Doubt waited on the fringes of Jim's thoughts like a starving vulture.

Jim refused to stop kicking, to stop believing they'd make it, even though the sea had them now. They had cleared the river, passed over the bar and were caught up in the ebb tide. Blair was motionless in his arms. The crab floats still kept them both from sinking. One good thing about being out in the ocean, the waves were not as big. The sky to the west was dark with the promise of more storm. To the east, Jim could see the distant shoreline and the two lighthouses, Cape Deception and North Head. He could even see his brightly painted blue steps leading to their house.

So close, probably a little more than a mile away.

Jim could feel his own strength waning. Not a good thing. The effects of hypothermia accelerated if the victim was exhausted.

God, the situation was so damn frustrating.

Jim could hear the fishing boats further out to sea, hear the men and women talking about the catch of the day, the weather, who was going broke and which company was making payroll. It was as if he and Blair were going to bleed to death in a crowded shopping mall. They were invisible. The choppy water hid them.

Even with his sense of touch down, the cold penetrated his bones, stiffened his joints. Blair's face might as well be sculpted from a block of ice the way it chilled Jim's neck. Blair's slow heartbeat haunted Jim. The thought of that heart going still scared him senseless. He knew if Blair died, so would Jim's will to survive. Jim kept his friend's torso crushed close to his own, sharing all the heat he could. The torso was the `box' with all the vital organs. Jim's first concern was keeping the box warm.

Jim found it difficult to know if they were actually getting closer to the shoreline or being towed further out. Maybe all his work just kept them in one place. Could he keep this up until the tide reversed? How long? Jim had no idea. He hadn't been paying attention. He closed his eyes and concentrated. It was still early and he'd noticed high tides around the middle of the afternoon. So... what then. Shit, it was hard to think.

Blair stirred restlessly.

"Hey," Jim croaked, then cleared this throat. "Blair? You awake?"

"Umm."

"Come on, kid. I'm getting bored. Talk to me." Jim could feel eyelashes stroke his neck. Blair was waking. "Up and at `em."

"'gaway." Blair rolled his head on Jim's shoulder. "... tired."

"Damn it, Chief. Do what I tell you for once." Jim purposefully sounded harsh, reproving.

It worked. Some basic instinct within Blair struggled to the surface. "Where... are we?"

"Pacific ocean."

Blair lifted his head and looked around. Jim got a look at Blair's pale face.

"Jim," Blair muttered. "You'd make it. Alone."

"Don't think so, Flipper."

Blair snorted, his head falling back to Jim's shoulder. "Figured you'd... say that. Why so cold? Is May."

"The Pacific stay's the same, basically all year `round."

"That... sucks, man. Now I know..." He shivered and caught his lower lip between his teeth. "... how that glass float feels."

"You telling me `cold and wet' is your world?" Jim teased.

Blair lowered he head back on Jim's shoulder and didn't answer.

"Blair?" He jiggled his arms. "Sandburg?"

Nope, his friend was unconscious again. Jim released a disappointed sigh.

"Holy shit! I don't believe it."

Jim lifted his eyes to the horizon and looked around. He knew that voice; young and excited and far away. But where? He raked his sentinel vision over the coastline.

There. Next to North Head lighthouse, Jim saw a figure. He zoomed in and saw the startled face of Clifford looking back at him.

No way.

"Clifford?"

"Detective Ellison?" The answer was faint, but there.

Jim was so shocked he stopped kicking for a second. "You..." Jim was stunned into perplexity, the cold not helping. Was he hallucinating? "You can see us?"

Clifford's head nodded. His mouth gaped open in surprise. "What are you guys doing?"

"Get help, Clifford. Call the coast guard, or the police. Get us a boat." Jim was babbling. If this was a hallucination, it was a nice one. He prayed Clifford was real. He'd deal with the how's and why's later.

To Jim's further amazement, Clifford started talking into his own hand. "Dad! Dad, this is Cliff. Come in, Dad."

A cruel stabbing feeling of disappointment cut through Jim's heart. He had to be seeing things. Why his hallucination summoned up a kid and not Simon or someone else was beyond reason. Jim watched as the image of the boy talked into his hand, describing Jim and Blair's predicament and their current location. A few times, Jim even imagined a man's voice answering. As Jim watched, another fact became apparent: Clifford was getting smaller.

The tide was still taking them out to sea.

Clifford continued to speak into his hand. Jim tuned the words out. The kid wasn't going for help, another fact that convinced Jim no one was really standing next to the lighthouse. Blair slipped a little in his grasp. Jim's arms were becoming too weak to hold him. Jim grasped his left wrist with his right hand and forced himself to tighten his arms. Muscles shook with protest, but Blair remained pressed close.

More signs of Jim's impending failure reached his ears. He was imagining the deep drumming sound of a diesel motor now. Maybe if this kept up, he'd start seeing the entire Major Crimes gang walking toward them across the waves. Jim would have smiled if his face muscles had any energy left. Besides, he couldn't spare it. He needed all his strength to hold Blair and kick.

"There they are!"

Jim's head swiveled in surprise.

A boat.

A bigger than life fishing boat was bearing down on their location. Two men wearing orange bibbed-front rain paints and wool shirts stood in the open bow, leaning over the side railing. The taller man was pointing directly at them, shouting directions to some unseen person piloting the boat. Seconds later they were along side.

"Is he alive?" The taller man shouted over the motor's noise, as he threw a horseshoe shaped yellow life ring into the water

"Yeah!" Jim shouted, unable to snag the life preserver because of the cuffs. "He's unconscious."

Non-boaters have no idea how hard it is to retrieve people from the water during a storm. Jim thanked their lucky stars the crew of this boat seemed experienced. It took a bit of maneuvering. The shorter man dropped a chain ladder over the side and climbed down until he was waist deep in the water. He supported Blair with one hand long enough for Jim to get his cuffed arms free. Both men looked at Jim's wrists with surprise, but didn't comment. It was time to rescue, not ask questions.

Jim managed to keep a grip on the ladder. His buoyancy was gone now and his legs had quit on him. The waves made the boat lurch and holding on was not easy when your fingers were numb from the cold. Still, Jim clung as he watched Blair taken up. After Blair was lifted out and safely over the railing, eager hands reached down and helped Jim. Before he knew it, he was back on solid flooring again. The boat was bigger than the one that had dumped them. Another man appeared. Blair was carried and Jim walked with help into an enclosed cabin. Narrow steps took them down below to a tiny room with narrow benches.

Ropes and tools were swept off one padded bench and Blair was gently laid down. The oldest of the three men disappeared into a passageway and returned holding a pair of large bolt cutters. The handcuff's attaching link was cut. Jim would have to wear the bracelets for a while. The man then headed back up the stairs. "I'll get us to Astoria as fast as I can. Bad storm's just hit. The bar's rough, hold on."

Jim dropped onto an empty spot on the opposite bench. Liquefied lead coursed through his body. He could barely hold up his arms. Exhaustion hit hard and his chin bumped against his chest as the boat turned sharply and the engine revved up.

"How long?" the taller man asked. Both men were gently pulling Blair's wet clothes off. Three crab floats fell to the floor.

Jim shook his head. "Not sure, what time is it?" His words were slurred.

The shorter man looked at his arm. "Ten-twelve."

Mentally calculating the time seemed too great a task. Finally Jim managed a guess. "Two hours, maybe. Around that. How did you find us?" He watched them work. Both men were dark-skinned, like Clifford and his grandmother. In fact, Jim could see some of Clifford in the taller man.

Almost Clifford answered, "My son spotted you. We have Family-Talk radios. He likes to watch our return. We talk. He's got good eyes." The man looked up. "So do you, apparently."

Jim nodded, looking around the room. The lower cabin was warmer than expected. In a far corner, a space heater glowed red-hot, radiating blessed warmth. The boat smelled of dead fish, sweat and rancid grease.

To Jim, it was heaven.

Clifford's dad looked grim. He was working on Blair's shirts while his partner removed the shoes. He nodded to a plastic tub with a lid under a counter. "Get in there, you'll find blankets. Get out of those clothes and wrap up."

Jim moved like a man experiencing the heavy gravity of a distant planet. "Watch his leg, okay? He's injured."

"I'm Jack." Jack nodded to the man next to him as he started unbuckling Blair's belt. "This is Frank Hao. Clifford says you're a cop."

Jim managed to slip off the bench and crawl to the tub. The lid was tight. He could feel the boat plowing into the waves now. Keeping his balance was going to be tough. "Detective Ellison. That's Blair Sandburg, my partner." His speech was slow; talking seemed to be another physical task beyond his ability at that moment. "You're not going to like this. Your brother-in-law dumped us out here. He broke into our house. Stole papers. He's working with Steven McKnight."

"George? He did this?" Jack sounded angry. "Shit, when is that deadbeat going to get a brain."

"We need to contact the police," Jim said, finding blankets and first aid supplies. He pulled out two thick, green blankets and pushed them along the floor to Jack.

"We will. There's a radio on deck," Jack said. "First, let's get you both warmed up."

They were efficient and knew what they were doing. Blair was stripped out of his clothes and swathed in blankets, then lashed to the bench with seatbelts. He never woke. They activated chemical heat packs and slipped them between the blankets, but not against Blair's skin. Jim didn't need to tell them where to put the heat, they knew; under the arms, the neck and groin area, anywhere the blood flowed near the skin surface, to be warmed and taken throughout the body. They found a clean, dry towel and gently wrapped up his long wet hair.

Jack was Jim's size and loaned him a pair of thermal underwear, jeans, thick socks and a heavy wool sweater. At first, Jim's body refused to believe it was warm and dry again. He shivered until he felt like he would shake apart. The boat was really fighting the waves now. Jim had to hold onto built in straps, secured for just that purpose.

"We're at the bar's entrance," Jack told them. "You two stay put. We're going up to help."

"The radio," Jim said as they started to leave.

"We'll try," Jack said. "Hold on and watch your partner."

Jim ignored the bench. He sank down to sit on the floor by Blair's side, near the sleeping man's head, and held on.

The water was rough. Jim held on but still collected a mass of bruises. There were no windows, no way to chart their progress. Jim's stomach began to churn. He longed for fresh air, but wasn't going to chance leaving Blair by himself.

Just then Blair groaned.

"Sandburg?"

Each time the boat rolled or dropped over a wave, Blair was caught by the straps. Groans corresponded with each jarring movement. Blair's face scrunched. His lips pressed together. With a sharp gasp, he opened his eyes and swept the room with an unfocused gaze. He found Jim's face and locked on.

"Hey," Jim said.

The boat lurched, bringing a cry of pain this time. Jim couldn't help but circle Blair's chest with an arm and hold on.

"Jim..." Blair groaned. "Jim, get me out."

"Not safe right now, Chief."

The waves got worse, growing higher until Jim thought the old boat was doomed to break apart under the pounding force. A wave caused a combination drop and roll that broke Jim's pathetically weak hold and sent him rolling backwards. He took a glancing blow to the head off a counter support leg.

"Jim!"

Moving like an advancing foot soldier, Jim belly crawled back to Blair's side. He rose up enough to sit, returning to Blair's limited range of vision again. "Sorry, I don't have a first class ticket like you."

But Blair wasn't seeing the humor. He writhed under the blankets. "Lemme go."

"Listen, we're crossing the bar. You're already hurt. You have to stay put. It's the best way." Jim draped an arm over the bundled man again, risking another trip down the length of the room. Even thought Blair was awake and semi lucid, he wasn't calming down. Jim needed a distraction. "Help me, Sandburg. I'm feeling sick here. I think my senses are working against me."

It was as if someone had found a `Blair remote' and flicked the switch. Blair stopped squirming. He peered up at Jim, his dull eyes worried. "What?"

Jim nodded to the room at large. "It's getting to me. Making my stomach... squeamish. You think it's the smell?"

"Ah, no... wait." Blair swallowed, eyes closing. He didn't groan when the boat did another bucking bronco imitation.

Jim tightened his hold and waited.

"Need a horizon... window?" Blair asked.

"No."

"'Kay, try this." Blair licked his chapped, fevered lips, looking unsure. "Close your eyes. Picture a round gauge with a... horizontal line inside. See it?"

Shit, Jim could see it. How did Blair know all this? "Yeah, now what?"

"Now, each time the boat... ah, moves, your line stays true. It's like what a pilot sees... on an airplane."

The boat moved. Jim's mind watched the false horizon shift and...

And he didn't feel that sinking despair in his gut anymore. His stomach calmed. Jim opened his eyes and waited for more waves. It didn't change. He looked down at Blair in unadulterated wonder.

"It works."

"Good." Blair's smile was small but genuine. "Untie me?"

Jim took a second to brush a few wet hair strands back from Blair's eyes. The towel had worked loose. "Chief, you need to stay, okay? I'm sorry. I am. But you'll only get hurt worse if you start falling over."

Blair groaned. He looked miserable and ready to cry. His forehead was warm again, too warm. The fever was back, yet Blair was shivering. Jim felt like a heel. He stroked Blair's forehead, hoping to give him something to focus on, and watched Blair's chest rise and fall. He was breathing too fast, but he stopped fighting the straps. It dawned on Jim the ride was starting to gentle down. Were they through?

"Be right back." Jim rose, standing on wobbly legs.

"Where ya going?"

"Up to talk to the captain. Don't worry, I'm listening." Jim patted Blair's blanketed chest. He managed the stairs without falling. The water was definitely calmer now. Jim's mood improved. They'd get Blair to a hospital and get Nettle and her buddies to round up those two assholes that left them for dead.

The old man stood at the wheel, his face grim. Clifford's father and his buddy were standing nearby. Jim got a look out one of the large windows, expecting to see the looming shape of the Astoria Bridge. It wasn't there. The sky was dark gray, one enormous cloud filling the entire horizon.

No jetty in sight.

No shoreline.

Just water, rain and an ominous sky

Shit.

"We went back out?" Jim asked incredulously.

Jack nodded. "The bar's too rough. It's closed. We'll ride out the storm."

Jim dragged a hand down his face. This wasn't going to work. "Blair needs a hospital."

"We've called the Coasties. They've dispatched their Jayhawk," the boat's captain said. "They'll take you both from the boat and run you in."

Jim groaned. Yeah, it was the right call to make. He would have done the same. But, shit-o-damn, he was going to have to break the news to Blair. The Jayhawk was a medium range recovery helicopter. About sixty-plus feet long with two engines, it couldn't land in the water. They'd have to be lifted by cable. He turned back toward the stairs. He needed to have a talk with his partner.

Blair met him with an impatient look. "It's calmer now, Jim. Get these damn straps off me."

Jim started to unbuckle the belts. "We need to talk."

"What's wrong?" Blair's pissy attitude faded as he watched Jim work on the straps.

"We didn't make it across the bar. We're back out on the Pacific." Jim opened the last buckle. The heat packets fell from around his neck and Jim tucked them into the blanket, over Blair's stomach.

Blair groaned as his left arm pulled out of the blankets. The bandages on his hands were gone, soaked off by the sea, revealing white and wrinkled skin. Jim checked Blair's skin temperature. He was warmer, but still not back to normal. The body's outside temperature didn't always correspond with the core temperature.

"I want to sit up," Blair muttered.

"You shouldn't."

Blair's glower was the stuff drill sergeants perfected while standing for hours in front of a mirror.

"Fine, but you're keeping the blankets on." Jim lifted Blair's shoulders and helped him turn on the bench. The towel fell off. Long wet strands of hair fell to the blanket around his shoulders. "Did you hear what I said?"

"Yeah, about the bar? How long do we wait?"

Jim pulled two straps out and clipped them around Blair's hips. "We're not waiting. The Coast Guard's coming to get us." A dark blue knitted watch cap lay discarded on a coil of rope. Jim fitted it over Blair's wet head.

Blair's eyes narrowed, searching Jim's face. "They're sending a boat?" Then seeing the truth in Jim's expression, Blair shook his head. He gathered a fistful of Jim's sweater sleeve, then surprised Jim with a fierce yank. "No! No way, man. No helicopters!"

Jim tried to keep the blanket high on Blair's shoulders. This was not a rational Blair; this was a fevered, exhausted Blair who was not playing with a full deck. He sat next to his friend, his tone as gentle as he knew how to sound. "Listen to me," Jim demanded, overriding Blair's curses. "It's the fastest way. I'm coming along too, okay?"

"I'm not going. Forget it."

"Blair -"

"Jim! I can't. Not again. I told you."

"We're riding inside this time." Jim squeezed Blair's shoulder. "Not a military chopper. Coast Guard. We ride inside, just like to the oil rig, remember? You didn't mind that trip." Jim smiled reassuringly. "Piece of cake."

Blair stilled. "Inside? You sure?"

"Yep."

Some of the fight seemed to ooze from Blair's body. His forehead smoothed. But it was obvious to Jim, Blair was not happy. Jim could hear the distant whoop-whoop of the chopper's blades. They were out of time.

Blair pressed trembling fingers against his own closed eyes and slumped against Jim's shoulder. "Sorry, man. Sorry." His body shuddered. "Don't know w-why I'm so freaked."

"It's fine," Jim said. He circled an arm around the blanketed shoulders, took Blair's pale arm and tucked it back inside the folds of material. "You'll be okay once we get to the hospital." Blair didn't comment, but scowled. Jim knew why. "I don't think we're looking at a long stay, Sandburg. You're alert and warming up. We managed to dodge the hypothermia bullet today. We'll get checked out and released."

Blair lifted his head. "You think?"

"Yeah. I do."

A hint of a smile appeared. "Cool."

Wearing a borrowed rain coat smelling of fish scales, Jim watched the Jayhawk approach, flying low under the clouds. He zoomed in on the pilot, recognizing the same freckled faced kid from the other day. The red and white helicopter looked like a fat dragonfly. A large side door opened on sliders and a man in an orange `Mustang' foul weather suit sat on the floor of the copter, his legs dangling out into space. He double checked his own harness and let his team mate hook him to the thick cable attached to a pulley on a frame that rolled out the doorway.

The Coast Guard crew communicated to the fishing boat by marine radio. They were instructed not to grab the man lowered by cable. After a few wide swings, he landed on the boat's deck and unhooked. Blair was up in the pilot house now, sitting in a sturdy padded bench by a wall heater, still swathed in blankets and wearing the cap. After greeting Jim and squatting down in front of Blair to evaluate him, the helicopter crew member ordered a Stokes basket lowered.

Blair visibly stiffened as it came within view through the windows.

"We're inside this time," Jim reminded him.

In deference to the weather, the Stokes was brought into the pilot house, crowding the occupants and barely fitting in the middle aisle. A special weatherproof cocoon rested within. The rescuer unzipped it, revealing an insulated metallic lining, like something used by NASA for space travel. Blair refused to be lifted, but let Jim help him stand - still wrapped in blankets - and lowered himself down into the basket. He lay silently shivering as he was bundled into the thick weather resistant wrappings. Then the basket was lifted and carried out onto the open deck. They wouldn't let Jim help carry, so he walked by Blair's side. If Blair had opened his eyes, he might have found Jim's presence comforting.

Blair waited until the cable was being hooked to the straps before letting the panic show in his face. "Jim!"

"I'm here." Jim moved in, leaning over Blair. The noise from the Jayhawk's spinning blades was deafening. He spoke up so Blair could hear him.

"Shitshitshit... I hate this." Eyes wide with fear, Blair's face had paled even more. Rain splashed on his cheeks.

"You'll be inside the `copter before you know it. Then they'll lift me up," Jim said.

Blair licked his lips. "Hey," he rasped, suddenly looking like the old Blair Jim knew. "Did I thank you for keeping me from drowning?"

Jim chuckled. "If you weren't so cold, you'd realize I should be thanking you. You saved my life."

"You saved me."

"No, you did."

"You did."

"You finished?" Jim saw the connecting straps were in place. He gave Blair's shoulder a final pat. "See you topside, partner."

Young Bay Memorial Hospital in Astoria was surprisingly large. They efficiently hustled Blair into a trauma room and gave every pretense of knowing what they were doing. They listened to Jim's recap of Blair's gunshot wound and the complications he was having before they'd been kidnapped. To Jim's irritation, however, he also ended up in a trauma room. Somehow, Blair was able to blab to the staff the number of times Jim's head took a beating in the last twenty-four hours.

It was during another wait for test results that Deputy Nettle appeared by Jim's bed, looking unhappy. He came clean with the entire story of the mysterious journal pages.

"Okay, I can understand you not telling me yesterday," she said. "You didn't remember, but what about Sandburg? He should have mentioned it." She looked ready to storm into Blair's adjacent room right that minute.

"Lighten up, Nettle, please. Blair's not at fault. He's been working with me a while now. He's used to having me deal with disclosure of information. He was just being cautious." Jim reached for the water glass and took a pull through the bent straw. For some reason, his body craved water. Jim would think he'd seen enough to last a lifetime.

She folded her arms and did a perfect imitation of Simon Banks. "Okay, this time."

"So how'd you get here so fast?" During the chopper ride in, Jim had managed to get the Coast Guard to radio the names of their kidnappers to the county sheriff's office. He hadn't expected to see a deputy for another hour.

She reached behind her back and produced a narrow spiral notebook, flipping pages. "We got a call from a civilian that overheard Clifford and his dad. Those little radio's are handy, a lot of the cops like to carry one and monitor what's go on." She grinned. "Anyway, I recognized your name and contacted the Coast Guard. By then, they'd already sent a chopper out to get you. I got an APB out for McKnight. We've already arrested George. He was trying to borrow some money from his mother."

"Annabel Ramsey."

"Right. Clifford ran home, told Annabel about spotting you guys - you realize the odds of that happening, right? And George overheard. She got suspicious when he started throwing his stuff in his truck and asked for money."

"Smart woman."

"Well, George just got out of prison last year for armed robbery. He's not the prized apple on that family tree."

"So, she called the cops?"

"Nah, we were already on our way, I guess. Don't have all the details, but she delayed him."

"So all we need now is McKnight."

"Right." She looked around the small treatment room. "You guys staying?"

"God, I hope not." Jim rubbed his head. "Can you give us a ride back if they release us? My truck is still parked on the road."

"Sure." She closed her book and stuffed into her belt at the small of her back. "It's about time for my lunch. I'll grab a bite and come back. I feel like a wonder burger."

The groan escaped before Jim could stop it.

Nettle laughed. "Let me guess, a double with the works?"

"Ohgodyeah!"

Being warm again was nice. Even having to repeatedly endure the male nurse, an old guy with the yellow teeth and a gray ponytail carrying the rectal thermometer, wasn't too awful. Well, maybe the very next thing before `awful'. Blair just wanted the soreness gone. His right leg hurt. His entire body ached like he'd just finished the aerobic workout from hell. It hurt to breathe.

The helicopter ride was a fuzzy memory. That was okay, too. Blair's face grew warm just thinking about how he'd freaked out. Poor Jim. All the guy was trying to do was get him to a hospital. He wouldn't blame Jim if he told Simon to terminate the unofficial ride-a-long, to stop pretending Blair belonged at Jim's side.

"Looking pretty glum for someone that didn't end up as Orca food."

Blair opened his eyes to see Jim standing next to the examine table, boldly reading his chart. "That's supposed to be private information."

"Uh huh." Jim lifted the top sheet and kept reading. "Well, your core temps back to normal. How you feeling?"

"Shitty." Blair bit his tongue. What was he doing? Damn! He'd just been thinking about how Jim deserved a better partner and here he was, dumping on him again.

But Jim looked unaffected. "Shitty and hungry?"

Now, that's a thought. Blair noticed the way his stomach rumbled, the way the rumble echoed like it was in a large empty cavern. "Starving."

Jim didn't look up from his reading. He nodded his head to a white paper sack on the rolling table within Blair's reach. "Natural chicken taco with extra salsa and those little potato thingies shaped like marshmallows."

Blair already had the bag in his lap by the time Jim finished describing the menu. The smell wafting from the sack as he unfolded the top was intoxicating. He reached inside. Oh, God. It was still warm. "Thanks, man." Blair shredded the paper in his haste to get his first mouthful. "Ohhhh, dis' `m good."

"Your doctor says you get to leave. I'm already checked out." Jim returned the chart to the pocket on the foot board. "Nettle's going to drive us back to the beach house. We owe her thirteen bucks."

Blair didn't comment. He had to force himself to slow down. The last thing he needed was to choke in a hospital ER room. They'd probably admit him for being stupid. He studied Jim while the older man continued to talk. Jim looked better. His color was good. It was amazing how the guy could bounce back like a tennis ball. He had even managed to score some dry clothes. Probably from the guys on the boat. Blair figured he'd be leaving here wrapped in the same blankets he'd arrived in. Whoa, what was Jim saying?

"They caught them?" Blair asked.

Jim paused, shooting Blair a familiar `I knew you were in your happy-place and not paying attention' look. "They caught one of them, George Ramsey. McKnight is still at large."

"Oh." Blair popped a tater tot into his mouth and chewed. He didn't slap Jim's hand away when the guy reached over to help himself. "So, how'd we get spotted anyway?"

Jim got a funny look. "Funny thing, that..." He finished chewing and swallowed. "Clifford spotted us from the North Head Light house."

Blair frowned. The way he remembered it, they had been a long, long way off from shore. "What, he had some high powered binoculars?"

Jim shook his head. He lowered his voice to a whisper and glanced back at the doorway. "No binoculars and get this, Chief, he heard me talking to him, too."

Blair dropped his taco wrap. "What?"

"His dad was one of the guys that pulled us out. Clifford likes to hike up to the cliffs and watch for their boat to come into the bar. I guess he was up there when he spotted us floating. He saved our lives, communicated by walkie-talkie to his dad and led them to us."

"Wow." What if... "Jim, I got to talk to him."

"I know. After my childhood, I'm not letting Clifford go through the same thing."

Blair was so caught up in his wonder of a possible child sentinel; he didn't put together Jim's last comment. When it finally registered, the doctor came into the room and Jim held up his hand; a classic Ellison-sign for `we'll talk later'.

Damn. Blair really wanted an explanation. Jim never talked about his childhood.

The doctor signed the release. Before Blair could accept the slip of paper that promised to be the ticket to more powerful antibiotics, Jim took it. Nettle appeared right afterwards, smiling at Blair and presenting him with a dry pair of unisex sweatpants and sweatshirt, then told Jim she'd be waiting in the car. Blair moved like an old man as he slipped them on with Jim's help. He was grateful for the wheelchair Yellow Teeth pushed into the room, his long gray ponytail swinging as he nodded to Jim.

Outside the storm still raged. Jim rushed him through the raindrops and bundled him into the back seat again. Apparently the fishing boat's blankets were going back to the beach house as well. Nettle had the SUV's heater on the blast setting. They drove through downtown Astoria and onto the ramp leading up to the amazing bridge that spanned the Columbia River. The bridge rose high on the Oregon side of the river, unwinding from the city like a snake and arching over the main channel at a dizzy height to allow even the largest of ships to pass beneath.

Blair couldn't help but stare at the water to the east while Jim and Nettle talked, their voices too soft for Blair to hear. The view was grim. The Columbia Bar still churned caught in the storm's hold. Waves rose up in confusion, smashing against each other as if trying to escape some unseen torment.

God, had they really been out there? What time was it? Nearly dinner? Less than twelve hours ago he and Jim had been in those waves. It boggled the mind.

After the main channel was behind them, the bridge angled downward until it was only fifteen feet above the river. Then they were off the bridge, back in the state of Washington and speeding toward Ilwaco. Blair tried to keep his eyes open, but the heat felt so good. He closed his eyelids for just a second, listening to the police radio chatter.

Jim was shaking him. The side door was open. Cold air stole his warm, dry world away.

"We're here. Let's get inside." Jim was getting pelted by the raindrops.

Wiping the last of his confusion from his face, Blair shifted stiffly. It was no use. His right leg didn't want to move. Jim had to reach down and gently lift it over the short lip to the doorway.

"Sorry."

"Not a problem, Chief."

Jim let Blair use his forearm to lever himself out of the vehicle. Jim carried a small white bag with the words `Ilwaco Pharmacy' printed on the side. Apparently Blair had slept while Jim had gone and had the prescription filled. He made a mental note to pay the older man back. Nettle appeared, wearing her department raincoat and holding an enormous black umbrella over their heads. She kept it in place as Jim supported Blair into the beach house.

"Can't believe were back here, man," Blair whispered.

"I know, been a hell of a day."

Somehow, Jim had managed to keep his keys with him. Blair's set was still inside. All he'd taken that morning had been his wallet, which Jim had produced back at the hospital. The leather smelled like seaweed and all the contents were soaked, but nothing had been missing. Once inside, there was no surprise on Blair's part when Jim guided him into the bedroom.

The bed looked inviting. Blair wasn't going to complain. Nettle hadn't followed this far. Jim took the blanket from his shoulder and pulled back the bedding. Blair felt like climbing between the sheets and not coming out for a week, maybe a month.

"Can we give Nettle's sweats back later?" Blair mumbled as he sat down on the bed's edge. He ran a tender hand through his hair, happy to find it dry. He slipped off the hospital slippers and rolled onto the mattress, feeling Jim's hands helping his right leg up. Blair dropped his face into the pillow.

"Not a problem," Jim answered from seemingly far away.

Covers were pulled up to his neck. Blair's grasp on reality was slipping. He didn't resist as the exhaustion took him down into nothingness. The extra weight of a blanket was the last thing he felt. He really should thank Jim for that, but the part of his brain that controlled speech had already hung out a `do not disturb' sign. Blair sighed and gave into the darkness.

The phone rang before Jim could get in the shower. All Jim wanted was to feel hot, clean water sluice over his body and then have a long nap. Blair was already snoring. Nettle had left with the keys to the rental truck and a promise to get it delivered. Maybe he'd ignore the phone.

Nah, years of training wouldn't let him.

"Ellison."

"Jim? What the hell is going on down there? Why am I getting calls from your local county police?"

"Hi, Simon."

"Don't `Hi, Simon' me. Answer the damn question. Are you two okay?"

Jim dropped to sit on the bed's edge. He'd never gotten around to making it back into a couch that morning. "We're fine. We just got back from Astoria."

"How does that involve the sheriff's office?"

This was going to be an interesting phone call. Jim didn't know where to start. He flopped backwards on top of the covers and toed off his shoes. They were still damp from the river. "It's complicated, sir. But everything is okay now."

"You're both okay?" Simon's tone switched from angry to weary.

"Yeah, we're good. But I'm exhausted. Can I fill you in after I've slept for twenty-four straight?"

"I should come down."

"No," Jim said. "Darryl needs you to be with him. Blair and I are fine. Things are fine."

"... Okay, Jim." Simon sighed. "Okay. Call me when you catch up on your sleep. I want a full report, mister."

"Thanks, I'll do that. I promise."

After hanging up, he headed for the shower. The warm water delivered everything that Jim's prayers had hoped for and more. He stayed under the spray until the hot water started to change to a cooler temperature. Reluctantly, he got out, dressed in clean boxers and T-shirt. He poked his head into Blair's room. The sleeping man hadn't moved an inch. Filling a glass with cold water at the kitchen sink, Jim drank half down in a few quick gulps as he walked into the living room.

Sheets still covered the windows. He'd leave them for now; they helped to darken the room.

Jim picked up a small travel alarm clock and set it to the proper time that Blair was due for another pill. He drained the water glass and fell onto the sofa-bed. The rain on the roof lulled him to sleep.

Blair's dream was so nice. He didn't want to leave. He'd just discovered a brand new tribe of orange skinned people that lived in a vacant lot down the block from the loft, the one between the dry cleaners and the shoe repair. He was making real steps in understanding their language when the vacant lot was struck with a sudden earthquake. The orange folks ran back under the pile of discarded pizza boxes and beer bottles.

"Come on, Sandburg. Sooner you take the pills, the sooner you can go back to sleep."

Blair rolled onto his side, his leg making him gasp. Damn, that hurt. Jim had the pills between his lips and on his tongue. He felt the rim of the glass next. Blair drank without opening his eyes, not even aware of how he'd become vertical. He still clutched his extra pillow in both arms.

The water was cool and sweet tasting. Jim seemed to understand the appreciative murmur and let him have all he wanted. Then he felt himself being lowered down. Blankets were being rearranged and he could feel Jim messing with his bandage. He drifted back off to sleep before Jim finished.

His next dream wasn't so nice. He was on the sofa, the small one from the loft. Only somehow he and the sofa had been washed out to sea. No mater how hard he tried, the cushions kept getting wet. Jim was going to kill him when he found out. The sofa was sinking now, one end completely submerged by a wave.

The earthquake was back. Blair didn't even know a person could feel an earthquake at sea.

"Easy, Popeye. You're safe. Calm down."

Blair snorted, rolling a bit more and scrunching the pillow to his chest. He didn't bother to reply, but was glad Jim had woken him up, that dream hadn't been anywhere near as fun as the orange skinned people.

He didn't dream after that, just slept hard until his body's natural alarm clock caused him to return to consciousness. He had pressing matters in his lower abdomen that needed a bathroom. Jim was just entering the room as Blair's eyes focused. Morning light streamed into the room. Jim had removed his sheet-curtains.

"Morning." Jim sounded perky. He was dressed in clean jeans and a polo shirt.

"Mor'nmmm." The blankets were fighting for their right to stay wrapped around his body. Jim had to make with the cavalry and free his legs. Movement, any type of movement at all, just plain hurt. It was as if his body was on strike for unfair treatment. Blair felt a twinge of irritation. It wasn't as if he asked to be shivering for hours in the ocean. Crutches were produced and Blair started clumping toward the bathroom.

"I've got brunch set out for you," Jim said as he followed.

Blair shut the bathroom door.

When he entered the kitchen, face and hands washed and feeling more human, he offered a sheepish grin. "Hey, man." He spotted the bowl of fruit on the table, fresh donuts and croissants with honey and butter. Blair's eyes widened. "Wow."

"Yeah." Jim was fixing scrambled eggs. "Clifford's mom dropped some goodies off on her way to the clinic. She asked how we were doing. Her husband's boat managed to get over the bar. "

Reaching for a banana, Blair remembered George was her brother. "Okay, that must have been awkward. She knows about her brother?"

"Yep." Jim had two plates out and divided the eggs between them. He carried them over to the kitchen table and set them down. He pulled out two chairs. "Sit. Eat."

God, Blair was hungry. It felt like he'd been sleeping for days. Eagerly joining Jim at the table, he dove into the eggs, switching from banana bites to the fork until the fruit was finished. A horse pill was laid by his plate. Jim poured a glass of orange juice from a pitcher on the table.

"Wazzit?"

"Another antibiotic."

The juice was tangy, orange with... mango? He downed the pill without comment.

Jim started talking again. "She seemed fine about the business with George. I could tell she felt a little guilty, but she wasn't surprised to find out he was up to trouble again. Seems George knew McKnight from when he'd gone to Portland University. He only made two years before he came back home. He didn't study and got lousy grades."

"Too bad," Blair said with a mouthful of buttery croissant.

"Yeah, he did odd jobs that didn't amount to much for a while. Guess he doesn't like hard work. Then he committed armed robbery and did some prison time."

"Can't see Annabel having a son like that."

"Kids make their own decisions, Chief."

"True." Blair worked on eating for a few minutes, then had another thought. "Did McKnight get picked up yet?"

Jim shook his head. "Haven't heard. Nettle said she'd call, so I'd say not yet."

Food fueled his thoughts. Blair remembered more of yesterday's adventure. "What about Clifford? Did his mom say anything about his senses?"

"Actually, yeah. They're all coming over later today. We're having a salmon bake on the beach. Annabel has some questions for us."

Blair's fork froze halfway to his mouth.

"Cool!"

After brunch Jim cleaned. Blair sprawled on the sofa and enjoyed the view through the windows. All the sheets were down now. Yesterday's storm was just a memory. The weather outside was fantastic, summer had arrived early. Blair relaxed, reading for a few hours. He even dozed, which didn't make any sense. He'd already slept more in the last twenty-four hours than in a whole week of finals.

When the time for the salmon bake drew near, interesting smells permeated from the kitchen. Jim had come into the room once or twice to check on him, but seemed to have a major project going on in the other room. He was closed mouth and evasive to all Blair's questions about what he was cooking. Any other time and Blair would go check. But the sofa was too comfortable. Jim made sure he had glasses of juice. The view was spectacular. Why move?

"They're here," Jim said from the kitchen.

Moments later Annabel entered the room with her daughter. The older woman immediately began to fuss. Did Blair have enough blankets? Would he like some water?

"I'm fine, honest." Blair used an ottoman for his leg and patted the couch cushion next to him. "Please, sit down. I'm glad we're getting together." Through the windows they could see Jim and some guy, followed by Clifford, carrying stuff around the house. The man with Jim looked familiar, he must be Clifford's father. They descended the stairs to the beach, dropped their burden and headed back up. Blair turned to Jolene, who was sitting in the Morris chair. "Jim says your husband made it in."

"He did. The bar doesn't close very often. Jack told me the waves were incredible."

"Trust me, they were." Blair became distracted again as the men walked by the house a second time, heading down the stairs to the beach. Everyone's arms were loaded down again. "What's all that stuff for? They building something?" Blair stretched, trying to get a better view Jim's burden. Was that a sledge hammer?

When Jim came back up the stairs, Blair was just clearing the doorway onto the deck, Annabel and Jolene closely following.

"No." Jim strode toward Blair, looking determined. "Back inside."

"Jiiim." Blair couldn't dodge him. Jim was too damn healthy and Blair had used up all his strength to get this far. Jim took him by the shoulders and turned him around. One crutch was pulled out from under his arm and Jim moved in close to manhandle him back into the living room. "Hey, man. I was just..."

"I told him not to," Annabel reported.

"Traitor," Blair accused as Jim lowered him back onto the sofa. He looked up at his friend. "I just want to see what's going on. I can't see from up here. I wasn't doing the steps."

"Just give us a few minutes to get set up, okay?" Jim said. "We're not going to leave you out. I promise."

"Fine, fine." Blair pushed his hair back and rolled his eyes, causing Jolene to giggle.

"I'm not kidding, Sandburg. Stay put until we come and get you." With that last warning, Jim left.

"We can talk," Annabel said, returning to her seat next to Blair. "I want to ask about my grandson. He's like Jim. He can see and hear better than us. My people have stories about this, although I didn't know this occurred outside the tribe."

Blair nodded, the activity on the beach forgotten. "Actually, I first read about it among the people in Peru. A Sentinel protects the tribe, helps them."

Annabel smiled. "Yes. They are the best hunters. In the old days, our chief would divide the food caught by this person. When Clifford first started to show signs, the school teachers would not believe him. Sometimes he goes into a trance."

Jolene frowned. "They said he had attention deficit disorder."

"No, no, no." Blair waved his hands. "They're wrong. It's just his senses. He needs to learn how to use them. Does he show signs of all five enhanced?"

The woman looked at each other. "I'm not sure," Jolene answered. "How can we find out?"

"I can perform some simple tests. We can do it today, right here."

"I was right about you." Annabel smiled. "You help Jim with his gifts, don't you?"

"Well, yeah. Sort of." Blair bit his lip. Jim was going to totally chew him out. He looked out the window, right into the eyes of his sentinel. Blair raised an eyebrow in question. Should he continue? At Jim's nod of approval, Blair spoke. "Yeah. I was looking for someone like Jim. First I wanted to study him, write a paper. But now..."

"Chako kunamokst," Annabel said.

Blair rubbed his earlobe, hoping she'd explain. He knew of Chinook Jargon, but didn't speak it.

The old lady smiled. "You both became united. A team."

Blair beamed at her. "Yeah."

Blair was alone again. Annabel and Jolene had excused themselves, saying it was time for them to start the salmon. He didn't have to wait long until Jim appeared, climbing the steps. The effect caused the older man to look as if he was rising from the Pacific Ocean. He entered the house and held out his hand to Blair. "Bathroom first?"

Yeah, Blair needed the bathroom. He let Jim pull him to his feet and took up the crutches. "I'm good."

Jim shadowed him anyway and stood outside the closed door. When he was finished, Blair was assisted out to the deck and up to the edge where the staircase began. The sand below had been transformed into an outdoor kitchen. Tables of plywood rested on sawhorses. Unlit Tikki-torches stuck out of the sand. Lawn chairs sat in a circle. Some sort of cooking area had been established. Clifford was still working on digging what appeared to be a fire pit.

"Jim?" Blair felt keen disappointment. He leaned on the single crutch heavily. Just coming this far had tired him out. "I can't."

"Relax, we have a plan," Jim said.

Jack saw them and quickly climbed up the stairs. He moved to Blair's other side. "You're looking better than last time I saw you."

Blair huffed. "Considering I was doing my human Popsicle imitation, that's not hard to do. Thanks for saving us yesterday."

"You're welcome." Jack bent down, reached around behind Blair with both hands and grasped Jim's forearms in a strong hold.

"Okay, Sandburg. Sit back, " Jim ordered.

Blair was chair-carried down the stairs and set down in a blanket covered lounge chair in the sand. Jim took a moment to wrap the blanket around his legs. A cool breeze off the water lifted Blair's hair and brought a fresh scent of salt. In the full rays of the afternoon sun, Blair's entire body relaxed. He leaned back against the chair and sighed. "A man could get used to this royal treatment."

"Keep this on, your highness," Jim warned in a mock growl. He removed his own hat and stuck it on Blair's head "You're on medications that don't recommend long exposure to direct sunlight." Jim left to work with Jack and Clifford.

Blair didn't bother with an answer. His arms were covered with his long sleeves. Even with the warmth from the sun, the blanket felt nice and he pulled it up to his chest. His traitorous body was tired again. He yawned, his jaw cracking. Through half closed eyes he watched the women at the table. They were surrounded by three ice chests in the sand. From Blair's angle, he couldn't see what they were doing; only that it involved fixing food.

A shallow, square-shaped fire pit had been dug in the sand. Jack had a sledge hammer and was pounding the last of four metal stakes into the ground. The stakes formed a square two feet by two feet. Jim and Clifford had their knees in the sand, both sitting on their heels as they formed long tubes out of chicken wire. The tubes looked to be about three inches in diameter and three feet long. For the life of him, Blair couldn't figure this out. He'd been all over the world practically and seen tons of cooking styles. But this one was new.

Annabel appeared at his side with a tall Tupperware glass of ice tea.

"Thanks." Blair took a small sip as he watched Jim and the other two work. Clifford took one of the mesh tubes and slipped over a metal stake. Jim did the same. When all four stakes had their own tube the men started filling them with charcoal briquettes from a large bag. Clifford was talking to Jim, his face glowing with pleasure. Blair had to smile. Jim looked like he was enjoying himself. Although Blair couldn't hear them, he was too far away and they were talking softly, something about their mannerisms and covert glances told Blair he was being talked about.

"Not fair, man," Blair said under his breath.

Both man and boy snickered.

When the tubes were full, Jack lit the base of each briquette tower with a butane lighter. Then the strangest thing came next. Clifford took a large roll of aluminum foil and Jack held one end. Jim stepped back and the two started wrapping the entire square in foil, forming a three foot high enclosure of shiny aluminum. They used masking tape to hold the end down and keep it from unwrapping.

Jim came over to Blair's lounge chair, his own ice tea in hand, and took a seat in an adjacent chair. "How's it going?"

"What is that?" Blair nodded to the fire pit.

"I'm told it will be a 350 degree oven in about twenty minutes."

"You're kidding me."

Jim shrugged. His attention turned back to Clifford who was approaching.

"So, can we play Yatzee?" He looked at Blair, then to Jim. "The three of us?"

Jim leaned forward, resting elbows on knees. "Tell you what, Cliff. Blair's under doctor's orders not to do anything but sit. If you go back up and look in that end table next to the sofa, you'll find a bunch of games and stuff. Pick something out and I'll play it with you."

Clifford pounded up the stairs without a backward glance.

"I'm not under any such order," Blair complained, feeling just a little hurt at the way the kid had thrown him aside to play with Jim exclusively.

"Sandburg." Jim sounded exasperated. "I heard the man tell you myself."

"Well, sure," Blair said easily. "They have to say stuff like that, Jim. The insurance companies make them. It's not like anyone expects me to listen to it. If I do something that makes my leg hurt, I stop. It's easy."

Jim's eyes widened with mild horror. "Oh my god, you're certifiable. It's like you're your own worst enemy or something." He raised a finger and pointed it at Blair's nose. "Listen to me. Not everything is a conspiracy."

Clifford was back, holding a black felt cloth bag. He looked happy with discovery. Jim stood up, shooting Blair one last warning. "Stay put, Chief."

Blair snickered. "Get a clue, Jim. Insurance companies are really the ones in charge. They've got their hands in everything."

Man, Jim was so much fun to hassle.

The older man ignored him. "So, what are we playing, Cliff?"

Holding the bag high, Clifford smiled. "Found these. Wanna divide them evenly and play till one of us has the others?"

Jim reached into the bag and pulled out a handful of glass marbles. He produced a feral grin. "You're on."

Blair called out to their parting backs. "Sure! Pick a game the crippled guy can't play!" When neither answered, Blair yawned and fussed with the blanket around his legs. "At least no one can claim I lost my marbles."

Blair watched Jim and Clifford drag a stick through the sand, making rings and lines for their marble game. Over by the food preparation table, Jack and the women were loading wet alder planks filled with salmon into a three tiered metal rack. He and Jolene carefully lowered it down into the foil wrapped fire pit. They laughed, talking quietly until Annabel shooed them both away. Husband and wife strolled hand in hand down the beach.

Blair wondered what the life of a fisherman was like, going days on end without seeing his family. Few people realized how dangerous commercial fishing could be. It ranked higher in fatalities than police and fire fighting. Blair leaned back and sipped his tea. What if Jim had been something other than a cop? Blair could picture himself being a ride-a-long for a fisherman or a miner, or even a garbage truck driver.

He snorted into his tea and wiped his face.

Nah, the sentinel would become drawn to a job that protected the tribe. Well, a good sentinel, anyway.

Another yawn snuck up on him.

Jim looked up again. Blair had fallen asleep.

Good. The kid needed more rest.

"Ha, took your cat's eye." Clifford chuckled happily.

"Not the green one!" Jim looked away from Blair and back down at the sand. Sure enough, the forest green marble was missing. "Crap. Are you hustling me?"

"You're just now figuring this out?" Clifford grinned.

"You realize, we have to give all these back, right?"

"Yeah, I figured. I'm cool with that. Got my own at home."

Jim nodded. "Just so we're clear. My turn yet?"

"Nope, I'm still going." He missed the next shot and waved. "Okay, go ahead."

"I'm taking you down, partner." Jim curled his back and got his face low. He lined up his thumb, estimating his distance and slope like a pro golfer. His marble smacked one of Clifford's marbles and Jim grinned.

"Can I ask you a question?" Clifford asked, his face serious.

"Sure."

"How good are you?" The kid pointed to his own eyes and ears.

"Pretty good. Getting better as Blair works with me." Jim rocked back to sit in the sand. "When did you start to realize you could see and hear better than anyone else?"

The game was forgotten while they talked. "About a year ago, I guess. I told a few folks. Kids didn't believe me; adults said I was imagining things." Clifford shrugged as if it didn't matter.

Jim knew better. "Listen to me. Don't let them get to you. We're different, yeah, but it can be a huge difference, a good difference."

Looking up the slope at the sleeping man, Clifford pointed to Blair with his chin. "He helps you, doesn't he?"

"Yeah. Someone called him my guide once," Jim said. "That's what he does, too. He's pretty good at it."

"My grandmother believed me, right from the start. She helps me, too."

Jim was nodding. "Good. I'm glad. My dad wasn't so understanding."

"I think it's different for us. We have old tales of spirits and stuff. They gave my ancestors gifts. My folks just figure I'm lucky, I guess, after Grandma set them straight." He snickered. "She's a tough lady. If you had her for a guide, you'd know it."

Jim leaned forward. "Sandburg's tough. Don't let his looks fool you."

"Yeah?" Clifford replied with a mischievous look. "Bet he doesn't take a switch to your butt when you misbehave."

Jim laughed out loud. "Okay, I think your grandmother wins."

They played until Jim lost his marbles. Clifford smoothed out their course and started building another, the marbles already divided. Jim could smell the salmon baking. The tangy scent of the tangerine glaze was making him drool like a mongrel in a meat market. Gulls flew overhead, checking out the intrusion into their beach. Closer to the water, small sandpipers ran like late commuters after a metro bus. They were amazing birds. Jim watched, feeling humble and even a little guilty to be relaxing when these creatures had to spend every waking moment looking for food to survive the day.

Still, that was their life and this was his.

Jim looked back to Blair. The blanket still adequately covered the sleeping man. Annabel was sitting calmly at his side, basket at her feet. She had a crochet project that spilled over her lap in cascading greens and browns. It looked like an afghan.

They played until Jack and Jolene returned and Annabel announced the food was ready.

"Sure, I'm winning and we have to quit," Jim complained as Clifford started scooping the marbles back into the bag.

Blair woke reluctantly. His mood improved when Jim set a plate of food down on his lap. All chairs were dragged through the sand to Blair's lounger. For several long minutes the only sounds heard were compliments to the cooks and appreciative murmurs. Jim's taste buds elbowed each other to stand in front of the line for each bite. The side dishes were just as delicious; red potato salad with just the perfect amount of mustard and Parker House rolls that tasted homemade.

With a sigh, Jim set aside his empty plate. "I'm almost ashamed to serve my dessert, folks."

"I'm sure it's great," Jolene told him kindly.

"It sure smelled good," Blair added. "What is it?"

"A choice; cherry cobbler and apple pie," Jim said. "The cherries are canned, but the apples are fresh."

"Mom! Can I have both?" Clifford blurted out in typical ten-year-old fashion. Something in his mother's expression worked like a sharp reprimand because he ducked his head and blushed. "Sorry."

"I think a few extra servings might make their way to your house, Cliff," Jim said. "As long as some of that left over salmon and your grandmother's potato salad finds their way to my refrigerator."

The look on the kid's face melted even his mother's resolve.

"I think that might be arranged," Jolene said with a straight face.

Sounds of an approaching vehicle caused Jim to set aside his plate and stand. He picked up more sounds, voices speaking. Recognizing the distinct language of police officers and dispatcher communicating with each other, Jim relaxed. "Sounds like Nettle's here."

It was Alice Nettle. She walked around the house and down the stairs in response to Jim's hail. Just the set of her mouth and the way she stiffly descended the stairs, Jim knew something was up. After solemnly greeting all the people present, she looked to Jim. "Can I speak with you?"

"Sure." Jim followed her down to the water, even though he knew Clifford was likely to pick up every word. He took a second to meet the kid's inquiring look and made a covert wave of his hand. Thankfully, Annabel was already at his side, instructing the child not to listen in.

"We think McKnight is still in the area," Nettle said. She stood, elbows askew, right hand resting casually on her handgun. "We have a report of a theft from a logging outfit he sometimes worked at."

"What was taken?"

She made a face. "Dynamite and caps."

"Damn." Jim scrubbed his face. "Any idea what his target might be?"

"Well, I'm thinking he's not too fond of you two right at this moment." Nettle managed a quirky grin. "Thought I'd warn you."

"Jim?" Blair called from his chair. He was trying to stand but Clifford's family was thwarting him.

"Sandburg should know," Jim said. "Hell, they all should know. They're part of this, too."

Nettle pursed her lips in thought as she studied the group. "I've known this family all my life. Annabel and my mom went to school together. I agree, we can trust them to keep quiet."

The two cops returned to the party.

"What's happening?" Blair asked.

Jim perched on the end of Blair's lounge chair while Nettle took his sit. "McKnight might be in the area and in possession of some explosives."

"Oh, wow." Clifford leaned forward, then was hauled back as his mother wrapped a protective arm around his shoulders.

"That's doesn't make any sense," Blair said. "Any normal person would be halfway to Florida by now."

"I agree." Nettle scratched an ear. "Something tells me McKnight isn't normal."

Jim turned to Blair. "Chief, you talked to the university people, what did they tell you? We need to know everything we can about him, if we're going to figure out his next move."

Blair bit his lip in thought for a moment. "Well, basically just what I told you before. He faked some paperwork which amounted to stealing and got fired. He was lucky they didn't file charges."

"You said he also `pissed' off some folks," Jim reminded him. "What was that about?"

Blair made an `oh, yeah' look. "Right, right. Way I understood it, he was selling himself as the leading authority on the Lewis and Clark Expedition. Only his research was shoddy and some of his facts were really more like leaps of the imagination. He tried to usurp another professor's standing on some issue with the upcoming bicentennial and really ticked off the entire bunch. Got kicked off the committee."

Jim started to get an idea. "So, it's a major pride thing with him."

"Looks like." Blair's face got a vague look, like his thoughts were far away. "You know... I haven't really had time to process this because I've been sleeping so much, but what if..." Then, like a runaway train down a hill, Blair's explanation picked up speed. "What if - oh, man this is so wrong - but what if he was faking the journal all along! Like he comes up with some lie that backs up one of his theories. You know, Jim. Like that guy being poisoned instead of having his appendix rupture. So he fakes the journal and fakes it being discovered and suddenly he's vindicated and gets all the attention." Blair looked horrified. "I can't believe anyone would stoop so low, it's just not right!"

Jim was glad Blair hadn't noticed the smile that he failed to keep off his own face. You'd think Blair was describing a mass murder or something. Obviously his friend held the pursuit of knowledge up there with sainthood. With a slight head shake, Jim returned to his own thoughts. He looked at Nettle. "I don't think we're in any danger."

"You don't, why?"

"I think your target is the Lewis and Clark Interpretive Center," Jim said.

Blair became even more outraged. "No way, man! We've got to stop him!"

The hard part had been Blair.

Jim sat beside Nettle as they sped down the narrow two-lane road toward Cape Disappointment, painfully aware the back seat was empty. His partner had been less than pleased when Jim had ordered him to stay behind. The reaction had been similar to a mini explosion. After a brief, very heated argument which Jim had been forced to end with a command decision that left Blair trembling with rage, Jim and Nettle had driven off.

Even though it was after hours for the interpretive center, the state park was right next door. Hikers could easily be in the area. Jolene had insisted on having her husband drive her to the clinic and notify the doctor, just in case there were casualties. To Jim's relief, Annabel had informed the family she was staying with Blair. Clifford stayed with his grandmother.

Nettle parked in the lower parking lot and the two cops walked up the asphalt path to the concrete building. She had requested her dispatcher contact the proper person to meet them with a key to get in; it didn't look like this person had arrived yet, the lot was empty.

Jim listened as they neared the center. He could hear water dripping. Each plop created an echo that sounded like a large room. But the sound was coming from under his feet. "Are there caves here?"

Nettle shook her head, puzzled, then realization showed on her face. "The bunkers are below us." She pointed at the round base where the large guns had been installed during the war. "There are corridors that lead to the old ordinance storage rooms."

Jim could see an open iron door, half gone from years of rust, standing ajar. "Are they locked up after hours?"

"No. I don't think so." Nettle slowed her pace along with Jim. "You're thinking he used the bunkers?"

Jim wasn't sure, but it was possible. The underground bunkers would be lined in concrete. The blast would have to be pretty big to damage the building above it. "How much dynamite was taken?"

She must have been reading his thoughts because she got a grim look on her face and met his eyes. "Enough to dump this bluff into the water below. Should we go check it out?"

"Yeah."

Jim went first. He had told her his time in the Army taught him how to locate explosives and disarm them. This wasn't entirely a lie. He did have training. He just wished he had Joel Taggart by his side. The corridor was wide. It smelled like mildew and moss. Water dripped from the flat, concrete ceiling through old cracks that ran along the edges. They walked into an intersection and were given the choice of right, left or straight ahead. A dim light played on the floor of the darken hallway to their right. A faint sound drifted down from this direction. Jim turned toward it, Nettle close behind.

They found a room protected by a metal gate. Through the gate's bars they could see the center had created an authentic-looking storage room housing large rounds of ammunition, or ordinance, in floor to ceiling racks on either side of the room. Old fashioned wheeled carts for carrying the rounds were still in the room. A small wooden table and a chair sat in the corner, probably used by the guard stationed to keep track of each deadly missile. Jim looked at the small torpedo-shaped rounds.

"Tell me those are empty," Jim said in a low voice.

"Yeah," Nettle assured him. "Just for show." She stood near a padlock that kept the gate from swinging open. When she reached out with a hand and jiggled it, the lock fell open. "Oops."

The noise was louder here, coming from within the room. He knew that sound. Sandburg sometimes used a battered wind up alarm clock to wake up early. It sounded the same. Jim took a deep breath and filtered out the smells of concrete, mold, rust and the essence of age. He found was they were searching for. The same smell from his adventure last week with Quinn.

Dynamite.

"It's here," Jim told her.

"So I figured," Nettle said, threading the lock through the ring. She craned her neck to peer at the gate. "You think this is rigged?"

Jim's hawk gaze examined the gate's edges, the ceiling, floor and walls. "No tripwires. Something tells me McKnight isn't that smart."

Nettle still paused. "Look, this is my jurisdiction. My problem. I'd understand if you wanted to bow out on this."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear you say that," Jim told her with a growl.

She answered with an appreciative grin and opened the gate.

There were times when Jim had to put on a show for others. Times when he had to keep his sentinel abilities under wrap. This was not one of those times. He targeted the shelf were the dynamite smell and ticking sound came from and leaned his head in just enough to see the sticks of dynamite bundled together with tape hidden behind the ordinance. Two insulated wires stuck out from the middle and ran to an alarm clock. McKnight had included a small six volt battery on one of the wires. He had taken each wire and attached them to the clock's big and little hands so that when they passed, the exposed copper ends would touch. The electric circuit would be complete and send enough voltage to the blasting cap within the dynamite to blow.

The center was thirty minutes away from becoming a fish habitat.

It was so simple, it was scary.

"How many sticks were taken?" Jim asked.

"Twelve."

"We found them. You got a Leatherman?" Jim asked. "With a scissor attachment?"

She slapped it in his extended palm, in a nurse to doctor style. "You know what you're doing, right? I'm making payments on my retirement acreage. I'd like to think I'd get a chance to use it."

"You got a will? Just in case?" he teased as he found the small tool he wanted on the multi-tool device and pulled it out with his fingernail.

"Funny."

Jim leaned back in and carefully snipped the wire with the battery attached, just in case. He snipped the other side and removed the battery all together. Now even if he screwed up and allowed the ends of the wire to touch, there was no more electrical charge to flow. Still, he gently removed the wires from the clock. Everything else he left as is. There were fingerprints to look for.

"Call your bomb people and evidence teams," Jim said.

Steven McKnight gripped the binoculars and watched the deputy and that city cop enter the bunkers from the northern adjacent cliff bluff. He cursed under his breath. How the hell did they know to go underground? Shouldering his backpack, he turned north. His revenge was denied him. It wasn't fair! He couldn't risk using his beater of a car. Too many people would recognize it. He needed to steal a new car and split.

McKnight considered the state park. Lots of cars there, but there were lots of rangers too. He needed time to hotwire. The trail he was on led all the way to North Head Lighthouse and beyond to where the park's boundary met private land.

Where that beach house sat.

McKnight had not seen the long haired kid with the cop. Maybe he was still in the hospital. He could hike to the house. The cop's truck might be parked there. He could use it to get into Oregon then steal another before the cop knew it was gone.

With the sun just starting to touch the cold waters of the western horizon, McKnight picked up his pace. He should have just enough light left to reach the beach house.

"Okay, Clifford." Blair leaned back in his chair. "Looks like all five senses are heightened."

"That makes me like Detective Ellison?" Clifford asked as he removed his blindfold.

"Yep."

At the mention of his partner's name, Blair started to worry again. He knew Annabel was doing her best to distract him by demanding they test her grandson. And the tests did need to be done. But Blair would have preferred to go with Jim.

They were in the kitchen. Annabel had set up the glasses of water with the minute traces of salt, sugar and vanilla. The kid had nailed it. Blair had taken a pad of paper and drawn a star pattern, then removed the top three pages and had Clifford pick up the impression with his fingertips. Annabel had picked up a sand dollar from the beach and hidden it behind the toilet bowl. Clifford had smelled it after walking through each room a couple of times.

"Will I see the cat again?" Clifford asked, seemingly out of the blue.

Okay, that was a weird question. "What?"

Annabel was at the sink, washing the dishes. She turned, wiping her wet hands on a kitchen towel. "During his vision quest, he saw a large black cat."

"Yeah, the size of a mountain lion." The boy became animated. "That's how I knew. My guardian spirit."

"Wow," Blair said in a whisper. "What happened?"

"Detective Ellison and I talked. First I thought he was a spirit, too. I asked him what my spirit power would be, but he didn't understand." Clifford shrugged, then his face brightened with excitement. "Now, I think I know. I'm going to be a protector, like him. I want to become a police officer."

Shooting Annabel a quick, furtive look and seeing nothing but pride on her face, Blair grinned at the youth sitting at the table with him. "Know what? I think that's exactly right. You're going to make one awesome cop."

Two dishes of dessert appeared on the table. Annabel had served them with both the cobbler and the pie. She joined them at the table with a small serving of cobbler. From her position she could see out the window toward the clearing used to park vehicles. "I think they're back."

Blair snatched up the crutches. His leg protested as he jumped up and hurried toward the back kitchen door. "Great!" He swung the door open and looked out. "I don't see Nettle's car."

Just Jim's rental truck. In the deepening shadows of dusk, Blair realized the driver's side door was ajar. Just then, a tall form stood, his head and shoulders appearing. Panic hit him like a punch in the gut as he recognized the face.

"Oh shit!" Blair fell back from the doorway, almost losing his balance as he used the rubber stopper end of his right crutch to slam the door closed so hard he feared the glass window would break. He leaned forward on wobbly legs to turn the deadbolt into place. "Lock the front door! Now!" he ordered in a hiss.

McKnight was charging the door.

Clifford's chair fell with a clatter as he ran to follow the instructions.

Just as Blair turned in the narrow alcove, McKnight slammed into the door.

The lock held.

"Annabel, run!" Blair shouted. He knew the door wasn't going to last another solid hit like that. Maybe if they ran out the other door, they could hide in the trees.

One crutch tip got snarled in the items piled by the door, the stuff from the picnic on the beach. Jack and Jolene had gathered up all the food and left them inside where the raccoons wouldn't get to them. Jim had told them both to leave it inside by the door because everyone was in a hurry to leave and they could sort it out later. Blair lifted his crutch and tried to quickly untangle it from the plastic bags with a shake.

The door crashed off its frame, swinging in with the help of McKnight's booted foot. The door's edge smashed into Blair's right hip, shoulder and head. A hot flash of white pain centering near his injured leg traveled up to his skull, lighting every pain receptor on the way. Bouncing hard off the back wall, Blair crumpled, hitting the floor hard.

Both crutches were yanked from his grasp. He didn't' care. He could only lie still, curled on his side, while he panted through the waves of pain, his eyes squeezed shut. McKnight shouted orders, basic words that Blair used to understand but the pain somehow made him forget. The tip of a hiking boot roughly prodded his shin. Blair ignored it. Finally he could feel small hands on his arms and shoulders. He was gently urged to sit up.

"Blair," Annabel said, her face close to his. "You can do this. Stand."

Teeth clenched, Blair answered. "C-crutches."

"Forget it." McKnight sounded furious. "Not after that last time." He cursed and kicked Blair's lower back. "Get up! Move!"

Okay, being this guy's soccer ball was getting old. Blair shamelessly used the woman to rise unsteadily on one leg. McKnight ordered them forward and Blair hobbled back to the kitchen chair. Normal vision was returning now, no more pain induced lightshows. Out of the corner of one eye, Blair could see McKnight had a gun in his hand. It looked familiar, like Jim's. He heard sounds of drawers being opened and slammed.

"Both hands behind your back."

Blair was slow to move and was punished with a sharp cuff to the back of his head. Quickly, Blair extended both arms around the back of his chair and crossed his wrists. Flexible tacky strips bound them together, making an odd scratching sound. McKnight had found a roll of masking tape. After multiple passes, it was done. A few turns and Blair could have broken the restraints easily, but even thread was as strong as handcuffs if you used enough. Blair tested the restraints as McKnight started to work on Annabel. He couldn't break them.

Hey, where was Clifford?

He looked at Annabel sitting across the table from them, their eyes speaking without words. Annabel looked calm. Clifford must have snuck out of the house. That was good - really, really good. Blair relaxed some. The kid was quick. He could run to the center and bring back Jim and Nettle.

All he and Annabel had to do was stay alive until help arrived.

Nettle and her department ran a very efficient crime scene. Within minutes, additional resources began to arrive. Jim stood back, knowing this was not his jurisdiction. He'd have helped if asked, but he wasn't about to initiate another call to his captain by some pissed off authority. He had tried to call Simon earlier in the day, even before dinner. But Rhonda had explained there had been an emergency budget meeting and Simon was unavailable all day. Jim had left a message that he would call tomorrow.

It was dark now, temperatures were dropping. If this continued, Jim was going to regret not grabbing his coat. He knew time wasn't an issue in this type of investigation. Each square foot had to be processed for possible evidence. This was the part of police work the rarely made the prime time cop shows.

"Coffee?"

Jim gratefully took the Styrofoam cup from the State Park Ranger. The coffee was hot and tasted surprisingly good.

"I just brewed a pot inside the center," the ranger continued. He'd arrived with the first wave of officials and had helped with the Interpretive Center search. Jim had also assisted in the search, finding no signs that McKnight had broken in. "God, I'm still in kind of a shock. The thought of losing all of this is unthinkable."

"Yeah, I know." Jim leaned against the bumper of the bomb squad van, feeling the heat from the engine block.

"I guess we're lucky to have you visiting." The guy was young, probably only a year older than Blair. He wore a park ranger's uniform, still bearing the sharp creases from an iron.

The man was fishing for information, probably curious. Jim decided to indulge. "My partner and I just finished a routine prisoner transport, but it went south. He got shot and needed a few days of rest."

"Sorry to hear that. He's not here, is he?"

"No." Jim looked over at the concrete building. "In fact, I'd like to call him. You think I can use the phone in there?"

"Sure."

Before they could go in, two uniformed deputies emerged from the bunker, Jim recognized Nettle. He could tell something was up. Seeing Jim, she trotted up a short gravel incline, holding a portable radio in her hand. Jim knew that all radios had been turned off until the bomb squad was able to make absolute certain there was not a second bomb with a remote detonator. The radio frequencies used by the police could accidentally trigger it. This decision had left them out of radio communication, until now apparently.

"Jim, we've found McKnight's car. He left it parked in one of the overflow lots below," Nettle reported, forehead creased with worry.

Jim immediately searched the surrounding dark woods, seeing only the occasional raccoon. Further away, about a mile, he could see a deer and her fawn grazing on a grassy slope. "He must have stayed to watch." Damn, Jim realized he'd blown it. He had a chance to catch McKnight. Still, finding the bomb had been more important. "So, he's on foot."

"Yeah," Nettle answered. "We're surrounded on three sides by water. He'd have to go north. I've notified the rangers to step up their patrols in the state park. I don't want him hurting a camper during a car jack."

North.

Jim got a bad feeling. The beach house was on the other side of the state park. Chances were good the whole area was veined with foot trails. Suddenly using the phone was more than just a polite necessity. He really needed to hear Blair's voice.

The phone rang.

Blair watched McKnight continue to eat. It was ludicrous, when a person thought about it. And Blair found himself unable to do anything but think about it. He'd come down here, with his best friend, to recover from being shot.

Him - Blair Sandburg - had been shot in the leg. He still couldn't get over it.

But instead of resting, he was tied up while the guy that left him for dead yesterday was eating their dessert. At the rate the man was going, Blair would never know if Jim's pie was any good. Hell, Blair hadn't realized Jim knew how to bake a pie.

Life just sucked sometimes.

"You going to just let it ring?" Blair asked after five rings.

McKnight lifted his head, brown eyes assessing him briefly. "Yes."

Blair tilted his head to the side and raised his eyebrows. "Oh... so, what's next? By now you know Jim's found the dynamite."

Brown eyes narrowed, the fork shoveling pie paused. McKnight swallowed. "How'd he know, anyway?"

In the other room, the phone was silent.

Shrugging, trying to look like he wasn't petrified - not so much for his own life, but for the woman sitting silently across the table from him - Blair answered, "The cops told us about the stolen dynamite. We figured the center was the only thing around here you'd want to destroy."

The man's face turned sour. "They're fools. They don't deserve to be in charge."

"Who?"

"The board of stuffed shirts. They run the center, plan the exhibits and are organizing the bi-centennial." The plate was empty now and he pushed it away while wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "They refuse to recognize I'm the authority on Lewis and Clark. There isn't a person alive that knows more than me."

Blair wet his lips as he assessed the man before him, seeing a tint of madness in McKnight's mannerisms. This guy was so in his own world, he'd taken a leave of absence from the real one. "So you created the fake journal? Just to be recognized?"

Slapping the table and causing Annabel to rear back in surprise, McKnight leaned close to Blair's face. "They refused to listen to me! Said my research was shoddy. Me! Shoddy! I've spent my entire life studying this era in America's past. Those idiots won't look past the script handed down by their fathers. They'd rather be stuck in their own safe history, refusing to believe reality."

"Who's reality? Yours?" Blair said. "I talked to your fellow professors, man. Your conclusions are faulty, they lacked proof. Your papers read more like a pulp fiction novel then an actual account of history. You can't change history just to make a name for yourself."

McKnight's lips curled back in a cruel sneer. "Do you really want to piss me off, Sandburg?" He lifted Jim's gun from the table and pressed the barrel's tip into Blair's forehead, right between his eyebrows, pushing Blair back until the chair stopped him.

Blair felt the gun's forward sight digging into his skin, knowing the best case scenario would be a bruise and not wanting to think what the worst case scenario was going to look like. He closed his eyes and tried not to show fear. If that failed, he hoped he wasn't going to need a clean change of underwear. "A-all I'm saying, dude, is think about this, okay? No one's been hurt yet. You can just walk away."

The gun pulled back and Blair could see Annabel relax her rigid posture.

"I'd rather drive. Where's the keys to the truck?"

Blair tried to remember where he'd put the key. Even though he couldn't drive until his leg healed, Jim had given him a spare key to the rental truck. A back up plan. Jim was famous for thinking ahead. If Jim lost the key, or locked it in the truck, Blair would have the extra. "My backpack, I think. It's in the living room."

McKnight pushed away from the table and left them to look. Blair leaned forward, looking at Annabel. "You okay?"

Annabel nodded. "I'm fine. Do you think he'll just leave us?"

"I hope so." Blair started to say more but McKnight was back carrying a small jacket and looking pissed.

"Who else is here?" the criminal demanded, thrusting the coat out like it was a dirty animal and shaking it, then throwing it down on the floor. "A kid? Where is he?"

"He left a while ago," Blair said. "He just left the coat."

McKnight's gaze switched to the table, as if seeing for the first time it held three servings of dessert. "You're lying." Turning to Annabel, he slapped her hard across the face. "Where is he?"

"YOU SICK SON OF A BITCH!" Blair lunged out of the chair, forgetting he was tethered to it with bound hands. He fell back in the seat, ignoring the pain in his leg. "Leave her alone!"

McKnight turned back to Blair. He brought the gun up and fired.

Even at near point blank range, a gun had to be aimed. McKnight might know his way around a history book, but he didn't seem to know much about guns. The bullet whined past Blair's right arm and imbedded into the wall at his side. McKnight corrected his aim and stared into Blair's eyes. "Stop lying to me."

Annabel answered. "He ran out the front when you came in. We don't know where he is now."

"Who was he?" McKnight asked. The gun was still pointing at Blair's chest, but he looked at the woman.

"My grandson. George's nephew."

That brought a reaction. "You're Annabel Ramsey? George's mother?"

"I am." She met his gaze without fear showing, sitting tall, one side of her face still red from where he'd hit her.

Without a word McKnight left them again and returned seconds later with Blair's leather backpack. He dumped the contents on the table. Blair saw the Hertz keychain and nodded. "The yellow one, single key. That's it," he said, his voice shaking from adrenaline.

"I'm out of here," McKnight said.

Blair felt like cheering. He exchanged a look with Annabel, both of them thinking the same thing. McKnight was pawing through Blair's wallet, finding his money, even his special hundred dollar bill he kept folded and tucked behind his voter's card. Blair didn't care - if he had the key to Fort Knox he would have gladly offered it. Anything to get McKnight away from Annabel and out of their faces.

McKnight didn't say good-bye or even look either prisoner in the eyes as he walked toward the door. Before he reached it, Blair heard the sound of an approaching vehicle being driven too fast for the dirt road leading toward the beach house. Without being able to look out the window, Blair knew Jim was back. He could feel it in his chest. McKnight cursed and pulled back from the splintered door frame, hugging the wall. He held the gun up near his shoulder and waited.

Blair sagged in the chair. Damn, damn, damn! Why had Jim picked that moment to arrive?

Jim saw the open door of his rental truck. He heard the extra heartbeat inside the house.

"He's here."

Nettle looked grim. "You sure?"

"Yeah," Jim answered. "He might still have my gun."

She flipped the SUV in reverse and backed up until the vehicle just out of sight from the road, hidden by the Lodge Pole pines. Taking the mike off the holder, she reported McKnight's probable location to the other deputies, requesting backup. Jim had his door open and was stepping out when she grabbed his arm. "Wait, take the shotgun." With a deft twist, the twelve-gauge, pump action was free from its upright mount between them and Jim lifted it out.

"We should have parked on the road and walked in," Jim muttered. He could hear Blair's pounding heart, the way he'd sometimes make small gasps for air like he was getting ready to make a deep dive without a SCUBA. The kid was preparing himself, knowing a showdown was looming.

They crept to the tree line, side by side. The darkness wasn't complete. A sky full of stars and a three quarter moon gave the landscape an eerie glow. But the tree's shadows should keep them from being spotted by those in the house. Jim concentrated on the back door, recognizing the violent entry it had suffered. He could hear someone standing just inside. He hefted the shotgun. "He knows we're here. He'll use them as hostages."

"Some sort of big city training I've never heard of? You can see through walls now?"

Jim didn't have time for jokes. He shot her a look. "Something like that."

Nettle nodded, her mouth set with determination. "Any luck with cell phones here?"

"No, the signal doesn't reach between the bluffs." Jim chewed the inside of his cheek as he pondered the possibilities. He could hear McKnight talking now. Blair was protesting. They weren't going to have time to wait for back up. "Trust me?"

"Suppose so."

"I'm circling around to the ocean side. Wait for my signal."

Nettle looked suddenly leery, as if something she'd had for dinner had soured in her stomach. "Shit, Ellison. Just watch the crossfire, will ya?"

Jim offered her a knowing smile and disappeared into the shadows.

"Get up," McKnight ordered.

Blair tried to rise from the chair. It was hard. Bound hands made it impossible unless he bent his elbows in a way to slip off the chair's back. McKnight's hand was fisted deep into his hair, yanking upward. Blair let the sharp pinpricks of pain along his scalp distract him from the agony in his tortured thigh as he finally stood.

"We're getting out of here," McKnight said. "They won't shoot if I have a hostage."

Blair bit hard on his lip. Walking was going to be interesting. The gunman's arm slipped around his neck. Blair was pulled back until his back pressed up against McKnight's side. It was when Blair had to put his full weight on his right leg for the third time, his knee buckled.

"Stand up!"

Blair couldn't answer. He was being choked by McKnight's arm. Suddenly the arm was gone and Blair dropped to the floor with all the grace of a drunken college freshman at his first frat party. His right arm twisted the wrong way, bringing a flash of pain shooting up to his shoulder.

"You're useless." McKnight swung his foot again, boot tip catching Blair in the ribs.

Blair hissed with pain. Streaks of white fire flashed across the inside of his eyelids as he curled into a tight ball of misery. When he felt he could open his eyes again without vomiting, he saw Annabel in the exact same position he had been. Gunman and new hostage were heading for the door.

"No!" Blair shouted.

The gun swung down to point at him. McKnight looked ruthlessly cold, devoid of any emotion. "Shut up."

It was a struggle to sit and pure hell to kneel on his one good knee, but Blair managed. "I'll go... I can do it. J-just leave her, man."

"Move any more and I'll kill you," McKnight warned.

Before Blair could answer, a dark flash hurled itself from the doorway that led from the living room. Blair didn't think the front of the gun was a good place to be. He flung himself sideways just as he recognized their rescuer.

It was Clifford. The youth silently ate up the distance between the doorway and McKnight in a single heartbeat, swinging something high over his head. He leapt up, brought his arm down hard. A loud cracking sound came just before the gun fired. For the second time in only a few minutes, Blair dodged a bullet, literally.

Blair heard the strangest sound, like frozen rain hitting and bouncing on the kitchen floor.

Annabel pulled free from McKnight's arm and dropped to her knees to scoot away from him. Like a prizefighter that had been KO'd, McKnight swayed a moment, then took a step. The gunman's foot flew out from underneath him and he fell.

Hard.

"Police!" Jim bellowed from the same doorway where Clifford had appeared seconds before. "Don't move!"

The kitchen door burst open and Nettle stood in the exact same position, only with a handgun pointed at McKnight, not a shotgun like Jim. McKnight was oblivious to either cop. Jim entered the room, cautiously stepping around little round balls skittering on the floor, reminding Blair of the old fashioned pinball machines. Clifford was nudging the gunman's arm with his toe. He still held something in his hand, a cloth sack. As Blair watched, the last marble slipped out of a rip in a seam and dropped to the floor with a bounce.

Jim pulled the boy back with an exasperated expression. "Not a good idea, Cliff."

Nettle moved forward, her gun holstered as she drew her handcuffs and turned the unconscious man face down before cuffing both wrists behind his back. Only then did Jim set the shotgun on the table. Shuffling his feet, he went first to Annabel and cut her hands free with his pocket knife. Clifford followed close behind and the two enjoyed a warm embrace as Jim left them and shuffled over to Blair, kicking marbles clear as he moved.

"Hey, partner." Jim knelt down and sawed through the masking tape.

"Hey." Wrists free now, Blair pushed himself off the floor with his one good arm and sat, his back leaning against a kitchen cupboard. He finished peeling tape and then watched Jim straighten his right leg, which throbbed like a sonofabitch. His left arm hurt. "Blow anything up?"

"Nah, we found the dynamite in time." Jim was running his fingers lightly over Blair's injured thigh.

"I've been thinking, Jim."

"Yeah?" Jim carefully bent Blair's knee and checked underneath.

"Next time one of us needs some R and R after getting hurt? Let's look into those cruises."

"What, and risk a replay of the USS Titanic?" Jim said, frowning and watched Blair favor his right arm. "I think you just put an end to your use of crutches, Chester."

Jolene and Doctor Charlie made beach house calls. Once Annabel used the phone and talked to her daughter, both professionals appeared on the doorstep, along with a shell-shocked Jack. The reunion was hectic and heartwarming at the same time, with both Clifford's parents trying to play catch up with their older and younger generation's activities during the last several hours. They had arrived after McKnight was taken into custody. He had woken up five minutes after Clifford's attack, complaining of a headache.

Blair was told in absolute clear language, that not even the most evasive politician could weasel out from under, to `stay down'. Jim was right; Blair was banned from using crutches for awhile. His arm ligaments were strained, but not torn. Jim listened to the doctor and Blair talk as he helped Jack work on the ruined door off the kitchen. They ended up boarding it shut. Until it was properly fixed, the beach side door would get all the traffic.

Finally, all the police, medical staff and Clifford's family were gone. It was nearly midnight. Jim took a second to wander through the small house after locking the front door. God, he was exhausted. He started a mental list as he did his survey.

Living room wasn't too bad, just needed a good vacuum. If that spot by the door didn't come out, he'd rent a steam cleaner. One of the cops probably didn't take the time to wipe his feet properly. The kitchen was another story. Bullet holes in the wall and cupboard, a dent in the sheetrock, and a door busted off its frame.

Damn, if this kept up, Jim was going to buy stock in the Armstrong Door Company or maybe Home Depot. Seems every villain in the state thought kicking in doors was part of the job description.

"Jimmmm."

Turning, Jim headed toward the bedroom. Blair lay just as Doctor Charlie had left him, sprawled on his back, still dressed in his sweatshirt, but wearing the flannel shorts, feet bare.

"What do you need, Chief?"

Blue eyes, which were too alert, considering the time, tracked him. Blair was tense, like a Chopec bowstring pulled all the way back, but not getting the release.

"I know it's late, man. You're probably trashed, but I can't possibly sleep. All my books are in the living room. Bring them?"

Jim frowned. "You should try and sleep."

"No, won't work." Blair wriggled on the bed, as if he lay on a rack of nail points instead of a mattress. "Can't. I took that nap, remember?"

It was the subtle hint of panic in Blair's voice that caught Jim's attention. He remembered the bullet holes in the kitchen and hearing McKnight's threats as he ran through the woods and across the open yard into the front door. Hell, Jim was still coming down from an adrenaline rush. Blair must be still in orbit.

"Let's try this." Jim reached down and snagged the good arm, gently pulling Blair up to a sitting position.

"What? I'm not supposed to get up."

"I'll help. You won't be moving your leg at all," Jim promised. "You can sit in a hot tub. I'll bring you a book to read."

Blair seemed eager to the idea. "Yeah, I can do that."

While Blair soaked, Jim changed the sheets on his bed. He cracked open the window, the sound of the ocean surf filled the room. About the time Jim figured the bath water must be getting cold, he could hear the pipes flooding and the tap being turned on again. Blair wasn't ready to get out yet.

Finally, it was fifteen to one. Jim entered the bathroom with hot towels he'd taken out from the dryer. "Come on, Aqua man, time's up."

If Blair felt embarrassed about another man helping him out of a bathtub or assisting in drying him off, he didn't show it. Thankfully they didn't have to deal with wet hair. Blair had tied it into a high pony tail which he removed. Re-dressed in clean pajamas, Blair brushed his teeth. Jim played `human crutch', supporting him back to the bedroom. A more relaxed and pliable roommate stretched out on the narrow bed.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome." Jim helped spread out the blankets.

"So how'd you know McKnight was here?" Blair asked. "Did you hear him in the house? Or did you figure something was up when I didn't answer the phone. That was you on the phone, right?"

Apparently, Blair's body was relaxed, but his brain was still in high cam. Jim sat on the bed. It was impossible to get irked with his friend. He could remember his early missions in the Army and how it took forever to settle back down to normal.

"We found his car, figured he walked out. When you didn't answer the phone, I had to make sure," Jim said. "I could hear the four of you in the house."

Blair looked puzzled. "Four?" Then his forehead smoothed out. "Oh, Clifford. You know? I thought he'd split. Gone for help."

"I could hear his heartbeat. He was hiding in the bathroom or maybe in here."

"Oh." Blair let a small yawn escape before continuing. "Poor kid. He must have been terrified. He did good though. You should've seen the way he laid out McKnight. And with a bag of marbles, too."

Leaning over Blair's legs, Jim supported his upper body with a flat palm on the bed. "He's got the making of a true sentinel. You don't mess with their guides."

Blair snorted. "Funny, Jim. But I think you're right. Annabel is watching his back. I talked to her some before all hell broke loose. She's instinctively teaching him how to avoid zones. I told her more, stuff she needs to know, but what's Clifford going to do when he gets older? She's not going to able to keep up with him."

"Oh, I don't know." Jim smiled when another yawn from Blair caused the younger man to blink. "Things have a way of working out. He'll probably meet some crazy grad student. Maybe Annabel's supposed to train him until his true partner arrives in his life, one that will have the energy and intelligence to keep up."

A faint smile appeared and Blair's posture relaxed even further. "Was that a compliment?"

"I doubt it, Chief. We're talking about Clifford, remember?"

Huffing quietly, Blair let his eyes close for a minute as he talked. "So, what you're saying is, not to worry? Clifford will be okay, right? And we can check up on him from time to time?"

"That's what I'm saying."

"Cool." Blair opened his eyes, appraising the man sitting next to him. "Did you have an Annabel when you were younger?"

The light switch was within reach if Jim stretched. He flicked off the light. "If you stay quiet, I'll tell you a little of my time in Peru. The parts I remember, that is."

"Love bedtime stories," Blair teased.

Jim slapped Blair's good leg. "You want to hear this or not?"

"I want, I so want, man."

"Okay, then." Jim dropped down to sit on the braided rug, his back against the bed while he told Blair about his life in the jungle, the village, the tribe that helped him and the long months of waiting for the Army to send reinforcements. Blair asked a few questions about his senses and Jim answered. When Jim began to describe the jungle's different seasons, Blair was snoring.

Jim rose, checking his watch. It was one-thirty in the morning.

He fell asleep as soon as his feet were off the floor and didn't wake until he heard the sounds of a car approaching. With a groan, Jim got out of the sofa bed. Sunlight poured through the windows. He could tell by Blair's breathing, the other man was still asleep. The mantle clock told him it was almost ten. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept more than eight hours.

Going to the kitchen window he saw Simon Banks' car parking next to the rental truck. Thankfully, the man parked on the passenger side of the truck. Jim didn't want to explain the damage on the other side. Pushing his feet into sneakers, he trotted out to the deck and around the house.

"Simon!"

Caught in the act of pulling his suitcase out of the back seat, Simon raised a hand in greeting before taking the cigar out of his mouth. "Hey, Jim. The scouting weekend was called off. The leader came down with shingles. Thought I'd join you guys for the rest of the week."

Jim took one of the two suitcases. "Where's Darryl?"

"Joan and her sister took him and his cousins to Disneyland. Last minute trip." He frowned. "I bet she sticks me with the Visa bill."

They walked toward the house. Simon headed for the back door, but Jim tugged him toward the front. "Let me show you what I did."

"Can it wait till we stow the bags?"

Jim pointed to the cigar. "You want to finish that, right? We've got lawn chairs on the deck. No way are you going inside until it's put out."

Simon gave in grudgingly, following Jim toward the beach. He made appropriate comments of satisfaction and pleasure when Jim showed him the painted stairs. They took a moment to enjoy the view.

"So, you get that business with the local police figured out?" Simon asked.

There was no more time for stalling. Jim sighed, dropping his chin on his chest cupping his palm on the back of his neck. "About that, Simon..."

"Sandburg's okay, right?"

"Yeah, he's fine."

Sounds of puffing followed. Simon was watching him like a seasoned beat cop watches a nervous acting first-time shoplifter in a Wal-Mart. Jim took a deep breath. The best course of action was to say it fast, like when you know ripping off a strip of tape was bound to remove some body hair.

"Well, it turned out Blair got involved in the planning of a criminal act, ah... forgery. Anyway the bad guys broke into the house -"

"What?"

"And roughed up Sandburg, then ran us off the road -"

"What?"

"Then kidnapped both of us and dumped us in the ocean, but we got rescued by a passing fishing boat, then one guy - the leader - broke back into the house -"

"WHAT?"

"Breaking down the back door and shooting the kitchen up some. Oh, and a little sheetrock damage, but -"

"Jim! Jim! Whoa!" Simon waved both hands in the air. "Stop! Stop, already."

Jim stopped. Maybe Simon wasn't one of those `tape rippers' like Jim. He might have preferred his pain a little slower. "Okay."

Eyes narrowed, smoke puffing out his nostrils, Simon studied his detective, his gaze traveling all the way down to his feet and back to the top of his head, lingering on the stitches before speaking. "You're okay, right?"

"Right."

"And Sandburg's okay?"

"Yep."

Looking back out at the ocean, Simon took a deep breath. "Then the rest of it is just the irritating little details that make life so interesting. Tell me this; did you catch the bastards that did all that?"

"Yep."

"Good." Simon looked down. "You really did do a nice job on those steps, Jim."

"Thanks, Simon."

Blair woke up starving. And with good reason, the small clock on the bed stand said it was noon. His leg was achy and his arm felt stiff.

"Jim." Blair already hated this bed confinement stuff. Doctor Charlie had even considered a bedpan last night, but Jim had taken pity on him and promised the doctor he'd personally haul Blair back and forth to the bathroom. He sat up awkwardly and scooted back to lean against the headboard.

The man walking into the bedroom carrying a tray of food was not Jim.

"Simon!"

"Afternoon, Sandburg." Simon set the small tray down on the mattress. "Didn't think you were going to wake up today."

"What are you doing here? Where's Jim?"

"I'm relaxing and Jim's on the phone talking to the Hertz Corporation. It's a good thing he bought rental insurance. You hungry?"

"Starving, man." Blair reached for a sandwich. The plate was piled high with them. Simon sat on the bed's edge and helped himself to one as well. It was egg salad and tasted like heaven. "Jim told you?"

"Yes, he did."

Blair took another bite, then tried to talk. "Sorry."

"It's okay. Apparently some guy named Jack is coming by to help fix everything. Robert will never know. A deputy Nettle called a bit ago and said they found the espresso machine, too."

"Cool."

Jim walked in, carrying a kitchen chair in one hand and a six pack of coke in the other. "They also found evidence of the journal he was forging."

"Really?" Blair accepted a cold can of soda. "Thanks."

Jim set the chair down and sat. They were going to have a `tea party' in his bedroom. Blair smiled.

"Yeah, real old looking paper. He was using a fountain pen and even making his own ink. The guy must be certifiable." Jim helped himself to a sandwich. "You need a pain pill, Chief? Looking a little rough around the edges."

"Maybe later," Blair told him. His body was hurting enough to justify it. "Let's see what happens later." Looking back at Simon, Blair shook he head. "Can't believe you got to come down. Where are you going to sleep?"

"There's a roll away in the shed," Jim said. "I didn't see it before."

"Yep, Jim will find it very comfortable." Simon gave Jim a superior look when Jim seemed surprised. "Hey, it's my cousin's place. I should get the sofa bed."

"Okay, I'll move the bed in here with Blair," Jim relented. "Simon brought our mail down, Sandburg. I put yours on the bed stand."

Blair hadn't noticed the stack of mail. He reached out and picked it up, sifting through. He opened the thickest envelope. "Great, something to read while I'm laid up. Ah... wait a sec. This isn't mine. It's addressed to a Blake Sanderson on Prescott Street." Blair held it up. "Looks interesting, though. Says here he's be-"

When the official looking envelope was snatched from his hand Blair protested. "Hey!"

Jim held the envelope out of reach. "No, Chief. Not again. This is how it all started last time. No more."

"Come on, Jim. Lighten up." Blair laughed at him. "You're overreacting."

"Sounds like words of wisdom to me, Sandburg," Simon added, nodding sagely.

"Oh, give me a break, guys. What're the odds that letter contains some criminal act in the making?"

"Knowing you, Chief?" Jim said solemnly. "I'd take those odds."

End.

Author's note: Yes, I thumped Blair pretty good in this one. I picked on Jim some, too. The beach house is actually a place called `Beards Hollow' just north of Cape Disappointment State Park on the Washington side of the mouth of the Columbia River. I started the story while on vacation there in March. I was in the mood for some H/C, sorry if it's too much. G. The interpretive center is real, so are the underground bunkers. The stuff about Lewis and Clark is factual, their 200 year anniversary ends in 2005. Historians do believe two other members of the Discovery Corps kept journals, but they were never found. Don't you just love a mystery?

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to LKY

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