"Sandburg, put my milk back and no one gets hurt." Jim used his serious I-have-a-gun-and-you-don't voice.

Blair returned the half-gallon of whole milk to the shopping cart with a scowl.

"And don't even start," Jim warned.

"Jim."

"Ah, ah! What did I just say?" Jim inquired with a raised index finger and a steely gaze.

Blair rolled his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek when an elderly woman next to the yogurt aisle giggled like a school girl at their antics. He flashed an impish grin and batted long eyelashes. "His doctors say he needs a caretaker." Blair nodded to Jim and twirled his finger next to his ear in the international sign of mental illness.

Jim gently rammed his friend's hip with the half full grocery cart. "Move it, Johnny Carson. We have a game starting in twenty minutes."

Snickering to himself through the checkout aisle, Blair obviously felt he'd gotten one up on the older man. Jim gave him his victory, little as it was, as long as he didn't have to listen to another lecture on why whole milk was bad for a person's arteries.

It was rare that the two roommates went food shopping together. Normally one or the other did a quick swing through the grocery store. But Blair had taken a bus to the station from Rainier so they could share a ride home together afterwards.

It wasn't until the following morning while Jim got ready for work that he noticed the picture on the side of the milk carton. Blair was still asleep. Jim unconsciously monitored his breathing while he prepared to leave for work. Last night, they'd rushed to put away the groceries in order to catch the game on TV. Jim poured the milk over organic cereal - Blair's choice, of course - and read the information on the carton as he munched. A young face looked back at him. One of those missing kids advertisements. A six-year-old girl with expressive eyes and a wide forehead was missing and believe abducted by her father. Why was it, the kids suffered while the parents acted like children?

Jim pounded down the roadway, hearing Henri close on his heels. It was later the same day, nearly noon. Henri had received a tip on one of his active cases. Rafe was in court so Jim offered to back him up.

The perp was ten yards ahead and holding. If they were playing football, he'd have already made first down. The man knew he was being chased by police officers; the only step left was to take him down, preferably before he dumped the drugs he carried.

They gained yardage when the perp ran up to a shabby looking house and paused to fumble at the door. It must have been unlocked, because he got through quickly, slamming it before they could arrive. Jim heard the latch snick shut, sounding like one of those lightweight locks.

"Ram it, H," Jim ordered.

They hit the door together, one shoulder high and one low. It busted off the frame with all the strength of a wet paper towel. The two detectives tackled their suspect together; causing all three men to crash into a waist high pile of... stuff.

"Shit!" Henri muttered under his breath, face screwed up in disgust. He breathed through his mouth as he roughly pulled the prisoner's arms behind his back. Jim snapped on the cuffs. "What the hell is this place?"

Jim's eyes watered from the stench.

Dials. Dials.

The sentinel cranked down his sense of smell and sighed in relief while Henri formally placed the man under arrest and recited the Miranda warning.

The living room was a sea of refuse. Old clothing, empty food containers, broken radios, flowed from wall to wall. The debris pile came to Jim's belt, filling the room. A single path allowed a person to walk through the small living room into the kitchen in the back. Dirty dishes and rotted food dripped off the counters onto the floor.

"Marta Stewart does not live here," Henri quipped as he hauled the prisoner to his feet. "Thanks, Jim."

With a wave of his hand, Jim continued to stare in disbelief at the place.

And he thought Blair was messy.

This went beyond housekeeping and into serious mental health issues. Turning to leave, a white box caught his eye and he gingerly pulled it free from the pile, dislodging a can of shaving cream that rolled into the pathway.

It was a milk carton. Jim smiled. It would appear he couldn't get away from them today. He checked the date of the carton, almost twenty years old. What kind of nut keeps empty milk cartons for twenty years? Another face, only this one a young boy stared back with familiar eyes; Scott Livingston, born 1971.

Why did the kid look so familiar?

Jim paused to consider who this could be. The guy would be in his early twenties now.

"Jim? Coming?" H called from the front yard, prisoner in hand.

"Yeah, just a sec." Jim answered, staring at the old picture. The wax on the paper had yellowed, but he could easily see the child's face. Damn, it wasn't that long ago that he'd seen this kid. When was the last time he'd looked at kid pictures?

With sudden clarity, Jim placed it.

In his bedroom. A glass of wine and a tray of cold tongue.

Oh shit. This was Blair.

"Care to repeat that, detective?" Simon sat frozen in his chair.

Setting all the information down on his boss's large desk, Jim slowly repeated himself. It was almost quitting time and he had to get through this before Blair showed up.

"I found evidence to indicate Blair was kidnapped back in seventy-four while living with his real parents in New Mexico. The case is still open with the Feds," Jim said. "I've been checking. There is no independent record of a Blair Sandburg ever being born in sixty-nine."

Simon picked up the carton, looking at the picture with amazement etched on his face. "And you say this is Sandburg?"

"Naomi showed me pictures, Simon. She didn't have any before the age of three," Jim said. "It's Blair, I know it."

Setting the carton down, Simon leaned back until his chair tilted at a forty-five degree angle to the floor and dragged a hand down his face.

Jim tried to not fidget. He couldn't believe how angry he felt at that moment. He wanted to hunt that redhead down and shake her until her teeth rattled. How in the world was he going to explain this to Blair? And should he? How could he not? Did Blair remember his life in New Mexico?

This was a nightmare.

"God, what a nightmare," Simon muttered, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Simon, I ne -" Jim stopped. Familiar sneaker squeaks were heading toward the bullpen. "Blair's here. Listen, sir. Let me talk to him. I'll call you this weekend."

"Okay, Jim," Simon agreed, standing and gazing down at the stuff on his desk. "Keep me in the loop on this. Damn... I really liked that woman."

Outside Simon's office, Jim met his friend, the file tucked under one arm. The milk carton was safe enough left with Simon. He had photocopies of the picture to show Blair later.

"Ready, man?" Blair entered the bullpen with a smile for all its occupants. His hair was tied back and he wore his glasses, giving him a bookwormish appearance.

"Yep." Jim hooked a finger under the collar of his light jacket and lifted it off the back of his chair as he passed. "Let's get some takeout, my treat."

Looking up in surprise at the idea, Blair shook his head. "I thought we were going out? That new place? Remember?"

Placing a hand between Blair's shoulder blades, he propelled his friend forward, out of the bullpen. "Change of plans, I'll explain when we get to the loft." Jim returned a goodbye nod to Henri as they left.

Once in the loft, Blair started dishing out healthy portions of steamed rice and cashew chicken. He added two hot egg rolls to each plate before taking a seat at the table. Jim handed him a beer before sitting down across from his partner to eat.

"So, explain, Jim. Why are we eating at home instead of that new BBQ place on the lake?"

Jim gently stirred his dinner, watching as the tines of his fork mixed the rice with the chicken. Crap, how do you tell someone that they may be a kidnap-victim? Perhaps the best thing was to just hand over the file.

"Read this." Jim slid the file over guiltily and took a bite. He had to check his taste level; his meal had all the flavor of sawdust.

"What is it, a new case?" Blair flipped open the file. Pulling his glasses out of his shirt pocket, he hooked them over his nose and started to read.

It was like waiting for a train wreck. Giving up any interest in dinner, Jim studied his roommate's face. The look of interest was replaced by mild surprise, marked by a creased brow. That expression gave way to bewilderment as Blair looked up and shook his head, his face blank. "I don't get it. This is a twenty year-old kidnapping case. It's not even in Cascade, man. Why'd you get it?"

"Blair," Jim stood, leaning over the table to tap the photocopy of the milk carton picture. "That's you."

With wide, surprised-filled eyes, he gave a delighted laugh. "What? You think I got kidnapped? Shit, Jim! All kids looked similar at this age. And look, the date of birth is wrong, I was born almost two years before that." Blair's eyes narrowed. "This is a joke, right? Henri put you up to this." He stood, a wide grin breaking over his face as he pointed to the door and dropped his voice to a whisper. "They're outside right now, aren't they?"

"Blair," Jim started.

But Blair was already heading for the door on tiptoes. He wrenched it open and jumped out into the hallway, only to walk back in after a few seconds. "Hey, they left already."

Jim stood. "Sandburg, sit down and listen to me."

Blair returned to his seat, a smile still ghosting around his lips.

"I did some checking. I can't find a record of you being born anywhere in the US," Jim said.

"Because..." Blair drummed the table top. "I wasn't born in a hospital."

"Okay, where were you born?"

Blair shrugged. "I don't know for sure, man. Somewhere in the four-corner area. You know, where Arizona, New Mexico, Utah and Colorado all meet? Naomi was living in a commune. She said they'd travel around a lot. She wasn't sure what state she was in when the midwife delivered me."

"She should have filed the proper paperwork, which State did she pick?"

Blair laughed, the carefree sound an echoing reminder of the laughter Naomi had bounced off the loft walls earlier that month. "God, Jim! Listen to yourself. You think Naomi and her friends gave a hoot about government regulations?"

Jim picked up the photocopy. "Chief, this is you. Okay? I know what I'm talking about. I saw the pictures in her photo album. I'm trained to match faces. And. This. Is. You."

Blair dropped to his seat, laughter dying on his lips. "Shit. You're serious, aren't you? You think Naomi kidnapped me?"

"Yeah, I do." Jim hadn't wanted to become pissed off. This wasn't Blair's fault. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "Listen, just consider the facts for a minute. Do you have a copy of your birth certificate?"

Blair shook his head. The earlier humor was gone now, replaced with an unreadable look that made him appear a stranger.

"Social Security card?"

Blair nodded.

"Okay, how'd you get it?"

"Naomi went to the Social Security Administration when I was sixteen. I had to have it to start Rainier. They made her fill out a ton of forms and she had to show her passport and stuff. But they gave me one." Blair was cool and reserved, acting like a person being interviewed.

"Blair, I'm not saying you did anything wrong," Jim said, not liking how this conversation was changing.

Blair stood, his chair scraping the floor. "Bullshit, man. This is total bullshit! Naomi is my mother! I am not that kid." He pointed at the file. "This conversation is so not happening." Executing a sharp turn on one heel, he marched into his room and reappeared with his backpack and coat in hand.

"Hey," Jim started to stop him but was neatly sidestepped as his partner walked out the door, letting it close behind him with a loud bang.

Slumping back down into his kitchen chair, Jim slammed his fist on the table like a judge's gavel. His fork, which was too near the edge, fell to the floor.

"Damn it!"

It was well after midnight when the door to the loft opened. Jim knew this because he checked his watch as the door moved slowly on well oiled hinges. Blair slipped in like a thief in stocking feet, one hand holding his tennis shoes. In the nearly complete darkness, Jim could see Blair glancing up at Jim's bedroom, lower lip trapped between his teeth. He carefully closed the door and slid the deadbolt into place. Jim was pleased to see Blair's arms didn't sport goose bumps. The kid had rushed off without a jacket and the spring nights were still cold.

"I'm up," Jim announced quietly from his position on the living room's single chair.

Blair reacted with a start. "Shit."

"Sorry," Jim said. "Hit the light. We need to talk."

Soft yellow light chased away the darkness. Jim had let the nighttime settle around him slowly while he'd sat and contemplated the problem. He cared about Blair. From the time Kincaid had dragged him up to the police station's roof, a strong duty to keep Blair from harm developed within him. This aspect of his personality had just spent the last several hours cussing out his older personality, the cop.

Jim waited until Blair had dropped onto the sofa before talking. Blair had a look of determination that reminded him of Stephen, the time his younger brother had been arguing with their dad. Something about a weekend trip to California with some high school friends.

"How about a `do over'," Jim leaned forward, elbows on knees. "I screwed up."

Blair look surprised at the comment, but still harbored suspicion. This was going to be harder than Jim figured. Like an idiot, he'd underestimated Blair's bond with Naomi.

"Just...look. Do you remember much of your life before you were three?" Jim asked, verbally floundering.

Blair didn't respond. He sat motionless, just watching Jim. For what, Jim wasn't certain, but he did his best to keep his face neutral. It was like Blair was in his head, reading his thoughts, which was stupid. Blair could no more read his mind than he could levitate off the sofa.

Finally, Blair sighed, breaking the `freeze frame' moment. "Jim, man. This is wrong on so many levels."

"Please, just humor an old cop. Okay?"

"Fine." Blair let his head fall back as if his neck was too exhausted to hold it up anymore. He stared at the high ceiling. "Except I would have been five then, remember? I was born in sixty-nine."

"If you were born in sixty-nine, remember? We don't have a birth certificate," Jim reminded him gently.

Blair huffed. "Whatever. Anyway, I remember desert-like land. It was hot. Lots of sunshine. I liked to play in the water, I think it was a pool." Blair lifted his head. "And Naomi was with me, Jim. My first memories, man. She was in them all."

Jim held up a hand. "Okay, okay, partner. I hear you," he soothed, accidentally using Naomi's own words. Or maybe on some level he did it on purpose, because the words seemed to relax his roommate. "Could we just try something? It could end this once and for all."

"What?"

Jim took a steadying breath. "The DNA for Scott Livingston is on file with the Feds. Could we send in a sample of yours for testing?"

Blair shook his head slowly, then let it fall back to rest on the sofa again. "Whatever, Jim," he said wearily.

"You okay?"

Blair gave him a wan smile. "My head's killing me."

Out of respect for Blair and a basic desire to have a pleasant living environment, the matter was not discussed again over the two weeks waiting period. Blair didn't bring up the subject after they visited the hospital for the blood draw. Although Jim did overhear him a few nights trying to reach his mother on the phone. So far, he hadn't located her. After a week, Blair seemed to give up. Jim worked on his active cases, mostly minor stuff. Apparently, Cascade was on an official holiday from being the most dangerous place in the country.

It was Friday, exactly two weeks after first seeing the milk carton, when Jim came back from the evidence room with Blair in tow. He instantly picked up a conversation taking place beyond the closed door to Simon's office. Looking through the windows, he could see two men. Jim's FBI radar started pinging.

"He's the main witness to an open kidnapping case. We want him, Captain," a new voice demanded.

"He's a person who had no idea he was kidnapped. I'm not about to hand him over to so you can whisk him off to Virginia or wherever," Simon replied evenly.

Jim stopped, snagging Blair's arm to keep him from going any further. He quickly raised a finger to his lips and, for once, Blair nodded without asking a question. Rafe looked on from behind his desk. Jim jerked a thumb backwards toward the doorway and mouthed the words, `You never saw us' as he picked up Blair's backpack from the floor. Pointing to the coat stand, Jim signaled Blair to grab both their jackets. Together, they slipped out of the bullpen. Once inside the elevator, Jim poked the button for the parking garage.

"Jim?" Blair asked after the doors had closed and they were dropping.

"Trust me. We don't want to be found for a few hours," Jim said. He tried to remember how much information about Blair they'd sent along with that blood sample.

"Why?" Blair asked.

Why indeed? Jim abruptly exhaled, his cheeks puffing out like a blow fish.

"Jim? You're starting to freak me out here."

Damn, the more he delayed, the harder it would be to explain. "Simon had some guys in his office I'm not too interested in seeing right at this moment. It's close enough to quitting time; I think it's safe to call it a day."

"Ha! You're running like a whipped dog." Blair snorted. "This works for me, I've got to get ready for my date. Did I tell you about Denise?" Blair held his hands out in front of him, framing an imaginary image only he could see. "Think... leopard print."

Before Jim could reply, the elevator doors opened. Two men in suits stood waiting for them.

"Blair Sandburg?" the shorter man asked. His short dark hair was slicked close to his head with gel.

Shit! Jim quickly punched the button to shut the doors, but the taller Fed stuck his foot out, blocking them open.

"Jim?" Blair stepped back, a fearful, trapped look on his face as the two strangers joined them in the elevator.

The short Fed pushed the button for the seventh floor. "You gentlemen must have missed our associates."

Jim remained silent. Who'd have thought they would have anticipated an escape and had a plan in place to catch them? Blair's heart rate accelerated. Jim regretted not filling Blair in on what was going down.

"You guys have a good reason to detain us?" Jim asked.

"You? No," Gel Head said smugly. "Mr. Sandburg? Yes."

Jim's dislike for federal agents in general tripled. The taller man seemed more human, so Jim turned to him. "What's happening? Who are you guys?" He was surprised Blair hadn't asked by now. It wasn't like him to stay silent this long.

The numbers above the door increased. They were almost back at Major Crime.

"We're with the FBI. I'm Agent Mitchell. This is Agent Abler," the taller man, Agent Mitchell said softly, sparing Blair a sympathetic look. "We're here about the Livingston kidnapping case."

"No," Blair whispered, the color draining from his face. He swayed and Jim automatically steadied him.

The car glided to a stop and the doors opened. For once, the hallways were empty and Jim was able to lead a very dazed partner back towards Simon's office. Blair looked ready to fall over. He slowed as they neared the door to Major Crime.

"Blair?" Jim asked. He paused; Blair appeared to be heading toward a panic attack. The Feds waited just outside the door, looking back. At least they gave some illusion of privacy.

Head bowed, Blair trembled in Jim's grip. Then, without warning, Jim was shoved backwards and Blair ran. Jim was so surprised with the move; he couldn't help but fall into the two agents. All three men landed on the polished hallway floor in a dog pile.

A low chuckle slipped out as Jim accidentally caught Abler in the solar plexus with his elbow. "Sorry."

"Get the hell off us!" Abler shouted after he caught his breath. "Sandburg! Stop!"

Only an idiot would expect Blair to follow that order, and Jim was no idiot. Gathering his legs underneath him to stand, he tracked Blair's progress down the stairwells. Both agents were shouting now, bringing the other agents from Simon's office. Simon emerged with a confused look. Abler and Mitchell were gone, already running after Blair.

Jim stepped aside to let the two Feds who had been with Simon pass.

"What happened, Jim?" Simon asked.

"Blair did an escape and evade, sir."

"Wonderful," Simon moaned. He gave him a suspicious look. "You didn't tip him off, did you?"

Jim smiled. "Absolutely not, Sir."

"Riiight."

They waited patiently. Jim listened as the search for Blair progressed, tracking the Feds throughout the building until they finally admitted defeat and returned to the seventh floor.

"Where is he, Ellison?" Abler demanded with a red face and sweaty brow. His short hair was mussed, the gel's hold wasn't proving up to the task.

"I wouldn't have a clue," Jim said, spreading his arms innocently. "He's kind of new to this whole police environment thing. Sometimes he gets nervous. You were threatening in the elevator."

Simon bristled. "You threatened Sandburg?"

"You should have heard him, Simon," Jim said, nodding his head towards the Fed. "Made it sound like Blair was under arrest -- "

"I did NO such thing!" Abler shouted, looking like a stroke candidate. He pointed a quivering finger at both men. "If either of you obstruct this investigation, I'm reporting you both to your chief!"

"You do that, Agent," Simon responded. "And I'll be sure to let your supervisor know how you treated an innocent victim."

Agent Abler puffed out his chest. Jim took pleasure in watching his green eyes budge out as he sputtered.

An older agent raised a hand, literally stepping in front of Abler. "Let's get back to the situation at hand, shall we? Mitchell, take your partner back and fill out the proper paperwork to issue a Federal order to detain Sandburg. Make it clear he's not to be considered dangerous." The agent glanced back at Jim, "Just very sneaky. Captain, perhaps we could return to your office and explain a few things to Detective Ellison? He should know more about this Pandora's Box he opened."

Okay, so the Feds didn't have plans to whisk Blair off to Virginia, making it so Jim would never see him again.

Oops.

Jim tried to look innocent as the older agent, a very practical sounding man by the name of Ed Gardner, explained.

"Senator Livingston is very interested in seeing his son. He'd be here personally, but he's tied up in a senate hearing. His wife, Scott's mother, passed away ten years ago from cancer. This man you know as Blair Sandburg is all the senator has left," Gardner said. "We'd like to interview him as well. He's our only witness to this kidnapping and our best chance at catching Maria Hernandez Garcia."

Simon interrupted with a raised hand. "Who?"

Gardner's partner spoke. "That's the woman we believe took the child from the Livingston home. Naomi Sandburg. She's an illegal immigrant that ran with a local gang. We believe she slipped onto his estate and kidnapped Scott Livingston, or Blair Sandburg. The border is very hard to patrol, even to this day. Back then, it was too easy for them to slip back and forth from Mexico."

"Naomi doesn't look Mexican," Jim pointed out.

"Maria is only half Mexican. Her father was white," Gardner replied. "We don't have any pictures of the woman. Now that we believe she has been this Naomi Sandburg for the last twenty years, we're looking for anything we might have on file. Her name comes up under various protests."

Ah, yes. Big brother is watching. Jim sighed. So Blair's father is a United States Senator. What were the odds? He wondered how Blair would take the news. Would he even want to meet his father?

"How close is Mr. Sandburg's relationship with this woman?" Gardner asked. "Would he be trying to warn her?"

Shifting in his chair, Jim glanced at Simon before answering. "I'm not sure. I only met Naomi once. I didn't see her much. We were working on a case. It caused us to be gone a lot."

"Did you meet her, Captain?" Gardner turned to where Simon sat behind his desk.

"I did." Simon fiddled with his pen set. His chair turned sideways to his desk, he leaned back and watching his pens roll back and forth between his thumb and finger. "She seemed concerned about Sandburg's ride-a-long status. She was acting extremely motherly, in fact."

"Yes, thank you for bringing that up," Gardner said, looking confused. "Why is an anthropology student riding with Detective Ellison? Senator Livingston was very concerned when he read about a few of the cases. The one with the serial killer, David Lash, had him highly upset."

Uh oh, Jim didn't like the direction this was taking. Blair could find himself being corralled out of being a police observer into something `safer' for a son of a senator. Somehow, Jim couldn't see Blair going along with the program.

If they found him.

"He's working on his dissertation. He's studying police culture, the way we interact with each other and with the public," Simon answered as if every police department had their own anthropologist.

"Uh, huh," Gardner commented. "Do either of you know where Scott Livingston might have gone?"

Jim schooled his face to keep the smile from emerging. He knew of a dozen places where Blair Sandburg might be, but since the agent wasn't asking about Blair...

"I wouldn't have a clue," Jim honestly answered.

Blair hung up the payphone with a sigh.

That was that. He'd done everything he could possibly do. He'd called every phone number in his book and all he knew by heart. Hopefully Naomi would hear the warning from one of her friends in time. She needed to disappear.

Blair left the payphone behind and headed for the men's room. He was exhausted and hungry. After washing his hands, he entered the smoky atmosphere and took a seat at the long bar. A bowl of popcorn sat nearby for the taking and he helped himself.

"What, more quarters?" a fat bartender asked, appearing out of thin air.

Blair shook himself out of his musing. He needed to keep alert. "No, thanks. Ah, could I have some water?" he asked.

The man frowned, the welcoming smile morphing into suspicion. "Let's see your ID, kid."

Blair fumbled for his wallet, pulling it out of his backpack. It was ironic, he thought as he produced proof of his age. All this time he'd been carrying false ID and he didn't know it.

"Okay, so you're legal. What the deal? Now you're broke?"

Blair sighed; knowing what the man was telling him. A bar set out free food to get the customers to order drinks. It was late and the April night was cold and wet. Blair had hoped for a few more minutes before braving the elements. "I fed every bit of cash I had into your phone in the back. I'm trying to reach my mom."

"Yeah, cry me a river, kid. Beat it if you're not ordering."

"Lighten up, Stanley," a woman ordered from Blair's left. "Give him some onion rings and a beer. I'll pay."

Blair turned in surprised. His benefactor was an elderly woman wearing a purple pantsuit and a red hat. "You don't have to do that, ma'am."

She smiled "I want to. When you get to be my age, you get to do the things you want to do. Now shut yer trap and let a lady do what she wants." Offering her hand, she added, "Janet."

Blair shook her hand. "Blair."

Stanley wandered off to fill the order while the woman took the empty stool next to Blair's. "So, did you reach your mother?" She pushed the popcorn bowl closer.

"No," Blair admitted. "I've been trying for hours. I've called all the numbers I have."

"Does she live in Cascade? Do you need a ride or something?" she asked.

Blair shook his head, slightly bewildered why this total stranger wanted to get involved in his problems. Hopefully she didn't want...

The woman chuckled. "Honey, I've got grandchildren your age. Don't worry, I won't bite. You just look like you could use a friend right now."

Okay, that was embarrassing. Blair ducked his head and stuffed his mouth with popcorn. "Thanks," he mumbled, then had to chew before he could answer her original questions. God, he was being stupid tonight.

She waited patiently at his side, taking sips from some drink that looked like iced tea, but probably wasn't.

Finally, Blair swallowed. "Mom travels a lot. I need to tell her something real important, only she can be hard to find."

"What about you, though? Why are you sitting in a bar at ten minutes to closing instead of calling from your own home somewhere?" she pressed.

Stanly returned with a mug of beer and a large bowl of onion rings, the smell almost causing Blair to faint off his perch from hunger. He burned his fingers in his haste to eat, transferring his attention to the cold beer instead. Lunch with Jim was over thirteen hours ago, he wasn't going to wait long for them to cool off.

Again, Janet waited for him to take his first long drink. Blair carefully wiped his mouth with a napkin before answering. "I'm kind of... experiencing some technical difficulties at the moment. I don't really want to go home right now."

"Ah." Janet nodded wisely, but refrained from her personal quest to know everything she could about Blair. "That's rough. Can you call your father?"

"No." Blair used the napkin to pick up a large beer-batter fried onion ring and began blowing, hoping to cool it down.

"Try dunking it in your beer, my late husband used to do that," Janet said.

It worked. Blair chewed the treat, enjoying the crunch of the batter and the sweetness of the onion. "Thanks."

"Welcome." She sipped her drink. Her attention was suddenly diverted to the far wall, over near the entrance. "Now there's a walking hunk I wouldn't mind stressing my false teeth over."

Choking in surprise at the elderly woman's obviously lustful thoughts, Blair automatically turned.

"Jim!"

The bar was a dive. Just off the main interstate, it attracted all sorts of sorry looking men and women. Finding Blair in such a place was the perfect ending to a perfectly crappy day. Blair's expression was an odd mix of surprise, horror, relief and guilt. He looked seconds from bolting again. Jim picked up his pace.

"Don't, Sandburg." He hadn't meant to growl, but Blair's butt was already off the seat, ready to run. Jim caught him by the shoulder and pushed him back.

"Hey! Back off or I'm calling the cops."

The cigarette smoke was doing a number on Jim's vision. The speaker looked like a bouncing eggplant wearing a bright red hat, ready to attack. Jim blinked several times, keeping a steady grip on his roommate.

"It's okay, Janet. He's a friend," Blair explained.

"You sure, honey?" The eggplant became an elderly woman. She looked at Blair with true concern.

"I am a cop, ma'am," Jim explained. He saw the onion rings. Several things became clear. Blair was broke, Blair was hungry, and Mrs. Janet Eggplant had taken pity on him. Jim had a feeling he could guess where his partner's pocket money had gone. "I'm also Blair's friend."

"So why's he trying to run from you?" Janet pointed out, her chin sticking out in defiance.

Blair made a point of relaxing, looking up at Jim. "Jim? Anyone follow you?"

"No, we're good." Jim released Blair's shoulder with a pat.

"Thanks, Janet," Blair said with feeling, "For everything. But, it's really okay now. I'm glad Jim's here."

After she'd given Jim one last evil eye and placed a motherly peck on Blair's cheek, she left. Blair pushed the onion rings away, looking green around the edges.

"How'd you find me?" he asked.

"Sneaks. You're going to need to replace those new high tops you bought last month." Jim reached for an onion ring. It was still warm, but the grease was old enough for the Smithsonian. Tossing it back into the bowl, Jim left a ten on the counter and pulled on Blair's arm. "Let's get out of here. We need to talk."

Jim glanced over, catching Blair's profile against the passing streetlights. His original plan was to find a quiet place to sit in the car and talk, but maybe he'd rethink that plan. Blair leaned against his door, head resting on the closed window, the dark circles under his eyes were visible even if Jim hadn't had sentinel vision. Spotting an all night convenience store up ahead, Jim slowed the Ford Taurus and turned into the parking lot.

Blair's eyes opened. "What are we doing here?" he asked in a monotone voice.

"I'm going to pick up some food. Sit tight." By the time Jim was back five minutes later, Blair was snoring.

The next stop was a Ramona Inn. Jim paid for a double occupancy room with cash, thankful he was in the habit of keeping emergency funds tucked away at the loft. The Feds had him under surveillance; it had been child's play to lose the two teams of agents. However, it was harder to hide bank and credit card actions, so using cash had been a must.

After picking up the key, Jim drove around the building and parked. Their ground floor room opened up to an interior hallway, but at least it was close to an exit.

"Wake up, Chief." Jim gently shook a shoulder before reaching back for the grocery sack. "We're here."

"Where?" Blair blearily peered through the windshield.

"Just a place to crash for the night. Come on."

Jim waited by the fender of the car as Blair appeared to think about his situation. Dragging a hand down his face, he gathered up his backpack and stepped out, following Jim silently into the hotel. Once inside their room, Jim locked the door and set the bag down on a long dresser. He pulled out a cold, plastic bottle of apple juice and shook it.

"Drink," Jim ordered, handing Blair the bottle. Next, he pulled out two sandwiches that looked days old. It wasn't a banquet, but it would keep starvation away for the night.

The juice bottle was almost empty when Jim handed over the tuna sandwich. Blair looked better already. He accepted the half sandwich eagerly and sat on the edge of the nearest queen-size bed and stuffed nearly half of it into his mouth.

Jim pulled a padded chair away from the small round table by the window and got comfortable. "Okay, Sandburg, first things first--"

"I'm sorry, man," Blair mumbled, then swallowed quickly. "I shouldn't have pushed--"

"Let me finish," Jim insisted, raising a hand. "I'm not upset about that stunt back at the station. In fact, anything else would have made me look like I was assisting in your escape. You did good."

Blair's jaw dropped. "I did?"

"Uh huh." Jim reached for his own juice and shook it. "So, any luck reaching Naomi?"

The blush on Blair's face made Jim smile.

"No." Blair looked at his sandwich. "I left a bazillion messages, though. One of them is bound to reach her."

"Okay, first let's catch you up on what's happening. We need to come up with a plan." The apple juice hit the spot and Jim finished it quickly before reaching into the bag for his own tuna sandwich.

"Jim," Blair said slowly. "You're really freaking me out. I figured you'd be kicking my butt all the way back to those guys in the suits."

Jim shrugged as he unwrapped the plastic from his dinner. "I started this mess. One of the Feds said I had opened Pandora's Box. He wasn't kidding, either."

On a scale of one to ten - ten being a big shit-eating grin - Blair's current smile was about a three, but Jim saw forgiveness there. It was enough to loosen the tight, imaginary band around his chest.

Maybe things weren't as bleak as they appeared.

"I know Naomi, Jim. She's not a kidnapper," Blair said softly, his eyes sliding to the floor. "She may not be my mom, but she raised me, you know? She put her life on hold to take care of me. All the stuff she does now? All those trips? She wanted to do that when I was little, and some we did together. But there were others that she wanted to take, but couldn't. She wouldn't leave me." Blair swallowed hard before continuing, his eyes shiny. "When we didn't have enough food, she... she just didn't eat. But I never went hungry, man, not once." His voice was almost a whisper now. "What kind of kidnapper would do that?"

The motel was quiet. It was almost three in the morning. When Blair finally ran out of words, Jim struggled for an answer. The silence descended on them like a warm blanket. When the sandwiches were gone and the wrappers wadded up and tossed into the small trashcan by the dresser, Jim spoke.

"We're safe for now; the Feds won't find us here. After we get some sleep, you can decide what you want. We can keep going or you can keep trying to contact Naomi. I won't stop you. Your choice."

Blair sighed, toeing off his tennis shoes and standing slowly. "If those messages I left don't reach her, nothing will. Tomorrow, you can take me back. I need to face this, Jim. I just wanted to warn Naomi. I'm not ready to leave you or our work behind." He wrinkled his nose and stood. "First I need to shower, though. I still stink from that bar." He disappeared into the attached bathroom.

Jim rubbed his eyes. Blair wasn't leaving. Jim should be happy, shouldn't he? So why did he feel the urge to grab his friend and keep driving? Blair had said he hadn't wanted to leave Jim behind. Obviously the kid hadn't heard him. Jim wasn't about to be left behind.

When the door to the conference room opened, Jim and Simon shot out of their seats. The first person to exit the room was Assistant Director Angela Shipman, a stocky black woman with gray hair and a gentle smile. Jim hadn't been fooled, however. He had noticed the way the other agents reacted when she had first entered the meeting, back before Simon and Jim had been politely asked to wait outside. The woman was tough.

Gardner followed behind Shipman, acknowledging Jim's presence with a slight nod. Jim smiled at him. Jim had been listening to the interview - hell, it had sounded like an interrogation a few times - and knew Gardner had offered a few comments to the group to downplay Blair's actions in the hallway yesterday.

The attorney Simon had arranged for Blair exited next, finally followed by Blair. Jim ignored the rest of the men and women spilling into the room. Blair looked trashed. His hair was pulled back and trapped by a leather tie, his face pale and waxy, like he was coming down with a bug or something. His attention was on the floor as he walked, shoulders slumped, feet dragging a little.

Jim had to suppress the urge to drive his fist through the wall. Blair might as well have worn a sign on his chest that said, `Guilty - ready for sentencing.' None of this was his fault, didn't anyone see that? Yet, Blair was the one that had to sit through this three hour `interview'. They had tried their best, but Blair had held firm.

He was not giving up any information on Naomi Sandburg.

"Hey, partner." Jim moved to stand by Blair, edging the attorney away gently.

"Hey." Blair was still walking, as if afraid someone would realize they'd been remiss in placing the student under arrest.

"Ready for lunch?" Jim asked.

Shaking his head, Blair picked up his pace once he reached the outer hallway. They were on the fifth floor of the federal building. Jim could hear Simon and the attorney talking back outside the conference room. No one was following Blair. Jim had to work to keep up.

"Easy, Sandburg," Jim said quietly. "You're running this race for no reason. They're not happy with you, but they're not going to put you into protective custody, that was just a bluff."

Blair shot Jim a dark look, but he did slow down.

"Come on, I'm hungry," Jim invited. "Let's at least get some soup or something."

They ended up eating at a buffet that let you build your own salad and gave you a choice of six soups. You paid by weight at the end of the line. Blair ended up counting out pocket change for his meal.

Tucked away in a small corner, Jim pushed his own salad around a moment to mix the dressing before stabbing a mouthful with his fork. His thoughts returned to the meeting. He had listened to every word. Blair had gone in knowing as much as Jim had known. "It sounded rough."

"It was okay," Blair said. He looked up at Jim and sighed. "Will you give it a rest already, Jim?"

"What?"

"This guilt trip you're taking." Blair pointed with his fork. "None of this is your fault."

"Sandburg, I brow beat you into giving that blood test." Jim tossed his fork down in disgust. "Damn, I should have thrown that carton down and walked away."

Blair chuckled, low and soft. "As if, man. You can't. It's not in your makeup. It would be like me walking by a used bookstore I'd never seen before and not going in. Just knock off the drama, already. Okay?"

Okay, that stung a little. But Blair seemed to have forgiven him. And, yeah, Jim had to admit, this wasn't about Jim Ellison finding the milk carton. It was time to move on. He resumed eating.

"Sorry, Jim."

"No, you're right."

Blair cleared his throat. "Still, I didn't want to slap you down until after I asked a favor."

Jim smiled. "Ask."

`Anything, kid, just give me a chance to do something.'

"I want to go to DC," Blair explained slowly, rolling a baby carrot back and forth on his plate. "Would you... um, could you -- "

"Sandburg, there was no way I was letting you go alone," Jim stated. "I already warned Simon I'd be requesting time off. Now, eat your food."

With a quiet chuckle, Blair speared the carrot. "Cool, Jim. Thanks."

Only a sentinel would have noticed some of the paleness in Blair's face fade. Still, the kid looked like crap.

Jim and Blair found their hotel room in Washington DC's Crystal City Doubletree hotel easily. It was a simple matter of following the underground corridors linked to the impressive subway system that ran underneath the entire area. Crystal City was only a short ride on the blue line from the Ronald Regan International Airport.

"You want the first shower?" Jim asked, setting his suitcase down on his bed.

"Okay." Blair tossed his case on the matching bed, quickly unzipping it and pulling out clean jeans and a shirt. "What are we doing for dinner?"

"I need to check in with Simon. Then I'm free. Is Senator Livingston coming by tonight?"

"I, um, asked him not to," Blair said. He lifted his shoulders in an embarrassed shrug. "I didn't want to deal with him our first night in town."

"That's fine. Let's find some pizza," Jim suggested. "I remember a place by the zoo that's decent."

"Cool, I'm down with that," Blair tossed over his shoulder as he closed the bathroom door.

Their room was nice, costing more than he would normally spend. He had seen the rates and shuddered, genuinely glad the senator was picking up the tab for this trip, including airfare. Senator Livingston's aid had contacted Blair immediately, telling him the senator hoped Blair could fly out. But Blair had put off the visit until he could arrange the time off at Rainier. Now, almost three weeks after the day Jim had first seen that cursed milk carton, they were in Washington DC.

After Jim's turn in the shower, they reviewed the complimentary map from the main desk. Jim had visited DC back when he'd returned from Peru. It had been an incredible adjustment from the jungle and he remembered wanting to take it easy after the military had released him. Jim had planned to return to Cascade, but wanted to wander around first and get readjusted to civilization, without dealing with all his old friends and haunts waiting for him in the Northwest. Washington DC had seemed like the perfect place to take `baby steps' back towards his old life.

A short subway ride followed by a trip on a bus brought them to the pizza parlor. It was just at Jim had remembered and it was packed. After a fifteen minute wait they got a booth by the large front street windows and ordered a large special to split.

Blair's eyes scanned the decorated walls, with its newspaper clippings, large photographs and assorted sports equipment. The building looked old and cared for. Green ferns spilled out of large pots between the booths and suspended from the ceiling. Blair seemed to relax in the warm and friendly atmosphere.

"So, tomorrow we meet Senator Livingston?" Jim asked.

Bobbing his head and tucking his hair back, Blair chewed on his lower lip. He pulled the small basket of packaged sugars close and started sorting through them.

"Nervous?" Jim asked, amused as he watched his normally messy roommate began to organize the sugars by the color of the packets.

"Nah... well, yeah," Blair answered. He slid the basket back when the waitress appeared with their beers. Taking a long pull, Blair licked his upper lip. "Did you ever pretend..."

"I used to daydream my real dad was Bob Locker," Jim told him with a smile, correctly guessing the rest of the unspoken question. "My dad and I would have a fight about something, and I'd pretend to be adopted."

"Really? Who's Bob Locker?"

"Pitcher for the Pilots back in sixty-nine. He had a two point one-eight ERA."

"Pilots?"

Jim sighed. Sometimes he forgot Blair was a decade younger. "Before the Mariners, Seattle had the Pilots."

"Uh, I didn't know that. What happened to them?" Blair propped his chin in his palm, elbow on the table.

"They went to Milwaukee after a single season. Man, I was so pissed," Jim said.

"No way! One season? Why?"

"Seattle originally got the franchise with the agreement that King County build a domed stadium within three years. They even brought a bunch of big names out for public appearances, including Mickey Mantle. It worked, too. The voters approved the construction of the dome."

"I've seen it, on the south end of Seattle, right?"

"Yeah, they built it, but not in time. Construction was delayed. During the first year, the owner told Seattle to `put up' or they'd lose the team."

Blair chuckled. "Really? Why the rush?"

Jim shrugged. "I think he was sick or something, he was in his late seventies. Anyway, attendance got worse after that. The team declared bankruptcy. First time in the history of baseball that had ever happened. Next opening day, Locker and his team were wearing Milwaukee Brewers uniforms. I moped around the house for a full month." Jim gave Blair a suspicious look. "You never heard about this?"

Right hand held up as if taking an oath, Blair shook his head with a laugh. "Hey, man, this is ancient history to me. You gotta remember, I was less then a year old at the ti -- " He cut himself off, eyes suddenly hooded.

Shit. Blair hadn't even been a twinkle in his old man's eye in sixty-nine. For a few seconds, it had all been forgotten. They had been just two men enjoying a beer and waiting for dinner. Nothing like talking baseball to give the illusion that all was normal.

"Anyway," Blair said awkwardly. "Bob Locker, huh?"

"Yeah," Jim answered. "How about you? Who was the guy? Timothy Leary?"

Jim knew they were walking on shaky ground, like a funhouse at an amusement park. Once, as a kid, he'd tried walking across a floor rigged in sections to spin one way, then the other. This conversation was bringing back that impossible feeling of finding balance.

Blair's eyes were focused on something far away, or maybe something that wasn't there at all. He nodded, absentmindedly fingering his silver hoops hanging from his ear.

"Far cry from a US Senator," Jim commented.

"Shit, tell me about it," Blair said with a short huff. "I bet he freaks when he sees me tomorrow. It's no wonder he wants to keep this business from leaking to the press."

"Wait a minute; you lost me here, Sherlock. The reason for the media blackout is to protect you, remember? Livingston has some impressive enemies. There's no reason to advertise your connection to him right away. Why would he freak?"

"Oh, come on, Jim." With a wave to his own face, Blair rolled his eyes. "I checked his bio; six years Air Force, third generation old money, retired CEO for a petroleum company with off shore rigs. He `screams' establishment, man."

"So what?" Jim countered, leaning forward. "You afraid he's going to find out you voted independent or something? Give him a break. You haven't even met him yet."

"You don't understand, Jim," Blair told him quietly.

"I think I do, Sandburg," Jim answered. "Naomi let you be yourself. She was your friend. She even overcame the fact you hang around cops. For the first time in your life, you're faced with the possibility of a parent who may not approve of you, how you've turned out, how you dress, wear your hair. Am I close?"

A wry smile answered. "Okay, maybe you do understand."

Jim laughed lightly. It felt good. "Look, it's natural. I think - hell, I know - I'd feel the same way."

After a few minutes of consideration, Blair looked Jim squarely in the eye. "You know what I don't get?"

"What?"

"You had a chance to daydream about Mickey Mantle and you pick some pitcher from a team no one remembers?"

Sometime during the night Blair must have found his center, Jim thought to himself.

It was `day two' in DC. Blair sat calmly at his side, as if he didn't have a care in the world. They were waiting outside Senator Richard Livingston's office. A young man, identifying himself as the Senator's aide, efficiently worked on a computer while answering phone calls and penciling in appointments in a large spiral book. In the thirty minutes they had been waiting, the phone had not stopped ringing. One thing for sure, Livingston was a busy man.

Finally, the door opened and two Asian men exited, bowing formally one last time before leaving.

"Scott?" The man standing in the doorway looked hopefully at Blair. He was fit, like he exercised frequently. His face was tan, a sharp contrast to the silver head of wavy hair.

Jim could see the resemblance to his roommate immediately. The same nose and jaw line, although he was taller than Blair. He wore glasses with bifocals in expensive gold frames. Although his suit was a fine brand name, he wore his collar open, tie loose and managed to look like he preferred to be in a Stetson hat, denim shirt and jeans.

Blair stood, extending his hand formally. "Senator Livingston? I'm Blair Sandburg."

Jim mentally high-fived his partner as he rose to stand at Blair's side.

"This is Jim Ellison," Blair continued.

"How do you do?" Livingston had a soft lilt. He shook Jim's hand after reluctantly releasing Blair's. "Please, come in."

The office was small, but nice. A window gave its occupants a nice view of the street and the blossoming cherry trees. Obviously, the man belonging to the room loved his home state. An antique framed New Mexico flag held the place of honor on one wall. Other smaller pictures, all originals, hung in a tasteful arrangement around it; oil, acrylic and pencil artworks of desert scenes, old Spanish missions, and small border town life. Obscure artifacts lined the shelves, mixed with books; earthen pots and stone tools, some Indian artifacts, small rag dolls with velvet clothing and painted faces, even one of those `Eye of God' yarn crafts. Everything looked original and old, like they all belonged in a museum.

"Please have a seat," Livingston invited, pointing to a corner of his office where a brown leather loveseat and a matching wingback chair waited. When Jim and Blair sat down on the short sofa, he took the chair, facing them. "First, I must apologize for not coming out to Washington State, Sco-- I mean, Blair."

"No, it's okay," Blair told him. "I understand."

"Thank you," the older man said. "But I hated not being able to come right away. When the FBI told me they had a match, I just," he paused, his voice breaking, "I just couldn't believe it."

Blair looked over at Jim. Some of the earlier calm he had exemplified in the waiting room slipped a little. Jim smiled, hoping he was at least looking like the supportive friend he wanted to be. Truthfully, Jim felt more like a voyeur.

But Livingston didn't seem to even notice Jim; his eyes were fixed on Blair like a man serving a life sentence would look at a chance to live on a tropical island. He sat on the edge of his seat, body poised and leaning forward.

"Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Soda?"

"No," Blair said. "Thank you anyway, sir."

Livingston smiled sadly, shaking his head slightly. "I never dreamed this would be so difficult, son. Hell, I lost hope I'd ever have this opportunity at all." He dragged a tan hand down his face, then finger combed his hair in a way that Jim had seen Blair do a thousand times. "Do you remember me at all? Or your mother?"

Blair stiffened, his gaze dropping to his lap where his hands were clutched in two tight fists.

Jim wanted to punch the senator in the face. He had to remind himself why he was along; be supportive for Blair.

The senator sat, oblivious to the damage he'd caused.

"Senator Livingston," Blair said quietly, evenly. "I understand your position. But you have to remember my mother is Naomi Sandburg. I only remember her, as far back as I can remember that is."

Livingston's brow wrinkled, confusion evident. "Naomi? I don't understand. You understand that she kidnapped you, right? I mean, the FBI told me that they explained it all to you."

Blair looked up, eyes hard. "To me, man, she is my mother. I know it's not what you want to hear and I'm sorry. But I can't change the life I lived. She loved me and sacrificed a lot to raise me," Blair told him. "I don't remember you, or your late wife. I'm sorry."

"Is that why you won't co-operate with the FBI?" Livingston asked, matching determination with determination. He stood not waiting for Blair's answer. Striding over to a shelf, he returned with a small object in his hand. His face relaxed into a softness that belayed his earlier tone. "Here, even when you were little, you were so clever. Your mother, your real mother, knew you would be brilliant."

He held a smaller, crudely made `Eye of God' in his hand, extending it out towards Blair as he sat back down. "You made this for us the Christmas before you were stolen."

An `Eye of God' was merely two wooden sticks held together to form an `X' by brightly colored yarn carefully wound around each stick. Each complete circle caused the circle to grow wider and wider. The yarn switched to new colors forming a bright design reminding Jim of a setting sun. The entire artwork was no more than five inches in diameter and had a few obvious mistakes where the yarn overlapped, but still, it was not too bad for a three-year-old.

"I... remember..." Blair's voice shook as he turned it over a few times in his hands. His heart suddenly raced. A fine sheen of moisture developed on a whitened face. He moaned, leaning forward as he clutched his stomach with his left hand.

"Sandburg?" Jim tried to pull Blair back up by a shoulder. Damn, he looked ready to faint.

"What is it?" Livingston asked Jim quickly.

"I don't know," Jim answered, sliding off the sofa to kneel in front of his partner. Blair folded at his waist, his face almost touching his own knees. "Blair, tell me what's wrong."

The `Eye of God' dropped to the carpet. Jim automatically brushed it back towards Livingston's feet, as if it was responsible for whatever brought this on. Maybe it had somehow. Blair held his own head now, another clue to the mystery.

"What's wrong? Blair? Does your head hurt?" A dozen different possibilities ran through Jim's mind, none of them promising to be good. This was crazy. Blair was healthy and young, damn it. "Sandburg! Talk to me!"

The `no crap tolerated' tone must have triggered some deep response. Blair answered weakly, pushing the palms of both hands over closed eyelids. He rocked as he answered. "Head, man. It hurts." He blindly reached out and took a handful of Jim's shirt at the shoulder. "Get me out, Jim. Back to the hotel... please."

"I'll call an ambulance," Livingston said, heading for the phone on his desk.

"N-no." Blair took a deep breath. "Please, don't."

Jim was torn; liking the idea of Blair getting checked out by a doctor as well, but feeling Blair should have a choice in the matter. This had come on with no warning. But, on the other hand, Blair was under a lot of stress. And it was looking as if some color was returning to his face.

"Okay, no ambulance," Jim said, throwing in with his partner's wishes. "I think Blair just needs to lie down for a while," he told the older man as he helped Blair stand. "We'll call you later tonight. Okay?"

Livingston reluctantly hung up the phone. "Are you sure?"

Blair was able to answer. "Yeah. I'm sorry. Maybe later?" He still had his eyes screwed shut and leaned heavily on Jim's arm, but he managed to produce a small smile.

"Okay, but if it gets worse, please - tell me you'll see a doctor, immediately," the senator insisted.

"I'll watch him, sir," Jim promised, leading Blair toward the door.

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