Andre cursed as the glare from the sun, ricocheting off the wing-tip, blinded him. Just before that he had spotted the familiar landmarks of Los Angeles. His lips curved slightly upward in thought. "Soon Houston. Soon we shall have our revenge." The smile faded with determination. "And we will savor the sweetness of our victory."

Air currents jostled his focus back to the present. The pilot was radioing the tower. "L.A.X., this is Zebra Niner Zero Eight requesting permission to land."

"Zebra Niner Zero Eight -- cleared to land -- runway south -- two three eight," came the broken reply.

The small craft turned for final approach, coming in low and fast. They bounced once, twice, then the world seemed to turn upside down. Thrown violently from his seat, Andre's vision turned red, with his own blood, then black as unconsciousness blotted out the pain.

Houston, having enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, indulged in a second cup of coffee while reading the morning paper. Sitting rigid with shock his coffee cup was hastily set aside. The headline 'SMALL PLANE CRASH' had had little impact. It was the photograph which had elicited such a reaction.

CJ noted his movements. "What is it, Houston?"

"It's Andre."

"What?!"

"He's back," Houston replied, passing the paper to CJ.

She studied the photograph. "It does look like him. But it's hard to tell for sure, it's not a very good picture."

"Well, I'm sure," Houston said, rising.

A concerned CJ followed Houston to the elevator. "Where are you going?"

"It said in the paper that they transported him to the nearest hospital."

CJ grabbed his arm. "Houston, you're not going to see him?" Disbelief registered in her voice. "He's already tried to kill you several times. And I'll lay you odds that's why he's coming back."

Houston, extracting himself from her grasp, stepped into the elevator. "That's why I'm going. This time it's going to be settled, once and for all."

CJ stood staring aghast at the closed doors. Going to the phone, she quickly dialed the memorized number. "Lieutenant Hoyt, please."

As Houston headed toward the nurses' station Hoyt cut him off. "Houston, what are you doing here?"

"Apparently the same thing you are."

Hoyt read the determination in Houston's tone. "This obsession of yours with Andre has got to stop!"

"What are you saying?" Houston demanded. "That it's not him? That he hasn't come back to finish what he started? Come on, Hoyt. I'd have thought by now you'd have realized what he's capable of."

"Look, we're not even sure if it's him." Seeing the incredulous look on Houston's face he quickly continued. "We haven't been able to make a positive ID."

"I don't need a positive ID, I know it's him."

Hoyt's frustration and anger surfaced. "Now you wait just one minute. Any identification was lost in the crash. The pilot is dead, so he's no help. He's been unconscious since they brought him in. And until I can get a positive make on him, I can't do anything about our suspicions."

"Well, I can."

"Hold it!" ordered Hoyt. "I'm placing a twenty-four hour guard on his room. He's not going anywhere. And you're not getting near him."

Houston blew a fuse. "I don't believe you. You're actually protecting a known murderer. Have you lost your mind? You can't..."

He had lost Hoyt's attention. Having spotted the doctor coming from Andre's room, Hoyt had gone to question him. Houston quickly followed.

"... he's conscious now," the doctor was saying. "However, the head injury had resulted in total amnesia."

"What!" exclaimed Houston, charging headlong into Andre's room before anyone could stop him.

A pale, startled, but very much alive Andre greeted him with a questioning look.

"I don't know what you're trying to pull, Andre," Houston stormed. "But you're not going to get away with it."

By this time the doctor and Hoyt had arrived. "Sir, you will have to leave," the doctor ordered. "You're upsetting my patient."

"I'll do a lot more than upset him," Houston threatened.

"Get out, Houston!" ordered Hoyt. "Or I'll have you forcibly removed from this hospital. Along with orders that you are to be arrested should you show your face around here again."

He knew Hoyt wasn't bluffing. "All right, Lieutenant, I'll leave." He looked at Andre. "You just remember what I said. I'm not through with you yet."

"Houston!"

Shooting Hoyt a dirty look, he left without further comment.

Hoyt, sighing heavily, glanced at the doctor, then Andre. A confused questioning look met his own.

"Lieutenant?" the visibly shaken man questioned. "What was that all about? Who is he?"

Hoyt looked for some sign of recognition in Andre's eyes, seeing none. Nor did the tone of his voice ring false. He shook his head. "I'm sorry he bothered you." With no explanation, he left a bewildered Andre behind.

Hoyt groaned as he stepped from the elevator into Houston's office. Houston was in the process of another one of his tirades about Andre. The news he brought would only make matters worse. Dreading the consequences, he let his presence be known and informed Houston of what he had recently discovered.

"What do you mean the fingerprints don't match?"

"Just that. His fingerprints do not match those we have on file for Andre."

Houston was livid with rage. "Hoyt, you know it's him. I don't know how he did it, but he's either managed to change his records or his fingerprints."

"Houston , you know damn well I can't arrest the man just because he looks like Andre. I have got to have proof."

"What about dental records," suggested Houston.

"I'll check it out," Hoyt said, shaking his head. "But if Andre's smart enough to change his fingerprints, then ..." He didn't have to finish; both realized it would be a waste of time.

Latching onto what Hoyt had said, Houston cornered him. "But you do believe it's Andre?"

Hoyt looked uncomfortable "Believing and proving are two different things."

"I'll get your proof," Houston promised. "Or Andre," he added under his breath.

Houston was thoroughly disgusted. He had checked the crash sit, talked with the inspectors on the scene and was still not closer to finding proof of Andre's identity. Hearing that Hoyt's investigation had also met with failure, he headed for the hospital.

Cornering the doctor in the lounge, Houston began badgering him for information. Then realizing he'd get nowhere using this tactic, he apologized.

The doctor, now more receptive of the the contrite Houston, freely discussed the anonymous patient. "What can I tell you, Mr. Houston? He has total amnesia. His memory may eventually return. But there's no saying when. It could be six months, a year, never."

"Is there ..." Houston ventured. "Could his memory be triggered somehow?"

The doctor considered this. "It's possible. There have been reported cases where a familiar sight or sound triggered the memory into total recall." He shrugged. "But it's a long shot."

At least it's something, Houston thought. "Thank you, Doctor" He hesitated. "Could I see him?" Sensing a protest from the doctor he quickly added, "I'll be careful not to upset him. I assure you, there will be no repeat performance of yesterday's behavior."

"I should hope not." He considered Houston's request. "All right, but only for a few minutes. And if you should upset him I'll have you banned from this hospital. Is that understood?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Good," thought Houston, nodding to the guard at Andre's door. At least Hoyt has enough sense to keep an eye an him.

Upon entering, Houston discovered Andre asleep. Or at least he appeared to be, for as Houston drew closer to the bed Andre stirred and woke.

Sitting up, a pale, visibly frightened Andre looked questioningly at Houston. "Who are you? What do you want?"

Houston was stunned. Gone was the arrogant, maniacal man who tormented him for so long. He did not know the confused, unsure man before him.

"I said, who are you?"

"Name's Houston. Matt Houston," he replied disappointedly when Andre showed no sigh of recognition. He moved closer to the bed. "May I sit down?" he asked, indicating the nearby chair.

Andre looked uncertain.

"Look, I won't hurt you. I'm sorry about yesterday. I thought you were someone I knew. Obviously I was wrong."

Andre invited Houston to sit. "This man, you must really hate him to have behaved so violently."

"Let's just say he's caused me a lot of grief."

"Is that why the police are involved, why they have a guard stationed at my door?"

Once again lost in thought, Houston did not answer immediately. Unless Andre was a very good actor this man was not Andre. But it had to be him. Houston knew those eyes, every line in his face, the voice. And although somehow different, they were the same.

"Mr. Houston?"

"What? I'm sorry," he said. "It's just that you look so much like him."

"Andre?"

A light flickered in Houston's eyes. "Yeah, like Andre."

"I wouldn't look so smug, Mr. Houston. The only reason I know the name is because it's the one you shouted at me yesterday."

Houston's hopes plummeted. "You don't remember anything?" he asked.

Andre sighed. "I wish I did. Do you have any idea what it's like to suddenly wake up and realize that you don't know who you are? That you have no name or past?" He frowned. "So many questions and no answers. No, Mr. Houston, my life started yesterday when I woke up. Anything before that ..." He shrugged.

A perplexed look creased Houston's brow upon leaving Andre's room. Spotting the doctor at a nearby nurses' station he hurried over.

The doctor smiled upon seeing him. "Well, Mr. Houston, things were pretty quiet in there. Did you find out what you wanted?"

"Doctor, I'm confused. I'm certain that he is a man named Andre. Yet he seems different. I can't quite put my finger on it ..."

"Well, if he is your man there's a possibility that he may have also suffered a personality change from the head injury," suggested the doctor.

"That's it!" thought Houston. That's what was wrong. He had an entirely different personality. The complete opposite of Andre's. "Is that possible?" he asked.

"Common in head injuries of this type."

"Is it permanent??

"Sometimes, yes. Usually, though, the original personality resurfaces once the memory returns."

"Thank you," Houston told the doctor. "You've been very helpful."

Hoyt was waiting for him when he returned to the office later that day.

"Well, Lieutenant, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"Knock it off," Hoyt warned. "I'm here to tell you that the hospital will releasing Andre the day after tomorrow."

"And?"

"And there's nothing I can do about it."

"Well, I can," Houston said, throwing up his hands in disgust.

Hoyt stopped him as he started to leave. "What are you planning, Houston?"

"There's a possibility that his memory can be triggered into returning," he began. "I plan to do everything in my power to see that it does. Memory loss or no memory loss, that man is a lunatic. And I'm gonna put him away. One way or another."

"Good lord, Houston, do you realize the chance you're taking? If Andre's memory does return you're the first person he'll go after."

"That, Lieutenant, is what I'm counting on," replied Houston, stepping into the elevator.

Hoyt turned as CJ entered from the terrace. "Are the fireworks over yet?" she asked.

"No, CJ. I'm afraid they've just started."

Although they found no identification on him after the crash, there was some money. A considerable amount. However, realizing that it wouldn't last very long, he took an inexpensive room at a cheap but clean hotel. When asked to sign the register he paused, uncertain as to what to do. How could he sign a name he didn't know?

"Sir? the clerk questioned. "Is everything all right?"

"What? Yes," Andre stammered. All right. Right. Wright. Yes -- that's what he would call himself -- Mr. Wright. He laughed silently at the irony. If anything it should be Mr. Wrong. Like everything that had happened to him recently. But he still needed a first name. He glanced at the name bade the clerk wore. It read 'Michael'. Michael Wright, yes, that would have to do. He signed the register and accepted the key.

"Well, Mr. Wright," said the clerk, glancing at the register, "enjoy your stay."

Michael nodded his thanks.

Once alone, he wondered what to do next. The money would last perhaps two months if he was careful, but then what? He needed a job and began searching the want ads of the newspaper he'd purchased. He soon grew frustrated in his efforts. How could he find a good job when he had no idea what kind of work he was qualified for? Angrily he flung the paper aside. Looking up, his own reflection stared back at him from the mirror on the dresser. "Who are you?" he begged the reflection. Silence was the reply.

"May I help you, sir?" the clerk addressed Houston.

"I hope so." Houston began innocently. "I thought I just saw an old friend of mine come in here. A tall, blond man."

"Oh yes, you must mean Mr. Wright."

Houston smiled. "That's him. Could you tell me what room he's in?"

The clerk checked. "That would be room 24. Would you like me to ring him for you?"

"No, no, that won't be necessary. I'd like to surprise him."

"Very well, sir." He returned to his work.

As nonchalantly as possible Houston proceeded to check out the location of Andre's room from both inside and outside the hotel. Confident of an easy and unnoticeable access he began formulating plans.

Michael returned to the hotel thoroughly depressed. His job hunting had been fruitless. Even the simple jobs, like dish washing or waiting tables, had already been taken by the time he got there. The sound of his name being called penetrated the blue funk he was experiencing. He looked up.

"Mr. Wright," the clerk hailed him. "An envelope for you today."

Confused, he thanked the clerk and took the mysterious envelope to his room for closer examination. The plain brown envelope bore only his name. "Perhaps it's something from the hospital," he thought. "After all, they're the only ones I gave my address to." His fingers tore into the package. "Here I don't even have a job and the hospital bills are already coming in," he gloomily reflected.

His look of gloom turned to confusion as he pulled out not a bill, but photographs of himself. Slowly, he sorted through the pile. Each showed every step of the previous day's job hunting, the last being of him asleep in his room. Wordlessly the photographs slipped from numb fingers. "What's this all about?" he wondered. Who would be taking pictures of him and why? Did it have something to do with his past? If only he could remember.

A feeling of uneasiness crept over him. Before retiring, he securely bolted the curtains closed, he prepared for bed, only to end up laying awake most of the night, listening, watching, and waiting.

The early hours of the morning finally found him drifting off to sleep. Rising later than he should have, Michael looked and felt exhausted. Had he not received the photographs Michael doubted he would feel so paranoid. Still, it seemed as though he could not go anywhere without feeling the sensation of being watched. Yet he saw no one suspicious.

By mid afternoon he could stand it no longer and retreated to the privacy of his room. Lying down, his head throbbed with the strain he felt. Finally sleep claimed its victim, only to have the ringing of the phone jar him awake moments later. Thinking his luck had changed and someone was calling in response to his search for employment, Michael eagerly answered.

"I've been watching you. You can't escape me," came the whispered threat.

"Who is this? What do you want?" demanded Michael.

"I'm going to torment you like you tormented me," the voice continued.

"What are you talking about? Please, just leave me alone," pleaded Michael.

"I'm going to kill you. You won't know when or where, but in the end you'll be just as dead," the voice taunted, ignoring Michael's pleas.

"Leave me alone. Please," Michael begged, slamming down the phone.

Seconds later it rang again and Michael stared at the object as though it were the threat instead of the voice on the other end. It rang repeatedly until he could stand it no longer. With a trembling hand he picked it up.

"You can't get away from me that easily. You're a dead man," the voice threatened. "Do you hear me, a dead man."

Once again Michael slammed down the phone. Then, still shaking, he quickly dialed the front desk. "This is Michael Wright in room 24. I've just received two rather disturbing phone calls. Could you please hold all calls from now on?"

"Certainly, Mr. Wright," came the reply. "Although I am a bit confused. I handle the switchboard and have not placed any calls through to your room."

"Thank you," Michael absently told the clerk as a chill ran the entire length of his body.

No sooner had he replaced the phone in its cradle than it rang. Answering it, he listened wordlessly as the now familiar voice taunted him.

"Now you know how it feels to have others control your life."

"No!" he cried, yanking the phone cord from the wall.

Michael paced the floor, the first of many trips he would make that night, back and forth like a trapped animal, wondering what to do. In the wee hours of the morning he found a solution and was able to drift off into an uneasy sleep.

"I've told you as much as I can."

"But you haven't told me much of anything, Lieutenant," exclaimed an exasperated Michael. "Exactly who is this Andre? Why are the police so interested in him? And why did this Matt Houston nearly attack me because he though I was Andre?"

Lieutenant Hoyt ignored the pointed questions. "This is official police business, the matter is confidential. Therefore I cannot disclose any more than we have already discussed."

"Lieutenant -- please. I have already told you that someone has been following me. That they've threatened my life. I'm grasping at straws here, trying to find some rational explanation for what's happening. The only thing I can even fathom is that someone else has mistaken me for Andre and wants revenge for something he did."

"That's possible," conceded Hoyt.

"So you see, I need to know who he is. What he's done. And why someone wants him dead. That way maybe I'll have some idea what I'm up against. Of how to protect myself."

"I'm sorry," Hoyt said, shaking his head. "I wish I could help you. But as I've already stated, I can disclose no further information at this time." He showed Michael to the door.

"But ..." Michael protested.

"Notify us if you receive any more threats. In the meantime we'll keep an eye on you. Now if you'll excuse me." It was a clear invitation to leave.

Michael stared in disbelief at the seemingly uncaring officer. "One last question, Lieutenant?"

"What?"

"Could Matt Houston be the one behind this? I mean, even though he did apologize later, he did threaten me."

"I wouldn't worry about Houston. He can be a hothead, but I'm sure he realized that he made a mistake."

Michael didn't look convinced.

"Just to be sure, I'll check it out."

The tall man looked somewhat relieved. "Thank you."

Hoyt leaned against the closed door with a heavy sigh. If this man was indeed Andre, and it he was faking amnesia, then he was one fantastic actor, thought Hoyt, who was beginning to have grave doubts about their suspicions.

Swearing beneath his breath at Houston, whom he knew was responsible for threats against Andre, Hoyt returned to the piles of work that cluttered his desk.

"Damn it, Houston," Hoyt exploded. "Leave it go. You can't keep harassing him. You remember what he did the last time."

Houston looked innocently at Hoyt. "Who said I was harassing him. It's probably his demented paranoia working overtime."

"Don't give me that. Put a stop to it, Houston, before I do for your own good."

"What are you gonna do, Hoyt, lock me up?"

"If it comes to that. Look, I don't want to fight you on this. We both know what Andre is. But what you're doing is against the law."

"Yeah," snorted Houston. "And we both know what a strict upholder of the law you are. That's why a maniac like Andre is running around a free man."

"You know we haven't been able to prove he's Andre. Our hands are tied."

Houston eyed him with determination. "Well, mine aren't."

While refreshing, it had failed to calm his frayed nerves. Wrapping a towel around himself, Michael stepped out the shower. Glancing into the nearby mirror shock registered in every line of his finely -- etched features as he saw a masked figure aiming a gun at him. Reflexively he ducked. Missing him by inches, the bullet struck the mirror. It's shattered fragments rained down upon the crouching figure. An eternity passed as he waited for the second bullet, the one that would surely end his life. It never came. Getting unsteadily to his feet, Michael peered cautiously into the adjoining room. It was empty, its contents undisturbed.

This latest episode had decided it. Getting out of town was the only solution. As fast and far away as possible. Under the cover of darkness Michael began making his way to the nearby bus depot. Slipping discreetly down back alleys he could not shake the sensation of being watched. A startling sound from behind caused him to whirl about. A lone dark figure stood silhouetted against the distant lights of the street.

Perspiring heavily,  Michael retreated as the figure advanced on him. "Who are you? What do you want?" pleaded the frightened young man.

The silent figure continued advancing.

Michael did not ask again, but fled blindly into the darkness, hoping to lose his pursuer in the maze of alleyways. Echoing footsteps on the pavement betrayed him, as did his sense of direction Too late he realized he had ventured into a dead end. He was not quick enough. A cry of desperation escaped his lips as the path became blocked.

Slowly, almost tauntingly, the figure advanced upon him. Backing away Michael soon felt a brick wall behind him.

The prey was now cornered. Pulling a gun from beneath his shirt the figure, clad in back, pointed it at the trembling man before him.

Michael held up his hands as if to ward off the bullets. "Please wait," he begged. "If you're going to kill me at least I have a right to know who you are and why."

"Oh, I have every intention of letting you know who I am," came the Texas drawl.

The voice seemed familiar. The face, when released from the black ski mask, he recognized. It was the lunatic from the hospital.

"Houston!?"

"Now you know the who," smiled Houston. "And you already know the why, so this is where I'll say good bye..."

Michael screamed as Houston fire the gun point blank.

"Are you all right, sir?"

"What?" asked a disoriented Andre.

"I said, are you all right?" repeated the cab driver.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," Andre replied, still somewhat shaken.

"That'll be ten fifty, sir, and as you can see you made it in time for your flight.

Andre paid the driver and made his way to the area where the private planes were kept. He and the pilot he had hired spotted each other simultaneously. The pilot greeted him warmly. "Mr. Smith, right on time I see. I've got her all gassed up and ready to go. So anytime you're ready ..." He led Andre to the plane.

Andre stopped abruptly.

"Is there anything wrong, Mr. Smith?"

"This is your plane?" Andre asked somewhat distantly.

"Why, yes; is there something wrong with it?"

Andre did not reply, but merely continued to stare blankly at the plane's identification. It read Z908...

Is reality our lives or our dreams?