familiar drawl derailed Sam's gloomy train of thought; to her mild surprise, she
realized that she was actually looking forward to spending time with Ed.  She glanced
around, scanning the crowd for a man in uniform, then yelped in shock when a hand
touched her arm and she turned to find herself nose to nose with Santa Claus.

Santa quickly pulled his beard aside before she could scream again, and she recognized the
Sheriff's face.  "Jesus Christ, Ed, what the hell are you trying to do, give me a heart
attack?"  she snapped.

"Sorry about that, Samantha, didn't think I'd startle you that much," Ed countered with an
affable chuckle.  "Guess I should've warned you that I'd be getting into the spirit of things,
with the time of year and all."

She blinked at him.  "Ed, it's July.  It's ninety degrees in the shade."

"Yes?"  Ed stared back at her as if waiting for her to get to the point.  When she finally
gestured mutely at his black boots and red fur snowsuit he finally brightened.  "Oh!  Oh, I
reckon the Santa suit might seem a little bit extreme to you.  It's true, most folks are
opting for the Halloween look this year, but hey, I'm an old-fashioned guy, I guess you
could say I like the classics."

Sam glanced around and began to realize that in fact there *were* a lot of costumed
Otisites in the airport.  A woman walked by in a big Easter Bunny outfit, complete with a
basket of eggs; right behind her came a couple in matching black spider costumes, carrying
children's orange plastic jack-o-lanterns filled with candy. When a large multiply-tattooed
man in a tiny diaper handed her a pink paper heart and skipped away behind the
spider-people and the bunny, Sam really began to wonder if that hadn't been LSD in her
airplane coffee instead of Sweet-and-Low.

"Ed, I know I'll regret asking, but what's going on here?"  she groaned.

Ed smiled brightly.  "Why, it's Otis Holidays, Samantha."  At her blank look, he shrugged
and continued.  "I can't believe you haven't heard of it, it's our biggest festival of the year. 
It even beats out the Otis Cow-Bowling Pageant."

Sam began to ask if the cows were the ones doing the bowling or the ones being bowled,
then decided that either answer would be way too much scary information for her to
process anyway.

Ed was chattering on as he carried her luggage to the patrol car.  "When Otis founded the
town he thought it would be easier for people to just have one big chunk of holidays and
get 'em all over with at once.  That way everyone could pick their favorite celebration and
forget the rest.  Otherwise folks would have to be able to read calendars and such, and
that's assuming a lot of talent that the locals don't necessarily have, if you get my drift.  It
probably looks a little strange to outsiders, but it grows on you."

"If you say so," muttered Samantha as she stepped into the patrol car.  "So about these
meatloaf murders, Ed...."

"And the peanut butter and bananas, Samantha, can't forget that."  Ed reminded her,
handing her a tall frosted glass of something very red and very cold.  "We can talk about
the case later.  You look parched, have some Holiday Punch. It's one of the town
specialties."

*So are people with six toes on each foot*, thought Samantha, but the drink smelled
wonderful and she was hot and thirsty.  She took a healthy sip, then another.

"This is delicious," she admitted.  "But Ed, we really need to -- to talk -- about --"

She suddenly couldn't get the words out; her mouth didn't seem to be working too well. 
Ed had pulled off the Santa hat and fake beard; as he turned toward her his features
blurred across her line of vision, in a manner that stirred up some distant alarming
memories.

"You still want to talk shop? All work and no play makes Samantha a dull girl," he purred,
suddenly without a trace of accent or dorkiness.  

The voice was the final trigger.  She remembered exactly where she'd heard it before as
well as all the other images it summoned back -- a warehouse, her blindness, lots of
poisonous crawly things, and "walk a mile in my shoes."  She tried to gasp, although it
sounded more like a gurgle.  

"It'sh *you*!"  she slurred, trying to make her thick tongue form the words.  "You
drugged me!"

Jack grinned.  "Tasty way to do it, though, wasn't it?  Touch of this, touch of that, a bottle
of habanero pepper sauce and a little Haldol thrown in just for fun.  The perfect modified
Bloody Mary, courtesy of an old pharmacist friend of mine -- that profession seems to
attract the most delightfully warped individuals."

Samantha tried to shake off the drowsiness, but her eyelids were getting heavier by the
minute.  "You were free all along," she murmured.  

A stray wisp of hair fell across her forehead.  Jack brushed it back gently.  "Free from steel
cages, Samantha," he breathed against her cheek.  "Never free from my heart's cage. 
You're the only one with that key, dear one.  You're my warden."

Samantha shivered at the heat from his breath.  "You were...never in cushtody," she
fumbled.  "You're not...Donald Lucash, and Lucash ishn't...Jack."  

Holding her eyes with his own, he nodded somberly.

"*Thank God!*"  Sam sputtered and promptly fell dead asleep, her head landing face
down in Jack's Santa-suited lap.

Jack chuckled.  "Time for that later, dear heart," he quipped, gently repositioning her in
the passenger seat.  "I don't think the locals would take too kindly to a little drive-by Bill
and Monica re-enactment.  Let's get you home."

He donned the Santa cap, pasted the Ed Post dorky smile back on his face, and pulled out
of the airport parking lot, in the opposite direction from the Otis Police Department.

*****

Samantha groaned and sat up, then immediately regretted the sudden movement as the
little man tap-dancing in her head began to pick up the tempo.  Sinking back down to a
crouch, she breathed quietly and let her eyes become adjusted to the dim light.   

Her heart began to pound in alarm as it all came into focus.  Candles and rose petals were
scattered everywhere; the dueling scents of roses, burning wax and tobacco filled the
room.  At the center of it all was a large desk holding a computer.  Her official VCTF ID
picture flashed on the screen; hundreds of other pictures of her were scattered across the
desk, taped to the walls, even fixed to the ceiling over the bed.  The bed -- oh my God,
she was on a *bed*, she was on *Jack's bed*, this couldn't be a good thing at all.  She
tried to stand and managed to slide right off the navy satin sheets and onto the floor in an
undignified lump.

"Dammit," she hissed as the little man in her head began to tap-dance a show-stopper. 
Her throat was killing her, she wanted to drink a gallon of water -- what the hell had Jack
said about using an entire bottle of habanero pepper sauce?  

"Bastard," Sam grumbled and crawled to her feet.  She began to search for an escape
route, but curiosity got the better of her and she paused in front of Jack's computer,
mesmerized.   Various strange little objects were interspersed with her pictures; she
recognized the badge from the Otis Sheriff's Department as well as the Chinese
finger-traps and Snoopy band-aids she'd seen Ed play with the last time she'd come to
town.  Several small fruit-shaped refrigerator magnets lay on the keyboard, as well as the
magnetic letters "j," "a," "c," and "k."  Sam couldn't help giggling as she picked up the
magnetic "j" and twirled it in her fingers.

"Sesame Street and the latest serial murders have been brought to you today by the letter
'J' and the number '69,'" she intoned, giggling harder.

"Why, Samantha, you *do* have a twisted sense of humor once you get away from the
stuffed shirts at the FBI.  But wherever did you come up with that number?"

She jumped and dropped the letter, whirling around and turning bright pink simultaneously
-- why the hell *had* she used that number?  

"Morning, sleepyhead," Jack grinned, dropping into the computer chair beside her and
lighting a cigarette.  "Miss me?"

"Hardly.  You know, they'll find me," Sam stated flatly.  "You won't get away with this,
Bailey will --"

"Bailey will this, Bailey will that, yada yada yada," Jack interrupted her, rolling his eyes. 
"You really need to expand your list of earnest rebuttals, Samantha, that one's beginning
to bore me.  What Bailey *will* do is have a wonderful vacation with his ex-wife.  Oh,
didn't you hear?"  He batted his eyes at her mockingly.  "She emailed him that she'd seen
the light, she wanted to be back with him and him alone.  She asked him to put on his
black leather jacket, jump on that big motorcycle and play the part of her James Dean, till
death do them part.  So the Rebel Without a Clue is vroom-vrooming up to New York
tonight to get remarried."  He took a deep drag off the Marlboro and picked up a Cheeto
with a pair of tweezers. "Of course, when he gets there he'll find out that she's changed her
mind and decided that she'd rather be remarried in Vermont, so it's more vroom-vroom to
New England.  I predict he'll be playing a marital 'Where's Waldo' for at least a week
before he either blows a tire or catches on."

"You're underestimating their commitment.  They'll be worried about me, they always
are...."

Jack sighed.  "Samantha, take it from a member of the male species, never underestimate
the power of the little head to think for the big head.  Bailey's in search of marital bliss and
John is jetting off to Tahiti to accept the kind offer to co-star in a Victoria's Secret lingerie
video, even as we speak."  He pulled the fake emails and invitations up onto the computer
screen and turned back to her with a triumphant grin.  "You can't blame us, it's the way
we're wired.  I'm just smart enough to take advantage of that to go after what turns *my*
head."

He leered pointedly at her and leaned back in the computer chair, stretching out with
ankles crossed and his hands behind his head.  Sam glared, then swallowed uncomfortably
as she got a good look at him.  Ed Post's pouchy stomach was apparently fake; there was
no way to hide any excess flab under the tight black tee shirt and black pants Jack was
wearing.  He must have just taken a hot shower, his hair was still damp and slicked back,
and she could practically feel the moist heat radiating from his skin....*OK, bad thought,
very bad, don't go there*, she scolded herself.  After all, he was a serial killer, he was a
heartless soulless bastard and she hated him, never mind that he was gorgeous and brilliant
and funny and in love with her and, God, that thing he was doing with his tongue and the
Cheetos was pretty damned incredible....She groaned and shook her head.

"What's wrong, Samantha?  If you're disappointed in what you see I could always mumble
something inane about Sunday school or do some tai chi."  

Jack's smirk made her blush harder.  "Stop it," she muttered.  "It won't work."

"What won't work?"  Jack blinked innocently at her, but the brown doe eyes were
sparkling with mischief.

"Trying to make me laugh, or like you.  It's a lost cause."  Samantha set her mouth in a
hard frown.

"But, oh, Sam, you were my Sunday School sweetheart.  Let me get this ten-foot pole out
of my ass, Sam, and then I'll be your nerd-boy forever, *Sam*."  Jack's Donald imitation
was dead on, right down to the stiff shoulders and earnest geeky stare.  Samantha's frown
dissolved in a torrent of explosive giggles.

Jack's smile oozed triumph.  "See, I told you I could make you --*ouch*!"  He ducked as
a plastic coathanger came sailing across the room, glanced off his left ear, and sent his
framed Rasputin picture crashing to the floor.  "I spent a fortune for that on eBay," he
muttered glumly as he looked at the ruined picture.  "What's wrong, Samantha?  Afraid
you might actually be starting to have a little fun around me?"  Still rubbing his sore ear,
he stood up and advanced toward her.

"That was nervous laughter, you cocky bastard.  I still hate you.  Stay back!"  Sam
growled, grabbing the nearest thing she could find and brandishing it like a weapon.  Jack
stopped and folded his arms across his chest with an amused grin; she looked down and
realized that her threatening implement was nothing more than a wire kitchen whisk.  "Oh
shit!"  she groaned, dropping the whisk and searching for something better to throw.

"If you want to show me what a bad boy I've been, princess, I can think of some better
toys than that to -- *no*!!  Not my CD collection, please?  See, I'm not coming any closer,
OK?"  He raised his hands in a placating gesture, looking slightly alarmed as she hesitated
over a fistful of CDs.  "Have a heart, Samantha -- do you know how hard it is to find good
music in Otis?" 

"God, Jack, if I didn't think you were demented before....What the hell are these,
tunes-to-maim-and-dismember-by?"  Samantha leafed through the CDs in dismay.  "The
Switchblade Kittens?  Cap'n Crunch and the Cereal Killers?  Eww, The Bloody Stools?!"

"Hey, 'Give Head or Die' has a nice beat and you can dance to it," Jack countered
defensively.  "Besides, you didn't take me for a Michael Bolton fan anyway, did you?"

She hesitated at one CD and blanched.  "Oh, this one's appropriate -- Jack Off Jill."

Jack glanced at her appraisingly.  "What's wrong, Samantha?  For someone who hates my
every breath you sound a bit jealous."

"Shut up!  Bastard...."  Sam muttered.  To her dismay, she felt herself blushing and
blinking back tears.  She became aware of a warm arm curling around her waist, and a
body pressing against her from behind; it should have made her shudder in horror and
disgust, yet somehow he felt as natural there as if they were two pieces of some beautiful
secret puzzle.

"Now you know how I felt about Tom and Coop," Jack murmured teasingly, his lips soft
against her ear as he formed the words.  "But you stopped looking too soon, I think the
next band will be more to your tastes."  He placed a surprisingly soft hand over hers,
exerting gentle pressure against her fingers until she flipped to the next CD.  

Samantha stared at the name, then laughed despite herself.  "Oh, Jack Killed Jill?  Excuse
me, I think you're taking a bit too much credit there, didn't you have a little help with
that?"  She pressed back against him suggestively as her hand snaked up his arm; Jack
gasped softly but didn't seem to notice that a substantial chunk of his warped music
collection had just crashed to the floor.  "I think some scorned blonde psychologist was
involved in that little caper...although she probably had convinced herself that she hated
you at the time."  She wound around slowly until she was pressed back against him, this
time nose to nose.

"Hmm, what does she think now?"  Jack's question ended in a little cough as her fingers
found the belt at his waist and started to pull at the buckle.

"She thinks that the only way to really understand you is to do a very involved, in-depth
profile."  Sam began to lower herself into a kneeling position, depositing little kisses on
Jack's chest and waist on the way down.  "Something. Very. Up. Close. And.
Personal....Mmm, see, I just added something lovely to my profile -- now I know you
don't like boxers *or* briefs."

"Ohh, Samantha...."  Jack groaned and grabbed onto the nearest counter space for
support.  "Oh God, in my wildest dreams I never hoped you'd -- *ow*!!"

Sam looked up at him, startled.  Jack winced, smiling apologetically.  "I, um, think some
of that habanero hot sauce might still be on your breath."

She grinned wickedly at him.  "You deserve it, you know -- but never mind, I'll borrow
your Scope and be right back.  Oh, and Jack?  When I walk back in here you'd better be
wearing Ed Post's sheriff's hat and a big smile.  And that's all."

Jack blinked and swallowed hard.  "Y-yes, Samantha," he stammered, then made a beeline
for the bed like, well, a crazy man.  

Sam laughed affectionately at all the ruckus her sexy nemesis was making; she'd shed her
clothes and finished touching up her makeup before she realized that she'd been humming
"Deck the Halls" the whole time she was in the bathroom.  *Eh, blame Otis*, she thought,
grinning at her reflection in the mirror.  The red metallic wrapping paper made for nice
disposable lingerie.   

"Happy Otis Holidays, Jack.  So, do you want to unwrap your present?"

"Ohh, Samantha...."

*****

"Bailey, what is that thing?"  John stared at the strange looking little ornament on his boss'
desk.

"What the hell does it look like, John?  It's a bowling ball with a Santa Claus cap on it. 
You don't exactly need a freakin' PhD to figure it out." 

John shrugged defensively.  "Hey, chill out, Bailey.  You're not the only one who had a
crappy week, OK?   Our anonymous practical jokester forgot to include sunscreen in that
little Tahiti package he put together for me, the bastard.  I'll be peeling for weeks in places
I can't even reach."  

"Spare me, John, at least you can sit down without crying like a girl."  Bailey grimaced
and shifted around on the inflatable cushion.  "It wasn't enough for that sadistic
sonuvabitch to pretend to be Janet, he had to re-route me through every renovated
cobblestone road in Connecticut for seventy-two straight hours.  My goddamned
hemorrhoids have hemorrhoids.  The only time I'll ever get back on a motorcycle is when
we learn the bastard's identity. Then I'll drive over his head again and again and --"

"Whine, whine, whine."  Grace stuck her head through the office doors.  "You guys
should be counting your blessings.  Imagine how things could've turned out if Donald
Lucas had been responsible for this.  What the hell are you doing with a Christmas
ornament on your desk in July, Bail?"

Bailey sighed.  "It's a gift from Sam.  I think she feels guilty for taking that leave of
absence."

Grace shook her head.  "Poor thing, she finally gets Jack out of her life and then she has to
play nurse-maid to some sick friend."

"Who is this friend, exactly?"  John asked, twirling the bowling ball ornament in his hand.

Bailey shrugged.  "She never really said, just mentioned that he was 'sick in every sense'
and would be flat on his back for at least a month.  She also said that she'd been
performing such intensive therapy on him that she could barely walk."

"That's our Samantha, she gives till it hurts.  Say, Bailey, this ornament says 'made in Otis.' 
You don't think --"

"Nah, couldn't be.  Although the card that came with it mentioned something about the
Otis Cow-Bowling Pageant too."

"Wait, does that mean that the cows are --"   

"Drop it, John, some things are better left unexamined."


*****END*****











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