MAESTRO

CHAPTER 1

"Theorizing that one could time-travel in his own lifetime, Dr. Sam Beckett stepped into the Quantum Leap accelerator—and vanished. He awoke to find himself trapped in the past, facing mirror images that were not his own, and driven by an unknown force to change history for the better. His only guide on this journey is Al, an observer in his own time who appears in the form of a hologram that only Sam can see and hear. And so, Dr. Beckett finds himself leaping from life to life, striving to put right what once went wrong, and hoping each time that his next leap will be the leap home."

May 25, 1984

When the all-too-familiar blue, hazy light started to fade, the first thing Sam heard was classical music playing. To be exact, it was the last few bars of Johann Strauss' "Die Fledermaus Overture". He recognized it right away, because when he was a kid, that was his paternal grandfather's all-time favorite orchestral piece. Every time he went to visit his grandparents, that was the one song he could always expect to hear on their radio. He had nothing against classical music, but he was always partial to bands like the Beatles and the Stones.

The blue light stopped completely, and Sam found himself standing in front of a full orchestra with both arms swinging upward as the song came to its close. At the very last chord, a thunderous applause erupted from behind. And that's when it hit him: Sam wasn't in the orchestra. He was the conductor.

Upon lowering his arms, he saw, in his right hand, a white fiberglass baton. When he looked down at himself, he was wearing a jet-black tuxedo with a spotlessly white shirt, vest and bowtie. There was a gold Rolex on his left wrist, a gold and onyx cufflink in the cuffs of both shirtsleeves, a gold garnet ring on his right ring finger, and in the buttonhole of the tail jacket's left lapel was a bright red rose.

For a moment, Sam just stood there. As usual, the location upon his arrival to a leap was disorienting. He'd found himself in some really wacky situations before, and try as he might, it was something he never could get used to.

"Greg!" an urgent voice with a heavy Australian accent whispered. Sam looked to the right, and in the front row, seven seats away from the podium, was an absolutely gorgeous youngbrunette with a golden tan, deep blue eyes, and a light brown viola in her lap. Her hair was moussed, teased and blow-dried within an inch of its life, making her look like a very classy and sophisticated Valley Girl. Basically, she was one of those women that project observer Al Calavicci would be swooning over and longing for a night in the sack with. Never in all his years of leaping was Sam glad not to have leaped into her, whoever she was.

"Aren't you going to take a bow?" she asked.

"Oh," Sam said sheepishly. "Right."

He turned and faced the still-applauding audience. Stepping off the podium, he bowed and acknowledged the musicians behind him. This wasn't the first time he leaped into somebody with a musical background. On one such leap, he was a blind pianist. This time, however, he could see perfectly, so he took that as a good sign.

That is, until he took a second bow. His eye wandered over to the sixth row of the auditorium, and sitting five seats away from the center stage aisle was a young blond man with hazel eyes and a fierce glare on his face. He stared directly at Sam and, with his right index finger, made a quick slashing motion across his throat.

"Oh, boy," Sam whispered, doing everything humanly possible to hide the paralyzing fear he was feeling. Right away, he knew it was the kind of leap that made him think that it could be his last.

The reception room was jam-packed. The orchestra members were mingling about, congratulating each other for a hell of a good concert, and enjoying the wine, champagne, hors d'oeuvres, and Godiva chocolates. Three heavyset bearded men were standing near one of the windows, smoking hand-rolled Cuban cigars and joking away. The violist that told Sam to take a bow was sitting on a dark red suede couch talking to a blonde that looked around her age, and they each had a glass of white wine and a paper-thin wheat cracker topped with Beluga caviar. Sam was standing right in the middle of it all, and no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't take his eyes off of her—or her platinum diamond-encrusted engagement ring. When her hand was angled under the light just so, the diamonds sparkled in every color of the rainbow. This young lady was somebody's fiancée. Hopefully, the guy in the audience wasn't the one.

"Good show, Greg," a voice said. Sam turned around and saw a short, stocky, curly-haired man with grey eyes and a handlebar moustache.

"Thanks," Sam said as he shook hands with the guy. "You did a good job, too. Like my coach always said, just keep running that play till you get it right."

The man smiled in gratitude, then turned his attention to the shrimp cocktail.

Good going, Beckett, Sam thought in chagrin. Here he was, surrounded by all these fabulously-dressed and highly well-bred people, and how does he make small talk? By telling the single craziest bullshit story he could think up. Oh well, at least he wasn't eating, nor did he manage to spew caviar all over this guy's face.

A mirror on a nearby wall caught Sam's eye. When he looked into it, staring back at him was a fair-skinned man with thick, wavy salt-and-pepper hair that was just starting to thin on top, emerald-green eyes, and a neatly-trimmed Kenny Rogers-looking beard. From the looks of him, Sam guessed he was in his mid-to-late 40s or early 50s. Now he just had to know who he leaped into and what his mission was.

Just then, a deep, loud inhale and a not-so-subtle sigh of pleasure and longing got his attention. He looked over to the table and there, cigar in hand and standing by the 22-inch Birth of Venus ice sculpture, was Al. He was wearing a neon green tux shirt, an orange satin vest, black tux pants with white lining, fuchsia socks, and black penny-loafers. As glad as Sam was to finally see him, he couldn't help feeling slightly annoyed, too. If he knew Al, let's just say he was either wishing he could partake in the food or fantasizing about the ice sculpture being a real woman.

Sam's guess was the latter of the two.

"Al, thank God!" Sam whispered anxiously as he came over.

"Huh? Oh, hi, Sam," Al said, as nonchalantly as he could manage. "Wow, Mr. Big-time Conductor, huh? Not bad."

"Yeah, I suppose. By the way, if that ice sculpture was real, she'd most likely try to drown you in the clam dip for ogling her."

"Me?!" Al exclaimed. "What the hell do you take me for, some kind of degenerate?"

"Yeah," Sam answered, as if Al had just asked him the world's dumbest question.

"I'll have you know that I just happen to be very appreciative of classical art and music," Al told him. "My third wife was an exceptionally cultured woman, and she was the reason why I'm the gentleman I am today. Or was it my fourth wife?"

"Al..."

"No, no, it was Ruthie. I remember because she and I saw Medea in Corinto at Lincoln Center. God, I can't remember the last time I saw anyone cry that much. I must've gone through four packets of Kleenex."

"Al..."

"Ruthie, on the other hand, didn't shed one tear," Al went on. "And I thought my second wife had ice in her veins." Then, to the sculpture, he lovingly added, "Senza offesa, amore mio."

"Are you done reminiscing?" Sam demanded impatiently.

"Oh. Yeah, why you're here," Al remembered, taking the handlink out of his pocket and pressing some buttons. "Okay, let's see. You are Greg Dawson, 44 years old, widowed, and the conductor of the Australian World Orchestra. That ravishing specimen sitting over there is Heidi Van..."

He shook and smacked the chirping handlink, then continued, "Vandale, right. She just turned 27 last month, she's first chair in the viola section, and—oh-ho-hooo, she's alsoyour lovely fiancée. Well, technically, she's Greg's fiancée, but you get the idea."

"Okay, now that we've gotten that out of the way, why am I here?"

Al checked the handlink. "Ohh, you're not gonna like this, Sam," he said. "According to Ziggy, Heidi gets shot at the next concert, which is two days from now. She also lingers in the ICU for awhile, then dies a few days later."

"I'm guessing they never find her killer, right?"

"Nope. And the cops question every member of the orchestra, too."

"So basically, I have to prevent that from happening?"

"Here, I'll check...Well, there's an 85% chance that that's what you're here to do."

"You know, Al," Sam continued, lowering his voice, "I think I have a pretty good idea who's responsible for this. As I was bowing, I saw this really creepy-looking guy in the audience. I could tell just by looking at him that he wanted my head on a silver platter."

"What'd he look like?"

"Blond, hazel eyes, and had a face that could make Manson look like Mr. Rogers."

Al fed the information into the handlink, then said, "Ziggy says this nozzle's name is Todd Francis, and he's Heidi's ex-boyfriend. That's pretty much it."

"Shit," Sam groaned. Just as he suspected, it was another one of those leaps.

"Couldn't have said it better myself," Al agreed. "Listen, I gotta go. The real Greg is in the Waiting Room. I'll be back as soon as I get more information."

Sam nodded, eager to get this leap over with.

After Al pressed the portal door on the handlink, he turned around and said, "By the way, I'd steer clear of the caviar if I were you. It's looking a little bleah."

"Thanks for the tip."

As Al disappeared through the portal, Sam knew he was caught between a rock and a hard place. If there was one thing he really came to hate about leaping, it was the possibility of not making it out alive. And the fact that some of the guests saw him talking to someone they couldn't see didn't help, either.