"I'm going down to the beach."

"No."

Blair zipped his backpack closed, hefting it once, like a man checking the weight. "Yes."

"Sandburg."

"Ellison."

"Bad plan." Jim quickly pulled the pack out of his friend's unsuspecting hands. "You're not going."

"Why not?" Blair swiped for possession again.

"Be-cause," Jim explained in an easy drawl. He set the pack behind him, out of reach while keeping one hand on Blair's shoulder. "You're recovering from a gunshot wound, Chester." He pushed, hard enough to send Blair tilting backwards. The long-haired head bulls-eyed the pillow at the top of the bed.

"Jim." Blair could turn a first name into a cuss word with the proper tone and delivery. The younger man tried to lever himself back into a sitting position. "Knock it off," he said with a growl.

"We just drove seven hours." Jim held him down easily. "We have all week. Why the state of emergency here? If our roles were reversed, you'd have a freaking stroke if I suggested this."

"It's calling to me, man," Blair said, his mood as cranky as Jim had ever seen. "Can't you hear the crash of the waves? I gotta see it. You can't ignore something like that. It's rude."

"Sandburg, you are so full of it." Jim snickered and patted his friend's T-shirt covered chest. "Listen to me. You're not taking those stairs to the beach right now. We've got rain clouds in the sky, it's about to dump. You're going to rest for two hours -" He held up both hands when Blair opened his mouth to object. "- Okay, okay! One hour, tops. I'll wake you up when dinner is ready. Then we'll watch a movie or something."

"Who made you my nurse, man?" Blair demanded.

"Simon did. Didn't you read the memo? It starts off with `Jim, take the kid down to the beach and stay in my cousin's cottage. He deserves it after all he did.'" Jim reached down and slipped off Blair rubber-soled slippers as he spoke, aware of the bemused look on the younger man's face. He lifted both feet onto the bed and continued to talk, keeping his tone even, slowing down the rhythm of each syllable, as if they had all the time in the world.

Blair made a rude noise, which Jim ignored.

"'What with him helping you track Quinn and putting up with those survivalist nuts knocking him around.'" He watched Blair's pathetic motions to mask a yawn and reached for the blanket folded at the end of the bed. "'And him helping you save me from Quinn and that girlfriend-from-hell, then he goes and gets all shot up, so he deserves a break.' You know, Chief. That memo." Jim drew the covers up to Blair's shoulders.

"One stupid bullet hits my leg, man. That is not getting `all shot up'," Blair mumbled.

"Close enough. For a civilian, it's impressive," Jim said patiently. "You tired?"

Blair was really fighting the yawns now. He blinked slowly, looking faintly surprised. "Yeah, I am. What's up with that?"

Jim shrugged. "Your body is talking to you. Why don't you listen? I'll have sandwiches ready when you wake."

Blair's eyelids acted like they'd been waiting for permission, closing almost immediately. Within a few minutes, Blair was snoring softly. Jim took a second to study the too-narrow face and pale looking skin. Blair might talk a good game, but he needed this week of rest. Jim doubted the energetic man even knew how to slow down long enough for the torn muscle and tissue to begin to heal.

The next several days should prove to be interesting.

Jim smiled. "Gee, Jim, wonder why I'm so sleepy?" He lowered his voice. "Because, Sandburg. I drugged your Pepsi." Snickering at a job well done, Jim stood. The rented Ford wasn't going to unload itself. He hadn't been kidding about the rain, either. He could smell it in the air.

Blair woke to dark room. For a minute, he thought he was still in the hospital. He felt along the bed's edges. The mattress' width was right, but no rails. Then the long drive from Cascade to Long Beach came back to him.

That's right. They were on vacation. Cool.

He moved a little, experimenting with his leg and feeling the raw nerve endings waking up and checking in. Shit, shit, shit. He'd never sit through another movie where the bad guy shoots the good guy, only to have that same good guy continue to the last frame, saving the pretty girl, capturing the bad guy and single-handedly saving the town - all the while sporting some honking bullet hole in his leg or arm.

He knew now what the movie studios did not: there ain't no such thing as a `flesh wound'.

He could still hear the soothing crash of the ocean. Blair squinted. It really was dark. Something told him he'd slept for more than an hour. More than two hours. Long enough to make finding the bathroom an important issue.

"Jim?"

No answer. How big was this place, anyway? Didn't matter, Jim could hear him on the other side of Grand Central Station. Damn, he really needed those crutches. He remembered hobbling into the cottage with them when they'd arrived. Where were they? For that matter, where was the bathroom?

"Jim!"

Bright light bounced off the back of his skull before he could slam his eyes closed.

"Sorry, Sandburg," Jim's voice spoke. "You bellowed?"

"Need the head." Blair squinted one eye open. Jim stood next to his bed in a pair of loose fitting sweatpants. The older man yawned and scratched his flat stomach before reaching down.

The crutches had been on the floor, next to the bed. Okay, next time Blair would let his fingers do the walking first, then call out. Still, it was much easier when Jim helped. In no time, he was hoisted to his feet and shadowed every step of the way down a short hallway with some sort of whitewashed paneling and into a small bathroom.

"No light," Blair muttered. A small seashell nightlight glowed above the sink; the soft pink tones were enough to see by.

Jim squeezed into the bathroom first and lifted the lid to the toilet, pausing before he raised the seat. He looked back. "Sit or stand?"

"Sitting." Blair felt his face warm. He wrinkled his nose. "Might wanna dial..."

"Way ahead of you." Jim patted his shoulder as he left.

Afterwards, Blair washed up and opened the door. Jim stood just outside, shoulder leaning into the wall, his arms crossed. He looked like a dozing sentry. Blair wanted to snicker, but his leg was giving him too much grief. Damn it, anyway.

"You just got out of the hospital, Sandburg. Give it time."

"I hate when you do that, man."

"What?"

They were halfway back to the room. It was weird being in a strange house and not knowing more than a small bedroom, a short hallway and the bathroom. Blair wanted to explore, but moving hurt too much.

"You're reading my thoughts or something. Get out of my head." Blair instantly felt bad; he'd sounded too harsh. Jim had to know it was the pain talking, not him.

Jim was chuckling and Blair felt okay again. It was one thing to tick off your roommate when you're healthy, but, downright stupid when you can't manage to take a dump on your own without falling flat on your face.

Jim took away the wooden crutches and eased Blair down to the bed in a single fluid motion that left him confused. Did Jim just pick him up? The blankets were being replaced just as a mighty yawn rumbled up his windpipe and stretched his jaws. The room was dark by the time he finished.

"Jim?"

"Um?"

"Just kidding... `bout that head thing."

"Okay."

Damn, he was sleepy. He couldn't be sure if his eyes were open or closed.

"Jim?"

A sigh. "Yeah?"

"You can't do that, right? Get into a guy's head?"

"Okay, Sandburg. No more mixing that weird herbal stuff with your pain meds. You get too squirrelly."

Frowning into the darkness, Blair turned that over in his mind. That totally made no sense. "No takin' meds for pain, `member?"

"Go to sleep, Chief."

Jim woke a few hours later to faint morning light. The beach house had a lot of windows; small panes of glass stacked side by side and one on top the other to form wide vistas. The view to the west captured the Pacific Ocean. Last night the windows had been dingy with neglect, causing Jim to hunt down some cleaner and soft rags. After they sparkled again, Jim had enjoyed just sitting and looking out at the waves while the rain fell.

The place only had one bedroom. Simon's cousin used it as a personal retreat, apparently, when he needed solitude. But the sofa had a decent fold out bed which Jim claimed. A wide fireplace with an insert lined one wall. The living room had the usual seashore decorations with old photographs of shipwrecks in dark frames and ink drawings of lighthouses. His sofa/bed, a rocker and a heavy wood `Morris' chair completed the room's furnishings. A short napped light gray rug ran from wall to wall.

Returning the bed back into a sofa, he headed for the bathroom. He checked on Blair and found him asleep, then used the toilet, threw a couple handfuls of cold water on his face and decided a run was in order.

Jim dressed in gray shorts with a draw string waist. Adding the tank-top t-shirt from yesterday and a light windbreaker, he donned clean socks and laced up his running shoes. He took a moment to test each weather worn wooden step leading to the deserted strip of sand. The stairs seemed solid, but way overdue for a fresh coat of paint. Maybe he could do the honors, a payment of sorts for free use of the beach house.

Stretching before the run, Jim dialed down his sense of touch. Heavy fog brought a light mist that chilled. The tide was on its way in. The briny smelling surf blended into the fog so completely, even Jim's enhanced sight had difficulty finding the horizon. Feeling loose enough to start, Jim jogged down to where the waves kept the sand moist, a perfect feel under his feet. He ran south to where he knew the cliffs that separated him from Fort Canby State Park waited.

Fifteen minutes later a sheer face of rock rose out of the mist. Jim touched the rock for luck, turned and sprinted north; pouring everything he had into the run. His toes dug into the sand, throwing bits into the air behind him. Knees rose and fell in rhythm, arms swung like pistons. He felt his heart power up to supply the much needed oxygen to his working muscles.

He was still running full-bore as he passed the stairs leading up the low raise to the house. Another bluff would stop him further north. Could he keep this pace up until he reached it?

An hour later Jim climbed the steps back to the house, his clothes bathed in sweat. He could hear the light snores telling him Blair was still asleep. He'd promised sandwiches last night but hadn't been able to bring himself to actually wake Blair up. He'd needed rest more than food. Chances were he'd wake up starving, though. Jim had better be ready.

Robert Banks believed in comfort. Jim had noticed that right off. The showerhead had the massage attachment and he took the time to enjoy every setting. After dressing in fresh, clean sweats he went to check out the kitchen. He'd taken inventory of the decent looking gas range and roomy refrigerator yesterday as he'd unpacked the groceries. More of those old fashioned small paned windows were in this room as well. The house did not seem to have a dark corner, even with this fog. It was a good thing they were secluded between the two coastal bluffs, because none of the windows sported curtains, either.

Jim started a pot of oatmeal. The freezer held an assortment of coffee beans. He had picked a bag of dark roast out last night and left it to thaw to room temperature. A burr grinder and fancy espresso machine sat on the countertop.

"Jim."

Ah, the monster awakes.

But Blair was in much better spirits. Knowing what type of problems Blair was going to have with even the mundane tasks of taking a shower, they'd brought a few items with them from Cascade. One was a stool made for sitting inside bathtubs. Jim got it in place and helped Blair get set up. A fresh change of clothes waited on the closed toilet seat lid. After making it clear Blair was not to try getting out by himself, Jim left him alone to wash and went into the kitchen to put the final touches on breakfast. When the sound of running water stopped, Jim waited until he heard Blair's call. He found his roommate dried off, long wet hair combed back and wearing a pair of heavy flannel shorts and a long sleeved T-shirt displaying a John Deer Tractor logo, his latest thrift store treasure. Jim helped him step out of the bath tub and guided him back to the twin-sized bed.

"Did I eat last night?" Blair asked as Jim worked on redressing his injured leg. He leaned back on his elbows.

"Nope, you were sleeping pretty hard," Jim said. "I've got oatmeal and some fresh fruit waiting for you in the kitchen."

"Bagels?"

"I suppose we can add that to the menu. Roll over for me."

With a sigh, Blair lowered himself down to the mattress and rolled onto his belly.

"I don't like this exit site, Sandburg," Jim said.

"I wasn't too fond when it happened either, man."

Jim ignored him as he gently touched the red and puckered skin around the sutures. The doctor had approved Blair getting his leg wet, so that wasn't the problem. He'd need to keep a close eye on it.

"So? What's wrong with it, man?" Blair was twisting his torso, trying to see.

"You might have overworked your leg yesterday. The skin around your stitches looks inflamed," Jim said as he ripped off a few sections of white tape.

"How's that even possible? I've only been out of the hospital a whole day and a half. And you won't let me do anything."

"Not true, I stopped at that flea market when you asked yesterday."

"After I begged."

"The point is; I stopped." With new bandages in place to Jim's liking, he picked up the roll of Kling. "Okay, on your back now."

"Besides," Blair continued as he followed instructions. "I only just started looking around. You practically dragged me back to the truck."

"I let you buy stuff. Bend your leg."

"Okay, some stuff. You let me buy some stuff." Blair rose up, using his elbows to prop his upper body. "Which reminds me, did you bring that bag in?"

"I did."

"Thanks."

"Welcome." Finished, Jim used tape to hold the end down. "Ready to eat?"

"Do I get to leave the room?"

"Yes, smart ass. That's about as far as you get to go."

"JIM!" Blair flopped back down on the bed, throwing an arm over his eyes. "It's like you're some demonic doctor from hell, man. I'm being punished, huh? This is because I cheated on that spelling test in the second grade."

Jim laughed. "Finished, Mr. Drama King?"

"Ah oh, bad news, Sandburg."

Blair sat in a rocker, looking out the living room window at the whiteness. It was driving him nuts not being able to actually see the ocean. Here it was, already ten in the morning and the fog hadn't lifted.

"What?"

Jim knelt in front of an ancient looking television with a `rabbit ear' antenna on top. "No reception."

Yep, definitely that spelling test. Blair frowned, looking back at the fog. Or maybe that microscope theft, or the time he told Naomi he didn't have a clue who broke her favorite glass bead necklace.

No, wait. That really wasn't his fault. That loud mouthed kid in the commune with the buck teeth broke it. Course, Blair knew how it happened. He couldn't remember now why he'd kept quiet.

"The good news is - I found the instructions for that espresso machine. Want to try?"

Now they were talking. "Sure!"

"Good, I'll bring you the booklet."

"Wait, it's got a whole booklet?" Blair shifted in the chair. He hated reading manuals. "I'm more of a `push the button and see what happens kind of guy', Jim."

"Not this time. I don't feel like telling Simon why his cousin needs a new coffee maker." Jim walked in with a thick pamphlet. "Here. You warm enough?"

"Yes, mother." Blair flipped through the pages. It wasn't as bad as he'd feared. Three quarters of the booklet was printed in Spanish, French and German. "If I do this thing for you, can I go down to the beach today?"

"For me?" Jim raised an eyebrow. "How'd this turn out to be for me? I like my coffee drip, Mr. Latte-man."

Mimicking his friend's comment while tossing his head, Blair started reading. Part of his brain thought about Jim.

Jim was simply amazing. Blair knew he shouldn't be surprised, he'd seen this side of the man before, the first time with Lash. Only on that trip Blair had been too freaked out to recognize what was happening, to see the quiet arrival of yet another side of Jim's multiple faceted character. The guy was so there for him. It wasn't until Blair felt normal again and back into a regular routine of school and ride-a-long that he was able to look back and see how Jim had taken care of him. Then with the Ice Man case, Jim stopped everything to drag Blair back to the loft and fix him up, even though Blair wanted to go after Amber.

Blair still felt a twinge of guilt over that case. God, he'd screwed up.

He forced himself to concentrate on the manual in his hands. After a few minutes, he had the basic concept down. He hobbled into the kitchen on crutches and talked Jim through the procedure. Jim found the bottles of syrup in a cupboard. They located the stainless steel milk pitcher and a thermometer.

"Says the milk has to be cold."

Jim went to the fridge. "Cold, got it."

"Prime, steam, prime, brew. We gotta wait for the green light."

"One at a time, Chief." Jim poured the milk. "What are we making first?"

"Ah." Blair eyed the bottles. "Simon's cuz has about everything, doesn't he? How about a mocha?"

Jim's first mocha latte was deemed a complete success. Blair even let Jim take a sip. Jim agreed. They got more daring on the next one and Jim ended up calling it a `Jim's special'.

Blair took a tentative sip. His eyes widened. "Hey, you're pretty good. Tastes a little like a Mounds candy bar. You know, with your sense of taste, we could create some bodacious flavors. The Blair and Jim espresso chain. We'll do to coffee what Ben and Jerry did to ice cream!"

Jim finished cleaning the machine, running water through the steam wand and dumping the grounds into the trash before taking a seat at the kitchen table to enjoy his creation. "Why are we calling it the Blair and Jim? Why not the Jim and Blair?"

"Alphabetically." Blair smiled innocently, he hoped.

"Riight."

"So, we're going down to the beach after this, right?" When Jim pulled a face, Blair continued. "Oh, come on, man! Just a few steps, already. I'll take them real slow and rest, like, every fifth stair or something."

Jim looked like he was weakening.

"It's therapeutic. Then I'll..." He looked around the kitchen for inspiration.

"Take a nap?"

Slapping the table lightly, Blair snorted. "I just woke up!"

Blair acted like a prisoner getting a few hours of `yard' time. He managed the stairs without too much grief. Working the crutches proved to be a trick once they got to the soft sand, but Blair prevailed.

"There's a place over here we can sit," Jim said.

A rest was definitely in order now. Blair's face was pale by the time they reached the large log. He released a guarded sigh of pleasure as he sat on the chair-size piece of driftwood, bleached white from long years of exposure.

"I knew this was a mistake," Jim couldn't help but grouse, taking a seat next to his friend.

"Shaddup and let me enjoy."

Blair's face had a few pain lines, but he seemed content to sit.

The fog was beginning to lift. They could see the surf all the way out to the horizon. The waves created ribbons of white as each curl crested, forming terraces on a liquid slope. The ocean reflected the gray colors of the clouds above, with hints of dirty green-blue. The onshore wind played with Jim's jacket and he took a moment to zip it up to his neck.

To the north, they were separated from the city of Long Beach by a cliff that jutted out into the sea. The city's beach allowed vehicles to drive on it, making it a popular summer destination. But this small stretch of sand was protected from cars, and their borrowed beach house was the only residence that accessed it. South of their location, they could see the lighthouse near the edge of a high precipice, standing tall in the thinning fog. Blair stared at it with a dreamy look on his face. "North Head Lighthouse. You know they call these guys the sentinels of the coast, right?"

"Ah huh."

"The original lights were just oil and wick. It was the specially designed glass lens that allowed the light to travel far enough out to be seen by ships." Blair turned back to the ocean. He lifted his chin and took a deep breath. "Wow, Jim. It's nice here."

"Good. Glad you like it."

He turned, regarded Jim with one of his assessing looks. "How come we're here, again?"

"What do you mean?"

Blair blew a short raspberry. "I know you, man. One day - two, tops - after a bad case and you're back in the game. Now, here we are. Ten long days. No TV, no Wonderburger, no Mexican take-out, no nothing. What's up?"

"We've got espresso."

Blair rolled his eyes, turning back to the west. "Fine, be all closed mouthed."

Damn this guy knew how to guilt a person. Jim rubbed his forehead, searching for words. "In case it escaped your attention, the last case was more than just bad. You got shot."

"True, and that officially sucked rocks." Blair rolled his shoulders. "But I can heal just as well in the loft."

"Hardly." Jim crossed his arms. "Know you, Sandburg. You'd be doing anything and everything - except resting."

"So, you kidnap me and bring me here." Blair grinned. "That so.... sweet! You big `ole soft cop-guy hero-man."

"Hey, brain-dead, I need a vacation, too. This isn't all about your spoiled butt." Jim tried scowling but Blair was acting like such a goof he had to laugh. "Okay, okay. Got the picture. I'll lay off the Florence Nightingale act." He raised a finger to the gray sky. "Within reason."

Blair straightened his spine in sudden comprehension. "Oh, now I get it. This is to make up for the helicopter ride from hell! Not even close, Jim. I still owe you, big time, for that one."

"Like I'm at fault?" Jim touched his own chest in disbelief. "That was standard operating procedure. We were in the wilderness. You needed surgery. Not my call, Junior."

Blair slumped, his face softening. "Yeah, I know. Shit, though. The solution was worse than the problem. That was one seriously terrifying ride." The quiet statement spoke volumes.

"Sorry, buddy."

"Yeah." Blair's gaze remained fixed on the waves, his eyes unfocused.

Jim let him have some time, trying not to check his watch every sixty seconds. It was hard. Finally after a full five minutes, he couldn't stand it. "Warm enough?"

Blair snickered. "Okay, Florence. Let's head back to the house."

It took three times as long to reach the beach house than the trip out to the log. Blair tried to keep his game face on, but his leg was hurting so bad he was starting to wish he'd never verbally strong-armed Jim into this trip. Halfway up the stairs he was forced to lean on Jim's arm and stop to catch his breath.

Jim was a rock. Thankfully, a silent one.

Blair studied their new temporary home, a nice visual distraction. The house was small, maybe a thousand square feet and painted a gray-blue. The side that faced the ocean was the width of the living room and all windows, those cool old-fashioned ones that Blair used to dream about. Somewhere, as a kid, he'd seen a house decorated for Christmas. Each small square pane had a little fake snowdrift in the corner. It looked so neat to a six-year-old Blair that he dreamed of having his own place and putting those windows in special, just so he could fix them up the same way.

The roof was metal, which totally made sense. Blair got the feeling the rainfall here was measured in feet, not inches. Off the living room entrance, a spacious deck ran the house's width. Someone had taken the time to trim the deck's edge with rows of driftwood standing on end from the sand like little soldiers.

"Ready?"

Blair gathered his waning strength and nodded. They began the climb again, Jim's steadying hands supporting, balancing, keeping him from falling.

"Jim?"

"Yeah."

"Don't let this go to your head, okay?"

"What?"

"Don't think I should have tried this today."

"I knew it."

Blair was gasping by the time Jim got him into the small bedroom. He didn't object when Jim helped him off with the sweat pants, sat him on the bed and began to unwrap the bandage. He already knew that look. If Jim didn't like what he was about to see, Blair was looking at a trip to the hospital.

"Not too bad."

Miracle of miracles. Blair felt like cheering, except for the little problem of needing all his strength to keep the tears from falling; pain shouldn't sneak up on a person this way, it just wasn't fair.

"I'm bringing you some food. You can take a pill and rest." Jim was returning the wrap to its original position and tearing a new strip of tape off with his teeth.

"Can't, man." Blair got out through clenched teeth. "Not gonna hold anything down right now." He was being pivoted. Jim had his feet lifted, slipping off the sneakers with ease. Blair let his arms go limp and he fell back against his pillows. He closed his eyes for just a second.

"Here."

Jim was back with saltine crackers and hot tea. The smell of lemon and honey did wonders for his mood. Blair rolled up on one elbow. After the tea was half drunk and several crackers eaten - boy, they tasted good - Jim laid a white pill in Blair's palm. He popped it into his mouth and chased it down with more sweet tea.

"Need to use the head?" Jim took the empty mug back. He stood up.

"Nah. I'm fine."

"Okay, then. This time I promise to wake you for dinner. Rise up." He worked the bunched up blankets out from under Blair and smoothed them out on top. "You set?"

"Uh huh." Eyes already shut, Blair wondered if it was the pill already taking over, the fact he was off his damn leg, or that Jim's friendship was better than stupid windows with fake snow. Whatever the reason, the pain seemed so much more tolerable. "Thanks, Jim."

While Blair slept, Jim took a look around. The house didn't have a garage, but he found a small shed outside, a few feet away by a stand of stubby pines twisted by years of growing in the wind. It was secured with an impressive lock. Robert had his affairs in order, with labels as needed. In the utility room with a stacked washer-dryer combo, Jim found a tiny board filled with small, gold hooks hanging on the wall. Some hooks held keys. One silver key had a tag labeled `tool shed'.

Inside the shed Jim found tools, fishing equipment suitable for surf fishing - now, that was an idea that Jim hadn't thought of - and everything he needed for painting the steps. Except, of course, paint. That wasn't a problem. He'd seen a hardware store in Ilwaco. Until then, he would prep.

One stair had moved a little when they'd both stood on it. Jim rummaged around a bit and found some suitable nails. He spent fifteen minutes getting that fixed then swapped the hammer for a scraper and went to work. The forecast all week was morning fog, but decent afternoons until next weekend. If Jim was lucky, he'd have the stairs completed by then.

It was easy to let his worries drain out. The constant sounds of the waves soothed. The seagulls bobbed on the water. Flocks of tiny sandpipers chased the tide up and down the wet sand as they foraged for food. Once a large, awkward looking Coast Guard helicopter flew overhead, following the coast north. Jim paused in his work, zooming in on the crew. A kid was flying the expensive machine; he looked nineteen, but was probably in his mid-twenties.

The older Jim got, the younger the world looked.

He was on his final stair when the phone rang. Since he'd started at the bottom, he only had to cross the deck and open the door to answer.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Jim. How's the place working out?"

"Good, Simon. Fantastic, actually." Jim could hear Simon's office chair squeak and knew he was kicking back, probably enjoying a cigar. "Thanks again. And thank Robert for us. It's perfect."

"I will. He's harping about not getting to enjoy it as much as he used to. Damn shame a man has to work that hard to afford stuff he doesn't have time to enjoy, ya know?"

"Yeah."

"How's Sandburg?"

"Hurting. He's asleep."

"Hurting? Why? What he'd do?"

Jim smiled at the spontaneous inquisition. "He just insisted on doing too much. I'm keeping an eye on things."

"You'd just damn well better, Ellison. You heard the surgeon. You don't mess around with that kind of injury."

"I'm on it, Simon. I'm not letting Blair screw up his life with a limp. So, you still coming down?" Although Jim had no idea where the man was going to sleep. Someone was going to have to share a bed or sleep on the floor.

"Nah, that's why I'm calling. Thought I'd get away, but Joan's tossed a monkey wrench into the plan. Darryl's got a scouting trip he needs to attend, I'm taking him."

Simon sounded anything but aggravated. In fact, Jim could hear the smile over the phone lines. "Not a problem. Maybe we can plan an outing later in the year."

"Sure, meanwhile your job is to keep Sandburg off that leg."

"Right."

"I'll call later this week."

"Right."

The house was quiet until just before four. Jim found a paperback cache that ran close to his own taste and enjoyed a long read. Sounds of movement from the small bedroom pulled his attention away from the adventures of Dirk Pitt and NUMA.

A rustle of cloth, a soft snort, a sniffle.

"Umm..." A yawn. Then the teasing voice with a half decent English accent. "Boy? Oh, Boooy! Where's my sandwich?"

Blair was in a feisty mood.

Setting the book down, Jim strolled into Blair's room. "Feeling all perky, are we?" He smiled at his friend. "If you had any idea how tempted I am to take a picture of your bed head and show it to your co-eds..."

Blair looked properly repentant. "I'll be good. But I'm starving."

"How's the leg?"

"Sore, but doable. Did I mention I'm hungry?"

"Twice, in fact."

"Let's make it three times. Can we make subs? Do we have BBQ chips?" The covers were tossed back and Blair rolled up to sit with a minor grimace.

"Yes and yes. It's your lucky day." Jim held the crutches ready.

"I'm swinging by the bathroom first. No, no. I'm good. I'll meet you in the kitchen."

Jim watched him settle the padded crutches under his arms. He did look steady and he had promised to back off some. "Okay. I'll get them started."

Cold cuts, romaine lettuce, and strips of red bell peppers made a fine looking sandwich. Jim used extra mayo on his and dumped the entire bag of chips into a plastic bowl. He carried the early dinner into the front room and set it down on a coffee table.

Blair was thumping into the room. "Wow! Check out that view!"

The fog was gone. The sky a perfect blue, lighter when compared to the waters of the Pacific Ocean. Yeah, it was the same ocean that fed Cascade's bay, but down here it just looked different.

"God, it's so powerful."

Okay, that might be the word Jim was looking for.

"Sit. You can eat and watch the waves."

Blair took the padded chair. It was turned toward the window, warmed by the evening sun. Later they might start a fire. Blair ate, his eyes rarely leaving the view. They had a limited supply of Snapple drinks, but Jim decided to dip into it for two peach flavored. The way the first sub was going down, he offered the younger man half his and went back to build more.

"Jim?"

"Yeah?" He had to raise his voice to make sure it carried back to Blair.

"Can you bring that bag from the flea market?"

The following hours were just as quiet as when Blair had been sleeping. They read, watched the sun set, started a fire, read some more with the chairs repositioned to face the fireplace, made two more lattes, and read until late.

Blair finally yawned and set down the book he'd bought from the little old lady at the outside market yesterday. "Tell me how it's possible I'm tired again?" He leaned over and rummaged around in the bag where more new used books were stored.

"You're recovering. That takes a lot of energy," Jim said. He was stretched out on the sofa, one arm folded behind his head, the other holding his paperback.

"Ah oh." Blair's searching hand pulled out some papers. "What's this?"

Jim dismissed the papers and returned to Pitt's getaway. The trouble this character managed to get into was legendary.

Blair was still making discovery noises. "There's stuff in here I didn't buy."

"Probably left in the paper bag and already there when the lady loaded your books."

"Okay, fine, but they're copies of an old journal, Jim. Real, real old from the looks of it."

Jim looked up. "Is it dated?"

"Not sure. Hard to read. The spelling is weird, lots of references to animals and plants and..." His voice trailed off.

Jim returned to his book and Blair grew quiet, only the rustling of paper and an occasional mutter being heard. The fire started to lose heat after a while. Jim set his book face down on the carpet and got up. Blair hadn't moved. There wasn't that many pages and he knew the kid wasn't a slow reader.

"How many times are you going to read that?"

He was waved off.

After tossing a few more pieces of wood in, Jim wandered back into the kitchen and snagged a package of peanut butter cookies and poured two glasses of orange juice. He set the snack down on the coffee table.

"Jim, this is amazing, man. You know what I think it is?"

"Nope."

"Copies of a journal by early explorers, maybe two hundred years ago. Check it out." Blair was leaning out to show his find.

Jim saw more than flowing words. There were drawings of a coast line. Whoa, it did look interesting. He held out a hand. "Let me see that."

Blair surrendered one page, keeping the others as he sipped his drink. "Look at that second to last paragraph. What do you think?"

Jim read. The script was hard to follow. The words more phonetically spelled than accurate. One phrase caught his eye - `run the gauntlet'. Sure enough, the writing seemed to describe a man being punished by running down two rows of men with sticks and belts that swung as he passed.

"What the hell is this?"

Blair was grinning. "I think someone got their hands on one of the Lewis and Clark journals, man. They made photocopies. I'm just not sure which journal this is from. I've read them all and this one doesn't seem to fit to what I remember."

"You've read all the journals?" Jim looked down at his friend. Why was he surprised? "How many are there? Two?"

"No, actually, there were at least four men from the corps that kept a journal. Lewis was the better known for details and stuff, but he wasn't very good about making daily entries. I know his handwriting the best; this isn't his. Maybe it's Gass."

"Patrick Gass, right?"

"Yeah. He lived the longest, wrote tons even after the expedition."

Jim sat, handing the page back. "You know, there's an interpretive center down by the North Jetty, off the Columbia. Maybe I can show this around and see what they say. I'll be going in for some paint and groceries tomorrow." As soon as he'd said the words, he knew he'd opened the door for a new argument. "No way, Chief. Forget it."

"Jiiimmm."

"No, you're staying put. Your leg, remember the walk to the beach?"

"I'll use that wheelchair you brought down."

"No."

"I'll stay off the leg, I swear."

"Nah uh."

"I'll tell Simon who really broke his favorite coffee cup."

"You promised you wouldn't."

"See your problem, man? You underestimate a researcher's desperation when he's gotta know something."

"Little shit."

Blair followed through with his promise and stayed off his leg. The wheelchair folded flat and stowed neatly behind the seat. Because they'd need more milk for lattes and Jim had a feeling the time at the interpretative center might be lengthy, he saved the grocery run for last.

Protected by Cape Disappointment, Ilwaco hugged a wide bay on the Columbia River's northern shore, tucked out of reach from the famous Columbia bar, some of the roughest waters known to boaters. Ilwaco had been a fishing village, boasting a healthy economy when the commercial fishing industry was hot, once upon a time. Then around the late seventies there was a major downturn. The residents were forced to change their ways or starve. Some moved, some stayed and struggled. A turn toward tourism and charter fishing looked promising. Life returned to the peeling and weather beaten homes.

Jim could smell the crab markets as they drove. Maybe they'd pick up some fresh crab for dinner today. The corner hardware store was in process of getting a face lift. Jim parked on the street, told Blair he was only going to be in a second and it wasn't worth getting the wheelchair out, and went in.

The owner, an old man with a fisherman's complexion of tough hide-like skin, helped him match the blue shade of Robert Banks' house and sold him a gallon of paint. Blair hadn't moved, sitting like an obedient passenger when Jim climbed back behind the wheel.

"You're still a manipulative shit."

"Whatever, man. Now the interpretive center, right?"

"Right." Jim started the truck.

Signs for the Lewis and Clark Interpretive Center were the same as for the state park and the US Coast Guard Station, a training school where recruits from all over the US learned how to handle boats in extreme conditions on the bar. The powerful river's entrance was a virtual graveyard of sunken ships.

Jim followed the handicap access and located a parking spot at the hilltop. Blair continued his best possible behavior, even waiting until Jim gave the nod to get out and sit in the wheelchair. They rolled up the asphalt path, passed the base for an old long range disappearing rifle cannon, living history of early coastal defense dating back to the civil war times. The view overlooked the bar, the north jetty and the shoreline to the north.

Once inside the front doors, Blair fished out a crumpled five dollar bill and stuffed it into the donation box. Two volunteers sat behind the reception counter. Blair instantly charmed the couple, a retired man and his wife, with his usual manner. Jim was introduced, included in the pleasant sundry of chatter until Blair twisted around and pulled out a leather bound notebook from his backpack hanging on a wheelchair handle.

It was time for the researcher to research. Blair told the couple his needs and they graciously allowed him access to records.

An enjoyable two hours later, Jim browsed the small gift shop. He selected a paperback account of the expedition, boasting much of the transcribed journal entries and set it on the counter to buy.

"What did you think, Jim?" the elder lady asked.

Jim nodded. "Impressive displays, lots of good work."

She nodded in firm agreement, her wrinkled skin gathered under her chin and gently swayed. "You just wait and see our plans for the bicentennial. We'll have the addition completed by then, should be a nice kick off."

"That's right." Jim looked at the framed poster above her head. "The two hundred year mark is coming, isn't it?"

"That's right. Everyone's planning a celebration, all along the entire four thousand miles of the original route." She picked up his selection and read the price tag. "You staying at the state park?"

"Close to, but not inside." Jim smiled. "We're staying in a friend's house the next hollow over."

"Oh, sure. Robert's place. You a friend of his?"

"I work for his cousin," Jim said, amazed that folks seemed to know everyone around here. "We're hoping for a week of relaxation. The job's been a little intense lately."

She nodded wisely. "Now, you take it from me. My first husband worked himself to death. Never saw retirement. Lenny and I know better. You got to take the time to smell the flowers, Jim. You understand me?"

"Yes, ma'am." Jim held up his hand as if to pledge. "We're smelling."

She chuckled. "This'll do ya?"

"No, better hold off. Blair's still below, looking around."

"I took a peek in on him a while back." She leaned forward. "He's up to his elbows in research. Even had Lenny get out some of our stored information. What's he working on?"

"He found some photocopies of one of the journals. He's trying to figure out which one."

"That's nice."

Jim poked around a bit more, then wandered down the ramp to the sub floor and sought out Blair. "You ready?"

"Oh." Blair looked up guiltily, poking his glasses back up his nose. He'd made himself at home, set up in an office off the beaten path of the exhibits. Inside was a computer on a desk, a couple filing cabinets and a small copy machine. "Sorry, Jim. Meant to wrap this up about ten ago."

Jim waved a hand at the room. "They let you get access to all this?"

"Card carrying Rainier University Teaching Assistants have some advantages, man." Blair started closing textbooks and tidying up.

He'd been good about staying in the chair and Jim felt a pull of empathy. "We can come back, Chief."

Blair's grin was brilliant. "Cool! Thanks, Jim. Really. This is so great. Wait till I tell you what I found."

"So, they're not part of the documented journals." Jim unloaded the groceries.

Blair had his laptop running. He didn't look up from his typing. "Nope."

"Then the pages are a hoax?"

"That's the exciting part, man." Blair hit the save key and started the power down process on his computer. Hand notes were okay, but years of study taught him to transcribe notes to some form of back up as soon as possible, while the details were fresh in his mind. "History tells us that two other men also kept journals, but were never found. What if these photocopies are from one of the missing journals."

"And someone leaves it in a recycled shopping bag? Makes no sense." Jim sounded unconvinced. "What do you want for lunch?"

"Whatever, don't care." Blair waved a hand in the air. "Jim, they're just copies and someone misplaced a few pages. That's how it ends up in the bag. A dozen pages wouldn't even be noticed. You move my stuff around all the time, it happens."

"I'm thinking hot dogs with corn chips. And I wouldn't be moving your stuff around if you kept it where it belongs, which is not all over our living room."

Blair snickered. He'd been expecting that. He looked over his newly prized copies, still struggling with the possibility of discovery. God, who would knowingly keep something like this a secret?

"Besides, how can you be sure the journal entries are different? Not even you had time to reread everything on file." Jim had a pot of water boiling on the stove. He opened a large bag of chips and took a handful before setting it down on the table within Blair's reach.

"The interpretive center has a very thorough search program. Every known journal entry was in their computer database. I typed in lines from my pages and couldn't find them. But the real reason I know these are different was the account in here of Floyd."

"Who?"

"Sergeant Charles Floyd. He died early on in the trip. The journals all said he was a healthy twenty-two year old. God, Jim, can you imagine? Younger than me and getting to be on an expedition of that importance? Anyway, it sounded like the guy had a ruptured appendix. That was fatal in those days." Blair reached into the bag and popped a few curled squares into his mouth and crunched. It dawned on him he'd better take a more active role in the menus this week or he'd be gaining twenty pounds.

"Okay, I sort of remember that. Your pages document his death?" Jim used a small knife to slit open the hot dog wrapping.

"Oh, yeah, and how, man." Blair tapped the papers. "Says here Floyd was murdered."

"What?" Jim set the knife and package down, crossing the floor in two long strides. "Let me see."

"Easy, Jules Verne. It's not like we've got a time machine to go back and make an arrest." He watched Jim read, his blue eyes flicking back and forth, then grunting as he reached the end.

"Yeah, I see what you mean. Wish it was easier to know for real, but the writer was definitely suspicious, sounds like he even had a few motives in mind. But that's not how to spell poison." Jim returned to the stove, leaving the papers on the table.

"Well, back in those days, folks were lucky if they even knew how to read and write. They just did their best with spelling," Blair said. "The first dictionary wasn't even published until the 1820's."

Jim dumped six dogs into the boiling water. "Does it say anything more about Floyd's death?"

"Yeah, the next page goes on about how he thinks Captain Lewis might have slipped him the poison when he first started getting sick, but on the last page here, it says he thinks maybe Gass did it to get the field promotion to sergeant."

Jim frowned, leaning a hip against the kitchen counter. "What are you going to do with this, Chief?"

A very good question, Blair wasn't sure yet. "I know what I'm not going to do. And that's let anyone see these pages until I've done some more research. Without the originals, it's nothing more than an interesting read. But I'm going to talk to a few professors I know, get them to poke around. Someone might be holding on to the original journal and I want to know why it hasn't been shared with the world."

"If any ancestors of Lewis or Gass are still around, they're not going to be too happy if that journal surfaces."

"Yeah, I know."

Jim started painting the stairs after lunch. The day was warming up. After firmly turning down Blair's offer to help, he let himself get talked into dragging the `Morris' chair out onto the deck. Blair set himself up with some bottled water and a few of those flea market books he'd scored.

Jim painted while Blair read. It was a nice way to spend the afternoon. The fog was gone and more than once he looked up to catch Blair staring peacefully out at the ocean. Around two-fifteen Jim looked up and Blair was asleep.

Jim continued painting, to wait and see if Blair's condition was temporary. He was still snoozing when the final stroke of paint went down and step was done. Wiping his hands needlessly - Jim never could understand how folks managed to get paint all over themselves - he quietly circled around the house, entering from the kitchen and snagged the cotton throw from the sofa. Standing next to the chair, he looked down at his sleeping friend.

A nice feature of a `Morris' chair was the way the back could be lowered until it was nearly level with the seat. Blair already had his injured leg supported on a padded foot rest. Jim lifted his other leg to rest alongside. Blair never woke. Next, Jim tilted the back forward on the hinge, enough to release the cross bar and return it to the lowest setting. Then, he carefully, slowly, dropped the chair back, Blair and all.

Unfocused, blue eyes blinked blearily up. "Whaa?"

"It's okay, I'm just making you more comfortable," Jim said in a whisper.

Blair's eyes closed again, lids flittering restlessly for a few seconds, then he settled into his new position with a contented sigh. Jim took the book from his lap and covered him with the throw. Retracing his steps through the house, he took a second to unplug the phone in the living room before walking out the back door, around the small house and sat down to finish his painting.

It was one of the nicest, peaceful afternoons he'd had in a long time.

The next morning Jim already had a routine he liked. He put on the shorts and t-shirt, added the light jacket and checked on Blair before starting his run. The beach was fogged in. Knowing what the afternoon was planning, it made the fog all that more special. He stretched and started his run, enjoying the new day, his health, a healing partner and his boss's generosity.

He'd planned on using this week to mull over the events at the well with Quinn. Simon seemed so sure nothing would have happened. Jim wished he'd shared his boss's certainty. Yeah, Quinn was lower than the scum that formed on the surface of a cesspool, and yeah, he murdered Brody, kidnapped his boss and because of him, Blair got shot.

Jim had no qualms with killing him if he had needed to. So why had he flirted those long moments with killing him when he hadn't needed to? When the situation had basically been handled?

Jim knew. He'd seen it when he'd looked into those cold eyes of a killer. Quinn didn't give a shit. Even after all he'd done, all he had almost done, he would just as calmly go out tomorrow and do that and more if given the chance.

How could the legal system continue to deal with people like Quinn?

Jim concentrated on the sand under his feet. He let each pounding step drive the truth into his brain.

Not.

His.

Call.

To.

Make.

Jim was a police officer, a protector. He'd continue to do that job and let the system deal with the punishment of people like Quinn.

That's the lesson Simon knew so well, hell, they all knew. It was just part of being on the team to have to occasionally remind each other. Jim hadn't been the only one to ever need reminding, either. Simon had that same look once or twice in their time together, most recently when Daryl had been hanging upside down from the upper floor window at the police station.

Jim took a cleansing breath and let it go. He brought his attention to the here and now and commanded his body to go faster. He exalted in feeling a burst of speed and grinned. The fog cooled his heated face and legs.

Yeah.

Blair's dream had been so sweet. He blinked at Jim, wondering why his friend was in his room. Blair hadn't called him, he wasn't moaning in pain or anything.

Before he could ask, a hand clamped over his mouth.

Blair managed to grab the wrist, but couldn't get the hand off his face. Shit! There was a second guy in his room!

Jim touched the stone face and turned to head north again. One more lap and he'd head in. A faint heart beat froze him in his tracks.

"Hello?" Jim looked up. The sounds came from over his head. That made no sense at all. The fog and the topography must be playing tricks on him.

He listened. No, Jim was right the first time, someone was up there. The beat was too slow for an animal. Besides, he'd smell the animal. He searched the cliff face carefully, then jogged inland a bit. He found a vertical crevasse in the rock, nothing more than a couple of finger holds, but it led up to a shelf about twelve feet from the sand.

"Hey? Someone up there? You okay?"

Friend or foe? Or injured?

"I'm climbing up."

The ledge was actually a shelf of sorts to a hollowed out shallow cave that dipped down and to the left, hidden from the beach by a stone lip. The curled form of a person was crammed into the back.

"You okay?" Jim looked closely, seeing dark, straight hair that was cut in a manner to suggest male, not female. The head lifted and he looked into the face of an unhappy boy, no more than ten years old, tops. "What's wrong, kid? You hurt or something?"

"Leave me alone," the kid said. His skin was dark to suggest Mexican or even American Indian. The kid looked tired.

"I'm a police officer. You don't need to be afraid." Jim finished climbing up, swinging to sit on the stone's edge. He extended a hand into the cave. "Can you move? Are you hurt?"

"Shit, man," the kid muttered. "You're ruining everyth - Whoa!" His eyes widened in wonder, not fear, somewhere to Jim's right.

Jim looked down. Nothing was there. This kid must be hurt. "Okay, just stay calm. I'll help you down and we'll call your parents."

Now the boy was chanting. The words caused Jim to mentally cross off the Hispanic guess and circle the American Indian, although he didn't have a clue which tribe. Before he could say another word the chanting stopped and the boy switched back to English.

"You came, I don't believe it. Ah... what is my place?" The boy reached for a stick at his side.

"What?" Jim half expected the youth to swing at him.

Instead he held the stick with a trembling hand. His eyes flicked from Jim's face to the empty spot next to him and back. "M-my vision, right? Aren't you going to tell me?"

"Listen, kid. I'm a police officer, okay? I'm here to help you. Can you climb down by yourself or do you need help?"

"I can climb down."

Jim backed down, jumping the last five feet to the soft sand. He landed lightly and looked up. The kid's face peered over the side, his mouth round, eyes wide with wonder. He looked awestricken.

Jim held up a hand. "Okay, come on, partner."

He had a shaky start, but climbed down without incident. He was bigger than Jim first guessed. Dressed in jeans and a black sweater with a zip up hooded jacket, he looked up at Jim, tentatively reaching out to touch an arm.

"You're real."

"Yeah," Jim said. "That's what they tell me."

The kid looked around. "Where'd the cat go?"

"What cat?"

"The one with you before, oh, wait." He looked back at Jim. "Sorry, I forgot."

Okay, this kid didn't look hurt, but he acted like he'd taken one too many blows to the head. "What are you doing out here?"

The younger face looked pensive. "Is this, like, a trick question?"

"I don't think so." Jim scrubbed his face. "Although I'm starting to wonder. I guess if you're telling me you're okay and nothing's wrong..."

"So, we're done?" The kid sounded disappointed. "That was it?"

This kid was like Blair, all the questions answered with questions. "Do you need to call your parents? Do you live close by?"

"I've got a bike." He jerked a thumb into the trees. "I'll ride home. Do you keep this? Or what?"

`This' was the stick. Someone had taken the time to remove the bark and smooth down the ends. Jim knew he didn't need it, and the kid seemed reluctant to part with it. "You keep it. So, you're not too far from your home? You can ride back okay?"

"Sure." He shrugged the jacket up on his shoulders in a mature manner. "I guess I'll take off. Will I see you again?"

Jim smiled. "Could be, I'm here for the rest of the week. We might bump into each other again."

"Cool." Looking around one last time as if to catch sight of something in the surrounding fog, he raised a hand and turned away to jog into the dunes.

Jim waited until he safely made it over the piles of accumulated drift wood and into the tree line before turning away, still clueless as to what that entire conversation had been about. More than likely, the kid had been hiding from his family, maybe upset after fighting with his old man. Yeah, that was probably it. He was just embarrassed at having been found like that.

Beginning to feel stiff and not feeling like warming up all over again to finish the run, Jim jogged slowly back to the beach house. The newly painted stairs rose out of the fog. Jim admired his job as he climbed. Looking up, he realized he hadn't latched the door.

He was getting lazy.

Blair's snores settled his irritation. No harm, no foul. He'd shower then start breakfast. Inside the living room, he reached down to retrieve his suitcase and pick out his clothes for the day. He froze. His clothes were scattered about. His sweater spilled out from the opened case, socks, sweats, jeans, all of it had been tossed around and left where they'd fallen on the floor next to the sofa.

What the hell? What was Blair up to?

It wasn't the only mess in the room. The bag of flea market books had been dumped out, too.

Blair's computer was on the floor! The lid opened and face down!

Shit! He hadn't left the door open! They'd been broken into!

"Blair!"

Jim ran for the back bedroom. Casting out his hearing as he went, he quickly realized they were the only two in the house. He found Blair on the floor, tossed down like a broken toy by a petulant child giant. Face smashed into the carpet, his bad leg was bent at an awkward angle. Even if he hadn't been shot, it was going to be painful.

"Son of a ..." Jim dropped down on one knee, fingers homing in on Blair's strong carotid pulse. He ran quick hands down the injured leg first, no new damage. He straightened it. Listening to the muscles move, the ligaments and tendons performed their job as best as Jim could feel. The other leg and arms checked out okay. He ran fingers down Blair's neck and spine.

Good, everything seemed good.

Rolling the unconscious man over, he got a good look at Blair's bruised face.

"Sandburg, wake up, damn it!"

Blair groaned, his breath hitching as he grimaced.

Damn, Jim lifted the T-shirt. Yep, stomach took some hits, too. Jim rolled Blair onto his side, not surprised when the beaten man drew both knees up.

"Blair? You with me?" Jim thumbed up one eyelid then the other. "Come on. Don't keep me in suspense."

"G-gaawwdd-d."

"Easy."

"J-jim, they... ow... t-two... d-dem."

"Lay still," Jim said. "I'm calling the cops. Be right back."

The phone didn't work. Jim traced the line to a freshly cut end. He cursed and went instead to make ice packs out of quart sized zip-lock baggies and ice from the freezer. It only took a minute, but he kept in voice contact, more to let his friend know he wasn't alone than anything else. "Okay, plan `B' time. We're going to drive to that clinic in Ilwaco and make sure you're okay. Be right there, fixing you something for that eye and swollen lip."

Blair had managed to sit up by the time Jim was back. His injured leg straight, other leg bent up, his forehead resting in his arms that he'd crossed over his knee.

"How's the head?" Jim knelt down. "Here, one for the back and one for your face." He helped get the towel wrapped icepacks in place. "What happened?

"Two guys." Blair peered up, his single visible eye woeful. "Wearing ski masks. Gloves, too. They were in my room."

"What'd they want?"

"Don'no, man." Blair groaned. "Where were you?"

A simple question. Jim knew that. Blair wasn't blaming, he was asking. Still, it cut to the bone. "On the beach, jogging. I found a kid -"

"God, man." Blair shuttered. "I was so freaked! T-thought they'd hurt you or something."

"No, I'm fine." Jim sniffed. "I'm smelling blood, Chief." He traced to the gunshot wound. "Shit. Come on, you probably tore a stitch. Let's get you checked out." He had to stand over Blair and lift, bringing a painful groan. "Sorry."

One icepack had fallen to the carpet; Jim waited until Blair had balance and scooped it up, along with one crutch. The other lay nearby, one wooden support broken. Jim noticed the rest of the room. Lamp on the floor, its shade smashed, bedding pulled off, pictures of seascapes tilted in crazy angles on the wall.

Blair snickered, seeing Jim's attention. "I got kinda pissed."

"You?"

"Well, they wouldn't tell me where you were." Blair tucked the surviving crutch under his arm and held the ice pack against the back of his head. "We can suspect anyone with a broken nose. It'll match the damage to my crutch."

Jim shook his head. "Okay, Rambo. Let's get you patched up."

The small clinic was just opening for the day. The nurse hadn't even set her purse down or removed her coat when Jim and Blair entered.

"Oh, my." She was a slender woman with long black hair. The name tag on her shirt said `Jolene'. She reached for a phone on her counter. "The doctor doesn't come in for another half hour, should I call him?"

"Please," Jim said. He lowered Blair into a chair.

"I can wait thirty minutes, Jim."

They should have gone straight to the police and skipped this visit. Blair's gut had dropped from `hurts to breathe' to `just sore' on the pain-o-meter. Sure, his head still pounded, but that was normal after having it bounced off the headboard. He felt the start of a black eye and knew his lip was swollen out to tomorrow. But Jim ignored him, busy instead with the task of reporting Blair's injuries in a clipped, military style. Blair peered at the woman with his one good eye, the one not being covered with an ice pack.

Nice. Very pretty. And nurses love a man who's hurt, right? Blair's day might not be a total bummer.

The door swung open and a half-sized whirlwind swept through in jeans and hooded sweat jacket.

"Mom! It happened!"

"Clifford!"

"Kid?"

"You!"

Blair covered his ears. The head sent signals to his sore stomach, which answered with waves of nausea. God, maybe he did have a head injury. Jim's going to freak. Another stupid heli-vac to the hospital.

No way! Not going to go through two `spinning basket' rides in one week. Blair's world grayed and he bent forward with a groan.

Hands urged him to sit up straight. A pleasant, soft voice spoke, barely audible over his pounding head. He recognized Jim's grip on his arm and his light massage on the back of his neck.

Yeah, better. Not going to have brains shooting out both ears. Not going to hurl chunks. Someone - the nurse? - warned of a light and he felt a butterfly soft touch on his face. His eyelid was lifted and held. The light hit and he reared back.

"Easy." Jim sounded scared.

Blair wanted to tell him everything was okay. People just needed not to shout for a couple of hours; that was all. He knew the light was going to hit his other eye, the one that got clobbered. Blair was proud when he didn't flinch.

`See?' he wanted to brag. He wasn't hurt, much.

Jim pulled him upward, hands on his bent elbows. More walking? Now? He didn't want to, his head was still hurting, getting better, but still - ah... Okay, softness. Yeah, he could lie down, thank you very much. Real narrow for a bed, though. Must be a gurney.

"Jim... no baskets, okay?"

"Okay, Chief."

"Mean it, man." His legs were lifted onto the bed, shoes and all. "Serious here."

"Sandburg, relax."

`Yeah, yeah, sure. Get me all relaxed so you can strap me down and hook me up to that cable hanging underneath a monster-sized whirly bird.' Real fear gripped his chest, squeezing his lungs. Blair struggled to sit up, squinting painfully at the lights passing overhead. When did he start moving?

"Jim! Stop ignoring -"

"Hey, hey, now." Jim was right next to him, close enough that Blair could see the sweat staining his T-shirt. "You've got to stay calm."

Blair had to make sure he was clear. "No helicopter, Jim. Okay? No."

Blue eyes softened with understanding. "Okay. I'm on board now. I get you. Land and sea, good. Air, bad. Now, will you lie back down and let the nurse take your vitals?"

"S-sure," Blair said, feeling a little stupid. They were in a small exam room now. He saw the nurse standing expectantly with a blood pressure cuff. "Yeah, okay."

"So, he's okay?" Jim needed to hear the old man say it one more time.

"I think so. Watch for the return of nausea, severe headaches, dizziness, yada, yada," the doctor said, scribbling on a chart. He was ancient in doctor-years, long past the time for leisurely weeks of golfing tournaments and trips to Palm Springs.

Jim liked him. Right away he had cut through Blair's bullshit factor and went right to the issues, getting Blair to respond with honest answers.

"You're going to talk to the police, right?"

Jim nodded. "That's our next stop."

"Want some?" He held up the fresh carafe of coffee. Seeing Jim's hungry look for caffeine, he poured a second cup and handed it over. "Good, you tell them about this assault. We don't need to let a group of thugs start terrorizing folks around here."

The coffee was strong, the beans smelled freshly roasted. Jim held his mug with both hands, covering the words `Born to Fish, Forced to Work'. "What about his leg?"

"You're right, did some damage there. I'd watch it, keep it clean. Know more when the swelling goes down. May not need surgery again." He gave Jim an assessing look. "Got shot working with you, huh? Any chance this assault was part of that?"

"No," Jim said. "That case is completely wrapped up."

"Okay," the doctor started walking back toward the exam room Blair was resting in with Jim following. "You're the police officer. I'm just the doctor. Hey, Clifford. How'd the camping trip go?"

Jim didn't expect to see the kid from the beach. He certainly didn't expect to see him in Blair's room. Blair looked much better. No evidence of the earlier panic about being airlifted. He'd been chatting with Clifford as they walked in, but broke it off with the doctor's question.

Clifford eyed Jim cautiously; it was disconcerting. "It was great, Doctor Charlie."

"You were camping?" Jim couldn't help but ask. "Where was your tent? Your equipment?"

Clifford shrugged. He slipped off the metal stool, edging for the door. "Catch ya later, Blair. Bye, Doc." The kid caught Jim's eye and nodded. "Sir."

Jim watched him go. That was one strange kid. He turned back to his partner. "How's the head?"

"Great," Blair answered. He sat on the gurney, the back raised comfortably. He eyed Jim's cup. "Be greater with some of that. Can I?"

Doctor Charlie nodded. "You're released, young man. If it doesn't hurt ya, you can do it." His face broke into a grin. "Within reason, of course." He left them with a wave.

Jim wanted to go. He handed his half empty coffee cup over willingly. "Here, just finish this and I'll get you more later."

"Thanks."

Jolene walked in, carrying crutches. "You certainly look better. Doctor said you'd need these. You can drop them off when you're done with them." She smiled at Jim. "Clifford's very taken with you, officer. Seems he and you have some history."

"I found him on the beach. I hope I didn't scare him."

"No, he likes to explore. My husband's a commercial fisherman. Clifford sometimes goes down to watch for the boats to return." She handed Blair pink copies of his insurance forms.

"You're Chinook, right?" Blair asked.

"That's right." She smiled. "I'm Coastal, my husband is Shoalwater."

All the paperwork was finished. Jim gathered up their coats. Blair looked strong enough to hobble out to the truck, so he didn't hover. Clifford was nowhere to be seen as they left. The drive to the sheriff's office was only three blocks. A heavyset man in his thirties was visible through a small window separating the waiting room from the dispatch area. The deputy had to be notified by radio. Blair was on his second cup of coffee and Jim his first by the time she arrived. The sheriff's coffee was swill compared to Doctor Charlie's brew.

"I'm Deputy Nettle. Sorry you men had to wait." She assessed Blair with a thorough look. "Let's go in the back. You'll be more comfortable." They were buzzed through a security door into the back of the building.

Nettle was about Jim's age with a sturdy build. She'd never get a job as a lingerie model, but Jim had a feeling she'd be a valuable person to watch your back. She led them to a break room of sorts, with a round table, a long counter that held a microwave, a coffee maker and a box of snacks with a sign to remind people they were on an honor system for payment. Jim noticed the box was nearly empty, and the IOU sheet was full. Illustrated framed posters of game fish classifications hung on the light gray walls.

"Take this seat," she said to Blair, pointing to a padded desk chair.

"Thanks." Blair let Jim take the crutches and settled in with a sigh.

"We had a thirty-eight foot Bayliner hit a sandbar this morning. Idiot managed to block the channel all morning. I was helping the coasties get it all sorted out." She poured her own coffee, took a sip and made a face. "Blah, time to start a new pot."

She sat down to take the report after dumping the coffee and fixing a new batch. "Okay, you've obviously had a full morning. The dispatcher said you've been to Charlie and he looked you over. Want to tell me what happened? Can we start with some ID?"

Jim pulled out his ID. "I'm a detective with Major Crimes, city of Cascade. Blair rides with me, sort of a consultant with the department." He was also carrying Blair's police ID and laid it next to his own.

"I'm writing a paper on police societies," Blair said. "I'm an anthropologist."

Nettle sat up straight. "That prisoner escape last week. Up north! A police officer was kidnapped. Your names were mentioned."

"Right. Sandburg got shot. We're down here for a little R and R."

She looked suddenly sympathetic. "And this happens. Shit, I'm so sorry. We're normally a quiet county. Okay, let's start from the beginning."

Jim turned to Blair. It was his story. "Go ahead, Chief."

Nettle listened to his story with a sympathetic look. Jim picked up the story when Blair finished. Nettle, who told them her name was Alice - feel free to use it - was a quick scribe. In no time she was ready to follow them back to the beach house.

Jim only had one stop to make, something about needing a new phone cord.

Back at the house, Blair saw the backdoor had been pried open, probably with a screwdriver. Once inside, he found the damage in the living room.

"My laptop!"

Jim stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Don't touch anything."

"They had gloves on, Jim."

"You can't be sure they kept them on the entire time."

Blair rolled his eyes irritably. "Right! Like they're going to wear them to beat the snot out of me, then take them off to touch our stuff."

Jim looked at Nettle. "He's not himself."

She shook her head, a faint smile playing on her face. "Jim's right. Let me see if I can lift some prints."

"Oh, man! That powder will get into my electronics and ruin everything." Blair suddenly felt whipped. What was the point? His computer looked destroyed anyway. He was tired and he hurt all over. "Ahhh, hell with it."

"Come on," Jim said. He nodded towards the kitchen. "Let's go sit down. I'll find something for us to eat while Alice works."

In the kitchen, Blair stared glumly at the gray speckled enamel table top. Just the mention of food caused him to realize how hollow he felt. The coffee he'd downed had morphed into acid.

"Oh, damn it," Jim said.

"What?" Blair looked up. Jim stared at the countertop. Blair realized what was missing. "They stole the espresso maker? What kind of robber steals a person's espresso maker?"

Jim opened a drawer and held up a booklet. "They forgot the manual."

His expression was so droll, so deadpan, Blair couldn't help but laugh. "Simon's going to kick our ass, man," he said when he'd caught his breath.

Jim made sandwiches for all three of them. They ate and Nettle took Blair's fingerprints, then Jim's. She promised to call as soon she learning anything helpful. As the deputy left, she asked them to make a detailed list of everything missing and drop it by the station later.

"Sometimes you don't notice missing items until days later," she said, then pulled a face. "Oh, you guys know. Forgive me if I state the obvious."

Jim favored her with his warm smile, the one he saved for guys in the bullpen. "We appreciate this, Alice. We didn't give you much to work with. We'll get working on the list right away. Hell of a lot of trouble for a coffee maker."

After she was gone, Blair leaned on his crutches and stared at the mess in the living room; Jim's clothes, his backpack, books. "Thank God they didn't trash the place. You know how some creeps get their kicks."

Jim nodded. "Yeah, to include leaving behind dead bodies. I'm glad you're okay, Sandburg."

"You're still guilt tripping." Blair stamped one crutch foot down impatiently. He felt like a spider with extra legs. "Stop it. You couldn't have known. Hey! Your gun! Did they get it?"

"No," Jim said, patting the small of his back with one hand. "I tucked it under the mattress when I went out to jog." He squatted down and started pulling together odds and ends of their scattered belongings. "Go sit down in the kitchen. I'll bring your computer and stuff to go through. We might as well start that list."

To Blair's amazement, the laptop booted up. The housing sported some new scratches, but worked okay. He went to the hard drive first. Jim came and went, quietly leaving books, papers and his pack on the table. From Jim's stance, the set of his jaw and the way his eyes darted around, Blair recognized the guilt still lingering. He sighed. Apparently, Jim's sense of duty was enhanced, too. His thoughts returned to the computer, he'd find a way to get Jim to let it go. Maybe some meditation. He checked his recycle bin file, just because.

"That's odd."

"What?" Jim asked, appearing at his elbow.

"My trash file's empty."

"That's a bad thing? I thought you only put stuff in there that you don't want."

"Yeah, but I know for a fact I had some files in there yesterday. I planned on dumping them later." Blair went to his `start' button and looked at the record of which files were recently viewed. "Let's just check something."

Jim pulled out a chair and sat, quietly waiting for a word. Blair reviewed his most recent work. "Okay, my notes from the Lewis and Clark stuff." He tried to open the file and got the `invalid path' window. "Uh oh."

"What?"

He clicked on the `My Documents' folder and checked its contents. The file was gone. "Why would they..."

"What?" Jim tugged Blair's shoulder. "What, Sandburg?"

"It's gone." Blair reached for his papers. "Help me look."

"For what?" he repeated impatiently.

"The journal copies, Jim. My disks. The file's gone and ..." Blair double checked. He remembered folding the papers and putting them into an interoffice routing envelope he'd scored from Rainier's trash can. "They took it! My pack was in my room last night, I remember now. They took it from my room. That must have been when I woke up."

"Those were just copies," Jim said. "Why take them?"

Blair sat back, his mind racing. "Not just the copies. They took the time to delete the file with my notes about the journal and stole the backup floppy."

"That's a big risk." Jim ran a hand thrrough his short hair. "Wouldn't it have been faster to just wipe everything out?"

"Yeah, but then I'd know. This way, I might think I hadn't saved it or something." He turned to look at the counter. "Know what? I think the espresso machine was just a cover. They wanted those journal copies. What I don't get is how they figured I had them. That paper bag could have been handed out to anybody."

Jim got a funny look on his face. "I think I know."

"You do?"

"Yeah." Jim looked ill. "Oh, shit, Chief. I told that woman at the interpretive center. I might have said you couldn't match journal entries with any of the existing journals on record."

This was a total switch. Wow, how weird was that? Normally Blair was the one blabbing when he shouldn't. Jim looked so upset, Blair felt a stab of empathy. "Hey, it's not like this was a Major Crime case, Jim. Don't sweat it. You couldn't have known."

Jim didn't look any better. "Shit." He scrubbed his face a second, then dropped his hands to the table.

"Let's just move on, okay? Question remains, what makes those papers worth stealing?" Blair scratched his head, his hair felt oily. "I say we keep digging."

After Jim thought about it, he had to agree with Blair's theory for break in. After all, the laptop hadn't been taken and it was more valuable then an espresso maker. Plus the microwave and TV hadn't been touched.

He just couldn't figure out why those papers were worth committing felonies over. And all because he made small talk with a sweet old lady. Guilt tainted Jim's world. Sure, intellectually, Blair was right. Jim hadn't known, a person couldn't see into the future. They weren't working a case. Blair was just having some fun with an innocent looking history puzzle.

"Why don't you write down everything you remember from the journal, while it's still fresh?" Jim said.

Blair grinned. "Don't have to, man. At least, I don't think so."

"Why?"

"Because, I made copies yesterday. I was going to mail them to Professor Teal but I didn't have a stamp. I left it in the glove box."

Jim grinned. "You made a copy? When?"

"At the interpretive center. I made two sets, actually. I didn't want to write on the original pages I found, so I made a set for me and a set to mail." Blair absentmindedly probed his swollen lip. "I guess they got my extra set, along with the original copies."

Jim didn't like that. "That means they know you had time to make copies."

"That a problem?"

"Not sure, might be." Jim stood up. "I'll be right back."

The envelope was where Blair said it would be, addressed and sealed. So they were back in business.

Blair was on his crutches when Jim came back inside. "Cool. I have a plan, Jim. But first, I gotta hit the shower. I can get my leg wet, right?"

Jim nodded. "I'll change your bandages again. Let me get the seat in and you'll be set."

Jim cleaned up while the shower water ran. He vacuumed Blair's room carefully, zooming in on the carpet as he went along, looking for but not finding possible evidence of who might have attacked his roommate.

He fixed the phone, replacing the cut line and checked. They had a dial tone. He was just finishing wiping the last of the gray fingerprint powder up when Blair joined him, dressed in clean sweats and his hair blow dried. He even had his tennis shoes on, not the slippers he favored for bumming around inside. This did not bode well for a leisurely afternoon inside.

"Okay, here's my plan," Blair said.

Jim parked in exactly the same spot as yesterday. The interpretive center was busier than their first trip. The main parking lot below them was half full. The public had a short, but steep trek up a paved path that connected to the handicap parking area. A group of young teenagers were charging down the path as Jim got out. Through the trees sat a yellow school bus with its doors open and ready for boarding.

"Field trips," Blair said with fondness as he waited for Jim to get set up. "God, I loved them."

"We had a few," Jim told him as he locked the truck. He had Blair's wheelchair out and ready. Blair obediently got in. "My favorite trip was to Tillamook, Oregon in the ninth grade."

"The flight museum?"

"Cheese factory."

"Glutton." Blair laughed.

The same couple greeted them. Jim eyed the woman doubtfully. Yeah, he knew criminals came in all shapes and sizes, but this senior citizen did not look the master criminal-type. Blair greeted them warmly and responded to their concerns. He shared a sugared down version of the break in.

"Goodness!" Lenny's wife, Paula, was shocked. "You poor man!"

"I'm just glad they didn't steal my computer." Blair had his hair tied back and his glasses on. With his black eye and puffy lip, he looked like a bedraggled, starving college student. "I was wondering... Could I use your internet connection again? They messed with some of my papers, I'm doing a research project."

"Sure," Lenny lifted a hinged countertop section, "I'll unlock for you. Can't stay, though. We're short handed today."

In deference to Blair's sore stomach muscles, Jim took the wheelchair's handles. They passed the displays detailing the Corps of Discovery facts lining the long ramp that took visitors to the lower floor. At the bottom they headed toward the office. It was just as they had left it. Lenny flicked on the lights and left them to work.

Blair's attention focused on the desk computer. He switched it on and ran through screens faster than Jim could keep up.

"Don't watch, Jim. I'm pushing protocol here." Blair toggled a few keys in a manner that smacked `hacker' to Jim.

"Maybe I should guard the door?"

"Good call."

A short time later, Blair was signing off. Jim hadn't actually stood at the door, but he did keep one ear tuned toward it. His job had been to make two more copies of the journal, then he poked around the office and found a schedule that looked interesting.

"Okay, someone definitely checked on my computer activities yesterday," Blair said as he closed down all the programs and started the shut down procedure. "All the files and search jobs I did were mirrored."

"Can you tell what time that happened?" Jim asked, holding the schedule in his hand.

"Around four-thirty."

"According to this, two volunteers were scheduled to work with Lenny and Paula. A McKnight and a Moore."

Blair removed and folded his glasses. "I wish they had a password system. Then I could tell which password was used to check on me." He grinned up at Jim. "Not that I'm admitting to knowing how to do that sort of thing."

Jim took the chair's handles and pulled him back from the desk. "I'm glad you put your talents toward good and not evil, Chief."

"Good, Jim. I'm definitely on the good side. Do you think we should talk to Nettle yet?"

Jim gave that some thought as he pushed Blair back up the ramp towards the main door. "Let's hold off. We don't have anything concrete yet. But we need to keep alert. I'm not letting them get the drop on us again."

They paused to chat, learning the senior couple volunteered four days on and four days off. They were just finishing their last day working. The talk involved volunteering in general and why some people give up their time to do so.

"Oh, some of the younger folks still give their time. We have a young man that works here when he can." Paula crossed her arms and leaned her elbows on the counter top. "Nice man, works down at the docks in Ilwaco. Brings Lenny and me fresh crab sometimes. He was supposed to be in today, but didn't show." She looked at her husband, a frown making her wrinkles deepen. "Did Steve ever call, honey?"

"Steve Anderson?" Blair said with a hopeful tone. "I used to know a Steve Anderson that works in Ilwaco."

"No," Lenny said to both Blair and he wife. "Our Steve is Steve McKnight. And he never did call."

They spent a few more minutes chatting, then said their goodbyes.

Jim shared a wink with his friend as they rolled down the pathway toward the parked truck. "Feel like some crab for dinner, Chief?"

"You betcha."

The port of Ilwaco was still busy, even though it was nearing the end of the working day. Flat roofed buildings edged the water, an impressive sized marina filled the bay. Pleasure boats shared slips alongside scraggly looking fishing boats. Fish markets, a hotel, and a few closed diners were sprinkled between fish charter services.

Jim parked near the entrance to the first fish market and turned to Blair. "I'll be right back. Keep the doors locked."

Any other time Blair might have protested. If ever this was a `stay in the truck, Sandburg' order when he shouldn't have to, this was it. But Blair was feeling his bruises. `'Kay."

Jim looked startled. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Really?"

"Really."

"I'm just going to buy some dinner and look around. No reason to tip our hand yet."

Blair made shooing motions. "Go, then. I'll keep the doors locked."

He watched Jim walk into the market. The next lot over was filled with towers of stacked round cages and colorful floats. Blair fingered the fourth generation journal copy as he waited. They'd swung by a mail box and dropped off one set, along with a quick note. Blair had changed the address to read Simon Banks, care of Cascade Police. They both wanted a back up they could trust.

True to his word, Jim came back carrying a sack in one arm. He climbed in and set the sack down between them. "All the boats have been unloaded for the day. Only the girl behind the counter was working."

"So, no McKnight."

"Nope, we'll try tomorrow."

Blair had his nose in the sack, eyeing the packages wrapped in butcher paper. A delicate fishy smell made his mouth water. "Wow, Jim. This is a lot of crab."

"It was a good price. And it's already cooked."

When they arrived at the house, Blair couldn't keep from groaning while getting out. Jim held the crutches ready. Blair's movements were slow as he followed his roommate into the house, pausing upon reaching the kitchen.

His room or the living room?

The sofa in the living room won.

"I'll get dinner ready."

"I'll let you, man." Blair dropped wearily, toed off his sneaker and stretched out with a sigh. As much as he liked to avoid drugs, his body was not playing nicely. The little white pill might be the only way to get any sleep tonight. He dropped his head back to rest on the sofa's back and gazed out the window at the waves lapping the sand. He told his muscles to take five and let his mind drift. The gentle surf's rhythm was therapeutic to watch, he could even meditate on -

Jim?

The tall man appeared suddenly to stand directly between Blair and the windows, blocking the view. Blair almost said something sarcastic about it, but he looked, really looked at the cop - no, not a cop - sentinel.

Jim was still. Standing tall and alert, his body almost vibrated with unleashed tension. He held a hand up, his head tilted, his face hard.

Jim held up two fingers. "South side," he whispered. "Surveillance." He pointed commandingly to the floor.

Oh, mmaaannnnn.

Blair rolled off the sofa to the carpet with a groan. That hurt!

"Stay down." Jim had his gun drawn as he slipped out the door.

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