The doctors insisted on a hospital stay that lasted a torturous day longer than he'd first been told. Blair didn't like it. Each meal, each drop of medication through his IV had a price tag and he didn't have that kind of money. Finally the time to leave arrived and Jim was leading him toward the parking garage.

"Is it raining?" Blair asked as a splash of moisture hit his arm.

"No, we're walking next to faulty sprinkler," Jim answered. It's sunny, not a speck of clouds in the sky, perfect Seattle weather."

"Seattleites hate perfect weather. They say it brings the Californians up in droves," Blair said with even delivery, fighting the unexpected terror that had hit when they'd first emerged from the hospital. Jim walked half a step ahead, his left arm Blair's lifeline in his vast ocean of darkness. Blair focused on keeping calm. Put one foot in front of another. Trust Jim to keep him from walking into walls, out into streets - god, the speeding cars had to be inches away - or falling into open manholes.

"Another anthropology paper, Einstein?"

"Hey, I got an A plus. The professor was a native. Hated California."

"And you knew this of course, right?"

"Hey, man. It pays to know your professors."

"Here we are, Einstein. Watch your head."

The familiar touch of the inside of the passenger door was like a family reunion to his fingers. Blair climbed into his place with a sigh.

"Buckle up."

"Right," Blair answered, feeling suddenly upbeat and happy. He was going home.

"What's so funny?" Jim asked as the truck bounced on its shocks. The driver's door closed and the engine started up without a hitch.

"Nothing, just happy to be out of there." Blair patted his dirty hair back, checking his pony tail. He couldn't wait to get it washed. "I've got to call Rainier when we get to Cascade."

"Don't expect to jump back into your normal schedule, Sandburg," Jim warned.

The truck moved back then forward and they were underway. What a weird feeling, not knowing which way the vehicle was going to turn. Blair braced himself between the middle console between the seats and the passenger door.

"How's work?"

"It's fine," Jim answered, sounding grumpy. "I'm serious. You're supposed to be resting. Don't take any chances with your vision."

"I'll rest, man," Blair explained patiently. "But I'm allowed to talk, right? I need to talk to my sub, make sure everything's okay. I didn't get a lot of time to explain things. And I need to check in with my advisor, see where I'm at. I've got timelines, ya know?"

"I know. But given the choice between your vision and which year you earn your doctorate, take the first one."

Their speed picked up and Blair guessed they were now northbound on Interstate Five. Blair couldn't fault Jim's logic and his concern warmed him. In the unspoken truce that grew between them, the familiar strains of Jim's favorite Santana tape filled the cab.

"Jim, I'll figure out a way to pay you back." Blair cleared his throat, unsure of how to say the next part. "It's huge, man. No one has ever..."

"I thought I explained that before, Sandburg. Friends do this stuff for each other."

Blair snorted. "Maybe, man. But I will pay you back."

"You might not have to."

"Excuse me?" Blair turned toward Jim's voice, a habit that kicked in without him realizing. He felt his face heat. "What are you talking about? I know I got in on some indigent program at the university, but it still had a fee. I signed papers with five digit figures at the bottom. I saw you writing checks, man, covering the part that I couldn't. I am paying you back. I don't sponge."

"Whoa! Whoa! Hold up a second."

The truck was slowing down now. When Jim spoke again they were stopped.

"Okay, first of all, I never meant to insinuate you don't carry your share. I know you're good for the money. I trust you. What I'm telling you is that Simon and I have been sorta busy."

"Busy? What are you talking about?" Blair shook his head from side to side. The darkness didn't move or slosh around. "Tell me you two aren't organizing Blair Bake Sales or Sandburg Garage Sales. I don't think I can take it."

Jim's laughter came from deep within his gut, rich and infectious. "I like the bake sale idea, Skippy."

"Jiimmmm," Blair growled.

"Listen, no sales," Jim promised, his tone serious again. "This is what happened. Simon went to the police guild. He made a very discrete speech."

"Oh, god."

"Wait, hear me out. The guild has a fund for this sort of thing."

"I'm not a cop, Jim. That's for fellow cops."

"And families, okay? You and I aren't blood, but you are my partner. To cops, a partner is like a brother. You know that. Anyway, even aside from the family issue, I don't think you realize what that Kincaid case did for your reputation at Cascade PD."

"What?" Now Blair felt in the dark in more ways then one. How did nearly pissing in his pants give him a reputation to be proud of?

"Your stunt in that helicopter literally put Kincaid in prison. Your bravery in the bullpen when that lunatic was shooting up the place saved lives. Hell, the spouses of those cops being held hostage couldn't get their checkbooks out fast enough when they found out about your operation."

"Jim! I ran around the station for hours hiding behind shit. I blabbed any lie that came into my head to keep from getting shot. I'm not a hero."

Jim's quiet chuckles started halfway through Blair's protests. "You kept Kincaid and his men busy and off center. You did great. You gave him yourself as a hostage, so he didn't take Rhonda or Daryl. Face it, you're a damn hero."

"Not on purpose!"

"The true heroes never do things on purpose. You think on your feet and follow your gut. You are a hero." Jim patted his arm. "So what do you say? Let the Cascade Police Department and their families offer to help. Just this once?"

He still liked the idea of a bake sale.

The phone rang and he snatched it up. "Ellison."

"How'd it go?" Simon asked.

"Good, he's home and sleeping." Jim moved around the living room, picking up the empty plates and glasses from their lunch. "I told him about the guild's decision. He's shell-shocked."

"I'll bet. Hey, something weird is going on with the DeLaughlin case."

"What?"

"A surprise witness just popped up."

Simon didn't sound pleased and Jim grew suspicious. "Someone saw the attack on Sandburg? They can ID Nully?"

"No doubt about it, the guy picked out Nully. Only he didn't see the assault. He delivers pizza for some mom and pop company with late hours," Simon explained without explaining.

"What's pizza got to do with this?" Jim asked.

"Everything. Nully ordered pizza the night DeLaughlin and Sandburg were attacked, exactly an hour before the attack. It took forty-five minutes for Coulter to get to Nully's apartment where he says a very drunk Nully paid for the pizza, stiffed him a tip and slammed the door in his face."

Jim sank into the yellow chair by the fireplace, mentally doing the math. "Shit, Simon. Nully lives over half an hour from that theater. He's not our suspect."

"There's an emergency hearing in two hours. The prosecutor will be moving to dismiss the charge before the city's sued." Simon sounded like a man having to tell a flood victim the forecast called for rain.

"Why are we just now hearing this!" Jim hissed out of clenched teeth.

"Nully was admittedly drunk that night. He forgot. Some public defense investigator interviewed him, asked the right questions and made the connection."

"We're back to square one on this case," Jim realized darkly, his focus on Blair's closed door.

Blair was surprisingly mellow when Jim explained the latest twist in the case. The white gauze that circled the younger man's head and covered his eyes still took getting used to. Sitting at the kitchen table, he calmly shredded pre-washed iceberg lettuce into their large salad bowl. Blair had insisted on helping with dinner, offering to cut vegetables. Jim's answer had been firm and final; no way. The lettuce had been a compromise.

"We never had proof it was Nully, Jim," Blair reminded him.

"Sandburg, in my experience, if it walked like a duck..." Jim finished chopping the last tomato, adding the pile with the diced bell peppers for Blair to add when he was ready.

Blair snickered.

"Someone's coming," Jim announced as he wiped his hands on his apron. "Simon."

"Hope he's hungry."

In spite of the amused expression on Simon's face upon seeing Jim's floral apron, Jim offered the invitation to join them for dinner. With a third set of hands the schedule for dinner was bumped up.

Simon updated them on Nully's release. He mixed the butter with the garlic salt. Jim handed him the rubber spatula they used for slathering the butter on the French bread. "How's the Strobel case going? Rhonda said you brought the files home. Anything new?"

Blair groaned. "How come we're always eating when we talk about this? It's gross."

"I don't know, Sandburg, at least this case didn't take up space at the morgue," Simon joked.

"Ick. Cop humor, man." Blair shuddered. "I might prefer death by acid."

"I reached Strobel's sister when we got home from the hospital." Jim took the salad and tossed it carefully with a wooden pair of claw-like things that Blair had found last month at an arts and craft fair. "She said he shipped her his collection of jade figurines."

"Expensive?" Blair asked as he bit the end off a carrot that never made the salad bowl.

"To the tune of fifty thou."

"Wow. Nice gift."

"I take it she feels guilty," Simon guessed.

"Actually, she's in denial. Say's her brother would never kill himself," Jim said. He set the salad on the table and checked the oven. The bread was ready. He reached for the hot pads. "He liked his job; spent all his vacation time in a small coastal village in Mexico. No one at his job or in his family knew he had plans to end his life."

"So, what, it's murder?" Blair asked as he chewed.

"All I know is I'm not willing to close that case yet," Jim answered. "Let's eat."

The crash woke Jim. His hand reached for his hidden gun before his brain kicked in. The loft was dark. The clock by his bed told him it was nearly three in the morning. A familiar curse identified the cause of the noise.

Blair was up. No other heartbeat met the sentinel's ears.

"Sandburg?" Jim sat up, twisting to see Blair below, on his hands and knees next to the storage box behind the sofa.

"Sorry," Blair answered.

Jim frowned. Blair sounded upset. Folding back the covers, Jim reached for his robe. He padded down the staircase barefoot, ignoring the dark state of their home. He could see just fine and Blair wasn't in any position to know if the lights were on or off.

"What's happened?"

"Nothing. Everything's cool." Blair remained on his knees. Hair trapped under the head bandage that protected his eyes, Jim could see his face; see the misery reflected in the tight mouth and the clenched jaw. "Go back to bed, man."

"Hey." Jim knelt down, seeing the broken clay vase that had, up until a few seconds ago, held an honored position on the makeshift table. "Careful, some of those edges are sharp. Let me."

"Damn it, Jim!" Blair said with a sudden hiss. "Let me!"

Jim pulled back, finding Blair's anger unexpected.

"Give me some space, man," Blair continued in a controlled voice. "I'm... like, going to need to get used to this."

"This?" Jim sat on his hunches, watching.

Sure enough, Blair's hand took the wrong approach and his jerked his hand back. Jim smelled blood, but he remained quiet as Blair cursed again and stuck his injured finger into his mouth. He rocked back to sit on the loft floor, both legs sticking out, his knees bent. Blair slapped his good hand down on his left knee, quietly cursing around his finger.

Jim waited until the loft grew quiet again before speaking. "So, what are you doing up?"

Blair removed his wet finger and wiped it carefully on his sweat clothed leg. He stuck it out. "How bad?" he asked with a sigh of acceptance.

The cut was only a quarter of an inch long, curved shaped. Jim resisted the natural inclination to visually fall into the canyon-type ridges that swirled on the end of his finger tip. "I'll get you a bandaid in a minute. You're fine," Jim assured him.

Blair leaned forward, his curled hands trapped between his chest and his thighs. "Jim, I'm blind."

"Right." Jim scratched an itchy spot under his nose. "Until those bandages come off in a few weeks, that's right."

"What if..." Blair whispered, his thought falling away.

Jim got it. Blair was playing a mental game of `what if'.

"You're borrowing trouble, Blair. Your surgery went off without a hitch. Your swelling will go down. You will see again."

Blair was rocking now, small movements that would be missed if not studied carefully. "I'm not so sure."

"I am."

"You can't be."

"Why not?"

"Because... " Blair licked his lips and tucked his head, resting his forehead on his knees.

"Sandburg, I know waiting is hard," Jim said. "But you'll drive yourself crazy if you don't relax."

"I keep thinking of that song, you know? The one where the guy says his future's so bright, he needs dark glasses." Blair's voice was muffled. "I'll need the glasses and a white cane."

Jim knew the song, deceptively upbeat until you realize the singer was referring to a post nuclear world. Blair was right; the future wasn't a sure thing. The odds were in Blair's favor, but slim odds sometimes become reality.

"Listen to me, whatever you see or don't see when they remove those bandages, we'll deal with it," Jim promised.

Blair lifted his head and rested his chin on his right knee. He wore a thin T-shirt with his sweatpants. The cool night air produced a crop of goose bumps on his upper arms. "How can I help you with your sentinel ability if I'm blind, Jim?"

"Hell, Kid. Just your voice centers my senses," Jim said with a chuckle. "Didn't you know that?"

"Get out," Blair fired back, sounding surprised, and for the first time in the last couple days, academically interested.

"It's true."

"No, you did not tell me that." Sitting up straight, he reached out and snagged Jim's arm with his first try. "Since when?"

"Don't bleed on me, Sandburg." Jim slowly climbed to his feet, tugging Blair up with him. "Time for that bandaid, I think, then a cup of hot tea, then you're going back to sleep." He towed Blair toward the bathroom where the first aid kit lived under the sink.

"I'm bored."

Jim looked up from reviewing his report. Day two since arriving home from the hospital, big surprise. That hadn't taken very long. Blair stood in jeans and his `going out' flannel over a light blue thermal shirt. His pristine bandage freshly changed following a shower.

"You want to go out," Jim stated.

"Yeah."

"Where?"

Blair shrugged. "A drive? Just get me some fresh air. The radio says it's a nice day."

Jim finished straightening his Strobel notes. He closed the file and slipped all of it into his leather messenger bag. "Okay, Caruso. Let's go find something to do."

Blair pointed down to his socks. "First, can you help me find my shoes?"

Jim retrieved one Nike from under Blair's futon. The other he had to track down by scent, ending on his hands and knees and reaching under the sofa. "You know, Sandburg. If I'm going to keep my sanity while those eyeballs of yours are covered up, we're going to have to develop a system for your stuff."

"System?" Blair said as he dropped to the floor to wrestle a foot into his sneaker. "I don't need a system. I've got super-nose to find them."

"Super-nose does not want to keep sniffing the dog shit you stepped in last week." Jim waited until Blair finished with the first shoe before setting the next one down, close enough that Blair could feel it with his toes.

"Hey, I cleaned that off!" Blair insisted.

"Super-nose knows all."

The day was pleasantly cool with white clouds drifting in from over the ocean on toward the Cascade Mountains. The breeze carried a hint of salt and a promise of warm summer days to come. Jim walked with measured strides, Blair on his left arm. Blair lifted his chin and breathed in, his face relaxed. Neither man had spoken of the night on the floor with the broken clay artifact.

Unlocking his Ford, Jim opened the passenger door and waited for Blair to climb in. Once they were on the road, Blair spoke. "Where to?"

"I figured we could hit that shop down by the ferry terminal. Simon's birthday is coming up," Jim answered. "Want to go in with me on a chocolate, coffee and cigar basket?"

"Great idea, Jim."

The Gold Dust Trail Emporium was one of Jim's favorite shops. Nearly a hundred years old, the two story brick building on the water had originally been a mercantile store for pioneer Cascade. Clipper ships had docked next to the store, unloading wares from California and from around the Horn. Loggers and brave pioneers on their way to dig out their fortunes from the Alaska mountains stopped in to buy supplies. Over the years the brick mortar had needed patching, but the structure had weathered the years. Faint traces of an old Bull Durum advertisement painted directly on the exterior wall was a local landmark and the subject for many local photographers.

"Three steps up," Jim said as they neared the front door.

Once inside, Blair stood still with a delighted smile on his face. He took a deep breath. "Wow, if it looks as great as it smells..."

"Yeah, I know." Jim sniffed the air with appreciation. A smorgasbord of smells filled his nose. Jim's brain struggled to tell them apart. Each scent brought its own pleasurable memory: the taste of creamy rich chocolate; the tingling of cinnamon on his tongue; earthy fragrances of expensive cigars; exotic woods that reminded him of his days in Peru; coffee beans with oils so rich he could imagine the caffeine already mingling with his system.

The store was a visual treat as well, although Blair wasn't currently in a position to appreciate it. Later, Jim thought, when the bandages come off for good he'd bring Blair back to visit. Jim surveyed the long, wide room. Shelves lined the center floor, baskets hung from turn of the century thick oak beams, exotic candies against the right wall, near the dark wooden clerk's counter. The store had few customers, typical for morning weekdays.

"Welcome to Gold Dust. Have you been here before?" a short woman asked, her mousey brown hair twisted into an attractive bun and held in place by a lacquered chop stick.

"Yes, ma'am. Though it's been a while," Jim answered.

"Well, wander around. We have a new shipment of tea services, just got them on the shelf this morning. Let me know if I can assist you." She turned back to her computer screen.

"Chocolate first," Blair demanded, his face tilted up as he sniffed the air.

"Right," Jim said. He stepped forward, tucking Blair's arm closely to his own. "Keep close. We break it, we buy it."

They spent a pleasurable forty-five minutes. Jim read the labels of various delectables aloud until they filled a basket with thirty dollars worth of treats, a pound of coffee being the most expensive item. Blair decided Simon needed a treat from each major continent. On the way to the check out stand, they hit the cigar stand and spend as much on two cigars as they already had in the basket.

"Okay, you two gentlemen look ready," the woman observed as she accepted the purchase and starting ringing them up.

"This is a cool shop," Blair told her. He looked relaxed as he folded his hands on the high counter, looking ready to settle in for a long chat. "Do you own it?"

"My family does," the woman answered. "We've had it for three generations. I like the work, but this year we've started an internet service."

Blair tilted his head, forehead furrowing. "You don't sound pleased about that."

She nodded. "I'm not thrilled, no. I voted against it. This place doesn't need to turn into a mega business. What's next? Corporate offices and stockholders? I'd rather live on a desert island." She shot Jim an embarrassed grin. "Sorry, I'm still crabby about this. The internet orders alone are causing a crisis. I'm going to have to hire a small staff just to answer emails."

"I hear you," Blair told her. "It will change the dynamics of your store."

The conversation continued along similar veins until the purchase had been rung up, artfully arranged in an expensive basket, covered with blue cellophane and tied in a bow. They paid the bill, bade her goodbye and walked outside. Typically in the Northwest, a cloud blanket hovered overhead. Tiny drops of moisture touched their faces as they walked to the truck.

Mornings were the worst.

Blair lay in his bed having already suffered through the panic of waking to darkness, hands flying to the bandages, disappointment it hadn't all been some horrible dream, and finally acceptance. Even though the process was shortening each time, it left him tired and peeved with life in general.

Naomi would be breaking out the sage about now, Blair thought to himself as he listened to the everyday sounds of Jim in the kitchen. The curtain could not keep out the sounds, or the odor of fresh coffee and... yes, pancakes.

His clean clothes were still in the laundry basket at the foot of his bed. Jim had juggled a few loads after they had shopped for Simon yesterday. Blair dressed with care, fingers double checking his buttons. The first time he'd tried this Jim had stopped him at the front door and corrected his alignment. One button left over at the top and a buttonhole left over at the bottom had escaped his notice.

"Morning, Sandburg."

"Morning," Blair answered as he counted his steps and sat down at the table. "Coffee?"

A solid clunking sound on the table came a second before Jim's warning, "Careful, hot."

The coffee was strong and full of all the magic known to make a new day bearable. "Thanks, what time is it?"

"After six." The unique popping sound of the old refrigerator door being opened, Jim was probably getting eggs to go with the pancakes. "How hungry are you?"

"Starving," Blair answered honestly.

"About time." The refrigerator door closed, the metal catch clinking dully.

Blair didn't comment. Eating hadn't been high on his list lately; he'd been too freaked to care. He slurped his coffee slowly; unable to judge when the hot liquid had reached his lips.

"Here you go, pancakes with scrambled eggs. Syrup is on your right." Another `ceramic on wood' clunking sound right in front of him.

"Thanks, Jim."

They ate in comfortable companionship. Every once in a while Blair could hear the crinkling sound of a newspaper being folded. When Jim stood up to walk toward the coffeepot, Blair's cup was filled after Jim topped off his own.

It was another day at the loft, only dark.

They ate breakfast in companionable silence. Eating involved some finger location of his food. Blair tried to be as discrete as possible. Before long his left hand was sticky with pancake syrup. It was like learning to eat all over again.

Jim's chair pushed back, a signal he'd finished. "We'd better get going."

Blair froze, pausing as he gathered up his own dirty dishes from the table. He swallowed. "Ah, work? Me? No... no, man. I'm going to hang here."

"Sandburg," Jim returned unsure sounding. "I'm not happy with that plan."

Before Blair could stop himself, he blurted out his first thought. "Hey, you know what? I don't need a babysitter." Shit, Blair felt like kicking himself. Jim didn't deserve that. Blair could image the `Jim-scowl' and the way his eyes narrowed in anger.

An unexpected touch on his arm threatened to propel him upward to cling from the roof with fingers and toes like a kid's cartoon character.

"Hey." Jim's tone was cautious. "I'm not saying anyone needs to babysit you, Sandburg. I'm just worried. Is that allowed?"

All the fight whooshed out of him. Blair sagged and let the dirty dishes go when Jim tugged them free. He swiped a sticky palm down his face. Damn. Now he'd have to wash again. "Sorry. I'm sorry, Jim."

"It's okay." Jim's voice was by the sink now. "If you want to stay in the loft all day, I understand. But - just so you know - I'm probably going to call once or twice to check on you."

"I'm down with that," Blair admitted. "I'm just not ready to let everyone see me... being led around. You know?"

"I know," Jim said. "I remember the Wilson case. That damn cold medication really messed with my vision on that train. I can't begin to imagine what it's like for you, Chief. But you've only got a little more than a week left before the bandages come off."

"Right." Blair rapped his knuckles on the table top once. He grinned at the subconscious gesture. "I'm cool with you calling, man. I'll listen to music and rest."

"I'll bring lunch back and we'll eat it together," Jim said.

"Where's Sandburg?" Simon asked.

Jim held his place on the motor vehicle readout with his finger as he glanced up at his boss. "Home, he's not up to being out for nine hours straight yet."

"Ah, right. Probably will have to ease into it." Simon balanced the edge of his leather portfolio notebook on Jim's desk. "You sure he's okay by himself?"

"Says he is. I'm calling him to check. He's got music and a few books on tape." Jim stood up. "Actually, there's something I wanted to talk to you about."

"All right, my office."

Simon waited until the door was closed and he had a fresh cup of coffee in hand before settling behind his desk with a sigh. "What's up?"

"It's the Strobel case," Jim began.

"I thought you were going to close that out."

Jim nibbled on his lower lip as he nodded. "I was, but a comment I heard yesterday got me to thinking."

Simon raised one eyebrow and waited.

"What if... Now, I know I sound like a cheesy plot in those romance novels Carolyn liked to read, but what if he's not really dead?"

That caused a look of confusion on the captain's face. "Not dead? We've got a video tape of him taking off his clothes and climbing up the ladder into the tank. We found his watch in the acid. Why would he go through all of that? There's no embezzlement, no criminal activity, the bulk of his money was transferred to charities. If he'd still alive, what's in it for him?"

Jim leaned forward. "A new life."

"Hi, Wally."

Jim rolled his eyes, the expression lost on the person he meant it for. "Is that how you answer the phone?"

"Nooooo," Blair answered. "But I knew it was you, Mister Rolex. You've been calling me at fifteen past the hour all day."

"I warned you, Beav," Jim teased.

"I know you did. But did you have to send Eddie by to check on me?" Blair answered with a snicker.

"What?" The joking was dropped.

"Uh. I thought I heard someone knocking earlier."

Jim frowned. "I didn't send anyone. What did they want?"

"I don't know, man. No one answered. Maybe I just heard the television," Blair guessed. "Anyway, what's new with the Strobel case? Did the Mexican authorities find him yet?"

"Nope. It's too soon. I'll probably hear back later this week."

Sounds of water running and the distinct clinking of a glass being set down on the counter drifted over the phone line. Jim checked the others, who were busy working at their desks. No one paid him any attention. Rafe picked that moment to stand and head for Simon's office. "What are you doing? The dishes? I told you to leave them."

"I know you did, man. But I'm bored. It's not like I've got a vast selection of things to keep me busy."

The kid had a point.

"Well, I'm thinking take-out tonight. No clean up. What do you want?"

"I get to pick? What's the occasion?"

"No occasion, I'm letting you pick."

"You feel guilty, don't you?"

Jim laughed. Blair was feeling pretty feisty again. "I haven't done anything to feel guilty about, Junior."

"Umm... Thai."

"Again?" Jim liked Thai food, but they'd had it once already that week. "What about that new Tex-Mex place that opened up?"

"You said I get to pick."

Silverware clattered.

"Fine, Thai it is. Call it in about four, okay? I'm getting off early."

"Will do. Hey, you left a chair pulled out from the table, man. Nearly took a header."

"What chair?"

"Oh, right, Wally. Gotta keep in character."

Jim gritted his teeth. "I didn't leave anything out. Are you sure you didn't do it and forget?"

"No."

This didn't make any sense. Jim didn't like it. "Did you let anyone in the loft today?"

"No."

"Did you open the door?"

"..."

"Sandburg?"

"I told you, I thought someone was there," Blair defended.

"And you opened it?"

"Yeah."

"Is the chain latched?"

"Jim."

"Blair," Jim growled.

A sigh preceded Blair's answer. "Yes, oh, paranoid one. The door is locked, latched and zipped up."

Jim could hear faint gurgling as the water ran through the sink's pipes. Jeopardy played in the background. One of Blair's Aborigine CD's played on low. Typical. It drove Jim nuts to have the TV and the CD player on at the same time.

"Your sense of self preservation boggles the mind," Jim said. "Now, don't open that door again until you hear me on the other side."

"What's the password gonna be?" Blair teased, his humor restored.

The familiar sound of a living room shade being lowered caused Jim to realize he had his dials still cranked high.

"How about something easy so you'll remember? Like, I'm gonna kick your ass when I get home."

Blair snorted. "Too long."

Yeah, Jimbo, you still have it. The kid was terrified.

A second shade was being lowered. "Sandburg, why are you closing the window shades?"

"I'm not."

A third shade activated, the one with the bad squeak. Blair's gasp twisted the sudden knife of fear plunged into Jim's chest.

"Lock yourself in the bathroom!" Jim demanded as he stood, sending his desk chair flying backwards to hit the wall. He waved his arms to catch Brown's attention. "Get units to my place! Now! Someone's inside the loft with Blair!"

"So, I'm thinking Thai for dinner followed by cheesecake, man." Blair's shaky voice sounded forced.

"That's it, Chief. You're doing good. Help's coming." Jim wanted to run out the door, but he'd called from the desk phone. Brown was making the call to dispatch. Rafe and Simon appeared from the office looking grim.

"I'm in the bathroom, Jim," Blair whispered with a shaky voice. "Door's locked."

"Okay, that's good." Jim searched Brown's face for a clue. He couldn't risk splitting his hearing between what was happening in the loft and the person on the other end of Brown's conversation.

Brown held up all the digits on his left hand.

"Help is five minutes out, Blair."

"JIM!" Blair's shout followed the sound of the door being ripped off its hinges. The second cry for help overrode the splintering sound of breaking glass.

"Sandburg!" Jim leaned over his desk, his free hand gripping the corner desktop.

The line went dead.

"Jim, systemically pissing off the entire forensic department to the point they all quit will not help us find Sandburg."

"Is that supposed to be funny?" Jim asked with barely suppressed anger.

Simon stood tall, not even winded from dragging a six foot plus police detective into the hallway for a chat. "Do I look like I'm trying to be funny? Either calm the hell down or I'm putting you into protective custody."

"I don't need protective custody," Jim fired back. His head pounded. His skin crawled with a fevered desire to do something, anything to find Blair.

"Putting you in lockup protects the team working inside the loft," Simon pointed out. The edges of Simon's glare softened. "Listen, I'm worried about the kid, too. But we need to keep our heads straight if we're going to find him."

Jim released a lungful of pent up frustration. Simon was right. "It doesn't make sense. Why would this wacko focus on Blair? Gary was the target."

Simon nodded. "And he's missing too. We've got the entire city looking for Nully, it's possible he's using an accomplice. We'll get him. Listen, Rafe found something just as this all went down -"

"Excuse me, sir?" A woman appeared in the open doorway to the loft. "We found something. In the bathroom."

Jim crowded into their small bathroom. The door hung on just the lower hinge, the frame splintered. The mirror was smashed. Jim shuddered to think of Blair cut and bleeding. Large dots of rust colored spots covered the floor and lower walls. The technician pointed to what looked like a partial foot print in the blood.

"Tennis shoe," she said with certainty.

"Not Sandburg's pattern." Jim sniffed the air. "What is that?"

The other two looked at him, puzzled.

Jim couldn't identify the smell, it was new. Didn't belong. "Are you wearing perfume?" he asked the woman.

"No." She frowned. "I don't smell anything."

It was flowery and familiar. Jim spotted the source. "There." A crushed, funnel-shaped, pink flower petal lay on the floor, behind the toilet base.

"Any idea what that's from?" she asked Jim as she picked it up with a pair of tweezers.

Jim shook his head. "No, it wasn't there before."

"I'm not an expert, but I think it's from a rhododendron," Simon noted slowly.

The tech produced a small plastic bag and dropped it in. "Too bad they're the state flower. I see them everywhere."

"True. However, there are hundreds of varieties," Simon explained. "Get that into the lab and see which one it is. Call that plant guy celebrity if you have to."

Jim backed out of the bathroom and took another look around his loft, his dark thoughts briefly remembering similar damage by Lash. Most of the technicians were pointedly ignoring him, a product from his earlier behavior.

A young man with short white hair squatted by one of the kitchen chairs lying on its side by the post, dusting for finger prints. He tensed his shoulders as Jim squatted down at his side.

"Sorry about that kid crack, Sanders."

Sanders looked up, his baby face relaxing into a worried frown. "We're going to nail this ass-hole, Detective Ellison. Blair is our friend, too. "

Jim swallowed hard and clapped the man's shoulder. "Thanks."

He stood, his gaze canvassing the details of Blair's fight with the kidnapper; two chairs on their sides; the cordless phone base broken on the floor; the ruined bathroom door; the small table by the front door upside down with one of the legs broken off. In the bathroom the strong smell of chloroform irritated Jim's nose.

There had to be another clue here somewhere. But first, what had Simon been telling him out in the hallway? He turned to his boss. "What did you start to tell me? Rafe found something?"

"A possible discrepancy in the description of that Chevy Blazer." Simon played with his unlit cigar, his left hand rolling it back and forth on the tips of his fingers and thumb. "Rafe was reading a later interview with DeLaughlin, he described it as blue in color."

"Not green." Shit, they had been focusing on the wrong damn car.

"Those two colors would be hard to distinguish from that time of the evening. The kid might have been in too much pain at the time to remember clearly." Simon shrugged unhappily.

"Or he doesn't really know," Jim pointed out glumly. "He's so damn young... His place was just as trashed?"

"Yeah, if not worse."

Jim walked around the damaged area. "I don't get it, Simon. Why the destruction out here? Blair was taken down inside the bathroom."

"Maybe he got away," Simon guessed. "Ran out here."

Except Jim didn't smell the chloroform in the kitchen area. It was strongest in the bathroom. Maybe the larger area helped to dissipate the fumes.

"Why the hell would this guy come for Blair, anyway? He already got his victim."

"I've got the rest of Major Crime going back over all the data. We'll find something, Jim."

Chewing on his upper lip, Jim reached his decision. "Listen, I need to go check out Delaughlin's place. Maybe with my -" He circled the air next to his head with his right hand. "I can pick something up to help us."

"Good idea, go. The technicians are still over there. Don't piss them off."

"Right."

Cold.

Unattached images drifted, disjointed and vague. Why was it so cold? It was hard to think, like a hangover. He knew better. Was he in the warehouse? No, can't be. He lived with Jim now. Nice, warm, loft. No dog-sized rats.

Oh, Shit! Lash!

Blair sucked in his breath. His head pounded, punishment for the sudden move. No, no, no. Jim came, found him. Lash is dead.

The missing pieces fell into place.

Someone had been in the loft with him.

The fight in the bathroom.

Then nothingness.

He flexed his hands and kicked weakly to test his freedom. The darkness no longer scared him. He wasn't restrained. That helped. Waking up in that warehouse in buckles and chains with Lash looming over him was not a position he ever wanted to be in again.

"ellooo," Blair croaked. His throat was dry and talking hurt. He laid his right hand, palm down on the rough floor and tried pushing his upper body off the cold. Tried and failed. Hell, he couldn't even raise his head. The surface he lay on felt grainy and hard, like a badly poured sidewalk. He let his fingers slide over the surface.

Cold concrete.

"Ellison," an older technician greeted with a curt nod.

"Jordan, anything?" Jim was glad to see him. They had known each other for years. As a senior forensic tech, Jordan was thorough and steady, and didn't have thin skin, like some of the new kids the department seemed to hire lately.

"Nope, and don't go pissing off my team. Already got a warning about you." Jordan looked up from his job of running a mini vacuum over an indigo-colored sofa. His heavy girth and double chin didn't slow him down at all. "I hear Blair's also been taken."

"Yeah." Jim looked around the small house. "What's safe for me to look at?"

"We've just finishing up inside. The rear door looked kicked in. Not much in the way of evidence inside. We're still hoping from some prints in the woods behind this place." He started coiled up the cord and tucked the machine into a large leather satchel. "You just missed Gary's old man. The guy's livid, the Chief was with him. They're bringing in the Feds. You need me for anything, I'll be out back."

Jim nodded and moved further into the dwelling. The furnishings were a mix of hand-me-downs of good quality and small bookshelves and pictures from Ikea shopping trips. Bits of broken lamp and clumps of dirt from an overturned potted fern littered the carpet. Jim placed his feet carefully as he looked for clues. Where had Gary lost the battle? He sniffed the air, finding no traces of chloroform in the air currents.

He moved down the short hallway, past a bathroom that had escaped damage and a door that led into a computer room. The last door was open. Jim found a king-sized unmade bed and an impressive collection of videos, books and CD's. Framed posters of different movies covered every bit of wall.

"A science fiction buff," Jim muttered. The rest of the room held nothing of interest; clothing, police manuals and extra bedding.

He could see the forensic crew through the bedroom window and decided to check on Jordan again. He found the man directing a team involved in taking photographs.

"Anything?"

Jordon shook his head. "Ground covering is too thick. The assailant might have come around from the front yard. There's no lock on the gate."

The greenbelt that ran behind the row of houses on the street was thick with evergreens, sword ferns and low bushes.

"Did you find any blooming rhododendrons?"

"No," Jordon answered without surprise. "We heard about that and checked right away. If it came from our guy, he didn't pick it up here. I've called for more personnel. We'll be going over this house all night."

"We know Gary must have been taken first," Jim mused out loud. Jordon stood patiently at his side. "We sent units here the same time Sandburg was being attacked."

"I concur," Jordan said. "The temperature inside the house matched the outside; the back door had been standing open for a while. What I don't get is why he'd go after Blair when he already had DeLaughlin."

"Wish I could tell you."

The rain fell gently, temporary stopped by his flannel shirt, then soaking him to the skin and stealing his body heat. It had to be dark outside. Blair could hear a chorus of frogs close by. Didn't they always wait until night time to sing? Besides he had been awake a long time.

Awake enough now to be truly scared.

He was in a concrete room with no roof. Feeling with icy cold fingers, he had located a small fist size hole that reached through the concrete to muddy earth, a place for the rain to go. The walls rose higher that he could jump. There was nothing for him to stand on, to reach any higher. The room was a little more than his arm-span wide and eight feet long.

An hour or so after his first inspection, Blair had realized he hadn't located a door frame. So he had searched again.

He hadn't missed it. There was no door.

That's when he got scared. He'd been lowered in from above. Then he fell upon the idea he might be in a pit, like one of those concrete vaults he sometimes saw utility workers use and his fear had tripled. Was this guy going to bury him alive?

He had called out, pleaded and finally screamed in anger until his voice had given out. Now he squatted in a corner, his arms around his wet shins and waited for the rain to chill his core.

A faint sound overhead brought his head up in trepidation. Sounds of tiny pebbles hitting the concrete floor nearby confirmed he was no longer alone. Blair curled into a smaller ball.

"Blair?" a familiar male voice whispered from above.

"Gary?" Blair rasped, lifting his head. "That you?"

"Shhh, man. It's me. You okay?"

"Get me out," Blair whispered urgently. He stiffly stood, patting the walls until he stood directly below the voice. He raised one hand and stood on tiptoes. "Here."

"Be cool," Gary said. "They're still here. I'll get a rope or something. Be back."

"Gary!" Blair hissed.

"Stay quiet, man," Gary answered sharply. "You'll get us both caught. They don't know I'm free yet."

Blair had no choice. He sank back down and shivered, his knees suddenly too weak to hold him up. Gary had been taken too? What the hell was going on?

When computer games first came on the market, Jim had been a young solder on leave. He'd played his first game during a Thanksgiving break. He'd been invited home to eat with a buddy's family and they'd made him feel welcome. A kid sister had showed him how to play the game, something about castles and caves and finding the treasure. You couldn't rise to the next level until you had found all the magic on the current level you were playing.

That's how it felt. Jim couldn't leave Gary Delaughlin's house until he had found every damn clue.

Jim stood in the back bedroom again, looking over the video boxes. Jordan's team still wandered about the house, doing their measuring, dusting and sketching. Jim frowned at the bookshelves of fiction and movies, seeing the same theme over and over again. Gary was hooked on action movies, with a bent toward science fiction.

Wandering back into the spare bedroom-turned-office, Jim slipped on a glove and started opening desk drawers. He had no idea what he was looking for. In fact he'd already done this once. The rain clouds had switched back to a hard shower. An occasional gust would send droplet smashing into the nearby window. Jim sorted through pictures he'd found in a box. He recognized Gary's old man and Gary himself as a teenager, shots of family vacations. Some destinations were landmarks like Disneyland and Sea World, others not so recognizable; inside homes with Christmas trees or back deck BBQs. Several shots were taken on some sort of farm. Gary's deceased mother had been nice looking, short and heavy through the hips, but her face had radiated with love for life.

Jim tossed them back, thinking about his slim collections of photos back at the loft. He had more pictures of himself and Blair taken together in their short time as partners than he did as a kid growing up. Maybe his old man had a few, but Jim doubted it.

Wandering back into the living room, Jim found Jordan in the act of packing up his tools.

"You still here?"

"Yeah," Jim answered with a frustrated sigh. "I'm missing something."

The senior forensic man nodded. "My money's on you finding it."

"Thanks," Jim muttered, wishing he had the same optimism. "I thought you guys were staying all night?"

"Dawn's a half hour away," Jordan said. "We did. I just wish we had something to show for it."

"Yeah." Jim looked around the room, seeing some of the destruction had been cleaned or swept to the side.

Jordan did the same. "Guess the kid's lucky in a way. Seems only the junk was broken."

"What?"

Jordan looked embarrassed. "Didn't mean that like it sounded. His stuff is nice, but you see a lot of homes in my line of work. Makes a person a semi expert, you know? Gary has a few nice pieces. That table's worth some money and that lamp shade would get an easy thousand at the auctions I go to."

Jim had to agree. He looked at the smashed furnishings. It could be replaced for less than fifty bucks. He stood lost in thought. Jordan took his silence as a dismissal and made his farewell. Alone in the room Jim conducted a slow turn, his brain forcing his eyes to see as if for the first time, given the path his thoughts now took. He rushed back to the computer room, jerking the drawer open.

Where was it?

Jim plucked the desired photo from the others, holding it like a prize.

DeLaughlin Senior was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, leaning on a wooden fence. Gary's mother was dressed for gardening, kneeling at the base of a small flowering rhododendron.

Jim was ready to move up to the next level.

Blair bolted back up so fast he got dizzy and had to lean against the concrete wall a second. "Gary?"

"A rope. Feel for the loops."

Patting the wall, the rope brushed his wet face. Blair latched on with a death grip and gave it a hopeful tug. It was solid.

"Put your foot in the first loop, feel it? I put in enough for you to climb up," Gary whispered. "Hurry, the guy on guard is sleeping."

"Where are we?" Blair insisted as he found the knotted loop, slipped in his right tennis shoe and stepped up. The rough feeling rope stretched at lease six inches and panic caused his heart to race.

Would it hold him?

Blair's numb fingers found the next loop waist high. He had to strain to reach it with his left foot. He dragged his body up another several feet. Gary's hand brushed the top of his head.

"Almost there." Gary's voice was so close.

The next loop allowed the young cop to gather a handful of Blair's shirt front. Blair felt his right wrist captured and he was being lifted up and over a sandpaper-like edge that scraped his left arm. Blair didn't mind the pain. He was out of the pit and laying on something wet, prickly and smelled like old forest. Gary untangled the rope from his foot. A breeze caused Blair to shiver in earnest. Gary yanked him up to his knees.

"Crawl. This way. Stay low or they'll see us."

God, Blair so wanted to tear his bandages off his head. His temporary blindness left him exposed to a danger made worse by his imagination. He crawled; ignoring the sharp sticks gouging his skin. Long ferns brushed his shoulders and face, leaving him wetter than before. The rain had stopped but the smell hung heavy, promising the cloud was not done yet.

After covering what seemed like miles on his hands and knees, Gary stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, then pushed Blair face down into the duff. Wet vegetation tickled his face and nose.

"Feel this?"

His hand was guided to a spongy feeling downed tree truck, covered in moss. "Yeah."

"It's hollow. Craw inside, you'll be safe."

Panic blossomed again. "Where are you going? I want to go with you."

"Shhh." Gary sounded firm, in charge and so much like Jim that it hurt. "Do what I tell you. I'll be back."

"Gary."

"Sandburg, shut up and do what I say."

Then Blair was shoved forward. Grudgingly, he inchwormed forward. The space was limited but he could feel the trunk extend past his toes. He had to be hidden now. It smelled earthy, like a forest after a heavy rain storm. Trying not to think about black widows and snakes, he wrapped cold arms around a colder chest and tried to relax.

"Jim, are you sure about this?" Simon asked, sitting in Sandburg's usual spot.

"No," Jim answered honestly. "But we're hitting nothing but dead ends, Simon. I'm just saying this is a possibility."

The truck's headlights didn't light up the reflectors in the two-lane road anymore; still, Jim left them on. They drove in a northeastern direction out of Cascade, the only vehicle on the road. The wet dawn had arrived. "How much further?"

Simon examined the Thomas Brothers map book in his lap, flipping the page and running a finger along the black line marking their direction. "Another twenty minutes till the next turn off."

They found the dirt road without a problem. Frequent ruts and deep potholes gave the Ford's springs a cruel workout. Simon's broad hands clutched the dash and door handle. This was the reason Jim had insisted on driving. He was thankful his boss wasn't hollering to slow down. The urge to reach their destination was strong enough to risk insubordination.

Blair was close by. He could feel it.

"There." Simon pointed to the right.

Tucked into the foothills of the Cascade Mountains, the old homestead was in serious disrepair. The turn of the century house had thick moss for a roof and no glass in the windows. The fruit trees in the yard were decades overdue for pruning. A broken fence marked the duel tire track path that led toward the house and a dilapidated barn with a collapsed roof and missing front doors. More out-buildings were visible behind the main house. At least ten acres of flat land had been cleared.

"There's a vehicle inside the barn, see it?" Jim said.

"Jim, it's still half a mile away," Simon noted. "But if you say it's there, then it is."

Jim braked and turned off the motor. "Let's go the rest of the way on foot. I don't want this to turn into a hostage situation."

"Right."

At least he was out of the wind.

Blair tried to listen from his hiding place. He could hear wind whistling, like when he and Jim went camping or fishing and the trees swayed. For the hundredth time he wondered what was happening.

"Blair!" Gary hissed suddenly.

A hand grabbed his ankle and tugged. Blair barely managed to keep the scream inside his chest. "Shit! Don't do that," he whispered fiercely.

"Hurry, we got to get away," Gary insisted pulling Blair out from his hiding place.

"What's happening?" Cold clumps of moist dirt had worked up the inside of his shirt. He tried to shake them out as Gary pulled him up to stand.

"Come on," Gary ordered. "We've got a long way to go."

Running blind was not an experience Blair wanted to have ever again. He trusted Gary to keep him from falling. He did. But it still felt like he was seconds away from smacking full tilt into a tree or - worse yet - likely to fall back into that pit. His feet seemed to snag roots with regularity. Gary's arm circled his waist.

Shouts of outrage followed.

"Hurry!" Gary panted.

Blair bit his lip in frustration. He was trying. Breathing was getting hard. Expecting a bullet to blow the back of his skull away made his back itch. Without warning, something trapped his foot and he was falling. The wet ground smacked him in the face and he tasted dirt and moss. He spat out the larger clumps; his whole body numb.

"Unnngghhh!" Blair gasped as Gary tried to pull him to his feet. Blair reached for his ankle. "W-wait, man!"

"Come on!"

God, this was hopeless. Blair shook his head; damp tentacles of hair slapped his cheeks. "Just, go. I'll slow you down. Get away."

"No."

"Go!" Blair pushed out toward Gary's voice, making solid contact with the young man's stomach "Get help."

Shouts were getting closer.

"I'm sorry," Gary whispered.

Then he was gone, his footsteps muffled by forest floor as he ran. Blair curled around his throbbing ankle. It felt broken and he wanted to laugh at the stupidity of his situation.

Shouts from their pursuers brought Blair back to his reality. Yeah, he had told Gary to go on, but suddenly he wished he hadn't. Was there any cover around to hide in? Blair patted the ground madly, scooting back on his butt until he felt a feathery fern. "Yes."

Another fern grew at its side and Blair felt a third. The long fronds of the plants crossed. Blair squirmed between the plants, under the slim protection, curling into a tight ball.

He could hear the kidnappers closing in.

Please keep going.

On his side, Blair hugged his knees closer and stopped breathing. Blood pounded in his ears.

Then a fern brushed his face and a hand grabbed his shoulder.

Blair rolled onto his back and shook off the hand. He swung his fist upward, putting all his strength into the blow. A rock hard palm caught his fist and held it fast.

"Sandburg!"

Blair kicked and bit, twisting in the dirt to free himself. Hands held him fast, pinning him in place. "Let me go, you sons of bitches!"

"Blair! It's Jim. Jim and Simon. Calm down."

Another hand caught his chin and held his face still. Understanding penetrated the terror. "Jim... JIM!"

"Yeah, it's us. You okay?" Jim's voice asked.

Oh god, it was Jim. He recognized Jim's touch. Blair latched onto the wrist of the hand holding his chin. "Jim, how did - what - I don't under -"

"Are. You. Hurt?" Jim demanded, sounding like he'd already asked that question several times.

"I'm fine. I'm fine." Blair sucked in a deep breath. He had to get Jim to understand. "Gary's out there, man. You've got to help him! They're chasing us." Vertigo hit as Jim lifted him up into a sitting position. Firm and gentle fingers traced his face, head and neck. Blair shook his head in frustration.

"Sandburg." Simon spoke for the first time. "It's okay, son."

"No, no. You don't get it, Simon. They took us. I was in a pit all night." God, they had to hurry. Gary needed help now. "Jim, please, man. Listen with your senses. I'm fine."

"You're not fine, Blair," Jim answered. "You're hypothermic and in shock."

Something heavy, warm with body heat, draped his shoulders. Blair had to admit the feeling was pure bliss. "Jimmmm," he moaned weakly. What was it going to take to get them to listen?

"Shhh, everything's fine," Jim murmured, obviously not listening, to busy examining Blair.

He hissed when Jim found his injured ankle.

"Oh yeah, it's pretty swollen," Jim noted.

"Can he walk?" Simon's voice boomed.

"Would you two listen to me?" Blair demanded.

Warm hands captured his cheeks. Jim's coffee breath was close. "Blair. Listen to me, okay? There are no kidnappers. It was Gary DeLaughlin all along. We'll bring him in later. Right now, let's get you to the hospital."

"W-what?" Blair croaked in disbelief. "What are you saying?" he whispered slowly and shook his head. "No... no. You can't be right, Jim."

"It's over, Blair. You're safe."

Gary did this? No, that couldn't be what happened. But Jim didn't lie. Jim was a sentinel. His friend. Exhaustion fogged his ability to think, to process this new information. Hands under his armpits lifted him from the cold and damp earth. Blair shivered in clothes completely soaked by rain and laying for hours on the wet ground.

Gary did this to him?

Between them, Blair took a step and sagged.

"Jim..." he nearly sobbed. His ankle hurt. His strength was gone. His faith in his fellow man was shredded. The thought of hiking miles back to civilization was too much. "I can't... too far."

"Blair, we're right next to a dirt road. Simon will drive the truck up for us," Jim promised, shattering another illusion of being deep in a forest.

Jim wanted to wring a neck.

No, not just anyone's. He had a particular neck in mind.

"I can't believe little Gary was behind this," Simon said for the tenth time.

They sat side by side in a postage-sized hospital waiting room located in the town of Monroe. Blair's condition had improved during the drive down from the foothills. But warming a hypothermic victim was best done from the inside out. Simon had been busy during the drive in, his cell phone's battery nearly drained to empty before all the calls were made. County police officers and search dogs were busy setting up search patterns. Gary's father was on his way.

"I can't believe it. God, this is going to break Dan's heart." Simon dragged a palm down his face.

"You saw it, Simon. There was no one in on that homestead but Gary and Blair. That was Gary's grandfather's place. The guy was acting out some childish fantasy all along. There was no Blazer. No third party attacking them outside the theater." Jim cursed and crossed his arms. His coat was still with Blair and the waiting room was cold. He dialed down his sense of touch. "I'd like to have a few choice words with the shrink that did his entrance evaluation."

"Jim, he's the son of a decorated cop." Simon pinched the bridge of his nose, his glasses riding up his forehead. "I doubt they went very deeply into his psyche. Hell, the kid practically grew up in the bull pen. God, I can't be -"

"Spare me, okay, sir?" Jim snapped. "That `son of a decorated cop' hurt Sandburg, hell, maybe blinded him. Forgive me if I -" Jim bolted to his feet.

"What is it?" Simon demanded, standing.

"Blair's upset." Jim took advantage of the busy nurse behind the ER counter and slipped down the bright hallway. The ER room had two trauma rooms and Blair was the only current occupant. The curtain was open and he could see Blair sitting on the exam table. The filthy bandages were gone and a doctor was gently cleaning the small facial cuts caused by the bathroom mirror.

"Blair?"

"Jim," Blair answered weakly. He offered a tired smile and opened his eyes. "They took off the bandages. I can see."

The doctor frowned. "Mr. Sandburg. You promised not to open them again." He stood ready with clean bandages and gauze.

Blair closed his eyelids again with a sigh. "I know. I had to show Jim."

Jim moved near and squeezed Blair's arm. "That's great, Chief. Now do what you're told."

"I am," Blair answered. "I'll be good. Hey, any luck yet finding Gary? He's gotta be found, man. He's sick. He needs help."

"We're working on it. You just relax for now, okay?"

After getting his ankle wrapped and body core warmed up enough to be out of danger, Blair was ready to go. Simon insisted on treated them to a late dinner before driving back to Cascade. It was passed midnight when Jim dropped the police captain off. Parking in his regular spot across from the loft, Jim turned off the engine and just sat listening to the ticking of the engine as it cooled. Blair dozed at his side.

Every muscle in his body begged for rest. Jim leaned his forehead against the top of the steering wheel and took a deep breath.

Blair shifted in the seat with a snort. "We're home?"

"Yeah," Jim answered as he straightened, his hand automatically reaching for the door handle.

Jim took Blair by the elbow, slowing to match his own pace with the new limp. They rode the elevator in silence, each man leaning against the car wall and taking turns yawning. Jim pulled his key out and unlocked, holding the door open for Blair to enter first. He steered the younger man around the damaged furniture toward his room, glad Blair's eyes were still covered. He didn't need a visual reminder of his kidnapping. He didn't need fuel to feed the nightmares.

"How'd you know?" Blair asked wearily, walking docilely at Jim's side. "About Gary?

"Some of the facts didn't line up. He started slipping up on his details, changing his story," Jim answered. "What do you want to sleep in?"

"Sweats. Thick ones." Blair began striping out of clothes that still smelled like dirt. Jim found warm looking gray sweats and straightened the blankets on the futon while Blair dressed. He held the blankets up as Blair climbed into bed.

"It's funny," Blair began.

"I'm not laughing," Jim pointed out as he gathered up the dirty clothes and stuffed them into the basket in the corner.

"Sad funny, Jim." He spent a few minutes arranging throw pillows, identifying their uniqueness by feel.

"There is no sad funny."

"Yes, there is. The world's full of it. And Gary's case is very sad funny. I don't think he even wanted to be a cop to begin with. I think everyone expected him to be one." The last word came out with a wide, jaw stretching yawn. Blair shifted into a comfortable position.

"Let the shrinks figure out his problem, Sandburg," Jim said, too tired for this conversation.

Blair paused in his nesting and turned his face toward Jim. "Hey, did I thank you for finding me?"

"Go to sleep, chief." Jim squeezed a shoulder, unable to stop his hand from sliding up to check the back of his friend's neck. He found the skin temperature still within acceptable limits. "You're welcome."

"Jim, Skagit Sheriff Deputies arrested Gary DeLaughlin early this morning. He turned himself in at a truck stop," Simon reported.

Jim cradled the phone under his ear as he dressed. Fresh out of the shower, he was anxious to get the day started. It was already past ten - they'd slept half the day away.

"He say anything?"

Simon was reading from a report. Jim could hear papers rustle. "Doesn't say. I'll call when I find out more. How's Sandburg?"

"Sleeping. I need to get him up. I want to see the specialist in Seattle. Make sure his adventure with DeLaughlin didn't mess up his recovery."

"Good idea."

"I doubt Sandburg will agree," Jim predicted. He pulled the phone away from his ear to slip into a T-shirt. "How'd the Chief take the news?"

Simon's sigh told more that any words could. "I'll be attending the commissioner's meeting at one-thirty. I'm sure the process of blame shifting and political bullshit will be an experience."

"Careful, Simon. Don't let the brass hear you talk like that," Jim warned. Almost finished, he sat on the edge of his unmade bed and slipped into his leather loafers.

"Don't worry. Momma Banks did not raise any fools. Oh, more news. We heard from the Mexican authorities, seems they found Strobel or someone that could be his twin. Calls himself Anderson. The guy's living quietly in their village. He fishes, gives the surplus to his neighbors and teaches the kids how to read."

"I'll be damn," Jim said.

"So, now what?"

A very good question. "I guess now I'm ready to close the case."

"Yeah?"

"Damn shame about Strobel's death."

Simon was silent for a long moment. "Are you sure, Jim?"

"Sir, he didn't collect insurance, he didn't commit any crimes."

"He faked his death."

"He wants a new life. I say let him have it."

Simon sighed. "I'll talk to you later."

"Good luck at the commissioner meeting, sir... and thanks." Jim disconnected the call and returned the cordless to the charging base he kept next to his bed. He needed to wake his guide.

Surprisingly, Blair didn't baulk at the idea of returning to Seattle. The surgeon made room on his schedule and within three hours they were sitting in a small exam room.

"It's not like I'm going to keep you from hearing anyway," Blair said. He'd woken in a fair temper. Dressed in his best jeans and a gray, long sleeve cotton T-shirt, he nervously played with the leather and shell bracelet on his wrist.

The doctor picked that moment to lift the clipboard from the pocket on the other side of the door and enter. He was a tall man with white hair and deep smile wrinkles around his green eyes. "Mr. Sandburg. Is everything okay?" he asked with surprise as he sat down on the padded stool. "We had an appointment next week, right?"

"Right," Blair answered, turning his face toward the man. "Ah, every things okay, I think, Dr. Cobb. Jim... You remember my roommate Jim Ellison, right? Jim thought I'd better come see you today."

"Why?"

"Well." Blair pulled on his earlobe. "Remember that part of the post op instructions where you said for me to take things easy and rest?"

epilogue

If Blair lived to be two hundred and fifty years old he would never, ever take another sunset for granted. With a sigh of complete happiness, he leaned against the rough bark of the Douglas Fir and watched the red and violet colors bleed across the sky. The peaks of the Cascade Mountain range stretched beneath his feet like a long, unbroken fence line. The snow tipped mountain peaks reflected the colors in the sky.

"How much longer are we going to sit up here?" Jim groused. "I'm hungry."

Blair ignored him. He could tell Jim to head back to the base camp, but he knew Jim wouldn't leave. The comment was just Jim-speak to remind Blair he was being tolerant. Blair had to admit, the guy was patient. Seems like all Blair wanted to do since having the bandages removed was to drink in the views.

Two weeks after being `rescued' Blair hadn't talked much about his experience. Yeah, he gave a statement, but it wasn't needed. Officer Gary DeLaughlin had admitted everything: the obsessions, unhappiness with his career, the fear of disappointing his father, how he'd never really gotten over his mother's unexpected death. The guy was a mother-lode of psychosis wrapped up in a uniform. Basically, it had boiled down to his own disappointment with how his life had turned out. Writing speeding tickets forty hours a week didn't hold a candle to his vivid imagination. So he had made stuff up.

The sunset faded beyond the brilliance and dulled to just enough light to find their way back down the mountainside to their tent. Blair stood, ignoring Jim's muttered comment of `about time', and led the way. He wore his glasses - doctor's orders - and delighted in the elongated shadows cast by the dwarf stubby, wind shaped trees.

"The freeze dried lasagna?" Jim queried as they neared their camp.

"Okay."

Blair looked around their comfortable camp. They'd pitched the tent on a raised flat area with good drainage, even though the weatherman had forecasted little to no rain. The fire ring of rocks was small, enough to border a modest fire to sit around at night and poke sticks into. They'd hiked in just after lunch, made camp, inflated fishing float tubes and hurried down to the alpine lake fifty feet away to try them out.

Blair found fly fishing from a float tube a bit harder than standing in a boat or on the shore. Half submerged, you had to work to keep your line up, to keep from slapping the water. But he'd caught on with Jim's help and they had enjoyed hours of catch and release.

Blair fixed dinner. They ate hard rolls with pasta and Jim cleaned up. After only an hour of fire poking, Blair gave up trying to stay awake.

"I'm calling it a day, man." He gathered the blue and silver space lightweight space blanket around his shoulders and stood.

"I'm right behind you. Earlier we hit the sack, earlier we hit the lake in the morning." Jim began separating the burning wood. A collapsible bucket of wet dirt was placed nearby and Jim used it to smother the fire.

Blair was already inside his own sleeping bag when Jim crawled into the two-man tent. He listened to Jim meticulously arrange their belongings before stripping down and crawling into his mummy bag.

"Night, Sandburg."

"Night, Jim."

The dream started almost immediately. Blair was blind, crawling on his hands and knees while horrible monsters, the stuff of classic nightmares were made of, slobbered, howled and snapped at his heels. As fast as Blair could go, it wasn't fast enough. The dark smothered, suffocated. Blackness so solid it ripped a scream from his throat as he bolted upright in the sleeping bag.

Jim caught him by the shoulders before he could destroy the tent in his frantic attempt to claw his way out.

"Sandburg!"

"I need out!" Blair's fingers couldn't locate the damn zipper.

Jim shoved him back, found the zipper pull, flung it open and pulled Blair out of the tent to stand shivering in the midnight mountain air, his heart hammering.

"Slow, deep breaths," Jim whispered. "Look up."

Stars filled the sky. Blair let his head fall back taking in their vastness. Yeah, his heart still wanted to climb up his ribcage and dance on his teeth, but he fought to calm his breathing rate, slow it down to somewhere between a locomotive and a raging herd of wild horses.

Jim seemed content to wait, one arm still wrapped tightly around Blair's shoulders. Steady and patient.

When bodily functions reached normal range again, Blair trusted his voice again. "Sorry."

"It's okay. What happened?"

God, where to start? "I was back at the farm," Blair whispered. "I was blind again."

"Ah." The arm around Blair's shoulders squeezed. "Sorry."

Blair's gaze couldn't leave the stars. He traced the big dipper silently, ignoring the goose bumps on his bare arms. A sudden urge to fly north to Alaska to view the northern lights made him chuckle.

"What?" Jim asked.

"Nothing," Blair looked at his friend, seeing the stars reflected back in Jim's eyes. Blair smiled. "Let's go back inside before we freeze, man."

"You sure? We could pull the bag out here if you want."

"Nah, I'm okay now." Blair turned back to the tent.

Back inside again, Jim clicked on a small flashlight. He unscrewed the hooded end, exposing the tiny bulb and lighting up the interior of the tent. Their own personal tent night light.

Trust Jim to know.

Blair shifted, searching for a more comfortable position. He checked to make sure the sleeping bag's zipper was all the way up. He was too awake to go back to sleep. He wanted to talk. "Thanks for stopping at the farm on the drive up here, Jim."

"You're welcome," Jim answered, folding his arms behind his head, eyes fixed on the curved ceiling.

"I can't explain it. I needed to see that pit with my own eyes," Blair admitted. "I still can't believe we were so close to that old house. He had me crawling around for hours."

"You went in circles. I could see where you crushed the weeds."

"I sorta understand why he did it, I mean, the analytical part of me identifies he suffers from Munchausen by proxy, the part that has a psychology degree. But the rest of me... the part that thought I was his friend, just doesn't understand. How could anyone think something like that is just harmless fun?"

Those had been the words he used. Blair had read the transcribed report of Gary's confession. Hell, he could close his eyes and quote the entire thing from memory.

"He used you, okay? He may tell the quacks he hadn't mean to blind you or scare you, but after you strip all the medical and psychological hocus pocus, it boils down to him being a pathetic kid that doesn't play well with others." Jim's said. "Hell, he didn't care about anybody but himself."

And he betrayed the brotherhood, didn't he, Jim, Blair added silently. He sighed.

"I know what you're thinking," Jim added. "Believe it or not, every profession had their share of misfits. I saw it in the Army, too. I've learned not to judge a man by his uniform."

"Yeah?"

"Yep, not even a hippie grad student by his grunge-wear."

Blair snorted. "If you say so."

"I do." Jim shifted, tucking his arms back into his bag. "Now let me sleep. I have an early date with a lake full of cutthroat."

"You'll have to wait in line. I saw them first."

"You know what, Sandburg? I'm just now realizing the advantages of having a blind partner."

End.

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