Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action. Ian Fleming

"Officer down!" The scared voice on the police radio sounded impossibly young for a police officer.

The previously quiet radio suddenly flowed with excited chatter; a female dispatcher giving the last known location of the downed officer; other cops acknowledging the emergency and giving their locations; a shift sergeant barking orders.

Without warning, Jim Ellison twisted the wheel of his Ford F150; perfecting a tidy Batmobile one-eighty turn that bounced Blair Sandberg's head off the passenger window. Rubbing a tender skull, Blair checked the glass for damage, found none, then belatedly braced himself as Jim floored the gas pedal.

"We're close," Jim said. He snatched up the radio mic and tersely added himself to the responding units.

Jim drove like a NASCAR racer, knuckles white on the wheel, navigating through the middle of an old industrial district, overlooked by the city planners. He stomped the brake pedal sending the truck skidding sideways in the road. Ahead a single police car half blocked the two-lane road. The area seemed deserted. A dense blackberry hedge hemmed one shoulder. The other side dropped off to meet the deep waters of the Humpback River.

"Put us on scene!" Jim wrenched open the door and bailed out.

As Jim ran toward the cop car, crouched over, gun drawn and ready, Blair fumbled for the small transmitter hanging from the coiled black cord trailing from under the dash. Speaking as calmly as he could, he relayed the information and waited for the dispatcher to acknowledge. She told him back up was coming and medical units would stage nearby.

Blair opened his door. He paused, unsure, as he placed one foot on the road. Was he supposed to stay put or help? Jim wasn't visible anymore, gone somewhere beyond the empty cop car. Distant sirens floated down the deserted street.

"Sandburg, the first aid kit!"

Motivated with responsibility, Blair reached for the bright orange soft-sided bag behind the seat. Jim was nothing if not prepared. Slinging the kit's carry strap over a shoulder, Blair ran toward Jim's voice.

He found Jim on his knees beside a cop sprawled out on his back. The cop lay a few feet from the police vehicle, near the driver's open door. Dark blood soaked the cop's leg above the knee.

"What do you need?" Blair asked, squatting at Jim's side.

Jim's hands applied direct pressure over the wound. "Trauma dressing. Then get back and call for medics."

Blair worked the many zippers on the pack. Which one held the trauma dressing? "Medics are already responding." He found the large dressing and tore into the cover, holding it out to Jim without touching the sterile gauze within.

"The medics will stage, I want them to come in. Tell them I said the scene's clear."

Blair pushed off the ground, catching brief images of pale skin and big eyes. The injured cop looked young. Blair forced a smile. "Jim will take good care of you, man."

An `All Points Bulletin' was issued for a mud spattered, older model, dark green Chevy Blazer with a broken headlight. The single occupant had been a white male in his middle thirties, no facial hair, wearing dark glasses and a faux sheepskin-lined jean jacket.

"He's going to be okay?" Blair asked.

Jim nodded as he toweled his hands dry, briefly checking for dried blood under his nails, exhaustion pulled on every part of his body. "Should be, the bullet dug out a path down his thigh and nicked his calf muscle. He'll be sore as hell for a while, but he'll live."

"Good."

Jim took in Blair's wide eyes, irises huge in the darkening twilight. "You did good, Sandburg."

As usual, the kid looked surprised at the praise.

"You kept your head, radioed in, got the first aid supplies. I'm glad you were with me."

The comment caused Blair's stiff shoulders to loosen. "Thanks, man. We going back in? Help look for the shooter?" Blair sounded tired, but willing to work through the night if asked.

"No. Night shift has the case. If they don't pick up the shooter within the next eight twelve hours, we'll get involved," Jim explained.

Blair hugged his rib cage and shivered. The late May temperatures were unseasonable cool this year. "I don't get it. Why would anyone shoot a cop over an equipment violation ticket?"

"Traffic stops kill more cops each year than people realize," Jim said. "We may never know what set this particular joker off."

"You don't think they'll find him?"

"Maybe." Jim shrugged. "Not much to go on. The car's plate was covered in mud; the driver's physical could fit me, it's so general. How many green Blazers do you think we have in Cascade?"

"You're a pessimist tonight."

"I'm a realist." Jim noticed the way their breath appeared as white puffs in the evening air. The road was bottlenecked with police units, command cars and forensic vans. There was no way his Ford was going to make it out anytime soon. They might as well wait in the truck with the heater running.

Blair fell into step at his side. Jim continued to explain, "But it won't be for the lack of trying. The cop's old man is something of a local hero at Cascade PD. The department will be on hunt for the shooter."

"That's a good thing, right?" Blair asked.

Jim's prophecy proved correct. Yet, in spite of an intense manhunt by multiple law enforcement agencies, the driver of the green Blazer evaded capture. Cascade's media ran the story for three days, urging anyone with possible information to call a special hot-line set up overnight. All tips would be followed up.

Four days after the shooting, Blair entered the bullpen, spotting Jim at his desk. With his Rainier classes done for the day, he was free to help. There was certainly plenty of work to do; in fact, he'd never seen the place so busy. Phones were ringing. Men and women he didn't know wove between desks and filing cabinets. Pausing just inside the doorway, he felt someone bump into him from behind.

"Sorry, Sandburg. God, what a day," Rafe said entering the bullpen. His tailored suit was wrinkled. His tie hung loose around his open shirt collar. "What we need is a damn break."

Henri followed; his broad shoulders slumped, flexing his hands. "My knuckles are bruised from knocking on doors all day."

"Tell us you guys had better luck," Rafe pleaded to the core group of Major Crime detectives as he dropped into his desk chair.

"No can do," Jim answered. "I just got in half an hour ago. DVM threatened to shoot me on sight if we showed up again this week."

Blair shuddered, remembering yesterday's visit with Jim. He settled into the empty chair next to Jim's. "I can't believe you went back alone, Jim. Those guys are seriously scary. Thank God my license is good for another three years. By then they'll forget my face."

"You hope," Jim added with a teasing smirk. "I think the lady with the blue hair yesterday was sweet on you."

Blair tossed him a dirty look.

Graciously dropping the subject, Jim picked up a thick file. "We've got a complete list of every traffic stop DeLaughlin pulled since his hire date."

"Oh, God," Henri groaned. "We're desperate."

"Let's start by cross checking all persons with the motor vehicles database. See if any old contact currently owns a Chevy Blazer. Might pick up a few leads." Jim opened the file and passed out reports. "I divided up the list. We'll work to the end of our shift, then let night shift continue."

The doors opened and two men entered. Tall and fit looking even on crutches, Officer Gary DeLaughlin had a youthful face with light brown hair that waved like a rolling sea. An older man walked at his side.

"Hey, looks who's here!" Henri said standing, his face breaking into a wide smile. "How you feeling, kid?"

"Better." Gary DeLaughlin paused uncertainly. "I just wanted to stop by. I know everyone's busy."

Blair stood along with the rest of the group. He rolled his chair out to the side of the desk he had been temporarily assigned. "Here, sit."

"Thanks." The cop handed his crutches to the older man hovering at his side. He sat with a sigh, giving Blair a shy smile. "You were there, weren't you? I remember you talking to me."

"Yeah. Blair Sandburg." Blair reached out and shook the offered hand. "I ride with Jim."

"Detective Ellison, I'm Dan DeLaughlin," Gary's companion said, stepping forward, hand outstretched over Jim's desk. "I wanted to personally thank you for helping my son."

"My pleasure, sir." Jim briefly shook hands. "It's an honor to meet you. You still hold the top solve-rate percentage in Washington. You're a hard act to follow."

"Call me Dan, Detective," Gary's father answered. "From what I hear of your career, my fame won't last much longer." The senior man vibrated with a commanding presence, a take charge attitude, reminding Blair of an older Jim. The Ex-detective had broad shoulders and steel-gray hair, thinned a little on top and cropped short on the sides. His bushy eyebrows hooded his sharp gaze. Only faint tremors in his hands and the unmistakable stoop to his posture betrayed his age. He stood proudly next to his son, one hand casually resting on the younger man's shoulder. "So, how's the investigation going?"

"Slow, but we're not giving up." Jim slid his phone aside and sat on the corner of his desk. "Not much in the way of witnesses. We found a few homeless folks in the nearby buildings to interview, but they hadn't seen anything. Motor Vehicles gave us a list to work on. All auto shops in Cascade have instructions to report any sale of head lights that fit the Blazer. Unfortunately, that particular light fits more than just the Blazer. We've been doing a lot of door knocking." Jim picked up the file. "We've just started cross checking all your son's previous traffic stops."

Gary grimaced. "That's half the population of Cascade."

Several detectives faked a groan.

"I just wish I'd gotten a better look at the guy," Gary continued self-consciously, fingering a button on his shirt. "I'd just made contact when he jumps out and starts fighting for my gun."

"You dropped your guard," Dan DeLaughlin chastised gently.

"Yeah, I know."

That caused an uncomfortable silence.

"How much longer are you sentenced to using crutches?" Jim asked after a second or two.

"A few more days." Gary sighed. "I lucked out that you guys were close. I couldn't stop the bleeding. The guy peels out of there after the gun goes off. Just split."

"And he never spoke?" Jim questioned.

"No, not a word."

Jim drove on auto pilot, letting the Ford take its lead, like a horse to the barn. God, he was tired. Twelve hour shifts were brutal. A vision of eating tepid leftovers from a Tupperware container while leaning over the kitchen sink, followed by collapsing into bed loamed on his personal horizon.

"I wonder what was going through his head."

He'd almost forgotten he had a passenger. Jim shook his head. "I'm a sentinel, Sandburg. Not a mind reader. Whose head?"

Blair snorted good-naturedly. The kid had a way of doing that, taking Jim's innocent comments, which used to completely piss off Carolyn, and accepting them at face value. It was refreshing.

"Gary DeLaughlin. What was he thinking before we got there? What was going on inside his brain?"

"What were you thinking about when Lash had you in that chair?" Jim asked. They didn't talk much about Lash. Blair had closed the book on that incident the day they had watched the newscast and joked about Blair's tattoo.

Blair grunted.

"Why ask?" Jim pressed. The approaching traffic light turned yellow and he slowed down to stop. Turning to give his full attention to his friend, he noticed the familiar stubborn set to Blair's jaw line.

"I'm just curious, that's all. One minute he's doing his job, everything is normal. Next thing he knows, he's fighting for his life." Blair turned to meet Jim's gaze. "He looks young, man. Younger than me."

"He is, by a year." Jim checked the light, it was still red. "A cop knows the dangers when he signs on. You try and stay on your toes, but things happen. You said it; he's young. He learned an important - if not painful - lesson. He'll be a better cop."

"Yeah, you're right. I just wonder..." Blair gnawed on his upper lip, as if weighing his thoughts. "I wonder if he wanted to be a cop, or if he just felt like he had to be a cop."

"You mean his old man?"

The light was green and the truck accelerated smoothly through the intersection.

"Yeah, I overheard some of the guys talking. You'd think Dan DeLaughlin walks on water."

Jim knew the stories well. He'd heard them all, several times over. "Well, his record was pretty amazing. He was a few years from retiring when I started. He could have made captain, but he pissed off the brass."

"What happened?" Blair asked.

"Way I hear it, his wife died," Jim said. "An accident or something. He took it hard, became a real hard-ass on the job."

"Must have been tough on Gary," Blair reasoned, falling silent and watching the closed store fronts pass by.

Jim cranked the wheel, turning toward a nearby late night eatery. ""I'm not in the mood for leftovers. Call ahead and order us a couple of Yakasobi specials. My treat."

"Cool."

The following day Blair entered the bullpen, instantly noting a general mood of jubilation.

"Hairboy, we've got a suspect," Henri blurted out.

"Seriously?" Blair looked to Jim for confirmation, catching a curt nod from the older man. "All right! Who?"

Holding up the familiar department of licensing printout, Jim stood. "Taggart and I played a hunch. An owner of a Chevy Blazer happens to be the same guy Detective DeLaughlin convicted of aggravated assault ten years ago, a two time loser named Hector Nully."

Blair's brain did the math, not catching the word `detective' until he realized Gary wasn't even a cop ten years ago. "His father? The traffic stop was a set up?"

"Don't know yet, but Gary DeLaughlin and Nully have already crossed paths. Joel and I are just starting the interview. Want to watch?" Jim shuffled some papers on his desk and slipped them into a folder.

"You bet." Blair followed him out into the hall. "So, what was your impression? Did he deny it? Could you tell if he was lying?"

"Hard to tell," Jim answered quietly. "He was pretty pissed. Heart rate and respirations increased. One thing I could tell for sure; he hates cops. Says he was home with his girlfriend during the shooting."

They reached the interview area. Jim waited until Blair was safely inside the observation room before opening the adjacent door and entering the interrogation area. A large window separated the two rooms. Suspects would see just a mirror. Observers got to watch.

Simon already occupied the observer area, silently chomping his unlit cigar. Blair acknowledged the older man with a tiny nod. Side by side, they watched Jim work.

A bald man with a barrel sized chest and Popeye-shaped arms sat across the table from Joel. He scowled at the two men in the room with him. Jim casually leaned against the far wall, staring at the suspect. The room stayed quiet until the bald man shifted in his chair.

Jim tapped the edge of the closed file on the back of an empty chair. "Captain Taggart has read you your Miranda warnings, do you have any questions?"

"No."

"Do you want a lawyer? We can make a phone call."

"I don't need a stupid lawyer. I ain't done nothing wrong," Nully answered with a growl.

"Do you own a faux sheepskin lined jean jacket?"

"No."

"Tell us about the traffic stop last week," Jim continued without missing a beat. "Officer DeLaughlin and you got into a fight?"

Nully's face wrinkled when he frowned, anger caused his skin to stretch and fold. It added to his persona as a criminal. He turned to Joel, his arms opening up. "I don't have a clue what you guys want. DeLaughlin's gone, retired."

Joel flipped open the file in his hands and took out a photocopy. "You remember getting a speeding ticket back in April?"

"I'm being harassed because I forgot to pay a damn ticket? Give me a freaking break here."

"You mean you never noticed the citing officer happened to have the same last name as the detective that sent you away ten years ago?" Jim asked.

"That punk?" Nully looked up at Jim with a sneer of understanding. "What, the mighty DeLaughlin has a kid? Now the kid's a cop? What the hell do I care?"

"Where were you last Tuesday? Between six and seven in the evening, Mr. Nully?" Joel asked calmly, causing the ex-con to switch his attention away from Jim.

"I already told you, with Celeste. Ask her."

"We will," Jim answered. "'Course a woman with her record of drug use and arrests will look real convincing to a jury, pal."

"Next time you're looking to frame ex-cons in your spare time, post a damn notice in the paper, okay?" Nully snarled at them. "I'll start sleeping with the Chief of Police!"

"We don't have probable cause," Simon repeated for the third time.

Joel leaned forward. "But the coincidence, Simon. You can't deny the odds are incredible."

Jim massaged his neck with one hand, his other hand pinching his lower lip. "I agree with Joel, but Simon's right. We've got squat. We'll have to release him."

"Can we put a team on him? Like a stakeout or something?" Blair asked. He notice Simon's right eyebrow climb and felt his own face warm. "Just a thought."

"And a good one," Simon admitted glumly. "If I had the manpower. We've all got our other open cases to work on."

"The problem, Blair," Joel said, turning to include the observer, "is now he knows we're on to him. He'll sit quiet for a while before trying anything."

"If he ever does," Jim added, coming to stand in front of the window. The clouds hung low in the sky, swallowing the tops of the surrounding skyscrapers. "Gary's unable to ID Nully from our montage."

"Nully's name popping up on that report brings to mind all the scum his dad's put away over his career," Joel said. "I mean think about it. The average convicted murder gets eight years, eight months jail time. We should go over Dan's busts and see who's out now, who's in the area."

"That's a lot of cases," Jim noted. "But it might give us a new lead." He didn't look hopeful.

Blair had been involved with Jim enough to know sometimes only one lead is needed to solve a case, if it was the crucial lead. The emotions of the investigation could rise and fall like a mountain range, with valleys and peaks. But this case seemed to provide few leads of importance.

Simon looked like someone who'd just sucked all the juice from a lemon. "I've got a meeting with the Chief. He wants a status report. The price tag for this special task force has reached the high tide mark. I imagine he'll script some crap to sell the press and we'll move on. But, I'm going to push to keep a few men on the case. I don't want to close it."

Blair waited until the shift was over and they were back in the loft before bringing up the subject again. Jim had one of his cookbooks out, flipping the pages, his jaw clenched. It didn't take ESP to see the guy was frustrated. This would not bode well for any vegetables in their crisper. The chopping block would need a good cleaning tonight. The phone rang and Jim snatched up the hand set. After barking out his name, he listened a few minutes, nodding and grunting his response, then hung up. He returned to his cookbook. Blair figured the caller had been Simon.

"You still on the case?" Blair asked as he stacked his students' papers on the coffee table. Normally he liked to use the kitchen table for grading, but Jim might want the space.

Jim lifted his head to peer over Blair's head, out to the balcony. Blair turned to see if he could find what his friend was looking at. Nothing special but their deck chairs and some plants Blair had potted a few months ago.

"That rosemary in the terra cotta pot?" Jim asked.

"Yeah, help yourself."

"Thanks. Hungry for chicken cashew stir fry?"

Blair's stomach sat up and begged. "Sure."

Jim pulled out the doomed vegetables, thoroughly washed them and stacked them on the counter with the organization of a field general going to war. He spoke again after the rapid tapping of the eight inch chef's knife started. "Simon's going to let me keep the case open, as long as I work on the rest of my caseload at the same time. I only have one other case worth anything right now, the Strobel case."

Blair shuddered. "Ugh, the acid bath?"

"Yep."

A high-on-the-pecking order executive had disappeared while visiting one of his company's factories. A surveillance tape showed him climbing the ladder attached to an acid vat used for cleaning machine parts. The vat was the size of two person hot tub. The popular belief was the guy had committed suicide.

Jim chopped as he talked. "The guy's financial records that I subpoenaed came in. I'll start going through them."

"Good luck, man." Blair picked up his red extra fine tip felt pen, pulled the top paper off the stack and began to read.

Blair checked the sky; grateful for a reprieve from the rain they had been having most of the day. He jogged down the stone steps, cutting across the lawn toward the path to the science building. His classes and office time over for the day, he had a few errands to run before heading back to the loft. Jim should be elbow deep in reports at the station; his third night of working late on the DeLaughlin shooting after the task force had been dismantled.

Blair had offered to help, but Jim had waved him off. Secretly Blair was relieved. His days were filled with reading. Having a night off gave his eyeballs a break.

"Hey! Sandburg, isn't it?"

Blair turned. Gary DeLaughlin leaned on a wooden cane. He wore jeans and matching blue sweater. He looked more like a grad student than Blair did. "Gary?"

The cop grinned. "Yep. I'm sorry, man. I forgot your first name."

"Blair." Blair chuckled, letting the other man catch up. "What are you doing here?"

"I take a night class." Gary leaned more onto his cane. Even with the cane, he was half a head taller than Blair.

"Hey, good for you. What're you taking?"

"Nothing much." He paused, looking embarrassed. "Some cops go for the criminology degree, I like literature and history and stuff."

"Really? That's great!" Blair fell into step at the other's side, matching his pace with the slower, injured man's stride. "How's the leg?"

"Painful." Gary grimaced. "I had no idea... "

"We just finished a case where an ATF agent got shot in the arm," Blair said, feeling the urge to make small talk to put the other man at ease. "She told me it hurt like nothing she'd ever felt before."

"Yeah, about sums it up." A corner of the cop's mouth lifted. "I gotta say. You and Detective Ellison make a weird pairing. I asked around. You're writing your thesis on closed societies in the police force?"

"That about sums it up," Blair parroted with a grin. "You think Jim and I don't match, eh? What gave us away, the different hair styles or the way we dress? I've been working on him, but he's too old to change his ways."

Gary laughed. "Yeah, right. I've heard about Ellison, his `hard ass' reputation's is a close second to dad's." That comment seemed to freeze him. "Oh, shit, sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"Forget it." Blair hitched his pack higher on his shoulder. "One of the things I've learned about cops is the whole image thing. Your dad's got one as big as Alaska."

"God, tell me about it."

Blair couldn't help himself. "Was law enforcement your first pick for a career?"

"What do you mean?" Gary DeLaughlin slowed his hobbling gait. His youthful face showed genuine surprise at the question.

"I mean, did you want to be a cop, or does your dad want you to become a cop?"

"What's the difference?"

And the surprising thing to Blair was the fact the guy truly didn't think there was one.

"Say, what?" Jim asked.

Blair stuffed a clean sweatshirt into his pack. "We're going to a movie. It's a sci-fi tribute at the Roxie."

Jim paused in his Sunday routine of sock sorting. Actually, it was laundry sorting, but the socks always seemed to take the longest to finish. The total list of `must do' items didn't add up to much more than a few hours of house work, and certainly nothing to take him outside. The baseball game was scheduled to start right after lunch and Jim planned on being comfortably sprawled on the sofa. He figured Blair would be with him.

"You and Gary DeLaughlin are catching a movie... together." Jim dropped the matched pair of white sweat socks, their cuffs folded over in a locking manner, into the growing pile. "When did you two start hanging out?"

"I told you I ran into him at the U." Blair clubbed his hair back into a messy ponytail. "He's really a cool guy, for a cop. He's taking some serious academic type classes at night and he's got a major passion for sci-fi. I think he could even be a writer or something. He's wasting his life, man. He showed me some of his work, it's amazing. He combines futuristic technology with sort of an alternate historical timeline and throws in -"

Jim cut him off with a raised hand. "Whoa, CB. Slow down and breathe." Taking a second to make sure his motor-mouthed roomie had switched to neutral gear, Jim continued. "Overlooking the `for a cop' crack, what do you mean `wasting his life'. Being a cop is a good career."

Glancing once at his watch, Blair edged toward the door. "Not for everyone, Jim. Gary's a really cool guy, but he's letting his dad run his life for him. We've been talking and I'm not so sure he even knew he had options."

"You've been talking..."

"Gotta go, Jim. The Corvair's still in the shop till I've saved enough to cover the bullet hole damage, buses to catch and all. See you later."

The door closed before Jim could say any more. His brain was still stunned with the concept of Blair's attempt to derail the future of legionary Detective DeLaughlin's only child's career. The potential fallout boggled his mind.

Then Jim remembered the heated arguments with his own father, miserable hours in the old man's study. William Ellison had harbored his own plan for his oldest son's life; one that hadn't agreed with Jim's. The door had always remained closed, but Sally and Stephen had to have heard every bitter shout, every threat, every curse.

What if he'd never had the courage to shout back? What if he had gone along with his father's wish? Jim shuddered.

"Go get `em, kid," Jim muttered, returning to the sock pile. He'd do his best to watch Blair's back if and when the news got out at the station.

It was after midnight when the last Star Wars movie ended and the crowd made their way to the dark streets. In the rundown section of Cascade, the Roxie Theater was a ghost of its original condition on opening night back in the Twenties. Most of the surrounding streetlights were broken or simply burnt out, leaving the sidewalks and streets dark. The surrounding two-story, brick buildings with the closed businesses on the main floor and the vacant apartments above added no additional light.

They followed the crowd pouring out the large, carved and ornate doors. Blair pulled his sweatshirt over his head, loosening his pony tail to the point of uselessness; he simply pulled the leather tie out all together.

"I heard Lucas is working on another movie," Gary happily reported, his enthusiasm infectious.

"What's it been, ten years?" Blair asked, stuffing the leather tie in his jeans.

"Thirteen." Gary's teeth flashed white in the darkness as they turned the corner.

Blair had taken the bus to the theater with the understanding Gary would be giving him a lift back to the loft as the buses had stopped running. Parking was limited and Gary had arrived late, explaining that the closest available spot had been two blocks away, next to a row of long warehouses. The saltwater smell of rotted seaweed brought in by offshore winds tickled their noses. It was no wonder the modern and shiny part of Cascade's downtown had migrated to the opposite side of the harbor.

"Most people don't realize Lucas had nine stories total in the plot. We just saw the middle episodes, four through seven." Gary's cane tapped the broken sidewalk as they walked.

"You're really into this, aren't you?" Blair teased.

"Yeah," Gary admitted, somewhat wistfully. "Real life just doesn't compare. You know?"

Blair had to shake his head. "I don't know, seems like Jim and I find enough adventure, man."

"God, no kidding. I remember reading about the Lash case. And Kincaid? Wow, you've seen some serious action," Gary said enthusiastically as he walked by Blair's side.

"Enough to last a while, that's for sure. I wouldn't mind a few years of-" His foot caught on a raised section of concrete and he stumbled, his left hand reaching out to catch the rough brick wall. "Damn, should've brought a flashlight."

Without warning, a heavy, large, solid body fell hard against Blair's back, folding his arm. A hand grabbed a fistful of Blair's hair, using it like a handle. His forehead and the brick wall met with stunning force. Pain detonated throughout his brain, burning brightly against the dark. Blair's last waking moment captured shouting, sounds of a fight. He slid down the bricks, consciousness leaching away, drawing a truer and denser darkness. Blair put the facts together.

Gary was under attack.

Again.

Blair woke to flashing colors of blue and red that pierced his brain. Pounding, ripping pain battered the back of his eyeballs. Thick warmth flowed down his face, clogging his nose and bringing nausea. He groaned.

"Easy, Mr. Sandburg," a stranger urged, male and official sounding. "You're injured."

Duh. Blair wanted to congratulate the guy for stating the obvious but everything hurt. "G-gary..." Blair spat, spraying small wads of something - blood or snot or both. His shoulder was pressed up against his ear and he was cold. Uneven concrete made a lousy bed.

"Officer DeLaughlin is okay. He's right here," Obvious Voice continued.

"Blair? You okay, man?" Gary asked from somewhere close.

Blair wanted to see his friend. Make sure he was okay. But movement wasn't an option. His strength had deserted him, jumped a train. He tried curling into a protective ball on the sidewalk. His vision was like a kid's kaleidoscope, only broken. He longed for a nice quiet, dark room, somewhere he could die in peace.

Another voice entered the confusion that was Blair's new world.

"Let me through!"

Blair knew that voice. He tried lifting his head, spotting his roommate in the bizarre light show. Mistake. Big time mistake. Nausea knocked not too politely on the back of his throat. The first retch brought a flow of burning acid and foul scent that sickened him further.

"Ah, shit," Obvious Voice muttered.

Hands supported his head as he heaved. A new pair braced his back, familiar hands. Jim was here. The outside noise dimmed as Blair emptied his stomach, deafened by the sounds of his own body rejecting overpriced pop and candy, along with a bucket of buttered popcorn, light on the salt.

God, that burned. Hot tears mixed with the mess on Blair's face. Finally, after a hundred years, his stomach stopped and the muscles in his gut stilled.

"J-jim."

"Don't talk, Chief. Don't move. Let us do the work."

As if.

Blair kept his eyelids screwed closed, afraid the crazy light show might start the nausea all over again. Every little sound hurt. The odor of his own mess was enough to make unconsciousness look attractive. Was this what it was like for Jim when all his senses attacked at once? No wonder the guy got crabby from time to time.

Voices, none of them Jim's, asked questions. No strength to answer. Blair's face was carefully cleaned by a rough feeling towel. Then an antiseptic smelling damp cloth finished the job. A bandage was taped to his forehead. A stiff, high collar was placed around his neck. Blair didn't like that; it felt terrible. He groaned.

Hands pushed his shoulder and his hip until he was rolled over onto something flat under his back. They pulled him up and over and he was completely off the cold sidewalk. A soft blanket covered his body. Straps tightened across his chest, hips and legs. He felt his head and shoulders elevated. The new position took some of the power away from the pain behind his face.

He was lifted. The movement rolled his stomach and he groaned.

"Let us know of you feel like throwing up again," Obvious Voice requested.

The only comfort Blair had was knowledge his sentinel was near. Jim gripped his shoulder, walked at his side. He fought the urge to throw up again as they carried him, backboard and all into the back of the ambulance. Sounds echoed within the small confines of the vehicle. The first draft of heated air brushed his cheek bringing a shiver. The harsh ceiling lights tried to burn through closed eyelids.

"I'm sorry, Sir. You'll have to leave," Obvious Voice said firmly.

Jim squeezed his shoulder. "Be good, Sandburg. I'll catch up with you."

Before Blair could protest, the hand left and Blair felt the loss deeply. Unfamiliar fingers touched him. His shoes and socks were removed. A blood pressure cuff circled his arm. The gentle sway of the ambulance underway brought back the urge to vomit. Blair ignored the questions. He needed all his strength to keep the pain from swallowing him whole.

Blood soaked the sidewalk. Jim had to look away.

Gary DeLaughlin leaned against the hood of a police car. Three uniformed cops formed a half circle around the off-duty officer. An ambulance tech dabbed at a reddish abrasion on the side of DeLaughlin's cheek. The kid's face was white and eyes wide as he answered their questions.

Jim shouldered his way into the clutch. "Who was it, DeLaughlin? Was it Nully?"

Gary started to nod, then looked uncertain.

Jim slammed a fist on the hood of the patrol car, his patience for rookie cops and stupid kids that picked dark alleys to wander down had reached its end. "Answer me!"

"It was too dark!" Gary shouted back. "The guy was big, real big. He wore a knitted hat, like the longshoremen use."

"God damnit, give me something here! Sandburg just had his head split open." Jim knocked off the restraining hand that landed on his shoulder without looking. It returned with force.

"Ellison, that's enough!" Simon Banks pulled Jim back from the group. "Report."

The snap of command returned Jim's control. A buried, but never forgotten, instinct kicked in and Jim stood at attention. "Single suspect, large. Attacked Sandburg and DeLaughlin from behind."

Simon nodded, his gaze finding the puddle of black blood caught in the harsh light from the patrol car's headlights. "Sandburg's hurt?"

Jim swallowed, his fingers flexing and curling into fists. "Head injury, decreased consciousness. The medics just left. It had to be Nully, Simon. I want him."

"No," Simon fired back. "I've already got H and Rafe on the way to his place. If he's there, they'll bring him in. If not, they'll stake out his house and let us know. You head to Cascade General. Interview Sandburg. If DeLaughlin can't ID the perp, maybe the kid can."

"Simon." Jim's rage demanded to hunt.

"Jim." The creases between Simon's eyes smoothed. "I want us looking like damn Pollyanna on this bust. Not even a whisper of unnecessary force charges uttered in my squad. I'll see you stay in the loop, okay? Go take care of your observer. I'll call."

It tasted like shit on his tongue, but Jim nodded once. If he couldn't be part of bringing the worthless waste of skin and bones in and slamming his ass in a holding tank, then Jim wanted to be with Blair. "Fine. Call me." He turned away, leaving the gore covered sidewalk, the cluster of cops and his boss behind. He jogged toward his truck.

He stomped the accelerator pedal, kicking small rocks and grit from spinning rear tires. Revolving blue strobe light lit up the surrounding dilapidated buildings. He drove in cop-mode, barely checking the intersections before sailing through, shooting down the deserted streets. He parked near the ER entrance of the hospital. The medic unit sat near the entrance, its doors open, the inside empty. Blair was already inside.

Jim flipped his badge out as he walked between the gliding glass doors. Yellow backboards with tangled straps leaned against the left wall, waiting for the proper fire apparatus units to return and claim them. Empty wheelchairs, collapsed while not in use, lined the other wall. A wall poster of an injured child, looking all of six years old, warned of the need for child car seats and seatbelts.

It was the working staff entrance to the hospital, reserved for ambulances, medics, cops and patients too sick or too close to dying to walk in under their own steam. A young male nurse manned the triage desk.

"A white male, head injury from an assault just came in?"

He nodded. "Treatment room three."

"Thanks." Jim headed toward the back, dodging stainless steel carts being pushed by technicians and an overweight blond who read from a chart she carried instead of watching where she was walking.

Treatment room three was empty. The blood stained paper sheet told of its recent occupant. A short guy wearing headphones and bobbing his head to tinny strands of electric guitar had just started cleaning.

"Where's the guy that was here?" Jim demanded, holding his badge out.

"Off to get some pictures of his head, man."

Jim pushed off the door frame in frustration, looking down the hospital corridors branching away from him in three directions. His knowledge of the hospital stopped in ER. He had no idea where to find his roommate now.

"Great."

"All done."

Blair breathed a relieved sigh. Cat scans had never been his idea of a fun time. Holding still when your head was trying to explode proved torturous. They wouldn't let him sleep, kept prodding him awake as the table slid him in and out of the large, white alien-looking donut thing that took pictures.

At least the stitches part was over. A doctor had cleaned his wound, given him shots that burned and started with a needle and thread. Feeling the small tugs as he had tied the knots but not feeling any pain associated with the procedure produced a detached, `this-isn't-really-happening' feeling which Blair still found hard to shake.

"Here you go," the orderly said brightly as he wheeled Blair's bed into a room.

"No," Blair muttered upon seeing he was not back where he'd started in the ER treatment room. This was a regular type of hospital room for patients that ended up staying for days. "I'm not checking in... going home."

"Sandburg," Jim's voice said in Blair's head. "Relax and let them take care of you."

"Get me outta here, man," he begged.

A fuzzy Jim-face leaned over the bed. A hand - strong, large, and warm - gently gripped his shoulder. "You got knocked around good. You need observation."

Whoa, Jim was really in the room.

"Observe at home," Blair muttered, going for firm and determined and well aware he'd only managed slurred and pathetic. "Wanna leave."

"No can do. Tell me about the attack. Who did this?"

Blair swallowed, his throat still raw from bile. "Don't... know. Too dark. Somebody hit me, from behind."

"How many?"

Sudden exhaustion, shaded with disappointment that he had to stay made talking difficult, weighing down his chest with disappointment. Added to that, his vision seemed to be swimming. Blair closed his eyes, his breath hitched. "Don't know," he whispered.

Jim must have understood. The hand was back, offering comfort that Blair realized he craved the second it arrived. He relaxed as his shoulder was grasped, then the fingers moved to the back of his neck and lightly massaged. Jim's words were like a soothing balm. "Okay, okay. Don't worry about it. You just rest and get better. Simon's got men on Nully. We'll bring him in. Meanwhile I'll take care of everything. Just relax."

Jim's voice was the last thing he heard.

Simon Banks looked up from his budget report. Jim Ellison hadn't left yet. With a grunt that always seemed to come whenever his football damaged knee acted up, he rose and walked out into the bullpen.

"I thought you were picking up Sandburg today."

Jim closed the file he'd been reading and checked his watch. "I am. Just needed to review the notes from Taggart's interview with Nully again."

"Anything new?"

"No," Jim answered as he stood, lifting his jacket from the back of his chair with a hooked finger. "He still claims he was home in bed when Blair and DeLaughlin were attacked. Says he had nothing to do with it."

"Too bad his live-in was cooling her heels in a detox cell." Simon grinned.

"That's sort of what's got me bugged, sir. Nully's scum, but he's not stupid scum. Why attack DeLaughlin when his alibi wasn't available."

"He's stupid enough to already have two strikes against him."

"True," Jim answered as he slipped into his coat and shrugged it onto his shoulders. "Guess I'd better head over to the hospital before Sandburg tries hitchhiking back to the loft."

Simon nodded. "I'll see you Monday. Enjoy your long weekend."

"Let me know what happens at Nully's bail hearing later today, okay?"

Simon raised his right hand as if taking an oath. "I'm personally going to be in the audience to watch. It's on my schedule."

"Thanks, Simon."

"You ready? Doctors sign you out?" Jim asked.

Blair nodded, sliding off the mattress to stand cautiously, one hand using the bed's rail for balance. His hair appeared to have had only a cursorily pass with a comb, rusty flakes still matted the roots near the hairline above his left eye. Skin pale and eyes sunken in pain, Blair didn't even have a welcoming smile in place.

"Yeah. Thanks for picking me up. You can drop me off and get back by one."

Pausing in his examination of the tiny closet for anything Blair might have missed, Jim frowned at his friend. "I've got the rest of the day off; cashed in some comp time."

"Why?" Blair looked confused.

"Sandburg. The doctors don't even want you walking out that door yet. I'm not going to let you stay alone. You're recovering from some pretty serious head damage."

"I'm okay." Blair gave Jim a weak shove. "I want out of here. Come on."

Blair remained quiet during the drive to the loft. Figuring the kid didn't have enough energy to track a simple conversation, Jim let the silence last all the way till they stood inside their home with the door locked behind them. Blair stood in the center of the large room looking uncertain.

"What's your pleasure? Sofa or bed?" Jim asked from the kitchen. He picked up the tea kettle and started filling it.

"I should get some work done," Blair responded dully.

"Give yourself a break. Rest."

"I've been doing nothing but sleep for the last thirty-six hours." Blair hung his head, both hands massaging his temples. "But, I guess your right. I'm gonna lay down."

Just when you think an anthropologist can't be trained.

Jim returned the full kettle to the stove, catching Blair in the act of shuffling toward his room. One hand trailed the back of the wooden chair while his other hand stretched out into space. Jim dropped the kettle with a clatter and rushed to intercept his friend.

"What the hell?" He caught Blair by the shoulders, turning him. Bending down to get eye to eye, Jim searched Blair's face for a clue. "Do the doctors know how bad your vision is, Sandburg?"

"Calm down, Jim," Blair answered, patting Jim's arms to soothe. "Everything's okay. My vision is... muddled just a little. The doctor's said to expect it. It'll get better. Just some swelling or something."

"I'm calling your doctor." Jim took Blair by the arm, propelling him forward toward his room.

"No, you're not." Blair followed obediently, but kept his spine stiff, his expression mulish. "I'm perfectly able to talk to my doctor about my own health. I haven't needed a mommy for over ten years."

"I'm not trying to replace your mommy, Sandburg."

They arrived in the cluttered room. Computer disks littered his desktop. A leaning notebook tower rose from the floor, threatening to spill. The stack of folded shirts and jeans covered the top of his dresser. Crude bowls formed out of mud-colored clay and rattles carved from gourds with small feathers tied to the handles by rawhide strips fought for space on the textbook crowded shelves.

Stacking his exotic collection of throw pillows on top the folded clothes - because Blair had made it clear to anyone who cared they were priceless - Jim cleared the bed.

"Wake me up in three hours?" Blair toed off his sneakers. He wore old sweats that had seen enough washings to reduce them to pajama weight.

Jim held the covers open, waiting until Blair had climbed in before answering. "We'll see."

"Jim, I've got grades, a paper and two articles that are due by the end of this week."

"If you aren't well enough to walk across the loft without a Seeing Eye dog, how the hell are you going to do all that? Now rest."

Blair rolled away to face the wall.

Jim opened the door later that afternoon to see Gary DeLaughlin standing in the hall, his right hand still raised, ready to knock.

"Oh, were you going out? Is this a bad time?"

"No," Jim answered, stepping back "Come on in. Sandburg is sleeping."

DeLaughlin entered the loft. He held a grocery-sized brown bag. Looking around with a curious expression that reminded Jim of the first time Blair had seen the place, DeLaughlin nodded in approval. "Real nice. Wish I could afford a place like this."

"The pipes knock and you can feel the dampness seeping in through the bricks. We get a draft that compares to a jet stream in the winter," Jim answered with a straight face. "But it's home. How's the leg?"

"Better, don't even need a cane anymore." Gary grinned as he thrust out the bag. "Here. This is for Blair."

Jim took the bag and peeked inside. Fresh fruit and a can of mixed nuts along with a few king-sized chocolate bars. "Thanks."

"Welcome." Grinning like an awkward teenager DeLaughlin looked around the loft again.

The last thing Jim wanted was a rookie hanging around, but the guy was obviously hoping for an invitation. He relented. "You want to watch the game? It's almost over, but the score's close and it's been pretty decent." Jim nodded toward the muted TV. "I'm supposed to wake Sandburg up in half an hour. He'd probably like to visit."

"If that's okay." Looking at the sack in Jim's hand, DeLaughlin crooked a smile. "There's some beer at the bottom."

"Now you're talking." Jim returned the smile. "We've got frosted mugs in the freezer."

Later, the game was over. The can of nuts had been opened and tested. Jim stretched out comfortably. "Sandburg says you take classes at Rainier."

"Yeah, night stuff. Hard when you work shift hours, but I should get my masters next year," Gary answered. He'd settled in, relaxing. He pulled on the corner of his beer label. "Dad thinks it's foolish, actually."

"What, college?" Jim tilted his head. "Didn't he go?"

"Nah, he started as a beat cop, said he got his smarts on the street. I guess he was a pretty good student."

"Yeah, well, your old man's a hell of a cop," Jim admitted.

"I know." Gary sighed, his gaze going to the afternoon sky beyond the windows. "Better than me, that's for sure."

"You're still learning, Gary. Your father had a lot of experience under his belt when he started in Major Crime." Jim remembered a half buried fact. "Wasn't he one of the originals in the unit?"

"Yeah, Cascade's local hero. Cop of the year three times." Gary smiled briefly. "I know one thing for sure; he never would have let someone get the drop on him like I did." His knuckles whitened on the beer glass. "Twice."

"I disagree; bad things can happen to even local heroes," Jim said. "I'm sure you've been thinking about the attack, maybe going over it in your mind. Have you remembered anything new?"

"No, not that might help us." Gary set the mug down on the coffee table with a sigh. "I remember footsteps. I turned and saw a shadow. He went for Blair first. Why? It was over so fast. Blair was down by the time I could get an arm around his neck."

"What's your gut feeling? I read your statement. The physical could be Nully." Jim leaned forward, the TV post game forgotten. "Use all your senses, not just your vision."

Gary closed his eyes, his body still. "I remember feeling like I was wrestling a locomotive. Nothing seemed to stop him."

"He say anything?"

"No, just grunts." Gary fingered the scabby abrasion on his cheek. I caught an elbow or something. Before I knew it, I was down. Just like before. A normal traffic stop one second, then I'm fighting for my own gun."

A bumping noise from under the stairs interrupted them. "Time to check on Sandburg. Excuse me."

Blair was sitting up, yawning as he finger-combed the mess away from his face.

"How you feeling?"

"Hey," Blair answered before a second yawn started.

Jim worked on untangling the blanket from his legs. "Gary DeLaughlin came by to visit with you. Up to seeing him?"

"Suppose." Movement measured in inches finally brought Blair to the edge of his bed. "Need to use the bathroom first."

"How's the head?" Jim waved his hand in front of Blair's face.

"It's okay." He batted away the hand. "What's Gary want?"

"Basically to know you're okay. I think he's feeling guilty."

"What's he got to feel guilty about?" Blair stood, swaying for a few seconds.

Jim waited to see if he'd topple. Instead Blair started shuffling toward the door so Jim followed. Blair greeted the guest and disappeared into the bathroom. Jim checked his watch. Blair had to be hungry by now.

"Gary, you like spaghetti?"

The young copy turned out to be a decent kitchen assistant. Blair watched and chatted from the kitchen table, fingers clicking away on his laptop. Jim browned the hamburger and started the sauce while Gary chopped the vegetables for a salad. The two younger men talked about classes and science fiction movies, making Jim feel older than he cared to admit.

"Come on, Sandburg, clear the table already," Jim ordered as he tested the pasta and finding it perfect. He used hot pads to lift the heavy pot from the burner. Gary already had the colander in place in the sink. "Watch yourself," Jim warned as he started to pour.

Gary stepped away.

"Let's eat in the living room," Blair suggested. "I'm all set up and everything."

Jim shook the last of the pasta free from where it clung to the bottom of the pan. He glanced over his shoulder at the evidence of Blair's academic sprawl. "No way, Sandburg. I'm not cleaning tomato stains off the sofa again. Pick it up."

Gary chuckled at Blair's exaggerated pained expression. "I'll help you, Blair." He walked around, glancing at the laptop screen. "Is that all you've got done?"

Hastily hitting keys, Blair cursed. "What happened?"

"You just deleted it," Gary said apologetically. "Hit the wrong key."

"Shit."

Jim watched his roommate continue to squint at the screen, like that cartoon character, the mole-guy that needed stronger glasses. Jim frowned, but kept quiet.

Dinner proved simple, but filling. Jim and Gary finished off every bite. Blair ate the half serving he'd insisted on, spending a lot of time twirling it around his plate while the other two men devoured two large helpings. When the meal was over, Blair carried his own plate to the sink. Jim moved to stand at his shoulder.

"You okay?"

"Jim, stop asking me that," Blair whispered back.

"Then start giving me an answer. Your vision's still not right, is it?"

Reaching to turn on the hot water, Blair's hand missed by several inches. He crabbed his fingers the wrong way, then swung back to finally make contact with the handle and turn on the water. Jim quickly turned it off again.

"That's it. You're lying back down."

"Jim."

"Blair."

"Guys?" Gary stood next to the doorway, his jacket in hand. "It's been fun, but I've got to split for a class."

"Hey," Blair answered, turning toward the doorway. "Thanks for the snacks. Glad you could hang out with us."

"My pleasure, really. Dinner was great." Gary put on his coat and offered a cheery wave to Jim. "See you both around." He slipped out the door.

"Okay, enough dodging." Jim turned back to face his friend. "How's the vision? No lies."

Blair tried to tug against Jim's hold, but the fight drained away as his shoulders slumped. "There's a little swelling."

"Swelling. What? Where?"

With a look of feigned impatience, Blair waved a casual hand. "Somewhere near the optic chiasm."

Panic hit Jim like an icy shower. "What? They let you out? Knowing about this? Shit, Sandburg!"

Flinching while trying to twist free, Blair pulled on Jim's right arm. "Calm down, Jim and watch the bruised shoulder, okay?"

Jim relaxed his grip slightly while firmly pushing Blair back into the kitchen chair. "Sorry, sit down a second and tell me what the doctor said."

Blair did. Hands that never seemed to stay still found an unused spoon on the table top and he fiddled as he talked. "I can't quote word for word, but the upswing is they don't know for sure."

Jim snagged another chair and pulled it close. He sat down facing his roommate, willing his own hands to stop their trembling. "Don't know what for sure? How bad is your vision? This is temporary, right? The swelling goes down and you see again."

"Yeah, probably." Blair tilted his head while taking a deep breath. "I can see, sorta, enough to know where the light comes from and darker shadows. But everything's skewed. It hurts my head to focus. And it moves around. Like before dinner, I could see part of the computer screen, off to one side. Now I'm just seeing fuzzy outlines."

"You're overdoing it. You need to rest your eyes, not try and work on reading or computers," Jim scolded. "When do you see the doctor again?" Recognizing the stubborn set of Blair's mouth, Jim continued in a rush. "Nah uh. Don't even start with that crap about naturopath medicine shit. Tree leaves are not enough this time."

"Jim," Blair sighed the name, his hands leaving the eating utensil to rub his temples. "My insurance coverage is bare-bone basic. I break my arm, I get a cast. I can't afford a specialist. Surgery or mega-dose corticosteroid therapy, it might as well be a trip to Saturn for me. I'm not going to get there."

Realization that Blair must have talked in length to a doctor about his condition dawned. It made sense. His friend would ask questions and research the problem. Anger rose. Why hadn't he shared this? "I thought we were friends, Blair."

"We are," Blair responded immediately.

"Then why the secrets here?"

"Listen, Jim." Blair leaned forward, catching Jim's arm and holding on tightly. "I know you don't want a blind partner, but there's still a chance my vision might come back."

"No, genius," Jim said. "That's not what I mean. I'm talking about letting your friends help you."

"Like how? Jim, I'm either going to get better or not."

"How can you be so damn calm about this?" Jim exclaimed hotly. "We're talking about the rest of your life."

"Believe me man," Blair whispered. "I'm terrified inside. This has got to be a temporary thing." His damaged eyes looked down at the hands folded in his lap. "And if it's not, well. I'll get out of your hair."

Jim closed his own eyes, not trusting himself to speak. He needed to remember this was Sandburg and the kid had a unique way of seeing the world. It didn't make it right or smart or wrong: just Sandburg's way.

The motor behind the refrigerator hummed. The old propeller shaped vent in the kitchen rattled against its housing as a gust of wind outside tried to find its way into the loft. Everyday sounds. It helped Jim find strength to remain calm.

"Forget that talk. You're not leaving. You need to rest. No reading or studying. Play some meditation mumbo jumbo and relax."

"I guess you're right." Blair stood up. "See you in the morning."

Jim waited until he'd shuffled into his bedroom and closed the door. Cleaning and dirty dishes could wait. He checked his watch. It was still early enough to catch Simon at home. He hoped. Jim snatched up the cordless and dialed.

If Blair was blinded - Jim found himself hating to even think about it - then the assault just got bumped up from misdemeanor to a felony. It was enough to justify more man hours on this case. The DA needed to know. The bail amount that Simon had called to tell him was set should be raised, even tripled.

Jim decided on a plan of action. He'd speak to Simon first, more make some calls. He knew people that might help. Men that he'd served with years ago, who had gone on to other occupations and hopefully had connections. If not, he'd call his father.

Someone had to know of a good eye doctor who could help.

"He's blind?"

Jim flinched. It was one thing to think it, quite another to hear it said. "Simon, he's not blind. He has a localized hemorrhage where his optic nerves cross."

"But he can't see anymore," Simon pushed.

"His vision is... skewed," Jim admitted finally.

They were sitting in a corner in a local Tully coffee shop, three blocks down from the loft. Jim had left a message on Simon's answering machine last night, not finding his boss at home. After spending most of the night on the phone, they'd connected when Simon had returned the call first thing that morning, waking Jim from four hours of sleep. Jim asked if Simon would meet him down the street and slipped out leaving Blair asleep. Hopefully he'd still be asleep when he got back.

"Skewed?" The Marionberry muffin paused halfway to his mouth. Simon gave Jim a dubious look. "What's that mean?"

"He sees bits and pieces at good times, lights and shapes during the bad."

"Jim, he's talked to doctors, right?"

"The doctor at the hospital."

"You're right, Jim. The prosecutor will want to upgrade Nully's charge. I'll talk to them. They've got till Monday afternoon to file the official charge. I'm sure they'll go felony."

"Nully's still in custody, right?" Jim asked.

"He was late last night. The judge went with a `cash only' bail based on his record. Nully's still claiming he's innocent." Simon's attention was distracted by a young couple entering the coffee shop. He shook his head. "I can't believe Sandburg might be blind."

The coffee burned Jim's throat like acid. He set the cup down and stood. "I need to get back to the loft. I'll call you later today."

"Okay," Simon said as he stood. He finished off his coffee, tossing the empty cup into the trashcan by the door as they walked outside. "Forensics is still sifting though the stuff they gathered at the assault scene. Maybe we'll get lucky and get a match to Nully."

"Neither Sandburg or DeLaughlin got their fingernails into his skin. Nully's bald, reduces the chance of bagging any hair samples." Jim escorted Simon to his car parked half a block down the sidewalk. "Our best bet is a witness."

"Or a confession." Simon unlocked his door. "Jim, tell the kid to hang in there, okay? That we're all thinking about him."

"I will." Jim clapped his boss on the back before stepping away. "Talk to you later."

Jim hurried down the block, crossing the street and heading up the steep sloped sidewalk leading to his building. The morning air was fresh and cold, with promises to warm up later. Joggers were out, middle aged couples walking their dogs and bikers wearing tight fitting clothes rolling past silently. The weekend exercisers getting their routines done early.

Jim skipped the elevator and jogged up the stairs. He knew the minute he opened the door that Blair was awake and out of bed.

"Chief?"

Blair stood in his boxers and T-shirt in front of the windows that overlooked the bay. His hair was loose around his shoulders. When he turned to face the door, Jim felt a chill.

"Hey. Where'd you go?"

"I met Simon for coffee." Jim moved slowly, talking softy. "How's it going? Any improvement with your vision?" He waved his hand before Blair's face.

"A temporary setback, man," Blair answered calmly. "I can feel the air movement. Knock it off."

"Setback? How bad?"

"Everything's gray. It's less gray over here." Blair licked his lips and smiled. He looked terrified. "Probably won't last very long."

"Hey Gary, what are you doing here?" Rafe asked.

Jim looked up from his work. Gary DeLaughlin stood in the center of the bullpen.

"I'm still on leave, but I wanted to help. I can read reports or whatever needs to be done." Gary met Jim's gaze. "I heard about Blair. He's in the hospital?"

Jim nodded. "Yeah, in Seattle. He's having some tests done. There's an eye specialist there." He set the phone down. "I'm picking him up after work."

"I want to help with the investigation."

Jim waved him over. "Sit over here. We've got plenty of things to keep you busy."

"Really?" Gary limped over, a small smile growing larger. "I can help?"

"Yeah, you can help. I'll smooth it with Simon." Jim picked up a stack of computer printouts. "These phone numbers match the credit card expenditures for the Roxie Theater during the week before your attack."

"Okay, I got it." Gary settled at the empty desk and pulled the phone near. "Nully's been charged with felony assault. Bail so high he won't be out until they transfer him to prison," Gary chuckled. "I looked over his record. He's going away forever."

Jim glanced over, one eyebrow raised. "You can ID him now?"

Gary blushed. "Ahhh, no. But I'm sure it was him."

"We still need a witness."

"Right." Gary ducked his head. "I'm dialing."

They worked until half past three in the afternoon. Lunch had been ordered from a nearby deli, delivered, and eaten at their desks. Simon wandered back during the afternoon, nodding at the additional help and disappearing into his office.

Jim rubbed his eyes wearily. He was getting no where. He needed a break and switched his attention to the personal accounts of his supposed suicide, Strobel, the executive. He'd made a point of putting in at least an hour's worth of work each day. He knew Strobel had been successful and wealthy. His ex-wife was beautiful but greedy, going for nearly half his assets in alimony. Strobel left a computer file that detailed his reasons for wanting to leave it all and end his life.

Jim had a hard time believing anyone would do a cannonball into an acid bath.

"This is odd." Jim flipped the pages.

"What?" Gary paused on his way back from the break room, setting a cup of coffee down on Jim's desk. "Here, fresh pot."

"Thanks."

"So, what's odd? You got something?"

"It's another case I'm working. Says here my suicide victim electronically transferred the bulk of his savings a month before killing himself."

"Why'd he do that?"

"I'm not sure." Jim drummed the top of his desk with all eight fingers. "I need to find out where that money went." He picked up the phone.

Blair sat, trapped in his gray world, shades of dark that contrasted with not so dark. It was a scary place to be.

Washington University's medical facility was second to none in the Northwest and he still couldn't believe he was here. Jim had been vague explaining his connections, but he couldn't find fault. Those connections had paid off. He'd spent the day being run through machines and examined by scores of doctors. It turned out cat scans were standard when confirming the diagnosis of optic canal fractures, but an MRI was superior in imaging the soft tissue and discerning hemorrhages and hematomas.

Or so he had been told.

Footsteps approached. Blair couldn't get used to the helplessness of not knowing who to expect. He played with the leather straps of his backpack and waited; his vision still insufficient to give his brain more than shadows.

"Hey, Sandburg."

"Jim!" Blair gladly gripped the hand on his shoulder, turning toward the welcoming sound. "When did you get here?"

"A few minutes ago. I went in early, worked through lunch so Simon let me slip out early," Jim said. "How'd you sleep last night? They treating you okay?"

"I'm ready to go home, man. The mattresses are hard and they're stingy with the blankets."

"Here you are, scoring free lodging and medical tests and you're giving me grief," Jim scolded with a smile in his voice.

"You're in time to hear the results. Doctor's due any second."

"Good."

Blair turned toward the familiar shaped shadow. "Jim? Whatever they say, man. Thanks for... all this and for not letting me give up."

"You're welcome. Here comes the doctor."

"Simon?" Jim turned toward the corner, the phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder. The noisy waiting room was a lousy place to make a call, but the hospital prohibited cell phone usage.

"What's the news, Jim? How's Blair?"

"He's good. The tests show an orbital bone fragment."

"Oh, shit! How's that good?"

An infant picked that moment to test his lungs and Jim plugged his free ear with a finger. "The doctors think surgery's the ticket. They're going to do it first thing in the morning. I need to stay in Seattle tonight. Sandburg's a little restless."

"Yeah, I'll bet," Simon replied. "You want me to join you? I can be there in two hours."

"No, stay in Cascade, sir. I'll call as soon as I get the word."

"Okay, tell the kid we're lighting a candle up here for him. Rhonda's got her church's prayer chain burning up the phone lines."

Jim grinned. "Okay, I'll call. Tell the gang thanks for me."

After hanging up, Jim followed the hospital's confusing corridors to the room number given to him by the nurse. He could hear Blair explaining to the nurse why he didn't really need to wear a hospital gown. She wasn't buying it.

Jim entered the room. "I'll make sure he has it on before he goes to sleep, ma'am."

"Jim, you're supposed to be my friend," Blair complained. He sat on the edge of his bed, one hand clutching his flannel shirt's collar protectively.

Jim waited until the nurse had left before patting Blair's knee. "You're slipping, Romeo. She was worth getting out of your clothes for."

"Really? She had a voice like gravel."

"Trust me; the rest of her was smooth." Jim picked up the gown. "Come on, get into this. You've got your robe with you, right? I packed it in with your stuff."

Blair let Jim help him into the hospital gown, growing silent as he got under the covers. When dinner arrived, he showed little enthusiasm in eating. Jim couldn't blame him. He'd seen more appetizing jail food. The room was private, with a TV suspended from the corner ceiling. A basketball game was just starting, the play by play easy to follow along.

"Jim?" Blair said after half an hour of listening to the game. "We need to talk about your Sentinel training."

"What about it?" Jim sat in a large, burnt orange chair positioned next to the hospital bed.

"If this surgery doesn't work, you're going to need someone to help you at the station. Does Simon know of a cop that we can trust to bring in? You need backup. Someone to help you in the field."

With the head of the bed raised, Blair's face was slightly elevated over Jim's. Blair fussed with the edge of his blanket, not making his usual play by play comments that Jim had grown used to hearing.

Jim leaned over and muted the TV.

"Sandburg, what kind of attitude is this? The surgery's going to fix this. You're going to be fine."

"You don't know that, Jim," Blair countered whisper-soft. "Maybe all the good karma I've had up till now has panned out. Maybe nothing's left but bad."

"Maybe you're just a little scared right now and your brain is feeding you crap."

Blair snorted.

"Chief, seriously." Jim caught Blair's closest hand and squeezed. "You've got a tiny bone chip messing with your vision. They'll take it out and you'll get better."

"Surgery," Blair said the word like it could bite. "It totally freaks me, you know? I'm going to be laid out like a slab of meat on a stainless steel table."

"You want to see, right?" Jim asked.

"You know I do."

"Then relax. These guys are the best of the best. I'll be waiting for you when you wake up. It's going to be fine." Jim patted his friend's hand before letting go. "You're just having a very understandable case of pre-surgery jitters. It's to be expected."

"Yeah?" Blair hands grew still, this attention completely on Jim.

"Yeah," Jim answered knowingly. He un-muted the TV and leaned back. "Now listen to the game."

Jim waited until Blair breathing evened out. The sound of the motor didn't wake him as Jim fingered the controls that lowered the bed back down to the flat position. Smoothing out the covers until he was satisfied his friend wouldn't get cold, Jim thought about his own advice. He did believe the doctors were the best, but too many hard knocks from life caused him doubt.

Blair spending the rest of his life... blind.

It staggered all reason.

The background noise, the hospital's own heartbeat, helped to soothe Jim's own fears: utility carts with squeaky wheels; machines that beeped, glugged and hummed; nurses talking in low tones to each other and to patients. These people were professionals. This place developed new procedures and trained people from all over the world. The doctor that had talked to them about the procedure had virtually radiated with confidence and sincerity.

So why did Jim continue to feel like he had to hold on tight? Like the world was about to stop turning and he and everyone he cared about was doomed to fly into space?

Blair huffed in his sleep and Jim straightened with a smile. He really needed to get some sleep. He tucked Blair's left hand under the blanket and left.

"Simon?" Jim stopped in surprise at the sight of his boss standing by the fish tank in the surgical wing's waiting room.

Simon Banks held out one of the two dark red Starbuck cups. "Figured the hospital could use someone to keep you in check while they worked on Sandburg. Have a latte."

Feeling as if he were still in his hotel bed asleep, Jim accepted the drink. "What are you doing down here?"

"Sitting with one friend," Simon explained patiently, "while another is having surgery. What does it look like? You don't think captains are allowed to use comp time or something?"

Dressed in brown corduroy slacks and a gray cotton polo, Simon was a sight for sore eyes. Jim smiled. "They're getting Blair ready for surgery."

"Will he come this way?" Simon asked looking down the corridor expectantly.

"No, there's a back hallway." Jim took an experimental sip. The coffee tasted good. He'd already downed two cups at the hotel, but it couldn't compare with Starbucks.

The tropical fish swam down the length of the tank and back with magical grace and Simon seemed mesmerized by the movement. He didn't look away as he spoke, "So, this is going to do the trick, right? The doctors are sure?"

"We're looking at a pretty delicate surgery, Simon," Jim explained. "It's risky. Sandburg had to sign disclaimers and waivers, but... yeah, this is his best chance."

"Good, that's good." Simon moved away from the fish tank and sat.

Jim took the adjacent chair. The waiting room was empty. Blair had the first time slot; actually the hospital had started early and bumped the scheduled line-up back to find the time. He'd been dreading this part, the waiting part. Now with Simon at his side, it didn't seem so bad.

"Oh, here. This came on the fax machine after you left yesterday." Simon handed over a folded sheet of paper.

"The Strobel case," Jim explained as he unfolded and read the contents. "Looks like my suicide turned the majority of his funds over to a collection of charities in Cascade."

"The guy that jumped into the acid bath?" Simon stretched his legs out. "That's not too uncommon. Getting their affairs in order. I once had a suicide, gal spent nearly five hundred bucks having a Maid Brigade clean her house from top to bottom. Then she walked into her garage and started the car. Sat there and breathed in toxic fumes." Simon shook his head. "Weird."

Jim read the information once more before folding the paper and slipping it into his pocket. He couldn't pinpoint what was bothering him about the Strobel case. It just seemed wrong. "He doesn't fit the profile of a suicide, Simon."

"You think it's murder?"

"I'm not sure. The guy was liked by everyone I talked to. Even his ex liked him. Course, she wanted to bleed him dry, but she told me she still loved him."

The distant sound of Blair's voice caused Jim to forget his case. "Sandburg's flirting with his anesthesiologist."

Simon chuckled. "She must be a cutie."

"Nah, the way he's feeling, he'd flirt with anything breathing."

"Feeling?"

"He doesn't show it, but he's terrified." Jim passed a hand over his cropped hair. "He's part comedian, part flimflam man."

"We talking about the same Sandburg, the loud mouthed kid you brought to me and passed off as a distant relative? By the way, did I ever tell you never to try lying to me again?" The spark in Simon's eye did a bit to ease the sting of his warning.

"Sorry about that. I was desperate to get a handle on this sentinel thing." Jim sipped his coffee. "As to Sandburg's personality, I know he appears confident and most of the times he is. But he can also be a master at covering up his fears and doubts." Jim thought about Maya's last visit in the loft. The Blair she left behind had seemed young, unsure and abandoned.

"Yeah, guess I forget sometimes how young he is." Simon tossed the empty coffee cup into a corner trash bin with ease. "Two points, nothing but net."

Jim grabbed the change of topic. "Did you see that game? Could you believe Orville's jump last night?"

Blair's first impression of wakefulness was wispy. Muffled sounds and floating, then quick shards of pain that made him whimper. Warm hands patted his upper arm. The pain released him and he drifted into nothingness again.

The second impression was of Jim's voice. He sighed and relaxed, wondering why the loft was so dark. It must be early, which meant he had plenty of time to sleep before classes yet. He smiled; nothing quite like waking early and knowing there was still time to sleep.

"Come on, Sandburg. You've slept long enough."

Never long enough.

Then small observations began to seep into his sleep-heavy brain: the stiff mattress, the plasticy feeling of overstarched sheets, something thin and cord-like draping over his bare thigh.

He was in a hospital.

Eye surgery!

"Easy, easy."

Fear checked in, right on cue. Damn, his throat hurt. Every muscle in his body was dead. "Nnnnnuuuhhhhh."

"You're okay." Jim's words sounded like they came from the opposite end of a long pipe. "The surgery took a little longer than they expected, but the doctor says it was text book. Everything's fine. Do you remember him talking to you a little while ago?"

A deeper voice rumbled nearby, familiar but out of place. Grunting a negative answer, Blair slurped in the icy coldness that touched his lip. Wetness soothed the rawness within. He swallowed and opened his mouth for more.

The deep voice came again, sounding amused. Jim answered. "It's the intubation tube, Simon, does a number on a windpipe."

Blair sucked the second helping of ice, his head trying to understand what Simon Banks was doing here. Was it his imagination that the darkness seemed blacker, more solid now? He found the strength to raise a hand to his eyes. Jim caught it halfway and Blair grunted.

"Just take it easy, okay? Gentle." Jim turned his fingers loose.

Bulky packing that felt miles away from his skin wrapped his head. Blair expected it, but it still scared him.

"Listen to me, Blair. The surgery was perfect. Everything will be fine. You just need time right now. You'll heal and they'll take off these bandages."

Blair cleared his throat, determined to speak clearly. "W-when can..." He paused, realizing that sound really was his own voice. It sounded so bizarre. "... I go home?"

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