He snagged a beer out of the refrigerator and walked back out into the den. Maybe there was something remotely interesting on TV. He could use a good distraction right now. Distraction. God, the word alone brought a whole set of images with it. Cameron Bradshaw, the Navy pilot whose life he'd saved, the man who he was hopelessly attracted to, the man who had shared his bed, both literally and figuratively.

Mason sank onto the sofa and took a long drink of the beer in his hand. Had it really only been three days since that government agent guy had come to retrieve Cameron? The agent had more or less said that Cam's motorcycle accident had been a murder attempt, and that the death of his roommate had essentially been a sequel. Christ, that was a scary set of thoughts.

The surgeon looked down at his hands. Healer's hands, and not just by the fact there was an M.D. after his name. He was psi. His grandmother had called it "touched by the Lady." Yeah, capital "L" there. His paternal grandmother had lived in Louisiana and he had spent exactly one unforgettable summer there. That was the summer right after he had watched his German shepherd get struck by a car. He had picked her up in his arms and, sobbing over her broken, barely-alive body, had "willed" her back to be okay again. She had miraculously recovered. He had then promptly passed out and ended up spending the next seven hours unconscious in a hospital. Afterward, his father had informed him that he would be spending his summer vacation with Grandma Flynn.

His parents had driven him all the way to Louisiana and told him they would pick him up the weekend before his freshman year in high school. End of explanation. And they drove away.

Grandma Flynn had been both sympathetic and mightily pissed that his parents had been so closed mouthed about the reason for the extended visit. And then she explained. She herself was "touched by the Lady," known to some of the people in the area as a faith healer and to others as "that witch." In practice, she was a healer like him, and she taught him amazing things. He hoped for a return visit the following summer, but she had died. He grieved, not only for the loss of the grandmother he had come to adore, but also for the rest of the knowledge he would never learn from her.

Mason's thoughts circled back to Cam again. How was he coping? Was he taking the pain meds and dealing with the lack of shielding or was he slowly killing himself trying to deal with the pain on his own? If only Mason had had more time. He had only really begun the repair on the nerve damage in Cam's shattered leg. If Grandma Flynn could have taught him more, maybe he would be more adept at that sort of thing. Everything he did these days in terms of healing was trial and error; self taught fumbling until he figured out what seemed to work. Mason wanted to hold Cam and keep his pain at bay and offer him comfort, but that was all just a hopelessly romantic delusion.

Mason hadn't heard a single word from Cam in three days. Obviously, whatever had happened between them was just a passing thing based on trauma, shock and desperation.

Mason slugged back some more of the beer, and reached for the TV remote. It wasn't on the coffee table. He glanced across the sofa cushions. Nothing. He usually chucked it on the table, so where was the stupid thing? He finally saw it, sitting on top of the bulky entertainment center across the room. Huh? Weird. He set the beer bottle on the table and walked over to get it. A framed photo of himself with an old med school buddy was sitting directly in front of the CD rack on the top of the cabinet. It was right in the way of grabbing any of the CDs out. That was just one too many subtly weird things out of place.

He began walking through the house, flipping on lights as he went. His TV was obviously still there, as was his computer, stereo equipment, and a set of Waterford crystal tumblers on a shelf along with a bottle of brandy. There was nothing to really even suggest he had been robbed, because nothing seemed to be missing. Well, unless you counted his watch, but he wasn't sure he hadn't left it in his locker at the hospital after surgery. Maybe he was just flat out losing his mind, over-tired or something.

He rubbed his hand down over his face. This was just sort of creeping him out. He took a second tour of the house. There were a couple of extra things that drew his attention. The plastic box where he stuffed his unpaid bills was sitting on top of an ink pen, and his bed was made with the sheets tucked under a whole lot further than he ever did it. Oh yeah, that would fly real well. Yes officer, somebody broke into my house and secretly remade my bed. He needed more beer, job stress or something was apparently making him crack up.