Grace stumbled from her blood-stained bed, dropped the knife, and retched.
Nothing came up, though tears stung her eyes.  She knuckled the moisture 
away and stared at the corpse of her former live-in lover.
   "My God," she whispered.  "Oh, my God."
   The last thing she remembered doing earlier that evening was double-checking 
that the doors were locked, then going to bed.
   She wrapped her arms around herself, heedless of the bloody fingerprints 
they left on her charmeuse nightgown, then rapidly backed into the corner 
next to the bed with a dull thump.
   She stood there for some minutes, simply staring, stunned.
   "This has got to be a dream," she whispered hoarsely.  "I've got to wake up."
   Nothing happened.
   "God, please let me wake up!"
   She became aware of the ticking of the dresser clock.  Squinting, she was 
barely able to see that it read:  3:00 AM.  Outside, the normal San Franciscan 
night sounds could be heard.
   Suddenly, her ears picked up the distant wail of a siren, and she twitched.  
Slumping slightly, she began to hyperventilate.
   Abruptly, she stumbled away from the corner, and tottered her way around 
the room, giving the bed a wide berth.
   "My God," she whispered, "what am I going to do?"
   In shock as she was, she still knew how the situation would look to the police.  
This whole situation was insane.  She hadn't even been seeing Brian any more, 
yet he was somehow here.  She was either insane, or dreaming, or...
   Or had been set-up?
   But God, why?  By whom?
   She averted her eyes and clenched her teeth in a rictus of despair as she passed 
the other side of the bed, heading for the bedroom door.  As hurt as she had 
been when he had moved out, she would never in a million years have wished 
this on Brian.  Her friends and family would know this, too.  But what, 
realistically, could she expect the authorities to think?
   She could still hear the siren, wailing in the distance.  Had someone heard 
something, called the police?
   A sudden wild plan ripped through her head (hide the body clean the knife 
leave today yes leave NOW).  Then she hesitated, slumping again in despair, 
leaning against the door jamb.  That sort of thing didn't work.
   Oh, God.  They were going to arrest her -- they'd have to; the evidence 
all pointed to her.  A failed relationship, angry phone calls, an argument in 
public just this evening.  Brian had behaved so strangely, accosting her like 
that...
   She suppressed a hysterical laugh and closed her eyes, blinking back the 
tears that were starting to leak out.  She wasn't waking up -- this nightmare 
wasn't going away.  She took a deep, shuddering breath and stood up straight.
   She was going to have to get a grip on herself, and face this.  She thought 
of calling her father, or Cathy or Jim, but stood, hesitating.  This would kill 
them.  And something as lurid as this was bound to get publicised...
   Grace walked unsteadily down the hallway to the bathroom.  There, she 
shakily washed off the blood as best she could.  She supposed that was 
destroying evidence or something, but she couldn't bear to think of facing the 
police in her current state of disarray.
   Walking back to the bedroom, she numbly divested herself of her stained 
night-dress and reached for underwear, slacks and a shirt.
   She made the mistake of glancing over at the bed as she dressed, and 
flinched at the sight of Brian staring up at the ceiling.  Normally, he would 
have been staring at her, with that familiar look...
   No no stop thinking about that oh God He's DEAD
   She slumped to the floor, tears streaming down her face.


Some time later, Grace walked slowly down the short hallway to the kitchen/living 
room, dread tugging at her heart.
   She was going now to call the police, to turn herself in.  Doing the right thing.
   She padded reluctantly into the kitchen, then stopped, hesitating near the stairs 
as she looked over at the phone.
   Once she made that call, there was no turning back.  They would come, and 
arrest her, and the whole chain of events would be set into motion.  What if she 
couldn't prove her innocence; what if nobody believed her?  What a lame-brained 
excuse:  'Your Honor, I know it looks bad, but he really wasn't there when I 
went to bed...'
   The looks on the faces of Brian's family.  On her father's.  On the faces of 
her friends and former collegues.  And so much for her move to Boston, to her 
new position at the Whitman and Bergman.  Even if she was able to somehow 
prove that she hadn't done it, who would want to employ a doctor who'd been 
accused of murder?
   Somebody had gone to an awful lot of trouble to destroy her life.
   But even worse than that was the thought, way in the back of her mind, that 
perhaps Brian had come to the house, that she had let him in; that something 
had happened...  Could she have traumatic amnesia?
   "Oh, God..." she keened from between clenched teeth, as she slumped, 
sitting down heavily on the top step of the stairway.
   Down below, in her living room, a voice chuckled, there in the dark.
   "Oh, no," it said.  "Just me."
   She froze, clenched in horror, then abruptly lurched to her feet.
   How could she have been so careless?  The murderer was still in the house!
   As she took a step backwards, a sudden wild hope took hold of her.  If she 
could just get the police here now, before he could escape, then she could 
start to find a way out of this horror!
   Then she heard him beginning to speak again, and froze, listening.
   "I have to admit to some surprise that he hasn't shown up, yet.," the voice 
told her.  She squinted in the direction it was coming from.  The speaker 
seemed to be sitting in the armchair in the dark corner, the one that had 
replaced the sofa Brian had re-possessed.  "I thought for certain that he 
would have been here already.  Ah, well.  No plan is certain."
   Grace stared.  What on Earth was he talking about?  A mentally unstable 
person -- that would explain it, yes, that fact that Brian had been killed, 
while she'd been inexplicably spared.  This person had somehow broken 
in here, and killed Brian, what, while she'd *slept*?  She'd have woken 
up!  And how had Brian gotten here?  Perhaps the killer had hit her or 
something.  That could explain her lack of memory about what had 
happened.
   She backed carefully up into the kitchen area, hoping to attract no more 
attention.  Let him ramble, sitting there in the chair, while she dialed the 
police...
   "Doctor Holloway, what are you doing?"  The obscurely accented voice 
sounded amused.
   She twitched.
   Behind her, she heard the sound of someone getting up from the chair 
and walking across the floor downstairs.
   It was not a very large room.  Within seconds, she heard him beginning 
to climb the stairway.
   Gasping, she whirled, the receiver in her hands.  Putting it down, She 
darted forward, intending to flee to the bedroom, lock herself in and call 
the police from there.
   Too late.  She froze as a sillhouette appeared at the top of the stairway, 
pausing in the entrance to the kitchen area.
   She shrank back against the counter, glancing around for a weapon.  Her 
eyes fell upon her knife rack, and she shuddered.
   The figure stood, regarding her.  It was a tall, lean man, middle-aged, 
dressed all in black - black turtleneck, sport jacket, trousers.  His hair was 
blond and slicked back, his features sharp.
   Folding his arms, he leaned against the wall.  "Going somewhere?" he 
asked her, an undertone of mockery in his words.  "What's the matter - got 
a guilty conscience?"
   She took a deep breath.  He seemed fairly coherent, for a disturbed individual.  
"Why did you do this?" she asked, as evenly as she could.
   "I?"  He spread his arms wide in a gesture of wounded innocence.  "I'm 
not the murderer here, Grace.  You are.  Ironic, really -- a healer murdering."
   He was mocking her.  She defiantly again took the phone in her hand 
and started to shakily punch in 911.
   She felt rather than saw the smile.  "Oh, please do, Doctor.  The police 
will be very interested to find out what has happened here."
   She hesitated.  He was awfully coherent.  Her earlier suspicions of having 
been framed re-surfaced.
   "Why did you do this?" she asked again, more strongly.  "Who are 
you?"
   He tsked.  "And we were together just a few days ago... Oh, but I 
forget:  so much more time has passed for me than for you," he said, 
lightly.  "And I look different now."
   She frowned.
   He sighed.  "And I suppose you were distracted -- you *were* screaming 
at the time."  He started toward her.  She dropped the receiver and slid 
alongside the counter, trying to keep the dining table between them, and 
groped for a knife.
   "Stay back," she told him, shakily, brandishing the carving knife.  "I'll 
use this if I have to."
   He stopped momentarily, tilting his head.  "Oh, indeed," he commented 
sardonically.  "You already did."
   Grace stared at him, appalled.  "I did not!" she whispered.  Then, in a 
blur of movement, faster than she would have believed possible, he was 
upon her.  Grabbing her arms, he twisted, and the knife clattered to the 
floor.
   All she could do was stand, frozen, her arms gripped tight.
   All right.  This madman was going to kill her.  She closed her eyes, 
hoping it would be quick.
   "I was so close," he told her with soft menace.  "I almost destroyed 
him - the closest I've ever come."  The grip on her arms tightened 
painfully.  "But for you."
   The bizarre events of New Year's Eve flooded back into her memory, 
and her eyes flew open as she finally connected the fantastic events of 
that night with the stranger's sardonic statements.
   The Time Lord known as the Master threw back his head and laughed, 
delighted.
   "Oh, Doctor Holloway, if only you could see the look on your 
face - priceless!"  He stared hard at her again.  "But only the smallest 
bit of what you owe me for interfering."





To be continued...








Part 3 || FanFic Home