Five minutes?

Blair was guessing, since he didn't wear a watch. He'd even started doing the one-Mississippi thing. He knew why he had to suck carpet. The windows may be perfect for viewing the ocean, but they served just as well for a sniper.

Was it closer to ten minutes? He'd dropped the count when his thigh began to throb, so much so, he could use the pain to start ticking off the wait. He started to creep forward, toward the phone. It was time to call in reinforcements. Jim had been gone too long.

"It's okay, Chief. We're coming in."

What? Blair rose up. Jim was bringing the sniper into the house? Only it wasn't his friend who walked into the living room first.

"Hello," the theoretical sniper said pleasantly, taking time to carefully use a `U' shaped brush nailed down on the deck for removing sand from shoes.

"Hi." Blair rose stiffly to his hands and knees, looking over their guests.

The kid he recognized from the clinic, Clifford. But the elderly woman next to him was a stranger. She was small, shoulders slightly stooped. Her silver hair had been pulled back into a utilitarian bun with elegant ease. Her face was dark like Clifford's, crisscrossed with wrinkles. She was dressed in sturdy canvas pants and a quilted green coat. Clifford wore a battered pair of hiking boots.

"Blair, this is Clifford's grandmother, Annabel Ramsey," Jim said, helping Blair to his feet. "Annabel, this is my roommate."

"Hello," the old woman said. "I asked Clifford to bring me to meet you both." With Jim's urging, she sat down in the chair, Clifford standing attentively at her side.

"Would you like something to drink? We have juices and soda," Jim said.

Blair watched his friend play the host, his brain busy connecting the dots. Jim must have found them watching, but instead of chasing them off, he'd invited them in. That's not so unusual; Jim's a nice guy. Plus, he's going to want to know why they were out there. It only made sense to bring them into the house

After everyone held a soda, Annabel spoke again. "We would have called, but did not know your number."

"That's okay," Jim told her.

"Grandmother said," Clifford spoke proudly, "you would come out to speak with us."

She nodded. "Only if you wanted to. We would have left if you had not come to us."

Ahhh. Blair was starting to get an inkling of what was happening here. "Jim? Could I talk to you in the kitchen?"

Jim's face had that `What? Right now?' look.

"Please?" Blair rose, scooping up his crutches, feeling like he could be Annabel's grandfather. He shuffled for the back room, knowing Jim would follow.

"What's up? You okay?" Jim asked when they were out of ear shot.

"I'm okay, just sore," Blair said. "Remember back at the clinic yesterday? I was talking with Clifford?" Blair asked. Jim made `go ahead' motions with one hand, so he did. "He was asking about you, he thinks you're his vision quest."

"What?"

"Vision quest. It's where a youth goes off by himself, usually outside. He'll fast until he receives a sign. The Chinook believe that's when they learn what their role in the tribe should be." Blair poked Jim's chest gently. "Clifford said `you' travel with a black cat, like a mountain lion. He wanted to know if I ever saw it."

Jim looked dumbfounded. "H-he must have been... shit, Sandburg. No food or water, he was seeing things."

Blair shook his head. "That's the point man. In their culture, they `see' things. Just thought you should know."

"Okay," Jim said, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. "Actually, it's not too different from what I remember in Peru..."

Blair leaned forward, almost overbalancing on his crutches. "You rem -"

"Not now, Chief." Jim stopped him with a raised hand. "Come on."

Blair made a mental note to pry, er, ask Jim later about Peru. He followed his friend back into the living room. Their guests hadn't moved. Jim took a seat on the sofa facing the old woman, waiting till Blair joined him before addressing her.

"Is there a reason you wanted to talk to us?"

She nodded. "Our spirit powers are wise and appear in many forms. I have never heard of one using a suyapee before. Then my daughter tells me she sees this suyapee as well and I wanted to come see, too."

One thing Blair admired about his friend was Jim's ability to keep a straight face. When Jim glanced over to Blair and raised one eyebrow a fraction of an inch, Blair responded. "Suyapee. That's us, white man."

"Oh." Jim smiled at the woman. "Why would your spirit power visit Clifford through me?"

She straightened in her chair, her hands resting on her knees. "Clifford is a very good student. He has learned the history of our people. He has studied our ways. He found his sacred place. He did not eat or drink for three days. He swam. He waited. The vision appeared as a great black cat. Then you were there. How else could you know to find him? The spirit guided you."

Jim nodded.

"Our ways must seem strange." Annabel smiled, head tilting a little as she glanced from Jim to Blair. "But you know some of our ways?"

"I'm a student of many cultures," Blair said. "I know the Chinook have lived here for a very long time."

"This is a fact." She turned to her grandson. "Clifford can tell you."

On cue, the boy wet his lips, his gaze sliding downward as he spoke, his words picked carefully. He was on the spot with his grandmother. Blair knew tradition insisted that each generation retell the lore of their history exactly as the previous generation shared it to them. No mistakes were allowed.

"Old man South Wind long ago was traveling north along the coast of the Pacific Ocean. Eventually nearing the mouth of the Columbia River. There he met Giant Woman and told her he was hungry. But she had no food. She lent him a net and explained he could catch fish with it. Old man South Wind took the net and headed for the gray waters of the Pacific. He dragged it along the ocean floor until he caught a small whale, which he brought ashore." He shuffled his feet, glancing at his grandmother who nodded approvingly.

"Giant Woman told him to cut the whale lengthwise, from head to tail, but he cut from side to side. It was quicker. The whale turned into a large bird. It rose up; its wings shook the earth. Old Man South Wind and Giant Woman saw that it was really Thunderbird and were in awe. It flew to the mouth of the Columbia. On top of Saddle Mountain, it built a nest and laid eggs. One day, when Thunderbird flew away, Giant Woman climbed to the nest. She cracked an egg, but it was bad, and she threw it down the mountain. She cracked another and another until she had broken them all and hurled them from the peak. Each time an egg landed at the mountain base, it became a Chinook. This is how the first Chinook men, women and children came to be." Clifford ended with a minuscule shrug of his shoulders, as if to say `don't as me why, that's what I was told'.

Blair would have paid a month's worth of student loans for a video camera just then. How many generations had repeated that very same story? This is what made anthropology so incredible, so intoxicatingly fascinating.

"Thank you," Jim said simply. "We were just getting ready to eat dinner. Would you both like to join us?"

Annabel smiled.

Blair sighed. His exhaustion lost, his pain a memory.

Make that two months and a car payment.

The crab was sweet, fresh and tender. They all ate it by hand, dipping it into melted butter and tearing into a large round sourdough loaf.

Blair managed to get more stories from Annabel. Jim knew she was enjoying her role. She'd pause once in a while, giving Clifford that look. The one Jim remembered his sixth-grade teacher, Miss. Abby, would nail him with. That woman always seemed to know when Jim had spent the night before goofing off with Steven in the backyard with a football instead of doing homework.

But Clifford passed with flying colors, four out of five times. On the fifth, she'd gently correct a word or phrase.

When the last leg was cracked open and the final crust of bread consumed, they all wiped the butter from their face and arms. Blair and Clifford were banished to the living room while Jim and Annabel cleaned. There wasn't much to do.

"I can get this," Jim said as he gathered the plates.

She ran the water, filling the sink with suds. "As my grandson would say: no sweat." She cackled lightly.

"Blair would say: no sweat, dude," Jim added as he set a short pile of dirty dishes at her right elbow.

"Or bro," she answered.

"That one, too." He reached under the cabinet for a spray bottle of water with bleach and ripped off a few paper towels. "I'll dry in a second. Want to get this table wiped down."

Jim made short work of the table and returned to her side with a dish towel to dry. The woman seemed content to silently and thoroughly wash every plate before handing it to Jim. Her fingers bore the early signs of arthritis, but her grip never faltered.

"My daughter told me Blair was beaten."

"We had two men break in while I was jogging. They roughed him up," Jim said. "That's why I was carrying a gun. Sorry if I startled you."

She waved a soapy hand. "You are a defender. That is to be expected."

Jim caught her profile briefly. Had she nailed him as ex-military? A soldier? Or was he `screaming cop' like Blair insisted?

"You came here to rest, for Blair to rest. Why did these men break in?"

"I'm not sure. The police have our report and they're looking into it."

"Folks are so selfish. They see something. They take it. My people would trade for what they wanted. They traveled up and down the coast and inland, all the way to the plateau. We traded with other tribes and suyapee." She finished her last glass and handed it over, pulling the drain. "We even created a common language used by all people in the area."

"I'm a police officer. I wish people would trade more and steal less," Jim said. "A community where everyone has something to contribute and barter sounds pretty good to me. Might even put me out of a job."

She wiped her hands, eyeing him knowingly. "Your tribe will never see a time that you are not needed. You're too important." She grinned at Jim. "We've taken up too much of your time. You and Blair are good hosts. Thank you for dinner."

Jim had a problem. He wasn't about to let this elderly woman walk four plus miles back to town. It would be dark by the time she arrived. He found it hard to believe she'd walked all this way out to begin with.

Yet, he wasn't willing to leave Blair alone. And the four of them wouldn't fit in the truck - legally, anyway. He wasn't one of those folks that liked putting people in the open bed of a truck.

"My son will come for us," Annabel said. "Can I use your phone?"

That's what happened. Blair was still playing Yahtzee with Clifford by the time the boy's Uncle George arrived. He shook hands with both men. He was shorter than Blair but fifty pounds heavier with thick dark hair in a crew cut a few weeks past its trim. If he was surprised at the fact his nephew and mother were in two total strangers' home, he didn't show it.

"You work out of Ilwaco?" Jim asked as he followed them out into the man's old beige Chevy truck. The original tailgate was missing and someone had fashioned one out of wood.

"I do. It's a co-op," George said.

"Do you know a Steven McKnight? He works for one of the crab markets."

George shook his head. "I don't know him. The crab markets have a lot of part timers, folks just move on, find different jobs. It's hard to keep up with all the new faces."

"Yeah, that makes sense."

"Thank you again, Jim," Annabel said.

"You're welcome. We enjoyed having you both." Jim smiled down at Annabel as the woman patted his hand.

After they were gone, Jim found Blair watching him from the doorway. He recognized the look on his friend's face.

"What are you thinking, Chief?" Jim asked, shooing him backwards into the house and closing the door. The temperature outside had dropped. The weather was changing. Wind sang in the lodge pole pines growing in the hollow between the two bluffs.

"I think Annabel knows you're a sentinel, Jim."

Blair's cheeks were flushed. Not a lot, but Jim could tell. Blair swayed; his balance off from improperly positioned crutches. The swelling on his lip had gone down but his black eye was in full bloom.

"You ready to hit the sack?"

Blair looked annoyed. "Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes."

"Well, what do you think?"

"I think you're right. She's figured out a few things. She probably has her own name for it, though." Jim locked the door. "You're going to bed, Sandburg."

"Figured you say that."

The next day Blair followed Jim into the coffee shop. He'd woken that morning feeling off. Everyone always said bruises hurt worse the following day and he tended to agree. It had taken serious effort on his part to get up, shower and get dressed. Hell, it hurt to blink. Getting Jim not to cancel the plan had taken major effort. It was hard to hide the fact from a sentinel you ached in every joint and that your body was peppered with fist-sized bruises. But Blair had managed to get his way, a minor miracle.

Now they were back at the small city dock. Had this been Cascade, two men sitting in a truck parked on the street wouldn't even get a second look. But Ilwaco's entire business district could fit inside one of Cascade's shopping malls and still leave half the parking lot empty. Jim had decided they'd stake out the marina from a coffee shop.

"What'll have, folks?" a man in a tattered, stained apron asked.

"I'll take a tall latte, two shots please." Blair pulled his wallet out, managing not to drop his right crutch. "My treat, Jim."

"Same," Jim answered. "With raspberry."

Blair had to grin. His friend was becoming a latte junkie. It wouldn't be long before they would have their own machine at the loft. He paid and joined Jim at a small round table near the enormous windows. The drinks were delivered a few minutes later.

"What time do the crab boats come in?" Jim asked the owner.

"They've been coming in most of the morning. I've heard the bar's getting rough. Looks like the pots are getting dropped up river this morning."

They each took a tentative sip of coffee. Blair set his too hot drink down and studied the marina, bay, and wide stretch of river beyond. Sure enough, a crab boat was coming into the marina, following a maze-like course of red and green buoys that seemed random.

"This place must have some serious sand bars or something. Notice how the boats can't come straight in?"

Jim nodded. "Way I understand it, the river shifts the sand around every year. Boats have to pay attention to the buoys or risk running aground." He looked back at the counter. The owner was busy with another customer. "I'm going to try and listen in." Jim tilted his head toward the adjacent business, the crab market.

"Okay," Blair scooted his chair closer. "Use your coffee to keep from zoning, man. Smell the aroma, feel the heat through the cup."

Jim wrapped his hand around the disposable paper cup and took a deep breath. "Okay, here I go."

Blair took guard. He eyed the occupants of the room, worried one of them would make a loud noise or something. Jim was vulnerable when he did this. This is why a sentinel needed someone to help him. He needed to keep sharp, warn Jim.

"I can hear two men talking...." Jim closed his eyes. "One guy's name is Steve."

"What are they saying?" Blair whispered.

"Something about a schedule. Nah, it's just the tides chart, I think." Jim fell silent, but still listened. After a few minutes he shook his head, blinking. "Need a break." He lifted his cup to his lips. "Lots of stuff going on over there."

"I'll bet. Your control is getting so much better, Jim."

"It would be easier if I could find a way to keep it under visual surveillance." He frowned and rubbed his forehead. "I might wander over there and look for a place to hide."

When Blair started to say he'd go along, Jim cut him off.

"Don't even go there. You'll stay put." Jim looked at the crutches leaning against the table. "Those put the big kibosh on your involvement in covert operations."

God, Jim was becoming a total boss-o-rama on this trip.

"Don't go all mulish, Chief." Jim smiled at him. "I'm not even sure yet if I'm moving from the chair. Those homemade brownies are calling to me."

Blair had to snicker. "You just ate breakfast."

"Did you miss the part where I said `homemade'?" He pointed to his nose. "I'm smelling fresh, maybe this morning."

"Well, in that case... we are on vacation. It's our duty to indulge. You're buying, right? It's your turn." Blair pointed to the coffee.

"I bought the crab yesterday."

"Of which you ate one third. And there were four of us eating."

"Can I help it if you three were slow?"

Jim bought the brownies. Blair knew he would. He just liked to complain. They were fresh, with nuts and frosting. The chocolate slid down like silk on ice and tasted rich.

"Man, is it the ocean air that makes everything taste so good?" Blair asked.

Jim held up a hand, his face suddenly hard as he chewed. He was hearing something. "Someone just asked that Steve guy what happened to his face." He stood, tossing the final bite into his mouth.

"Jim -"

"No way, Sandburg," Jim said, cutting him off. "You stay put."

Before Blair could protest or even get his crutches under his armpits, Jim was out the door and around the side of the building. Blair tracked him through the window until he had ducked around the corner.

Damn. He smacked a palm down. Recovering from being shot was really throwing a monkey wrench into his life. He was Jim's back up. With this stupid hole in his leg, he'd been reduced to just another one of Jim's responsibilities.

The large warehouse was on the end of a line of businesses that bordered the water. A large asphalt lot was used to store tall towers of hockey puck shaped crab pots, stacked over ten feet high. Each crab pot was constructed from a steel frame wrapped in a wire mesh. Bright floats were stored within the pots, secured with coils of rope. They made a colorful collection.

Jim used the maze-like layout to ease close to the open ended warehouse. A forklift drove by, industriously moving around large crates. Men in yellow bibbed rain pants worked inside, moving pots, unloading sacks from a delivery truck.

Jim zoomed in on their faces, unable to spot anyone matching Steve's damaged face. He edged closer, trusting the crab pots to keep him from being spotted. The salty smell was strong and Jim kept his sense of smell in check.

Which one of these guys was the one?

A heavyset man with a droopy mustache called to the crew from the back of the warehouse. They responded, setting down whatever they were doing and walking toward the docks. Jim could see a boat pulling to a loading area. One of the crab boats was back.

Okay, none of those men had so much as an infected pimple on their face. Had Steve already left? Maybe he was inside the building where the public came to buy the seafood. It was worth checking out. Jim started to back away from his cove of crab pots. The sound of the forklift was coming near. It suddenly dawned on him the forklift driver was one person he hadn't had a chance to look at yet.

Jim turned just as the first stack of heavy crab pots tilted toward him.

His coffee finished, Blair sat and watched five ducks search the strip of grass between the docks and the sidewalk for food. Two were males, mallards by the looks of them. The other three had the drab markings common with the female.

He twisted in his chair. No clock anywhere he could see. How long had Jim been gone? That boat was nearly unloaded now. Blair didn't like this.

Something's wrong.

It was rough trying to manage the glass swinging door and the crutches at the same time. The owner saw his problem and scurried out from the counter.

"Thanks," Blair said when the door pulled back and he planted both crutches out on the sidewalk and swung through the doorway.

"Have a nice day," the owner called out.

Jim had gone right, following a narrow opening between the two buildings, so narrow Blair had a devil of a time getting through. What was up with this town? Didn't they have building codes or something? He was panting by the time he reached the street side. The walkway opened up into a large lot, filled with round shaped traps.

No cars on the street. No pedestrians walking down the sidewalk. It looked like all the employees were down on the dock. So where was Jim?

A black shadow shot by, low to the ground and Blair heard a growl. He turned his head to catch the source but only saw more of the traps.

"Jim?" He kept his voice low, a harsh whisper, the type the movie victim always used before the serial killer pounced. Blair shivered in the cool wind, feeling more than a little exposed.

He had to stop reading Steven King.

"Jim." He called out louder now, not caring who heard him. Jim would answer, damn it. Even if to tell him to shut up and go back and wait for him.

Another growl, feral and threatening, coming from somewhere within the highest stacks. Blair followed the sound, barely managing to maneuver in the tight aisles. Something was wrong further ahead. The orderly rows were messed up. Some of the traps were spilled over, laying on their side, on top of each other... on top of something that looked like a...

"Jim!" Blair moved as fast as he could, tossing the crutches aside when he reached the first trap. He hooked both hands into the sturdy wire mesh and lifted. "Ah, Shit." God, these things were heavier than they looked. The frames were steel bars. Heavy coils of rope added to the weight.

He could see Jim laying beneath the mess, unnaturally still. A shaft of fear pierced his chest. "Jim, come on, man."

There was nowhere to throw these damn things. They were too tightly packed. In desperation, Blair started pitching them over the tops of the stacks. He was on the third one when someone shouted.

"What the hell's going on?"

Blair didn't slow down. "Need help... man down!" he gasped as he worked. Jim was still covered two layers down. He still hadn't so much as twitched a muscle.

Hands appeared, helping lift and move traps out of the way. Blair's vision was blocked by yellow rain gear as more men appeared and forced him back. When the last trap came off, he could see the bright red blood staining one of Jim's shoulders, ruining his jacket.

Jim lay on his side. His legs were bent as if he had tried to curl into a ball. Blair elbowed his way back in front, ignoring the shooting pain in his leg as he dropped down next to his friend.

"Call an ambulance, Terry!" someone shouted.

Blair's hands were shaking so badly, he couldn't feel the pulse at first on Jim's neck, but it was there. He could see the rise and fall of his friend's chest. "Jim? Hey, man? You with us?"

"Best not move him, kid," the same voice advised. "Might have a broken neck."

Blair knew that, but he still mentally cursed the guy for saying the words out loud. Jim couldn't be hurt. He couldn't. The thought of Jim broken and forever damaged stole his breath. "He's okay. You're going to be okay, Jim."

It would be nice if the man would open his eyes, though. Blair wasn't asking for much.

Someone appeared with a blanket and Blair helped to tuck in the edges. One part of his brain worried if the blanket's roughness might irritate Jim's skin. But it was a small part and the rest of Blair's brain told it to shut up. Another person had a sterile trauma dressing and Blair gently held pressure on the bleeding wound. Jim remained still and unresponsive during the entire wait for the fire department's arrival. They came with sirens and manpower, moved Blair back, fitted Jim with a white collar around his neck and rolled him over onto a yellow plastic backboard.

Blair couldn't stop staring at the dark puddle of blood already beginning to thicken on the asphalt from exposure. God, that was a lot of blood.

"Hey, buddy?" A fireman leaned over him.

Jim was being lifted into a gurney. Blair blinked up at the fireman.

"You going to ride in with him?" He pointed at Blair's hands. "You need to get those looked at."

Blair's hands were covered in blood, not all Jim's either. The wire on the traps must have torn some skin. He looked at the warehouse workers, seeing the gloves they wore. When Jim started to get rolled away, Blair suddenly scrambled to get off the ground. "My crutches, do you see them?"

"Here." A familiar looking man in rubber yellow rain pants held them out. "I'm the foreman, Ed Tradel. I don't know what happened here, I hope your friend is okay."

Blair nodded, taking the crutches. He only wanted to follow that gurney. He needed to make sure the doctors didn't give Jim anything that might hurt him, because he knew Jim was going to be pissed when he woke up.

And he was going to wake up. Blair wasn't willing to accept anything else.

"I'll call the hospital and check up on him, okay?" Ed added as Blair started crutch-swinging toward the ambulance parked nearby.

"Yeah, fine." Blair kept his eyes on Jim as they loaded him in. "I can ride with him?" he asked the fireman shadowing him to the ambulance.

"That's right." He opened the side door. "I'll treat those hands on the way. So, what's wrong with your leg, anyway?"

Geeze, here they were again.

Blair leaned forward in his chair, curling his bandaged hands toward his stomach. His palms and fingers were torn, they ached dully but he didn't notice. His attention was fixed on the distant doorway to Jim's treatment room. They'd taken Jim into the same one he'd been in, but Blair had been banished to the waiting room.

A clean and pleasant room to wait in, but lonely. Doctor Charlie and Jolene were busy working on Jim. Tired of staring, he turned his gaze to a collection of glass floats. They were displayed neatly on a shelf behind the empty receptionist's counter. Round balls - some the size of tennis balls, others larger - were lined up behind protective glass. There was even a `rolling pin' shaped float. Blair remembered reading the Chinese and Japanese used the floats to support their fishing nets. Sometimes a float broke free and the ocean currents would bring them to the Washington coast.

Blair looked back to Jim's room, wishing he had enhanced hearing. What was happening in there? He rubbed his eyes, annoyed with the prickling feeling that attacked them. He needed to keep it together. They were a long way from Cascade. Jim needed him.

He let his focus roam the room. Just him and the glass floats.

Blair's cell phone was in the pack. He tried to remember where that was... in the truck, he guessed. He didn't take it into the coffee shop. He spotted a phone. Standing awkwardly, he hobbled toward the counter. They'd taken his crutches. Blair didn't think it was intentional, just everyone was too busy with Jim to give them back.

`Nine' got him an outside line. Promising to reimburse the department, Blair dialed collect and Rhonda answered. Just hearing her voice brought a touch of home.

"What's wrong, Blair?" Rhonda demanded after assuring the operator she'd accept the charges.

"Um... hi, Rhonda." Blair swallowed. God, if Jim walks out there with just a bump on his head, he was going to be so pissed. He'd better keep Jim's condition under wraps with the bullpen. "Is Simon there?"

"No, he's in a meeting. Joel's around here somewhere. I can find him for you."

"No," Blair said, leaning against the counter, his disappointment so acute he could taste it on the back of his throat. "No, that's okay. I'll... I'll call back."

"Blair? You sure? Everything okay? Where's - "

"See ya, Rhonda. Thanks anyway." Blair dropped the handset before she could finish her questions. Turning his back to the counter, he took a deep breath. The row of green, plastic chairs seemed a football field away. He turned his head, about the same distance to Jim's treatment room. From this spot in the room he could hear the low murmur of the doctor's voice.

Decision made, Blair limped toward the voices, following the wall and leaning against it for support. He really needed to find his crutches. Entering the room quietly, no one noticed him. They were crowded around the treatment bed. A monster of a machine on rollers with thick cables trailing, crowded half the room. X-Ray, Blair guessed.

"Mr. Sandburg."

Oops, busted.

Thankfully the doctor didn't seem annoyed, even stepped back a little, revealing Jim's upper body, chest and neck. The cervical collar was off. That had to be a good sign. Certainly they'd have left it on otherwise. The doctor was still talking. Blair couldn't actually focus on the words, but he didn't sound mad. He wanted a better look at Jim.

"... down before you fall down," the doctor's last words achieved clarity.

Okay, Blair could do that. "How's Jim?"

"I'm fine, Chief."

"Jim!" He'd just started to lower himself into a chair, but bolted back to his feet.

Jim looked tired, his face creased with fatigue and pain. The doctor had a long scissor-like device with a black thread in hand and was messing with the wound on Jim's head, giving it a neat line of sutures, the last knot going into its place. Jim's clothes were still bloody, but God, he was awake and talking.

"You okay? What happened?" Blair was at the bed, practically standing on the doctor's toes.

"Go sit down, Sandburg," Jim ordered. "You look like sh - " He glanced over at Jolene. "Er... awful."

Blair compromised. He managed to pull the chair away from the wall and sat down close to Jim's bed.

The doctor snipped his last stitch and patted Jim's shoulder. "Sit tight, son. Be right back."

Alone with his friend, Blair felt a verbal dam inside his chest burst. "Ohmygod, Jim. You didn't come back. I found you under all those traps. You weren't moving. I could-"

Jim groaned, holding up a hand. "Killer headache, here."

Feeling like a certified jerk, Blair snapped his jaw closed. Jim's eyes were screwed shut, his breathing strained.

"Sorry," Blair said, whispering. He checked the door. They were alone. "Want to try turning down the pain?"

"I've been... can't," Jim admitted. He cracked one eye open. "Can you help?"

"Duh." Blair leaned forward, laying a hand on his arm. "Isn't that why you put up with me? Okay, first thing. I don't like your breathing rate. Look at me..."

It took over five minutes, but Jim's face finally relaxed in relief. He patted Blair's hand, then raised his head. "What's wrong with you?"

Holding up both hands, showing a few Band-Aids, Blair grinned. He couldn't help it. Jim was okay. Everything else just seemed insignificant. "I fought the wire mesh and lost."

"What about the leg?"

Okay, that was unexpected. "Jim, don't you remember? Quinn shot me."

But Jim seemed truly confused. "I remember we went after him. We had to jump into the river..." He looked panicked. "Where's Simon?"

"He's good, man. Everything's cool, honest. He's at work, back in Cascade."

The doctor picked that moment to re-enter the room. He held large films in one hand, eyeing Jim and Blair over his glasses.

"Doc, Jim's lost days. He doesn't remember anything since we came down here."

"Understandable," the doctor said. "And common, actually."

"But?" Blair took a deep breath. Okay, he could deal with this. "He'll get it back, right? The memory?"

"Probably. Sometimes the incidents directly preceding the injury are never recovered."

Jim frowned. "Chief, where's here? What's happening?"

Blair shook his head. This was not good.

Neither man could drive the truck, Jim with his head injury and Blair with his leg. The ticket home appeared in the form of Deputy Nettle. She arrived at the clinic, took Jim's truck keys and made arrangements for one of the other officers to drive it out to the beach house. Blair's crutches had been returned. Jim was released with a cursory lecture on head injuries.

Nettle drove them home.

And she was not happy.

"Could you explain to me one more time how Jim ended up under a dozen crab pots?"

Blair was sitting in the back of a department issued Chevy Blazer. Jim got to sit up front, some sort of cop privilege apparently.

He looked at Jim. How much should he admit to? Jim hadn't wanted the local cops involved yet. Blair cleared his throat. "I don't know. I was in the coffee shop down the way." Well, that much was the absolute truth.

"Ah huh." She graced Jim with an appraising look. "Jim?"

"I'm still drawing a blank, sorry."

She had this thing she did while driving. Blair picked up on it right away. Nettle would lightly slap the steering wheel with her palms and sort of wring it in her hands, twisting.

Or was she visualizing their necks?

But she fell silent and in no time Blair was hobbling toward the back door of the beach house. Jim's Ford was parked out front. While Jim went to change out of his bloody shirt, Nettle helped to make the sofa into Jim's bed. Jim reappeared in a T-shirt and sweatpants.

"Thanks for bringing us back," Jim said.

She nodded. "You'll call me if you remember?"

"You bet." Jim sat on the edge of his bed. He looked exhausted.

Blair followed her toward the door, adding his own thanks. With a final skeptical look, that Blair tried to deflect the best he could with an innocent smile, she was gone. He carefully locked the back door and returned to the living room. Jim was asleep.

For the first time since he got shot, Blair was awake and Jim was asleep. What should he do?

Jim's safe.

Check.

House is secure?

He hobbled to the door facing the beach, finding it locked.

Check.

Still, Blair felt they were too exposed.

The room had a weird tint to it, as if someone had painted the air within in hues of blue. Jim rolled over and blinked. His head ached a little, not too bad. His eyes scanned the room. He saw the reason for the strange light.

Blair had tacked sheets up over the windows.

Why? Blair said they were down here to rest. Something must be going on. Something Blair hadn't told him. Jim cursed his faulty memory, which ended with their jump into the river.

Yet... okay, now he was remembering holding Quinn, bending him over the entrance to a well.

Soft snores called his attention to a corner. Jim lifted his head. Blair was sprawled in a chair, head tilted back awkwardly, jaw gaping open in sleep.

What time was it? Late apparently. The mantel clock showed the little hand past the four. He rolled carefully into an upright position and gingerly touched his head. How had Blair managed to get the pain down earlier today? He tried adjusting the level, just to see if he could. His control felt sloppy, but he got a result. Obviously Jim still had a lot of practice ahead of him. Maybe, to some degree, he'd never be able to master this alone.

He looked over at the sleeping man.

What about Blair? How long before the kid found out Jim couldn't completely manage without help? He couldn't want to spend his entire career helping Jim.

Jim shook off the dismal thoughts and stood. He was starving.

Moving with deliberateness, instinctive of someone whose head felt ready to fall off at any time, Jim went into the kitchen and fixed a sandwich. He found Blair had draped more sheets in this room as well. Something told him the linen closet was bare. Still, Jim was impressed with Blair's grasp for the obvious.

Jim retrieved a package of deli cut roast beef and crisp romaine lettuce from the refrigerator. More and more of Simon's rescue from Quinn was emerging from his memory. He smoothed out a generous layer of mayo on thick slices of soft honey wheat bread. Now the events unfolded like a bad movie; Blair getting shot, the run into the mine. By the time he sat down at the table with his sandwich, Jim remembered why they went to the coffee shop earlier that morning.

A snort from the living room sounded. Blair thumped in after a few minutes. "Hey," he said, leaning heavily on his crutches. Even with a few hours sleep, Blair looked exhausted.

"Hey." Jim looked down at his friend's leg and the bandaged hands. "You okay?"

The crutches made thudding noises on the linoleum, with occasional squeaks from the rubber tips. Blair angled for the empty chair. "Yeah, I was going to ask you the same. How's the head?"

"Not bad. Been sitting here, remembering."

That got the younger man's attention. "Really?" His eyes held a desperate hopefulness, his body rigid.

Jim nodded. "Sit. Relax." He pushed the plate containing the uneaten sandwich half towards Blair, still holding his half in one hand. He opened the paper napkin and laid it down on the table to catch the crumbs.

Blair dropped into the chair and leaned the crutches against the wall. "How much, man?"

"Up to the coffee shop." Jim frowned. "I've been sitting here trying to remember the rest, but I can't."

"You said you heard someone talking to Steve, saying something about his face." Blair leaned forward expectantly.

It was so frustrating not to remember. Jim bit his lip, vision fixed on the table top while his mind struggle to push past the block. He shook his head. "Nah, I'm not getting it."

"Okay, okay. Just relax for now." Blair fiddled with a loose piece of tape on his palm, then just tucked in under the wrappings. "It'll probably come to you later." He picked up the sandwich and lifted a corner of the bread before taking a bite. "Ummm, good."

"I'll make us a couple more." Jim stood, cramming the last of his into his mouth.

Blair continued to talk while Jim fixed their early dinner. "I meant to make some soup or something. I just sat down to rest a second, notice the windows? Anyway, guess I nodded off. Nettle knows, man. She's gotta know we were doing more than just drinking coffee at that shop. We gonna tell her?"

"There's not a lot to share. I wish I remember this morning." Jim paused, glancing over at the phone. "I'll call Brown, get him to run McKnight's name. We might learn something."

"That's a pretty common name and we don't have a date of birth."

Jim had to agree. "It'll take some digging, but he might find something. I'll have him check Oregon's records, too. Take a few days, though."

After dinner, Jim called. Brown was able to return their call within the same hour.

"What are you and Hairboy up to?" Brown asked.

Jim cradled the phone to his ear, pen and paper ready. "Just tracking down the owner of some stuff Sandburg accidentally received at a swap meet. Whatcha got for me?"

"Well, I've got a Steve W. McKnight, aka Stephen M. Knight, born in sixty-four. Kicked out of Portland University two years ago, some indiscretion involving missing funds. He drops out of sight after that. Gives his last known in Seaside, Oregon. Might be your guy."

"Yeah, that's a little over an hour from here." Jim wrote down the address. "Any idea what he's doing for a living?"

"Fishing industry," Brown answered. "That help?"

"Yeah, thanks."

"No prob, bro," Brown said, dropping the levity. "Seriously, Jim. Rhonda said Blair called before, sounded upset. You guys okay?"

"We're good." Jim eyed Blair, still sitting at the kitchen table. "Thanks anyway."

"What did you find out?" Blair asked after Jim returned the phone.

Jim quickly repeated what Brown had said. "I remember seeing a Portland University mug in the office at the interpretive center. Might belong to him."

Blair lightly drummed the table with his fingers. "I know some guys at Portland U."

The new phone cord was long, able to stretch from the living room into the kitchen. Jim pushed it towards Blair, along with the pen and paper. He cleaned the kitchen while Blair made several calls. It was interesting listening to the kid's interview style. The first call, Blair went straight to the question and moved on. One the next one, he got around to asking his questions after several long minutes of catch up and chit chat. Jim knew at one point Blair was speaking to a woman, someone Blair must have dated, or wanted to date. That call took the longest and even earned him a tentative date during the summer; a trip to Mt. Hood for a crash course in mountain biking.

Jim didn't like the term `crash' being used.

"Okay," Blair said, sounding pleased. He tapped the notepad with the pen. "Knight was accused of stealing from the university. Seems he was an up and rising junior history professor. He pissed off a few of the old timers. He filed some bogus expenditure reports, small time amounts, a few thousand. Got caught and they canned him."

"Anyone heard from him lately?"

"Nope," Blair said. "They don't sound very sorry about it, either. Sounds like he burned major bridges on his way out the door."

Jim couldn't sleep. Daytime naps always threw him off schedule. Even as a ranger, his body resisted catnaps during the day. Whenever he did, he'd lie for hours in bed after the mission, staring at the ceiling of whatever temporary base housing he had been given.

Not that his life as a cop provided better sleeping patterns.

Jim let his hearing glide out the walls and patrol the grounds around the house. Raccoons were out and about. Three of them were trying earnestly to work the tight fitting lid off the garbage can. He tried to remember what they'd put inside. It came to him; one of the oranges had gone soft. He'd tossed it out earlier.

Jim considered getting up and just fishing the thing out of the can. Yeah, it was better than picking up garbage on the beach for the rest of the week. The room was cold. They'd let the fireplace go out when Blair started making his `I'm tired but won't admit it' signs; a few covert yawns, bouts of rapid blinking, and the way he'd list slightly while sitting.

Outside the clouds hid the predawn tentacles of light. The normal morning fog wouldn't be coming. Typical of the Northwest, the weather pattern had taken an unexpected change. They'd be getting wind and rain later today.

Jim watched the furry bandits scamper toward the nearby pine. They turned and regarded him fearlessly, not even bothering to hide. He braved the pine needle carpet with bare feet, retrieved the orange and tossed it to them, then made sure the lid was firmly in place. "Okay, you've got your treat. Now scram."

Back inside, he headed for the bathroom. Blair's snores were deep and even. After he washed, he paused at the doorway and looked in. Blair's body stretched diagonally, head pointed to the corner against the wall, his bare feet uncovered and hanging over the bedside. Which was surprising, Blair didn't like cold.

Jim slipped in. If he was careful, Blair would never wake up. As soon as he touched the hot skin of Blair's left ankle, he knew why his friend was subconsciously tossing off the covers.

"Shit." He checked the other leg, the injured one, and found it a fraction hotter. "Sandburg, wake up," he ordered quietly. There was no reason to frighten him.

"Whaiz, `im?" Blair lifted a mass of curls off the mattress. "Jim?"

Jim moved his hand to Blair's forehead. "You've got a fever, Chief."

"Es'planes my dream," he mumbled grumpily.

"It's not too high, yet anyway." Jim stood straight. "I'll get you some juice and something to bring it down. Be right back."

After downing the aspirin and half a glass of white grape juice, Blair wanted to go back to sleep.

"I need to check your leg." Jim moved down, flipping up the covers, revealing sweatpants.

"Jim, come on. Let me sleep." Blair even sounded feverish.

Jim sniffed the air for the putrid scent of infection. When was the last time he had checked the wound? This business with the journal pages had kept them too busy. "Drop `em, Junior. I'm pulling my medic rank on you."

As Blair raised his hips, fumbling at the elastic waist band, he grumbled a long string of curses about prying roommates, `freaking' sentinels with delusions of paranoia and getting locks on bedroom doors.

Jim tuned him out. He unwrapped the bandage. The entrance hole looked a little puffy. "Roll."

Blair was still complaining, muttering darkly into his pillow, as Jim pulled the tape away from the exit wound. Blair jumped as if stung. "Ow! Shit, man!"

"Sorry." Jim's free hand soothed Blair's back, lightly rubbing the T-shirt between his shoulders. "I'll be careful." He could feel the tremors under his hand. He pulled back the gauze and mentally cursed. Infection was setting in. He'd seen plenty in his time and this was in its early stages, but happening none the less. "Are you taking your antibiotics?"

He knew by the sudden tensing, Blair's answer. He hoped he was wrong. "Blair?" he demanded, grinding the word out through a clenched jaw.

"I might have forgotten one... maybe two."

"You idiot!" Jim exploded angrily, pulling the gauze completely off. Blair flinched. Shouting didn't help matters and Jim had to give himself some credit for not smacking the curly head or the closer target.

Jim needed distance. Now. He stormed out, heading for the bathroom and more bandages. While staring at his image in the mirror over the sink, Jim counted to a slow ten. He returned to find Blair still face down on the bed, arms wrapped around his pillow, leaning on his elbows.

"Jim." Blair's voice wavered as Jim dropped down to sit on the mattress' edge. "It's not a big -"

"Stow it," Jim said, calmer than before. "Listen to me, brainiac. If you don't give a shit about your health, how about Simon and me? Ever stop to think how we'd feel? Watching you limp around till you're an old man, knowing you got shot because of us?"

Blair turned to pin Jim with a hostile stare. "I seem to remember a head case with an automatic, man. How's that your fault?"

Jim worked on fashioning a new bandage. "Wade didn't barge into Rainier University and start shooting. You were working with me. I'm responsible for you. It's simple."

Blair dropped his head down on the pillow. "And Simon's responsible for both of us? God, Jim, how do you guys keep up?"

"It's called `chain of command' and it means more than who gets to yell at who," Jim said. "It means we have a duty to take care of our men." Jim sighed as he finished with the last of the tape. He rubbed his forehead. "Look, Chief. I'm sorry I yelled. I'm just a little frustrated. How can you have the insight one minute to cover the windows and, at the same time, forget basic survival steps to get better?"

Blair relaxed as the anger in the room dissipated. He rolled over on one hip and looked up with an apologetic grin. "Ummm... intermittent brilliance?"

Jim shook his head. Blair was going to make him an old man before his time. Hell, maybe it was already too late. He lightly slapped his friend's hip and feeling the elevated temperature through the thin cotton, he remembered the reason for the argument.

"Get dressed. We're going to the hospital in Astoria."

"Now?"

"Yes, now. This is serious. Did you take the medicine today?"

Blair looked thoughtful. "Today today? Or yesterday today?"

It scared Jim that he understood. Certainly this was a sign he was slipping into insanity. "Yesterday today."

"No." Blair blushed. "We were busy. I forgot."

"Okay." Jim reached for the tote bag on the floor. He had watched Blair pack and knew the pill bottle was there. He found the pills, took off the childproof cap and handed it over. "I'll get dressed. Then get the truck warmed up."

God, he was an idiot. He'd meant to take the pills faithfully. The doctor had made it clear what an infection could do to his body. The problem was just... he sometimes got too focused on things. And this journal mystery was fascinating.

The road was windy, rising and falling as it followed the coastal cliffs. A light mist darkened the asphalt, making it shiny. Even though Jim drove cautiously, the truck lurched over a rough spot and Blair couldn't keep the yelp from escaping. Damn, his leg was tender.

"Sorry."

"It's okay." Blair shifted in the seat, leaning a little toward Jim. His thigh hurt to even sit. "What's the doctor going to do?"

"He'll probably clean the site and put you on stronger antibiotics," Jim said.

"Can't we wait for the clinic to open?"

"No, that's still hours away. I can get you to Astoria in half the time."

Blair did feel hot and achy. His scalp itched.

"SHIT!" Jim shouted as he wrenched the wheel hard to the left.

An off-white truck appeared out of the fog and swerved into their lane. Blair braced for impact. But Jim was quick and had their truck off the road, sliding over the gravel shoulder, heading directly for the...

"Jiimmm!"

Blair's number one fear was driving off a cliff. He didn't know why, but it was. The only thing that saved them from crashing hundreds of feet to the rocks below was an old chain link fence. The height was terrifyingly spectacular, like standing on top the roof at the police station.

Jim managed to swing the truck so they broadsided the fence with a screeching sound of metal on metal. Blair watched the diamond pattern of the links scrap against Jim's window, expecting it to fail and send them crashing to their deaths.

Miraculously, the truck stopped. Too scared to take a breath, Blair was certain the fence was still the only thing keeping them from falling. Suddenly Blair's door opened. The cold, moist air ruffled his hair as an arm hooked his neck in a fierce hold.

"Hey!" The rest of Blair's protest ended upon feeling a gun barrel against his temple. His upper body was turned toward Jim, his back pressed against a solid chest.

Jim looked furious. "What the hell's going on, Ramsey?"

Ramsey? Blair tried to place the name. Annabel was a Ramsey. But this arm did not belong to a little old lady. And she didn't smell like fish. Understanding came. Annabel's son, George.

"Unbuckle," George ordered.

Blair's hand managed to hit the button. The truck motor was still running, blowing heat through the vents. Blair stifled a cry of pain as he was hauled out of the truck by his hair to stand on his bad leg. The arm returned, holding him upright. Another man was standing to one side. He was taller, pale skinned with a long bald stripe that ran over the top of his head. Blair guessed him to be somewhere in his early to middle thirties. Dark hair grew over his ears. Blair got a look at the swollen nose. They'd found Steven McKnight.

George towed Blair backward toward the beige truck.

"Get out," McKnight ordered. He pointed a gun at Jim, handcuffs in his right.

Jim climbed out, standing by the open door. "This is stupid."

"Shut up." McKnight tossed the cuffs down at Jim's feet. "Behind your back." When Jim didn't make a move to pick them up the pressure on Blair's head increased.

"Do it or we kill him," George added.

Jim picked up the cuffs and put them on. Apparently they only had one pair. Blair wondered about that. Where did civilians get handcuffs anyway? It seemed to him those were something that shouldn't be sold without permits.

The next few minutes felt like a bizarre dream, enhanced by the falling mist. Jim was loaded into the open truck bed, tied to a ring bolted into the floor and covered with a heavy, dark green tarp.

Blair got a bad feeling. Okay, well, he already had a bad feeling. Now it was worse.

"Listen guys," Blair said. "This seems a little over the top. Why don -" The arm tightened and Blair decided to shut up.

"We're going for a ride." George's breath was foul. "Get in."

He seemed to have forgotten Blair needed crutches to walk. When George released him and pushed, the injured man fell to his knees in the dirt with a cry of pain.

"Sandburg!" Jim's muted bellow came from the truck bed.

Blair used the open door to pull himself up. "I'm okay, man," he whispered, breathing hard through his mouth to try and control the pain. "Guess I get the front this time."

The truck's front seat was the bench style. Blair got crammed in the middle. George drove and McKnight kept his gun rammed into Blair's ribs. They left Jim's truck on the roadside, engine off and doors locked.

"Where are we going?" Blair asked after a few minutes.

"Shut up," George said.

"I'm just asking."

It was more of a slap than a punch. McKnight delivered it without warning. Normally, the force would have just stung for a few seconds, but McKnight knew what to target.

Blair screamed as the white-hot fire exploded in his thigh. He doubled over, folding in half, his forehead hitting his knees as he choked down a second scream and gasped until his head cleared. He could hear Jim thumping the metal floor, probably kicking it with his bound feet. Blair wanted to soothe his concern, tell him he was okay, but he didn't have the breath.

McKnight yanked him back upright in the seat by his hair. He leaned down, his lips inches from Blair's ear. "How many copies?"

"Wh-what?"

"Of the Journal. How many?"

Another slap and Blair couldn't stop the tears that burned his eyes. He bit his lower lip to keep from crying out. McKnight's fist shook his head.

"One!" Blair blurted. "One, man. At the h-house."

Jim wanted to kill.

He listened to Blair breathing, glad he wasn't gasping anymore. Jim had a pretty good idea what they had done. He flexed his fingers. They itched to circle McKnight's neck.

The truck stopped.

"We're going inside," McKnight was telling Blair. "You're going to get us every copy you made. Got it?"

The truck rocked a bit. They were getting out. He could hear Blair gasping again, trying not to cry out as he was manhandled. Footsteps crunched in gravel, diminishing until they were replaced by steps on the small wooden landing leading to the kitchen door. Blair had his own keys on him. They ordered him to open and they went in.

Jim tracked their movements through the house, very aware that once they got what they wanted, Blair would no longer be needed. Blair played the part of the obedient captive and turned over the set he'd left with his notes. It occurred to Jim they'd been too rushed to get to the hospital. Otherwise Blair would have insisted on bringing it.

Blair was stumbling now. Kitchen chairs scraped, hands slapped the wall. He was using anything he could to keep from falling. They were talking about his computer now. Blair was insisting there was nothing on it. Faint tapping sounds of fingers on the keyboard were picked up. McKnight apparently had to see for himself.

After a few minutes, Blair was dragged back to the truck, shoved back inside and they were off.

Jim flexed his muscles, his arm and back straining. The cuffs were strong, good quality. McKnight had taken the gun. The fact the man knew to search for it told Jim they must know he was a cop. Whatever their intention, they had allowed both Jim and Blair to see their faces. Something told Jim they had no plans to stop until they added murder to their growing list of felonies.

"Sit down," McKnight said, shoving Blair hard.

Even with his hands free, Blair couldn't stop from sprawling over Jim as he landed. "Sorry, man," he mumbled, dizzy with pain.

Jim's face was dark with anger, but he graced Blair with an unexpected look of concern. "Just keep close to me, Chief," Jim whispered. "And stay down, okay?"

Blair nodded, leaning into Jim's shoulder. The boat deck rocked as their kidnappers moved around. He closed his eyes and concentrated on managing his pain and keeping the nausea down. They had pulled into a parking lot for a small rundown marina. After walking a rickety pier, Blair was basically thrown into an old crab boat. Apparently George and McKnight were getting tired of his handicap.

What really amazed Blair was the fact he still had his hands free. Either Blair was not considered much of a threat, or they figured the bandaged hands were no threat to them.

George stood at the wheel while McKnight released the lines from the dock and jumped on board. The twenty-one foot boat was all metal with a covered, open ended wheel house. The back was filled with fishing and crabbing equipment. The boat turned toward the river, following a complicated looking route through the hidden sandbars toward the distant Columbia River.

Blair hurt. He hurt all over. Why was it that an injured leg made even his fingertips ache? It must be the fever, which Blair suspected was up more than when he woke that morning.

"Kidnapping will get you both some prison time," Jim said loudly over the engine noise in a matter-of-fact manner.

So very Jim-like.

Blair opened his eyes. McKnight was guarding them. He kept his gun low, out of sight in case they passed another boat, which - Blair noticed unhappily - didn't appear to be a problem.

"We're not going to prison. But thanks for the information." McKnight looked smug. His switched his gaze to Blair. "What did you think of my journal? I checked you out; you're from Rainier, right?"

Blair nodded. "Anthro."

Leaning on a makeshift seat of crab pots, McKnight idly kicked a loose bullet-shaped float with his foot, sending it into a small pile of similar floats. "Just our luck to have those papers fall into the hands of a fellow scholar. Did you find them a good read?"

Blair realized the guy was actually fishing for a compliment. An idea began to form. "You wrote those journals, didn't you?"

"No." But the man's eyes told a different story. "I found them in an old estate sale."

"Right." Blair didn't mask the disbelief, the sarcasm. "And you just sit around at night reading them for your own pleasure. What's the deal? You fake the journals, make up a few lies. Are you trying to the rock the history world? Get your name in a text book as the guy that revealed the Lewis and Clark story?"

"Shut up!"

Blair curled both legs in close and shut up. He wasn't giving anyone a free shot at hitting his leg anymore.

Wind chopped the water surface, growing in force when they reached the river and left behind the bay's shelter. Blair had to use one hand against the deck to steady himself. God, it was cold. The sun wasn't likely to be making an appearance today. Rain clouds filled the sky. Blair could see the waves crash against the cliffs of Point Deception, throwing white sea foam high against the rocks. He knew then why the river didn't have much small boat traffic. Rising a bit, he looked through the water speckled windshield.

Waves.

Lots and lots of big waves.

Blair hunkered down next to Jim and held on. He chanced a quick peek. Jim looked bleached out and Blair knew why, his fear of the open sea was returning.

"Jim?" Blair whispered. "You okay?"

Jim nodded, but he was doing a lousy job of looking okay.

"This is far enough!" George shouted to McKnight.

The river didn't even look like a river here. They were between the two rock jetties now, small black lines in the distance being hit with continual waves. The open ocean spanned to the west. The boat was pitching about, tossed in the mighty waves like a plastic toy. Even McKnight was looking green. Jim knew the time to act was now, but he needed an opening.

George dropped the motor's throttle, keeping the boat's bow pointed into the continual procession of waves. He nodded to Jim, speaking to his partner. "Throw the cop in first."

"What about the cuffs?" McKnight asked.

Jim tensed, feeling Blair do the same. This might be his opening.

"Leave `em. They'll both wash out to sea. The Orca's are hungry." He smiled as he caught Jim's eye, taunting him.

McKnight pointed with the gun. "Get up, both of you!"

Blair's leg didn't seem to be obeying. Jim was in no position to help him either. The two of them struggled as the boat tilted nose up then switched in a seesaw motion that brought up the stern. The effect was like trying to stand on the back of a giant rocking horse. Jim did his best, aware of the grunts of pain from Blair. If the kid was acting, he was doing a damn good job.

"Hurry up!" McKnight yelled.

"We're trying, damn it!" Jim waited until he could use Blair's shoulder as a brace.

Come on...

Then he felt it. Blair was rock solid at his side. Jim used his friend to power up, driving a shoulder straight into McKnight's gut. Both men went down in a tangle of coarse ropes, floats and crab pots. McKnight screamed with outrage and pain as his face bounced off the deck. Jim rolled, curling his long body in an attempt to get his arms over his butt and out front where he could grab the fallen gun. He lost track of George. Jim turned just as a dark shape swung down toward his head.

"JIM!"

Blair's warning came a second before the blow. The hard flooring struck Jim's cheek with bone cracking force. Jim could smell the fish oil; feel the scales and bits of crab shells bite into his face and ear. His vision was too busy cataloging bright flashes, like hundreds of camera's going off all at the same time. He could hear Blair's heartbeat, the drumming of the boat's engines and the water sluicing under the boat.

"Jim! NO!" Blair sounded frantic.

Hands lifted. He felt the gunnel's edge digging into his stomach. Then hands grasped his legs. Jim flipped end over end and dropped with a splash into the cold, salty waters. Jim curled into a ball, instinctively holding his breath. The water was frigid! The back of his head bounced off the hull, hitting it hard. Irrational fear of being trapped, like swimming under a sheet of ice, nearly caused him to suck salt water into his lungs.

Another nearby splash, like the body of a full-sized man getting tossed overboard, jumpstarted his brain into thinking again. Jim jackknifed underwater, reversing his position and kicked off the boat's bottom with his feet, effectively clearing it and gaining distance. The boat's motor had revved up. They were being abandoned.

Jim's eyes were open now, stinging a bit from the salt. He dialed down his touch and adjusted his vision for the green underwater world beneath him. It was breathtaking. Jim could see all the way to the river bottom, the sand landscape, shaped by eons of tides and water flow. He could see fish by the hundreds, sea turtles and seals. He could see Blair.

Shit!

Jim kicked hard, swimming toward the floundering man. He could see the water's choppy surface above, nothing like the calm world only a few feet below. If Jim could grow gills, he'd consider living down here forever, but his lungs were near the end of their limit.

Jim's head broke through the surface and his lungs pulled in life giving oxygen. He could only manage to stay upright for a second or two before a wave hit him and bowled him over. Without his hands, he was going to drown.

No, he wasn't going to die. He and Blair were going to live, even if they had to dog paddle back to land.

Jim twisted, trying to get his feet down, his head up. Curling into a tight ball, he successfully got his cuffed wrists over his butt and feet. Now, with the use of his arms, he righted himself once more. His face broke above the water and sucked in... saltwater. Another wave picked that same second to crest over the top of his head. It was impossible not to cough, it was impossible to breathe. Jim's panic returned twofold. His fear of the ocean haunted him like a banshee, screaming in his head. Nothing was beautiful anymore. The water was deadly and deceiving.

Strong hands found him and Jim's head was out of the water again. He was being held close, comforted with words delivered through teeth chattering with cold. Jim hacked up salt water, clearing his windpipe.

"J-jim, Jim. Oh th-thank God, man." Blair was babbling, his lips brushing Jim's ear. "Thought I l-lost you."

One more cough and Jim could talk again. "You okay?" He could feel Blair's body shaking like a junkie in withdrawal. It occurred to the sentinel that he'd dialed down his ability to feel cold. He tentatively checked the water temperature and slammed his control back down to the lowest setting. No wonder Blair was shivering. At this rate, neither one of them would last more than half an hour.

"Sandburg?"

Blair looked weak, his face was white, teeth chattering, goose bumps rose on his neck and on the arms that circled Jim's, but the kid was riding higher in the water than Jim. And neither of Jim's legs had a bullet hole.

Blair managed a humorless, but proud grin. "Crab floats. I s-stuffed... m-my shirt. Tossed more over. Look around."

Now Jim could see the bulges under the sweatshirt, pushing up behind Blair's head. Jim had thought they were trapped air bubbles. "They didn't notice?"

"I jumped... they w-were looking for you."

"Smart, kid. Good thinking." Jim spotted more bobbing in the waves. With Blair's help, they stuffed them up the back of Jim's shirt, keeping one under each armpit. They'd never get USCG approval, but Jim wasn't going to sink.

Still, they needed to stay warm. Jim raised his cuffed hands over Blair's head. His arms circled Blair and the floats and hugged him close, trapping their body heat. Blair wasn't talking anymore, just returned the hug, seeking Jim's body heat unashamedly. Jim accidentally bumped Blair's injured leg, bringing tears to his friend's eyes. The river was pushing them out to sea. Every third or fourth wave broke over their heads as they clung to each other. The time spent under the wave, holding their breaths, waiting to pop back up again, seemed to stretch a life span. But the floats did the job. Jim knew they never would have made it otherwise. They endured the six foot waves. When the rain started to fall, Blair laughed and laid his head on Jim's shoulder.

"What's so funny?"

Blair's laugh was becoming more of a moan. "Our l-luck."

"Hey, we have great luck."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, way I figure. They could have shot us first, then dumped us overboard."

Blair snickered, tickling Jim's neck.

"We're going to make it, Chief. Trust me."

"Can't even... s-see the shore." Blair groaned. He was growing weaker. "Going f-further out."

"I'm pushing us north. We'll clear the bar eventually and reach the shore." Jim tried to sound sure of himself. "No, don't kick, Sandburg. I'll be the motor in this team, you just hold on. We'll be okay."

Another wave sunk them.

They bobbed back up. It was impossible to see his watch. Jim had no idea how much time had passed since they'd been tossed overboard. Jim could hear a huge ship crossing the bar, but the waves blocked his view. They were too small for radar to pick up, too low to be spotted by the naked eye. Even if someone was looking for them, they'd be almost impossible to spot. Both of them had worn dark color clothing. For a while, neither man said a word. They concentrated on kicking their legs and staying warm.

"Cold," Blair whispered. The word was so faint, Jim almost didn't catch it.

"I know. Just stay with me, okay? Stay awake." Blair's head was heavy on Jim's shoulder. He accidentally bumped the injured leg, Blair didn't flinch.

Jim pulled Blair closer.

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