They entered the lobby of the apartment building. Jim said one of Dicky Yu's old girlfriends lived on the seventh floor. The lobby was nice, with waxed floors, large potted palms and high ceilings. Blair barely noticed it as he waited by Jim's side for the elevator.

Red means stop.

Okay, he could remember that.

The elevator arrived and Blair followed Jim in. They'd been silent after Jim had explained the `red light - green light' thing and Blair wondered if he was having second thoughts. Would he find himself looking in the classifieds next week for a cheap room to rent?

Hell, would he be able to read the classifieds next week?

The elevator whisked them up to the seventh floor and Jim led the way down a hall with wall to wall floral carpet that looked new. The apartment building was nice, much too expensive for anything Blair could pay. Still, even with the designer wallpaper and wood molding around the doors, he preferred the old corner building on Prospect Street.

"Here we go," Jim muttered. He knocked on a door with the numbers 714 in gold plated filigree.

Sounds from within caused Jim to step back and to one side. Blair wondered if this was some instinctive cop action. Blair stayed out of the way, just behind Jim's shoulder.

"Who is it?" came a woman's voice from a small speaker next to the door.

Jim leaned down. "Detective Jim Ellison, Cascade Police."

"Please hold up your badge, Detective."

As Jim followed instructions, Blair looked for the camera lens or maybe she was looking through the peep-hole in the door. The door opened and a thin Caucasian woman with short, white spiked hair faced them. She wore expensive looking sweat pants and matching zippered jacket over a very filled out fifty dollar designer T-shirt. Her jewelry was unobtrusive and elegant, a thin gold chain with a simple diamond slide and matching earrings. Blair checked her ring-less fingers. Her nails were short and manicured.

"May I help you?" She had a soft lilt to her voice, like she'd lived in the southern states. Yet she looked nothing like the southern belle personification that her voice suggested. Not that she had nose rings and tattoos, she just looked... hardened.

"Are you Lucile Swath?" Jim asked.

"Yes."

"Just a moment of your time, ma'am," Jim said. "We're investigating a murder. Our records show you used to socially see the victim's brother, Richard Yu?"

"Bernie?" A fine hand flew to her throat. "Oh, no. P-please come in."

The apartment was a mix of cultures. Blair recognized pottery, artwork, pillows, and jade figurines from over a dozen different countries. The woman was either well traveled or knew someone who was. Her living room was cluttered with papers and a laptop computer sat on a small walnut desk. Inviting them to sit on a creamy white leather couch, she folded her trim build into a matching chair.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am. Bernard Yu was found murdered this week," Jim explained as he pulled a small notepad and pen out of his inside jacket pocket. "Actually, we were hoping you could help us find Richard. We're not even sure if he's aware of his brother's death."

"No, I haven't seen Dicky in a year now. I've started my own company and Dicky wasn't happy with the time I needed to spend away from him. He felt threatened, I guess." She gave a weary smile. "He's rather stingy with the things he believed were his."

"Did your new company compete with his business dealings?" Blair asked.

"Oh, no." Lucile waved a hand. "I'm a broker. Odds and ends mostly. Like my collection of authentic cooking pottery from the Dominican Republic. I connect the artists with the galleries, or sometimes the buyers. But, please, tell me more about Bernie. What happened to him? Who did this?"

"We're not sure. He was attacked by unknown persons. The autopsy hasn't been completed yet. I suspect he died from head trauma." Jim raised an eyebrow. "We were hoping to ask his brother some questions. When was the last time you saw Bernard?"

She rubbed her closed eyes. It was obvious the news distressed her. "About five months ago. Bernie was so wonderful; he actually had a lot to do with my survival those first six months. I never would have been able to last this long without him. God, if you'd told me Dicky was murdered... I'd believe you in a second. But Bernie? Who would do that? He didn't have an enemy in the world."

Jim continued to ask questions and she answered. Blair thought she looked honestly upset, but nothing new was learned to help with the case. They finished the interview and left. Blair was beginning to like this Bernard Yu fellow. He had sounded all right, decent even. Dicky, on the other hand, sounded like a thug. Lost in thought, Blair was surprised when Jim handed him his cell phone once they reached the sidewalk.

"Call Tapas, it's number fifteen on the speed dial. Tell him about the traffic light incident. He wanted updates." Jim leaned against the parked Expedition and crossed his arms.

Rolling his eyes, Blair made the call. The nurse connected him with the doctor's voice mail and he left a brief message. "Happy?" Blair asked, handing back the phone.

"Ecstatic," Jim answered with a poker face. "Ready for the morgue?"

"Ewww, before lunch?"

On the way back to the station, Jim redialed the phone number that Henri had given him. A man answered on the third ring. Jim pulled over into an empty parking stall to talk.

"Is George there?" Jim asked, remembering the name on the slip.

"Who's asking?" the male answered. He sounded young, about the same age as Blair, and very cautious.

"Someone that's willing to help. Way I hear it from talk on the street, George isn't very popular right now."

"You a cop?"

These are the moments when a person just has to go with their gut instinct. No police academy can train you for the split-second decision making process needed during an investigation. Jim took a gamble. "Yeah, Detective Ellison. I'm willing to get George into a safe location. But I want answers from him."

"I'll pass on the information."

Jim gave his cell number and the man hung up without another word. The cell phone went back into his pocket. From this second on, he'd need to keep it charged and with him at all times.

"He go for it?" Blair asked.

"Not sure, that might have been George, for all I know." Jim checked his side mirror and pulled back out into the moving traffic. "Nothing to do but wait."

"What did you hear in the background?" Blair asked.

Jim thought about it. What had he heard? "Not much, traffic I think, but muted. Maybe he was calling from inside a car." Jim noticed he was approaching a stale yellow light. He watched Blair out of the corner of his eye. When the light switched to red, he watched Blair's body brace for a stop.

He learned fast.

After the trip to the morgue, Blair studied his lunch with a wary eye. His stomach had no interest in food. His brain was still trying to forget the images of Bernard Yu's own stomach contents laid out for everyone to see, along with his other organs. It was one thing to watch a TV autopsy from the comforts of the loft, but quite another to stand in the room with the real deal. God, the smell alone...

"You finishing that?" Jim asked.

Blair pushed the baked potato with melted cheese and broccoli to his friend. Jim had already had a sandwich and a bowl of chowder. Apparently autopsies made the older man hungry.

Jim picked up a plastic fork and dug in. "It's better with bacon bits."

"So, the killer did the nasty with the frying pan?" Blair asked, changing the subject from food. "Then why the knife?"

"Good question." Jim paused and chewed thoughtfully. "Rage? Maybe to make sure he was dead? Who knows?"

Jim's cell phone rang. While the cop answered, Blair sipped his ice tea and reached across the table to help himself to Jim's untouched package of crackers. Maybe he could manage to keep them down. Jim said a few words into the phone and hung up.

"The university left some messages at the station for you this morning. They want you to call some Riley guy."

Blair borrowed the phone, promising to keep the call short. After hanging up, he sighed. "The TA taking my classes needs me to go over a few things, man. Can you drop me off at Rainier? I'll catch the bus later."

"We can do that." Jim dug into the potato. "You realize you're getting out of some fun detective work, don't you? I have piles and piles of phone records, business records and miscellaneous paperwork to read this afternoon."

Blair grinned. "Oh, darn."

But when they arrived at Rainier an hour later, Jim looked uncertain. "I don't know, Sandburg."

"What?" Blair released his seatbelt.

Ducking his head to look out the windshield, Jim acted as if snipers waited on rooftops. "How long will this take? Maybe I should wait."

Blair chuckled. "Forget it. I'm spending the afternoon here. I'll either grab a bus to the station or to the loft. I'll call and tell you, okay?" He gently freed his arm from Jim's hold. "Now go read your fascinating reports." He climbed out of the Ford. Jim still looked doubtful. "Jim, it's cool. Okay? Go. I'll call."

"Okay," Jim said. He waited for Blair to close the door before pointing a finger at him and mouthed the words `call me'.

Blair raised a hand before turning around. Hargrove waited for him. As he walked toward the impressive stone building, he couldn't help but wonder if he'd ever return as a student or a TA again.

Blair ended up staying later than he'd planned. Gary Riley had drawn the short straw and ended up with the bulk of Blair's responsibilities. The guy was okay, but Blair knew his students could look forward to a few boring weeks.

Ah, well. Blair tried to keep it in perspective. How many dry lectures had he sat through? It built character. After Gary left, Blair picked up the phone to call Jim. A wave of uneasiness caused him to grip the edge of his old desk.

"What the hell?" Blair closed his eyes and focused again on the phone. Logic told him he should be looking at numbers. But his brain wasn't playing. What did that squiggly line mean? Was that a cross with a tail pointing up? He pulled out his desk drawer. Maybe he wrote the phone numbers down on a scrap of paper. But he couldn't find anything that even looked like a number. "Oh, man. This is nuts."

Okay, okay. Think.

All he needed was the downtown bus.

His hand trembled as he switched off the office lights. He walked to the bus stop deep in thought. He didn't need to identify the bus number; he just needed to pick the right bus. Was it every hour or on the halves?

No one waited at the small shelter next to the bus stop. Blair took a seat on the cold metal bench and tried not to freak. The first bus came. Blair read the digital reader board above the windshield. Damn, lots of alien looking symbols. Okay, he'd take the next one. People showed up, strangers. They ignored him. Blair tried to stay relaxed. It was a huge campus. He was later than his usual time. But what if he was seeing people he knew? And he wasn't recognizing them? Maybe they felt he was slighting them because of his lack of recognition.

An older woman walked up, clutching her purse closely. Blair was almost sure he didn't know her. Except... maybe she worked at the cafeteria?

"Hi."

She turned away.

Or not. Blair finger combed his hair back from his face. He felt his chest tighten with uncertainty. What he wouldn't give for a blue Expedition being driven by a cranky `I told you so' sentinel right about now. Don't go there. He couldn't expect Jim to baby-sit him the rest of his life. He was going to have to learn how to deal with this. Looking down the street, Blair could see another bus appearing. Damn, it was going in the wrong direction. The lady got on board and he was alone again.

This was stupid. Sure, he didn't remember his numbers. It wasn't as if he was a deaf-mute.

When the next bus appeared, still not having the word he wanted on the reader, he stuck his head in the door to speak to the driver. "Do you go by the police station?"

"Nope, this'll take you to the harbor," a thin man with yellow teeth told him.

Good enough. "I live on Prospect. Is it close?"

He let his eyes travel up and down Blair's body. "You look like a brisk walk won't hurt you. It's close enough."

Blair smiled. "Cool, thanks." He dropped the money into the box and moved toward the middle of the bus to drop into an empty pair of seats. Only a few other passengers were on board. Blair relaxed, knowing he could look forward to another phone call to Tapas' voice mail, but at least he'd be calling from the loft.

"You're still here?" Simon asked as he switched off his office light and closed the door.

Jim nodded. "Waiting for Sandburg to call. Thought I'd pick him up."

"Any luck?"

"Some. Dicky's legal businesses aren't doing so hot. But Bernard was raking in the money hand-over-fist."

Simon looked surprised. "You had PC to check Richard Yu's business records?"

"Well," Jim drawled lazily as he leaned back. "I called in a few favors. I was curious." He stood. It was late and he wanted to go home. He glanced at his watch, frowning. "Sandburg should have called me by now."

"Maybe he's already home," Simon suggested as he passed. "See you tomorrow, Jim."

"Night." Jim picked up the phone and called the loft once more. His previous calls had gone unanswered. This was no different. "Damn." The old number for Blair's office didn't pick up either. Jim set the phone down again. "I knew I should have just insisted on picking you up, Darwin."

Jim left the bullpen. It was still light outside, even though it was past quitting time, a sure sign spring had arrived with its longer days. Jim sped toward Rainier, as if the Ford had a mind of its own. He needed to be sure Blair was no longer there. After parking and finding Hargrove Hall locked, Jim got security and they went inside.

No Blair.

Jim thanked the campus officers for their help and returned to his Expedition. He called the loft again, even though he hated tying up the line. He was still waiting for this George character to call him. No answer at the loft. Jim called the station and got the desk sergeant. Blair had not shown up looking for him.

There was nothing left to do but to drive to the loft. When Jim arrived, the sun was gone. Shadows deepened and a cool breeze blew off the water, dropping the temperature. Jim looked up to see the dark windows of his apartment. He extended his hearing. Blair wasn't there. Without wasting any time parking and running up the stairs, Jim drove past the loft, turned around and headed back toward Rainier.

He'd try the side streets.

Jim had just left Rainier for the second time when his cell phone rang.

"Ellison!"

"Detective? This is dispatch," a man's voice said. He sounded hesitant, as if unsure of his welcome. "We've got a rather insistent person calling nine-one-one. Actually, he had someone else dial it..."

"Sandburg? Did he give his name? Was it Sandburg?"

"It is, sir."

"Can you patch him through?" Jim waited a minute, hearing a series of clicks until a familiar heartbeat came over the airwaves. "Blair?"

"Jim! Oh, god. Thank you, Mrs. Garcia. I've got him." Blair was talking to someone else, his voice distant as if turned away from the speaker. Then he was back. "Jim?"

"Are you okay?"

"I am now," Blair said breathlessly, sounding panicked. "I'm not sure where I am, man. I can't find Prospect."

"Calm down," Jim ordered. "Give me the address."

Blair's laughter had a hysteria overtone that did nothing to make Jim feel better. What was going on?

"Sandburg, where are you?"

"Ah... I'm near a shoe repair store. Only, I don't know where! He said the harbor. I thought it was our harbor, not the north end. I'm turned around. There's no more buses running. I can't find the water anymore, it's dark. The windows are all boarded up and I've got a bad feel-"

"Chief," Jim said, nearly shouting. "A name! Give me the name of the shoe store."

"Detective?" the dispatcher's voice came on. Jim realized he had never hung up. "We've got his address on our monitor; a payphone. Twelve, fifty-three north Henderson, by the coastal freeway."

Jim gunned the Ford. Shit, Blair was nowhere near the loft or Rainier. "Thanks, dispatch. I owe you one." He could still hear Blair's rapid heart beat over the phone. "Blair? Did you hear that? I'm on my way."

"How l-long?"

"Twenty minutes, tops. Less than that if the traffic's light." Jim prayed for empty roads. What had happened? What had Blair's brain taken from him this time? "Tell you what. I'm going to break the rules here and drive while talking on the cell phone, okay? Promise not to turn me in?"

Blair's attempt at laughter was pathetic. Jim could hear chattering. "God, Jim. I'm totally screwed, you know? What's next?"

"You're going to be fine. You're just having a setback. We'll get this sorted out." Jim perfected a classic `California Stop' at the next stop sign, glanced both ways and gunned the motor till he was doing ten over the posted limit. His prayers were answered with light traffic. "Are you alone?"

"Yeah, all the b-buildings are closed. Mrs. Garcia was leaving the store, made the call for me." Blair was starting to sound calmer.

Jim kept his roommate talking. Not about the new misplaced memory, Jim would find out soon enough. The conversation stayed on Rainier and the TA that Blair had worked with that afternoon. Apparently the guy was a monotone speaker with no personality. Seventeen minutes from the time the dispatcher had called, Jim was two blocks away from the phone booth.

"I'm here. Can you see me?"

"I see headlights. Is that you, man?"

The desperation in Blair's voice was enough to make Jim strangle his steering wheel. Jim's genetically enhanced vision knifed through the darkness to pinpoint the small figure shivering in a graffiti covered phone booth. He flicked his high beams. "I've got you, buddy."

Blair still had the phone in his hand when Jim pulled up alongside. He didn't seem willing to turn it loose. Jim got out, laying his cell phone down. Blair waited until Jim neared before dropping the phone. His face was pale. He looked lost and frightened even with Jim standing before him. Letting Blair latch on to his arms, Jim gathered up the swinging handset with his left hand and drew Blair close with his right.

"Dispatch? You still there?" Jim asked.

"I'm here. Are you Code Four, Sir?" the man asked.

"I am. Thanks again."

"You're welcome. Take care."

Jim replaced the handset and looked down at Blair. "Hey."

Blair's eyes were closed. He had a death grip on Jim's jacket, but he looked healthy and Jim couldn't smell any blood.

"I just want to go home," Blair whispered.

"Okay, then." Jim steered him toward the SUV. "What happened to that phone call? You said you'd call before you left."

Blair shook his head slowly. He let Jim open the passenger door and climbed into the seat. He gave Jim a miserable look. "Do you know how many things have numbers in them, man?"

Blair insisted on making dinner. "It's not much. Just roast beef and tomato sandwiches." He finished the tomato and began arranging slices carefully over the meat. Satisfied that each bit would get the proper ratio, Blair added the lettuce and top bread. He carefully cut each sandwich into two triangles. When he set the plates down on the table, he looked up to see Jim watching him.

"Dinner's served." He added two beers from the icebox. "Sorry you had to wait."

"It's okay, Sandburg. Stop apologizing." Jim joined him at the table. "You needed that hot shower first."

Blair had been freezing. Hell, he still felt ice icicles in his chest. But they had been produced from the chill of fear, of an unknown future. Gallons of hot water hadn't touched that region within his body. But he was starting to feel better, to feel connected again with his life. He was home and he didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to think about it. It was such a relief not to be lost in a strange part of town. Was his memory starting to dump entire neighborhoods now?

"What happened, Chief?" Jim asked gently after a few minutes of silent eating.

"Someone switched out my phone," Blair weakly joked. "I couldn't read any of the numbers."

"So, you should have had someone call for you," Jim pointed out logically.

Blair rocked his head side to side with little motions. "Okay, sure, yeah. Now that makes sense. But at the time, I figured I'd just catch the bus and deal, you know? I didn't want to... "

"What?"

Blair ducked his head. "Be a bother, man."

"Sandburg." Jim's sigh was loud. "You're not a bother. You're my friend. I'm part of what's happened to you. I'm not expecting you to slog through this alone."

"God, Jim." Blair pushed the half eaten sandwich away. "I'm so wishing now I had talked to you before going to Tapas."

Jim pushed Blair's plate back. "If wishes were horses... Better finish that. You didn't eat lunch and protein starving your brain is not the path to health, Young Grasshopper."

Blair smiled. "Yes, Old One."

"After dinner, I'll teach you numbers," Jim said matter-of-factly.

Blair nearly choked on the roast beef. "What?"

Jim continued to eat, talking with one cheek full of sandwich. "What's the red light mean, Blair?"

"It means stop."

"Right," Jim said with a nod. "You're retaining your new memories. I think your brain is accepting these reminders and creating new memories on top the old ones. You're still one of the smartest guys I know. You'll be able to relearn you numbers, I'm sure."

Blair was speechless.

Jim went back to eating his sandwich between sips of beer.

"You... where'd you learn that? Is it true?" Blair finally asked.

"Why not? It's basically what Tapas was hinting to in his office. I know you had a lot of info dumped in your lap all at once, so I tried to pay close attention. I talked to some medical geeks this afternoon, buddies of Dan's. Just general stuff, I didn't tell anyone about you." Jim ended his speech by popping the last of the sandwich into his mouth. He mumbled around his food, "That was pretty good, I'm making another. Want one?"

Jim eyed the cards fanned out in his hand. Blair sat across from him on the large area rug. The coffee table had been moved to one side to make room. They shared a large bowl of popcorn between them. The butter anointed Jim's bandaged hand with grease, but he didn't mind. The salty buttered popcorn mixed with the beer gave him a pleasant buzz.

"Got any threes?" Jim asked.

Blair's snort spoke of his relaxed state of mind. "You so get to go fish, man."

"Jerk, you don't have to gloat." Jim picked up another card to add to his growing hand. "Wait till we graduate to poker, Mr. Hoyle. I'm going to take you to the cleaners."

Blair reached for another handful of popcorn just as Jim's cell phone rang. Laying the cards face down, Jim unfolded his legs and stiffly stood up. "Don't cheat."

"Don't have to," Blair answered smugly with a mouthful of corn.

"Ellison."

"..."

"Hello?" Jim dialed up his hearing. He could hear breathing and a distant sound of water lapping, like a shoreline, without the sounds of gulls or surf.

"I'm calling for George."

It was the same voice that had answered the number Brown had given him. Jim transferred the phone to his yellow stained hand and reached for a pen. "Is he willing to talk with me?"

"Yeah, he'll meet. Tomorrow. I'll call with the meet place."

"Wait," Jim ordered before the connection was gone. "What time? I need to make sure this phone isn't being used. I don't want to miss you."

"Same as now, I'll call in twenty-four."

The line disconnected. Jim reached for a tissue to clean off the butter before returning the phone to its charger. It was already past eight in the evening. He'd have to arrange for some swing shift backup.

"Was it George?" Blair asked from his position, sitting Indian-style on a large throw pillow.

"Still not sure. Same guy as before," Jim told him. He headed for the icebox. His beer was about finished. It was time to switch to a non-alcohol drink and get some fluids into his body. "I'll know more tomorrow when I meet him."

"When we meet him, you mean," Blair said in his best `I will not be left behind' tone.

"We'll see, Cool-Hand." Jim picked out a chilled bottled water and returned to the floor. "Whose turn?"

The next morning Blair was awake, showered and making his algae shake by the time Jim rolled out of bed. The disgusting concoction was just getting the blender treatment as he descended to the main level. Blair's bedroom door stood ajar and Jim looked in on his way to the bathroom. It was hard to tell by the normal mess, but Jim thought the bed looked slept in. Once again, Blair had been turning pages when Jim had dropped off to sleep last night.

"Morning," Blair greeted happily.

"Back at cha, how'd you sleep?" Jim asked, pausing at the door frame to the bathroom.

Blair rolled his shoulders in a smooth shrug. "Guess what? I started reviewing basic math last night? And I made real progress. I worked up to geometry and Trig. Pretty cool, huh? I think it's like when you forget the definition of a word, but you remember the word. I did the opposite. I forgot what the numbers looked like, but remembered what to do with them."

"So, you're saying you didn't get any sleep," Jim deduced.

"I'll make up for that tonight." Blair grinned back. "Too psyched. You'd make a bodacious teacher, Jim. You should consider switching occupations."

"I'll leave the scary stuff to you," Jim said before going into the bathroom.

Jim used the john, stripped and stepped into the shower. To save time, he shaved under the massaging shower head. Climbing back up the stairs in his robe, he dressed for the day and joined Blair in the kitchen. His roommate had just finished his shake while sitting at the table. The dirty glass still held green residue within.

"We're almost out of milk," Blair said, his head down as he curled over a pad of paper.

Jim made a note to stop at the corner market. They needed more popcorn, too. He fixed a large bowl of cereal and threw the empty milk carton under the sink. "Remind me to carry the garbage down on our way out."

"Okay."

Jim sat across the table, watching Blair carefully pencil another long line of number fours, over and over again. Half the page was filled with fours. Blair held the pencil in his fist, his knuckles white, his lower lip trapped between his teeth.

"Lighten up on that grip, slugger. Your hand's going to cramp," Jim warned. "Your numbers already look better than your original handwriting, cut yourself some slack."

"I'm still getting the four wrong. And I'm confusing the nines and sixes."

Jim let it go. Blair was being Blair, whether it was learning numbers or some courtship ritual of a South American tribe, he had to be as accurate as he knew how. It gave Jim some measure of comfort, actually. Even with Blair's memory screwed up, no drug would completely erase his friend's personality.

Holding a spoonful of milk covered toasted oats, Jim got one last word in, "I reserve the right to say `I told you so' when you drop your hot coffee in your lap," he warned primly.

Blair snickered.

The drive to work was pleasant, filled with easy kidding and small talk. Jim's cell phone rang four blocks from the station. It was Richard Yu's attorney. Jim had an appointment in thirty minutes in Chinatown, if he was available. Terminating the connection, Jim made a right turn, away from the station and tossed the phone to Blair.

"Call Simon for me? Tell him we're meeting Dicky Yu at the `Fierce Dragon'." Jim was careful not to let Blair know he was watching.

With the same intense concentration that he had shown at breakfast, Blair took a minute to study the small keypad and carefully dialed the number by heart. He tucked a wavy strand of hair behind his ear to prepare it for the cell phone and flashed Jim a smile as he told Simon the news.

"Okay," Blair said, folding the phone closed. "He said to check in every hour or he's sending back up."

The `Fierce Dragon' was known to be Richard Yu's favorite hangout. Jim had checked there right after Bernard's murder to get a line on his brother's location but had come up empty. Now it appeared that Dicky was ready to resurface. It was too early for normal business, so parking wasn't an issue. Jim parked in front of the ornate red and gold building with a roof that curled up at the edges. The architect had gone for an ancient China look that matched the rest of Cascade's Chinatown district.

The man that unlocked the front door and let them in looked like a TV thug, muscle for hire.

"You packing?" the man asked. He had a narrow face, his suit cut to accommodate his thick arms and broad chest.

"What do you think, pal?" Jim answered, holding up his detective shield. "And, no, I'm not going to let you search. So don't ask."

The man's hooded eyes flicked from Jim to Blair. "He a cop, too?"

"He's with me." Jim crossed his arms. Even with his additional height, he wondered if he could take this guy hand to hand. "That's all you need to know. Can we cut this dance short, now? Take us to Dicky. We have an appointment."

"This way."

The thug turned, leading them into the dim interior, past empty tables and up dark red carpeted stairs. Another thug materialized from the shadows and stepped into position behind them. Jim could hear two more heartbeats ahead. Their escort knocked on an ornately carved door and waited for permission to enter. When it came, he opened the door and stepped to one side to let them pass.

Richard Yu stood up from his position behind a computer desk. His suit was wrinkled, his black tie opened at the neck. Jim's sense of smell told him Dicky hadn't showered in the last couple of days. Grief lined the suspected gangster's face and haunted his eyes. With a weary wave, he indicated both visitors to take a seat in the leather and mahogany chairs before the desk.

"Please, I've just returned from a business trip in California. What can you tell me about my brother's murder?" He had no accent, even though he looked full Chinese. His short dark hair was cut fashionably with just enough gray at the temples to give a respectable look.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Yu," Jim said. He waited for Blair to take the inside chair before sitting down. "I was hoping you could shed some light on who would want to kill your brother."

Dicky dropped back into his seat. "I have no idea, Detective...?"

"Ellison," Jim said. "James Ellison. This is Blair Sandburg."

Blair nodded, raising a hand in a mute greeting.

"Detective Ellison," Dicky repeated as if memorizing the name. "I can tell you everyone liked my brother."

"Word on the street says you might know who the killer is. I'm told you're looking for him." Jim kept his face neutral, his tone light. He'd never had occasion to meet Richard Yu face to face before, but there was no doubt the man knew the police were aware of his reputation.

Dicky leaned back, his arms outstretched as he braced himself against the wooden desk. "I have no idea what you're talking about," Dicky said.

Jim scratched his chin, as if in thought. For such an extravagant building, the room and its furnishings were rather plain. No windows, not much in the way of art. Jim got the feeling it wasn't Dicky's office. "How are you connected with this place? Owner? Partner?"

"My brother was murdered, Detective," Dicky said quietly, his face darkening with anger. "How does knowing my business details help you find the killer?"

"Everything helps. That's why we ask. Like, for instance, do you have proof you were in California when your brother was murdered? Can you give me an alibi that doesn't include names of people on your payroll?"

"Yes," Dicky spat out. "If it gets you off my back and on to the job of finding Bernie's killer."

"Good." Jim offered his best smile as he pulled out his notebook. "Let's start with that, then I'll ask my other questions."

After the interview was concluded and the same thug escorted them back outside, Blair spoke for the first time, "You believe any of that?"

"He was lying some of the time. I think he does suspect someone," Jim said quietly as he towed Blair away from the building. He wasn't convinced they were not under observation. He wouldn't put it past the man to have listening devices installed near the entrance.

"What now?" Blair asked as they walked toward the Expedition. "Follow up on the names he gave, check out that California Alibi?"

"That's what I'm thinking, yeah."

Jim looked both directions for traffic before crossing over to where he had parked. A fire engine approached. Something told him to let it pass. He caught Blair's arm and held him back. Sure enough, the officer riding in the cab next to the driver picked that second to turn on his siren while the driver activated the large vehicle's warning lights. The effect was spectacular. Blair jumped as if electrocuted, falling backward, and tripping over the edge of the sidewalk.

Jim's hold kept Blair from falling. "Sandburg!"

Blair's wide eyes were fixed on the approaching vehicle. Sure, the siren was loud and Jim appreciated his own ability to dial down his hearing in time, but Blair's actions made no sense. Blair clapped hands over his ears and yelled out in fear. Jim had to reposition his hold to keep the younger man from running.

"Chief! Calm down!" Jim ordered after the truck had passed.

The entire episode had lasted only a few seconds, but left Blair an emotional wreck.

"What...What was that!" Blair almost screamed, still trying to twist free.

Jim didn't understand at first, then reality hit.

Blair's faulty memory had struck. Jim tried to imagine hearing the shrill sound of the engine's siren for the first time, the way the lights strobed and flashed out in warning. Jim understood. "It's okay!" Jim said, then quieter, "It's okay. It was a fire truck. You've seen them before, you just forgot."

Blair's eyes were still following the departing truck. He stilled. His body trembled, but he stood tall again. "I have?"

"Yeah, you've seen them lots of times."

"S-shit." Blair shuddered, then looked back at Jim. "It was so..."

Turning him loose, Jim checked the street again for traffic. He patted Blair's shoulder. "I know, it startled me too. Let's get back to the station before Simon gets worried about us."

Blair was silent as he got in the Ford. Jim didn't push. He could tell by the slumped shoulders, Blair's earlier sense of confidence just became a hit and run victim by a city fire truck.

When they arrived at the police station, Simon met them as Jim and Blair walked into the bullpen.

"I was about to call. You two have a visitor," Simon announced, hitching his thumb behind him. "He's waiting in my office."

Wonderful.

Jim tossed his jacket over the back of his chair. "Who is it?"

With a glance at Blair, Simon avoided the question. "I have a division meeting, should be back before lunch. You guys can use my office. I'll catch up when I'm finished and treat you both to lunch." He was gone without further discussion.

The shades were drawn, blocking their view into Simon's space. Did George decide to come in from the cold? There was nothing left but to go in. He checked his partner. Blair still looked gun-shy with the world at large.

"Ready to see who's behind door number one?" Jim asked.

"No, but let's go anyway," Blair muttered under his breath.

Dr. Tapas looked up as they entered. "Ah, you're both here. That was fast."

"You make... police station calls?" Jim asked in mild shock.

"You found out something?" Blair asked simultaneously.

Without his white smock, Tapas looked like a banker with his lean build and bookish appearance. He smiled as he held up a file. "I've discovered some fascinating information. I had to drive up personally to talk to you, Mr. Sandburg."

Blair eased into the nearest chair, looking apprehensive. Jim didn't blame him. Tapas had a look of a man who had just made a rare discovery. It didn't promote warm and cuddly feeling within Jim either.

"Blair. Please call me Blair," the younger man asked. "What did you find out?"

Pulling a chair close to Blair's, the medical doctor sat and opened the file. "Your MRI tests proved your area of the brain that holds your short term memory appears perfectly fine. Good blood flow, no shrinkage - like we've seen in the past with patients that have either schizophrenia or severe depression."

Jim rolled his eyes. "I could have told you he doesn't have any of that."

Blair gave Jim a faint smile. "Thanks, man."

Tapas continued unaffected. "What captured my attention were two things. You have a trace of an unusual mineral in your work up. It seems to be blocking your synaptic density, the connections of your nerve cells. I checked the samples from Detective Ellison and it wasn't there."

Blair looked concerned. Jim leaned against Simon's desk and waited.

"Don't worry, Blair. This is good news; we need to identify how you were exposed. Once we stop it, your long term memory should be fine. But I did find something that raised a few eyebrows." Tapas tapped a report with a long finger. "Our tests found a protein in your body we'd never seen before. We've traced it to your neurons."

Jim definitely didn't like the turn this conversation was taking. Mutated cells? Was he about to tell Blair he had cancer? From the look on Blair's face, it appeared he was thinking the same thing. They exchanged a quick look. Tapas continued, unaware.

"I'm not sure how aware you are of neurons, bu -"

Blair interrupted. "Neurons have a nucleus that contains genes. They carry out basic cellular processes like protein synthesis and energy production and communicate with each other through an electrochemical process." He churned the air before him with a wave of his hand. "I know all that. Just tell me. Is my memory going to get normal again? I can't be ruining my boxers every time a ... what was that thing, Jim?"

"Fire engine," Jim supplied.

"Every time a fire engine drives by," Blair explained.

Tapas looked surprised. "Of course, I'm sorry." He took a deep breath. "I don't have all the answers, Blair. But this information might explain why your body reacted to the drug in a way no one expected."

"Doc, is this neuron difference going to get worse? Is Blair sick?" Jim had to know. "No, no, I don't think so." Tapas became animated again. "I truly believe this is a normal condition for him. His body seems to accept the difference. You see, the basic function of the neuron is to transmit information. You have over twenty billion, penetrating every tissue in every part. A person has many of the same neurons their whole life. Although other cells die and are replaced, many neurons are never replaced when they die. In fact, we have fewer neurons when we're old than when we're young."

"I know all this," Blair said. "I don't mean to be rude, but how does this affect my memory?"

Tapas took a felt pen from his pocket, turned the file over and started to draw. "Neurons are fundamental. They affect sensation, perception, memory, emotion and health. A basic nerve cell consists of a cell body, an axon, and many dendrites."

Jim zoomed in on the drawing from his position by Simon's desk. The man drew what looked like a fried egg with a kite-like tail. Only the egg part had forks sticking out like split hairs.

The doctor tapped the forks with the felt tip. "Dendrites are thread-like branches that increase the surface area of the cell, making it possible for it to receive many connections with adjoining nerve cells. Signals picked up by the dendrites travel through the cell and continue along the axon where they are transmitted to the next cell." Tapas switched over to tap the tail of the kite. "Down here are synaptic bulbs, they're on the ends of the axons and make connections with other nerve cells, with tiny gaps or synapses between the cells."

Tapas pointed to Blair. "You have synaptic bulbs on your dendrites. What I don't understand is what are they doing there? What are they making connections to?"

Later, after Tapas had left, Jim followed up on the leads from Richard Yu's interview. Blair continued to review the reports Jim hadn't gotten to yet. Neither man discussed or speculated the information Tapas had shared. They were still working when Simon returned just before the noon hour, making `follow me' motions on his way into his office.

"What was Tapas doing here?" Simon asked as soon as the door was closed.

Jim massaged the back of his neck with one hand. He was stiff from cradling a phone against his shoulder most of the morning. He deferred to Blair. Technically, Simon had no standing to inquire about his partner's medical condition. But Jim knew he was asking as a concerned friend, not a supervisor.

Blair seemed to feel the same way. "They think something organic mixed with the drug used to erase my memory. They're trying to identify it." Blair leaned against the conference table, arms crossed over his chest, expression strangely neutral.

"Okay, that's a good thing. Right?" Simon glanced to Jim.

Blair shrugged. "I guess I'll know more later."

"I hope it's soon, Sandburg." Simon started to fill his coffee carafe from his stash of bottled water. "So, catch me up with the Yu murder. You met with Dicky, right?"

"Right, Sir." Jim took point. "He denied putting out the bounty on George. No surprise there. He seems to have an alibi, though. I've spent the last couple of hours on it, can't seem to find any holes. Dicky was in California on business, but it wouldn't be hard to create a paper trail and slip back to Cascade unnoticed."

"Where does this leave us?"

"We've got George. If Dicky thinks George killed his brother, maybe he did," Jim said. "We're meeting him tonight. His go-between is calling around eight. No one else pops up an obvious suspect."

His coffee brewing, Simon went to his desk and sat down. "How about the restaurant angle?"

"We're pretty certain the killing happened in the kitchen. No matches to the hair or skin we found under the victim's nails, slim chance anyway. We'll have to wait until we get a suspect and hope for a match." Jim rubbed his nose and sighed. There was still so much they didn't have, like motive. "Everyone says this guy was a saint."

"Yeah, hard to believe he was the brother of an organized crime mobster," Blair added.

"Dicky's still small potatoes, way I understand," Simon explained. "Brown was saying Bernard had the brain for business, but he preferred to keep away from the shady part of his brother's dealings."

"Yeah, we heard the same," Jim agreed. "Although the two of them were close."

"Well, listen. It sounds like you're looking at a late night," Simon said. "Why don't you take a few hours off? Rest up and go back on the clock for the meet with George. I've got the swing shift guys on notice. Two detectives are assigned to back you up when you call with the location."

"Thanks, Simon." Jim stood. "That sounds like a plan. Come on, Chief."

Blair looked surprised. "Wow, this is a switch."

Jim leaned down as he passed and mock-whispered, "Simon must have seen my comp time stats."

"Yes, I did," Simon growled. "We're going to have a chat soon. Start using more of that, Mister. The payroll clerk is having fits."

Once in the Ford, Jim glanced at his companion. Blair hadn't said more than twenty words since Tapas' visit. He wasn't sure if the younger man was upset or just dealing with the information, analyzing it, turning it over in his head. Normally Blair did that sort of thing out loud.

"Lunch out? Or back at the Loft?"

"Loft?" Blair asked with a half-guilty look.

"Works for me." Jim started the vehicle and let Blair sit quietly all the way home.

Once up in their apartment, Blair's response to food was lackluster. "I'm going to crash for a few hours."

"Hold up, Houdini." Jim raised a hand. "Can we talk?"

"About?" Guarded and cautious, Blair made his stand from within the entrance to his room.

Jim recognized a pending argument. It wasn't the way he planned on drawing his friend out. He wanted to be supportive, not overbearing. "You've had a load dumped on you this morning. I thought you'd want to talk. It's not natural for you to be this quiet. Frankly, it's scary." He meant the last part as a joke, but it backfired.

"And we both know this is all about you, right, man?" Blair shot back, his accusation dripping with sarcasm. Suddenly Blair's eyes widened and his complexion paled. Jim didn't even have time to respond before Blair spoke again. "Oh, Shit! I'm sorry. I'm just... It's been... "

"Blair, relax, okay?" It was physically painful to watch Blair like this. "I'm just trying to help."

Blair drifted away from his room, looking lost. Collapsing onto the sofa, he let his head fall back and gazed soulfully at the high ceiling. "I know. I'm just wigging out. I feel like the ground's being ripped out from under my feet."

Jim snatched up the fruit bowl and carried it into the living room. He set it on the coffee table. "I can imagine."

"Jim, I can't remember ..." Blair's voice broke, but he cleared his throat and continued. "It dawned on me this morning, after Tapas left. I sort of wondered how I got so lucky to have you as a friend and then I realized I didn't know how we met."

Some of that terra firma slipped away from under Jim's own feet. He pushed down the panic and took a seat next to his roommate. "No problem, I'll remind you."

Blair turned to face Jim, his eyes bright with fear. "Does it start off `Once upon a time'?"

Jim threw an arm around Blair's shoulder, nudging his head up until he could slip under. "You're getting the Readers Digest version, Junior."

"Figures," Blair huffed, but he left his head resting comfortably on Jim's arm.

"Okay. Here goes, my sentinel senses were kicking in big time and I thought I was losing it," Jim said, ignoring Blair's snort. "You found me, tried to tell me what was happening. I wouldn't listen. You pushed. I pushed - actually, I think I had you pinned to the wall for a few seconds. Anyway, I blew you off and left."

Blair's head tilted on Jim's arm as he watched the cop speak, his expression a dry sponge, soaking in every droplet of information. Jim felt ashamed. He forced himself to go into more detail. "A small voice told me I was making the biggest mistake of my life when I left your office at Hargrove, Chief. But I was stupid."

"What happened?" Blair whispered.

"I zoned, right in the middle of the street. I guess I walked out before you got a chance to explain about those. Not that it would've mattered. I really had my head on backwards. One of Cascade's finest was bearing down on me, a garbage truck. At the last possible minute, you knocked me flat on my face and the truck went right over both of us."

"No way."

"Way."

Blair curled forward, his face in his hands, shoulders hunched. Then after a several long moments, he spoke. "Okay, that note I wrote makes sense now. I couldn't figure out the part about the garbage truck."

"The note I saw you reading in the Mercer Island clinic?" Jim asked.

Blair reached for a banana. "Yeah."

"What did it say?"

Blair's grinned. He still looked weary, but no longer frightened. "None of your business, man."

Jim's reply was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. He waited a second to see if they stopped across the hall.

Nope.

"You expecting anyone?" Jim rose from the sofa and went to the door, turning the handle as the first knock sounded.

One very pissed off Naomi stood next to a grim looking Tristan.

Behind him, Jim could hear Blair's quiet groan.

"Can this day get any worse?" Blair muttered in a hushed voice.

"Jim? Is Blair in?" Naomi asked coolly. She wore her trademark long, gauzy dress; underneath, a black spandex bodysuit. Dozens of thin silver bracelets clinked together on her wrists. Gypsy hoops hung from her earlobes.

Jim stepped back, surrendering the view of his roommate sitting on the sofa. "Come in."

Naomi limped in, leaving a permafrost trail in her wake. Tristan followed, somewhat reluctantly. As mother and son had their reunion, Jim tried to get some insight. "She knows?" Jim whispered.

"Oh, yeah," Tristan answered, equally as quiet.

Jim closed the door. This was going to be interesting.

Blair stood to receive his mother. She framed his face with her hands, flattening his hair back. It was a gesture that only mothers could do without embarrassing their grown children. Uncharacteristically silent, she stared into Blair's eyes as if reading his thoughts.

Blair endured.

Jim thought he did a superb job of standing up to her scrutiny. He kept his back straight and returned her gaze with more confidence and strength than Jim had seen over the last couple of days. It was like a game of chicken, seeing which one would break first.

"So!" Jim clapped his hands together. "We were just getting ready for lunch. You two hungry? We've got Chinese or Mexican. We normally call it in, either place delivers. Or we can walk down and pick it up."

Tristan shrugged out of his black leather jacket. "Sounds good to me. Honey? You care what we get?"

Dropping her hands, Naomi turned. "I'm not here to eat. I want to know how this happened."

Jim found himself her target.

"Naomi, don't," Blair said wearily. He was ignored.

"Jim?" A perfectly raised eyebrow issued a challenge.

"Don't look at me, Naomi," Jim said. "I found out after the fact, too. What did Tristan tell you?"

"We met a few seconds ago," Tristan admitted. "Down on the sidewalk."

"I flew straight from ..." She waved a hand. "It doesn't matter. So, you two are saying neither one knew? Then how did he get hooked up with a company doctor?"

"Mom!" Blair thumped a clenched fist against his thigh and got the `talk to the hand' gesture from her.

"Naomi, Blair did come to me," Tristan said. "But, he didn't make the decision lightly."

"Was he told he'd be losing long term memory?" she fired back.

Blair raised his chin. "You weren't supposed to know that."

"Tapas is a company man. He's required to report to me," Tristan explained.

The situation was escalating. Naomi paced the room, her limp stealing her normal grace. Blair watched her move back and forth, his own emotions close to the surface and nearly spilling over. The very air seemed to crackle like static under high tension power lines.

Naomi was the first to blow. "Blair never should have made the decision in the first place! You know that! God, Tristan! You're in his life for just a few months and look what's happened!"

"MOM!" Blair admonished in horror.

Tristan was the second to blow. "I've been in his life from the second he was born! Don't give me that, Naomi. We made that decision together. I will not have you -"

Blair might have been the last to erupt, but he didn't come last in the special effects department. "NO!" he yelled at both of them, throwing both hands out. "I'm not - repeat - NOT letting this happen." Stabbing the air first toward his mother, then toward his father, Blair laid down the law, his voice quiet, commanding and strong. "I'm an adult, people. I made my choice, just me. Not Tristan. Not Jim. Not even the damn doctor. Everyone clear?"

No one answered.

Blair closed his eyes. He rubbed his forehead. "Good, I'm going to lie down. You guys eat... whatever. Jim and I are going out later. We're working on a case. It's important." He turned away and stormed into his room, leaving behind a thick silence.

Jim watched Naomi and Tristan glare at each other, neither giving an inch.

"Okay, then." Jim reached for the cordless. "Mexican it is."

The light knock on his door caused Blair to glance at his desk clock. Barely an hour had passed.

"Sandburg, it's me."

"Come in," Blair said, rolling on his side and pushing off the futon to sit on the edge. His head still ached.

Jim stuck his head through the doorway. "Your folks are gone." He held up a white bag. "I got lunch."

A whiff of melted cheese made Blair's stomach growl. "Thanks, Jim."

They ate at the kitchen table. Neither man talked while they devoured the enchiladas; chicken for Blair, beef for Jim. Blair drank the large glass of water, hoping to tame his headache. What he wouldn't give for twenty-four hours of solid sleep.

Blair sighed. "Sorry about the family feud, man. Who knew having two parents was so noisy?"

Jim finished carefully scraping the last of the sauce from his plate before standing to carry it to the sink. "It's fine, Sandburg." Jim rinsed his plate. "Your Mom's reaction was honest. I felt the same way when I found out, actually."

Great, now they were back square one. "I wish Naomi would just let it go," Blair said. He frowned down at his food, his earlier appetite waning. "I know what she'll do; overanalyze it to death. I just want to move forward... what?"

Jim was grinning at him as he leaned against the counter, his arms folded across his chest. "You, Mr. Pot."

Oh, yeah. So, Blair sometimes overanalyzed stuff as well. "Okay, I come by it honestly." He felt a smile bloom and felt a little better. The food, the water, whatever - he noticed his headache was not so bad. "I know she cares, but she needs to realize I've been dressing myself and going `big potty' for years now."

Jim snorted. "Well, maybe when you stop leaving wet towels on the floor..."

Blair looked puzzled. "Wet towels? Me?"

"You."

"Uh oh, I'm having another memory fade, man. Nothing about wet towels is coming to mind."

Jim snorted again, pushing away from the counter with his good hand. "Sieve-head. I'm going upstairs. A couple of hours of downtime works for me. You get the dishes."

"Wow, thanks."

Jim gently cuffed the back of Blair's head as he passed. "Don't mention it."

When the call came from George's informant, they were ready. The meet location turned out to be a small park next to the bay. Jim notified their backup by cell phone en route. Blair fiddled nervously with his backpack in his lap. Jim hadn't wanted him to come along, but the argument had been brief. Once Blair pointed out that being alone, even in the loft, could be a problem if his memory did another `core dump' on him, Jim had thrown up his hands in surrender.

"You'll stay in the Ford," Jim said, for the third time.

"Right."

It was dark by the time they arrived. The park sat on a small point of land. The city had planted some trees and scattered picnic tables. It was the type used by old couples and young mothers with children, who would wander down from the expensive houses and watch the boats pass. After dark the place seemed empty. Tonight, a cool breeze blew the young leaves on the branches, causing them to rock back and forth in protest.

Jim parked half a block away. The street lights were placed far enough apart to provide some shadow for them. Reaching up to his roof top, Jim hit the switch that disconnected the dome light when a door opened. "Okay, I can see Vanderbilt and Becker parked at the other end."

"Any sign of this George guy?" Blair asked.

Jim surveyed the area. "The tide is out. A person is walking down from around the point, following the waterline. Might be him." Jim keyed a small portable police radio and reported the information to the two backup detectives. They acknowledged him.

"I'm going down to the picnic table now," Jim reported over the radio, tucking it into his jacket's pocket. "Remember, Chief -"

"I got it, Jim. I'm staying put," Blair said. He was beginning to get annoyed.

"I'll wave you in if I think it's safe, okay?"

"Okay."

Jim slipped out and walked away. He skirted around the park, threading through the foliage and approaching the picnic bench like a shadowy afterthought. Blair caught his lower lip between his teeth. He hated this part of police work. Jim was exposed and they knew nothing about George. He might be just what he said, a falsely accused man running afoul of a gangster, or this might be an elaborate setup.

A few minutes later, a person walked up from the waterline. Blair couldn't see much, only that it was someone wearing a coat. After a few minutes, Jim raised his arm. The signal. Blair opened the door and hurried to join them.

"Is this the guy you saw talking to Bernard Yu at the museum?" Jim asked when Blair arrived.

Blair took a look. The man with Jim was heavy, with a broad forehead and flat planes to his face. He looked about Jim's age. He did look familiar. "I think so." The wind tossed Blair's hair and he caught a handful to hold back from his face.

"I remember you," the stranger said, looking at Blair. "You were teaching some kids, in the totem pole room."

Blair nodded.

"Okay, so you're telling me you and Bernard were friends?" Jim asked.

The man, Blair guessed it was the George guy, jerked his head up and down. He glanced around fearfully. "I met him last year, when I first started keeping Dicky's books."

Oh, boy. Blair shifted his stance. In the movies, the sucker that played the part of the mobster's bookkeeper always got killed. How often does life imitate art?

"Dicky was losing money. He spends it before it even comes in; trips, booze, women," George explained. "He doesn't listen to reason, either. His high-price girlfriend left him because of it. Well, that and because Bernie showed her how to start her own legitimate business."

"Are you talking about Lucile Swath?" Jim asked.

George smiled. "She called herself Lucy Swan back when she lived with Dicky."

"So, why's he telling everyone you killed Bernard?" Blair asked.

Jim crossed his arms. "I think I know." He lifted his chin a bit and gave George a hard look. "You were there when he was killed, weren't you?"

George nodded, his face crumpled. "God... I never thought he'd follow me. I was meeting with Bernard. My second cousin is the head waiter, he got us in. Bernard was going to help me. Set up a meet with the feds, I'd get amnesty. You know, that witness protection thing?"

The truth smacked Blair in the face. "Oh my God... Dicky killed his own brother?"

Jim held up a hand, stilling the talk, his attention seemingly fixed on something else. Sharp blue eyes searched the area around them urgently. "We've got a bogie."

Blair reworked the unfamiliar word in his mind: unidentified threat. "Dicky?" he whispered.

"Maybe," Jim answered grabbing George's arm. "Come on, I'm placing you under protective custody."

George's fear radiated off his body in all directions. Blair felt for the guy. Dicky was nuts. If he killed his own brother, he'd have no problem murdering his accountant... and anyone else that threatened him. Blair followed Jim closely up the graveled path toward the street. Seeing Jim had turned George loose and was reaching behind, as if searching blindly, Blair latched on to the back of Jim's shirt.

Without warning, Jim spun and shoved both his charges off the path, down a small slope into a hedge of tall shrubs. The prickly leaves attacked Blair's bare skin.

The first bullet ricocheted off a small boulder to their left. Blair instinctively hunched down.

"Sniper!" Jim shouted into the radio. "Northeast! Rooftop!"

Shouts answered, backup was alerted.

Jim's face was inches from Blair's ear. He could feel his friend's breath on his neck.

"Chief, keep him down. You stay down."

Jim was going to leave them both here. Blair didn't like the idea. Sure, Jim had a gun and all, but no one to watch his back. "Jim, I want to -"

George was already on his stomach in the dirt; Blair was shoved down practically on top of him. He felt Jim's knee dig forcefully into the small of his back and he grunted in surprise. Jim pressed something small and hard into Blair's hand, his back up revolver. Okay, Blair got the message. He'd stay put.

"No argument," Jim commanded in a harsh whisper. Then he was gone.

The unmistakable odor of urine reached Blair's nose and he gently moved off George to burrow into the duff next to him. Somehow, knowing there was another person that was more scared than he was comforted the police observer. "It's going to be okay, man," Blair whispered to the frightened accountant. "Jim's the best."

George didn't answer, remaining prone, face pressed into his folded arms.

Blair had a decent view of the street, but not the rooftops beyond. Had Jim spotted the sniper? Or just heard him? Perhaps he followed the trajectory of the bullet and guessed. Even before Jim's sentinel abilities kicked in, he'd been a soldier with combat experience. This was old hat for Jim.

Right?

Blair fisted a handful of dry leaves, driving brittle thorns into his palm and finger pads. He didn't want to wait here. He wanted to know Jim was okay. On the other hand, he had no desire to run into one of Dicky's armed goons. Besides, he had to keep George safe.

A vague memory haunted him; another time when he'd been scrambling in the dirt. Jim had been in danger.

The memory slipped away.

Jim ran though the manicured grounds belonging to a house that faced the street. He could hear Becker and Vanderbilt running toward him, herding the sniper in his direction.

Perfect.

Jim ducked behind a parked car and waited. It wasn't long before a dark shape pounded between two houses, clearing a low bush. Jim got a quick look through the car's windows. It was the thug from the Chinese restaurant where he and Blair had interviewed Dicky. The man was dressed all in black. His hands were empty. He must have tossed the rifle. When the thug was a stride away from the bumper, Jim stepped out and dug a shoulder into the running man's midsection. Both men went down into the damp grass.

"Cascade pol-"

A fist caught him in the gut and cut off his warning. Jim blocked the next punch heading for his face. He had landed badly; the ground crowded his right arm. Jim rolled away, just to get some maneuvering room. The thug made the mistake of trying to follow. Jim rose in a fluid motion and delivered a roundhouse punch to the face, which bowled the hired gun onto his back.

Jim didn't have time for any more fun. Blair was alone with George. He drew and pointed his Sig at the moaning man rolling back and forth in the grass, both hands covering his bleeding nose. " -lice, you're... under... arrest."

"Jim!" Becker arrived, with Vanderbilt a few steps behind him. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Jim said, still trying to pull air back into his chest. That punch had knocked all his wind out.

Watching the two cops expertly frisk the prisoner - they found a small revolver in his belt - and cuff both hands behind his back, Jim managed to get to his feet. God, his gut ached. The guy might have a glass jaw, but he knew how to pack a punch. Jim stood, extending his hearing back toward the park.

Voices. He heard voices, Blair and...

"Shit!" Dicky must have doubled around. Jim broke into a run, crossing the dark street. He cursed again, knowing the park was a good three hundred feet away.

Becker turned to his partner, amazed. "See, this is why no one can work with him. You stay. I'll back him up."

Blair knew they were in trouble. Someone was approaching and Jim was a hell of a lot quieter than this guy. He nudged George with an elbow. "Can you scoot back?"

"Na huh."

Okay, then. They'd just lie very still and hope the crunching shoes on gravel passed by.

"Get out," a very serious sounding male voice commanded. "I can see you both."

Blair lifted his head. It was dark, but he could make out a man standing next to the picnic table. The streetlight backwashed his profile and Blair could see it glint off the gun in his hand.

Wonderful.

Blair tucked Jim's backup gun into his belt, knowing his flannel shirt would cover it. "We're coming out, okay? Don't get all weird on us."

George seemed reluctant to stand, however. He stayed in the shrubs, whimpering softly.

"Get up!" Dicky ordered, his words slurred. "Damn you. My brother is d-dead. It's your fault!"

Blair kept his hands up. He watched Dicky approach, standing just to one side. Sure enough, the gangster seemed only to care about the cowering accountant on the ground. Maybe Blair could use the hidden gun. But then what? Shoot? Threaten to shoot?

"He said you killed your brother," Blair explained carefully.

"NO!"

Blair was certain he saw Dicky sway. Was the man drunk?

"I loved my brother." A harsh sob broke and the gun wavered. "I didn't mean to hit him that hard. But he kept messing with my b-business."

Blair noticed nothing was said about the butcher knife. He keep his eye on the gun, tensing. Dicky was near now. He wasn't much taller than Blair and didn't look very strong, but looks could be deceiving. Blair just knew he'd rather try wrestling the guy than risk shooting him.

"P-please, Mr. Yu," George said fearfully. "I'm sorry. I swear I won't go to the police."

Helloooo, you already did.

Blair tried not to breathe. It appeared Dicky had forgotten Blair was even in the same park.

One.

More.

Step.

Blair leaped. He caught the gun hand and yanked it upward as the gun fired. The recoil traveled up Blair's own arm and shook his body. God! How big was that gun? Dicky struggled. Blair's arms were occupied just keeping the gun safely pointed up, so he drove his right knee up as hard as he could and felt it connect; a solid hit to the groin.

With a howl, the gangster released the gun and fell to the gravel, curling into a tight ball.

"Sandburg!"

"Jim!"

Jim skidded to a stop. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Blair held the gun out. "Here, take it, will ya?"

Jim took the gun and checked the safety just as a second man ran up.

"Ellison? Everything okay?" He eyed the group, then saw the gangster writhing on the ground. "Is that our suspect?"

"Sandburg took him down." Jim was leaning over Dicky, patting for weapons, pulling out handcuffs.

"Ah, Jim? Be nice and cuff his hands in front? Okay?" Blair made a guilty face. "He's kinda... hurting."

After booking Richard Yu and seeing he was properly guarded at the hospital, they went to the station to finish the paperwork. Jim knew he had a good chance of getting at least tomorrow morning off. If he played his cards correctly, Simon might give him the whole day. He and Blair could relax. Then Jim remembered; Naomi and Tristan were still in the picture.

Only two detectives occupied the bullpen, working hard in front of their computer monitors. Jim raised a hand in greeting as they entered, then pointed toward his own computer. "You mind bringing up the report? I need a file from Simon's office."

"Sure," Blair responded, skirting around the desk and dropping into Jim's chair.

Jim found the file he'd left with Simon sitting in the man's in-box. He joined Blair, pulling the extra desk chair close. Blair was a faster typist. If Jim dictated, they'd be done by midnight. "We'll need enough to make probable cause for high bail, that'll make the prosecutor happy. If the hospital doesn't keep him very long, they'll get him on tomorrow's prelim docket. I can write a detailed report later."

The screen was still asking for the password.

"Chief?"

Blair stared at the sign on screen, his forehead creased. "I should know this, huh?"

Blair knew Jim's sign on, his PIN number at the ATM - hell, he even knew his social security number. A little more of his friend's memory was slipping away.

Tapas needed to isolate whatever was causing this.

"Jags-4-me," Jim whispered. "The number four."

Blair typed it in, not meeting Jim's gaze.

At ten minutes before one they were done. Printing the last of the report, Jim made three copies while Blair saved the original file and powered down the computer. Jim left one copy with Rhonda in an interoffice envelope made out to the prosecutor's office, marked urgent. The other two copies he left on Simon's desk.

"Ready?" Jim asked.

Blair shut off the desk lamp and stood. "Oh, yeah."

When they arrived back in the loft, Jim could have slept propped in a corner. The message machine was blinking. He dutifully hit the button, leaning tiredly against the sofa back.

"Blair? This is Doctor Tapas. Call me first thing in the morning. Page me anytime after seven. I've got good news."

While Jim played the rest of the messages which were all hang-ups, Blair materialized at Jim's side, his hopeful gaze fixed on the small box. "You think?"

"We'll set the alarm and call him," Jim promised. The loft was secured and Jim longed for his bed, but a hand stopped him before he could reach the stairs.

"Jim, let me change your bandage," Blair said, pointing at Jim's hand. "It's filthy."

Jim looked. Blair was right. The white gauze was almost black with grime. Blair was tugging him around to the front of the sofa and pushing him gently down. Jim let his body relax into the sofa. It felt good to be home, like things were returning to normal. Blair was back, sitting on the coffee table and attacking his bandaged hand with medical scissors.

"Does it hurt?" Blair asked.

"No. Just itches."

"How'd this happen?" Blair's eyes were on his task. The old gauze wrapping was off. Blair had a soapy washrag in his hand and carefully cleaned the skin around the sutures. He'd even brought a small bowl of water to rinse.

"It's not important how it happened," Jim said lightly.

"It's just, you don't normally get cut. This looks like a knife fight injury." The hand clean, Blair used a towel to pat it dry and started fashioning a new bandage from the first aid kit supplies.

"What do you know about knife fights?"

"Fine, don't tell me then," Blair replied in a hurt tone. He finished applying the last strip of tape and hurriedly starting picking up the mess.

Jim captured an arm. "Hey."

Blair paused, returning Jim's look.

The phone rang.

"I'll get it." Blair moved fast, snapping up the phone. "Sandburg."

Normally Jim didn't listen in on phone conversations. But it was after one in the morning and he was curious, so he made an exception, recognizing Tapas' voice on the other end. The man sounded excited.

"Blair, I'm sorry if I woke you. I've been calling every hour."

"No, not at all." Blair sat down at Jim's side. "You have good news?"

"We found it, Blair! We know what is reacting to the drug and causing your long term memory loss. It's phycocyanin."

Blair frowned. "I've never heard of it. Are you sure?"

"It's not as bad as it sounds. It's a natural color pigment; a blue. Actually, it's found in water plants."

"Water plants?" Blair asked, looking to Jim as if for understanding. "How would I be getting near water plants? We don't do a lot of swimming in Cascade, man. It's too cold."

Jim had an idea. "Hold it a second." Jim headed for the kitchen. He opened the cupboard that held all of Blair's herbs and junk he liked to play with. Finding the bottle he wanted, he read the label as he hurried back to Blair. "Here, Sandburg."

Blair took the bottle. "My freeze-dried algae?"

"Yes!" Tapas shouted from his end. "You take algae? That would do it! Some algae have a blue-green color. If you've been taking that as a supplement, stop. In fact, don't eat anything that's blue for at least two months. I'll evaluate you after that and we'll see what your workup shows."

A wide grin was forming on Blair's face, replacing the confusion. "So... it's over? I'm not going to forget anymore?"

Tapas sounded exuberant, like a man that had been pardoned. "It's over! I believe some of your forgotten long term memories might even come back, once the chemical cocktail in your brain fades away."

"YES!" Blair shouted, clutching the cordless tightly with both hands.

Jim squeezed his shoulder, his own smile stretching his face. Life was good again.

"Is Detective Ellison with you? Is he awake?" Tapas asked.

Blair was laughing. "If he was, he wouldn't be now. You want to talk with him?"

"Please."

Blair handed over the phone, looking ready to break into a happy dance right in the middle of the loft. Jim wouldn't blame him if he did. In fact, he'd be tempted to join in. "Tapas?"

"Detective?"

`Call me Jim."

"Jim, I wanted to talk to you about your samples."

Jim frowned. He'd forgotten about them. When they were trying to find the reason for Blair's unusual reaction, they had wanted to compare Blair's results with someone he lived with, to see if it was environmental. "What about them? I can promise you, I don't drink Sandburg's algae crap." Jim dodged Blair's playful punch by standing up and taking a few steps toward the windows.

"Not that. Do you remember when I explained about Blair's unusual cell formation? His nerve cells and how he has synaptic bulbs in the wrong locations?"

"Right."

"You have similar nerve cells, but different. It's as if the two compliment each other, it's incredible."

"What?" Jim didn't mean to raise his voice, or sound upset. The effect was cold water to Blair's jubilance. In an instant, Blair was back at his side. Jim held up a hand to delay the question on Blair's face. "What are you saying?"

"I'm not sure yet. I do know this isn't environmental or the early stages of an illness. This is genetic. If I were to guess, I'd say the two of you are related somehow."

"That's not possible, doc. Blair and I are in no way related."

Blair looked shocked. "Huh?"

"Well, something has linked you two together," Tapas insisted. "I need to take more samples. This is a huge discovery and needs research. As far as I know, you two are the only humans ever recorded with the condition. It could even tie to physical abilities that you're not aware of."

Jim's blood froze. This was not a good thing. He forced his voice to remain impassive. "Look, doc. No offence here, but this is probably some machine glitch."

"I can assure you -"

Jim cut him off. "Can we talk about this later? It's late and we've just spent all night catching a killer."

"Oh, of course. I'm so sorry." Tapas sounded sincere. "Would you both come by my office later today? We need to talk."

"Okay, and thanks again for getting back to Blair about the algae thing." Jim replaced the phone.

"You're scaring me, Jim," Blair whispered in awe. "I've never seen you looking this freaked."

"Chief, we've got problems."

Jim repeated the information to his friend. Blair took the news well; in fact, he even started to get that gleam in his eyes. The one that always warned Jim that sentinel testing was about to take place. Jim wasn't surprised. Blair was a scientist, after all.

"What's the problem, Jim? This could be the sentinel proof I missed." Blair narrowed his eyes. "But why didn't your military doctors catch this before?"

"Who knows? Maybe all the tests and practicing you've had me do somehow caused this to grow, become more obvious." Jim ran a hand down his face. "We have bigger problems to worry about."

"What?"

Jim cupped a hand around the back of Blair's neck and squeezed. He leaned down, eyes level with his friend. "Blair, you didn't hear the way Tapas sounded. And he's a `spook' doctor, remember? He's already hinted to me that he feels this cellular structure might manifest into physical abilities. Now he's linking you to it. We're looking at tons of testing."

"But... I'm not... you're the..." Blair's eyes got a far away look, his gaze shifted as if seeing something not in the room. He blinked, focusing back on Jim. "Jim, that's ludicrous. You're the sentinel."

"Yeah, and right now, I'm a free sentinel. What do you think would happen if the wrong type of people, like that Chinese guy who kidnapped me before, found out? Now they have reason to study both of us."

Blair sucked in a breath. "Jim, we've got a huge problem," he whispered.

Jim turned Blair loose and rubbed his own forehead as he paced the small area between the TV and sofas. Blair stood as if rooted to the floor, watching him. It was late, but neither of them could afford sleep right now. Not until Jim knew for sure the situation. How far out had the information gone? Was Tapas still holding all the proof? No, wait. There had to be lab technicians involved. Doctors don't do their own work, they send it out. Okay, now at least two people knew, more if they split the task of testing his and Blair's samples.

Sounds of footsteps running stopped Jim in his tracks. He extended his hearing, pinpointing the location of the runner. Light steps, on the stairwell between the second and third floor. A voice spoke.

"If you're awake, it's me, Jim."

"You're mom's on her way," Jim announced, going to the door.

"What?" Blair blurted out. "Naomi's here?"

She wasn't even breathing hard as she jogged into the loft, still favoring her hip. The dress was gone; she wore black jeans and a black long sleeve Tee. With her black knit cap over her head, she reminded Jim of the woman that had gone down to Mexico to get Blair back from Hersch. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Jim checked the hallway out of habit, no one else had followed. He closed and locked the door.

"Mom!" Blair stepped forward.

Naomi took half a second to hug her son, before speaking. "We have a situation."

"I know, Tapas just called and told us," Jim answered. "How many know?"

"Too many, and the wrong ears are listening."

Blair's attention bounced between them. "What? Who?"

"Options?"

Naomi closed her eyes. "Few, I'm afraid. We need time. But neither of you can afford it. Tristan has already taken off. He's going to try and sterilize the leak on the East Coast. I'm heading down to Mercer Island to do what I can."

Blair latched onto his mother's arm. "What are you talking about?"

She turned to him, her face softening. "Honey, this is the nasty part of my world. The part I'd hoped you'd never see."

Blair bristled. "You're doing it again, Naomi. I'm not a kid. Tell me! Is Jim in danger?"

She nodded. "You both are. We have red flags, like early warning alarms that go off whenever your name is mentioned. Last year we added Jim's." She cast a look toward Jim. "They both went off tonight. Tapas is a good man, he wouldn't have intentionally done this, but the wrong person must've gained access to your records. NCID was just alerted and is on scramble. I figure you have one and a half, two hours tops."

"NCID?" Blair asked.

"National Center for Infectious Disease, Chief," Jim answered grimly. "They're coming to pick us both up, aren't they?"

Naomi nodded, her eyes bright.

Blair stepped backwards. "No... we're not a... Mom, they can't do that. We've got to straighten this out."

"By the time someone does, you'll be transferred over to some black agency within the government. No one will find you," Naomi warned. "Not even your father and me."

Jim made a decision. "Don't worry, Sandburg. They're not going to find us." He turned back to Naomi. "How long do you and Tristan need?"

Her lips turned white as she thought. "It might take time. It's not going to be easy."

"We need a system, some way you can tell us it's safe to come in," Jim said.

A tear fell, Naomi wiped it away impatiently before reaching for the pad and pen by the cordless phone. "I'll give you some phone numbers, give me forty-eight to get them activated and only call if it's an emergency. I'll also write down a web address. I only need twenty-four to get it up and running. Check it once every other day or so. I'll use it to update you both on the situation."

"Mom?" Blair sounded lost.

Naomi ripped off the paper and shoved it toward Jim. She turned and gathered Blair into her arms. "I love you."

"What's happening?" Blair asked, returning her hug out of habit.

"Both of you are in danger, honey." She gently bumped her forehead against her son's. "Take care of your Sentinel. I have to go. I'll see you soon."

She turned him loose and gave Jim a quick hug, complete with a kiss on his cheek. "Keep him safe, Jim."

"I will." Jim watched her slip out without a backward glance. He looked at one very shell-shocked Blair. "We're out of here in thirty minutes. You'll need to carry whatever you take, make it light."

Blair stared at the contents of his room. What was Jim thinking? What was Naomi thinking? Surely they were both totally overreacting. After all, his father was supposed to be a big shot in the spy world. They couldn't legally snatch two US citizens out of their home without reason.

Jim poked his head in. "Finished?"

Shit, Blair hadn't even started. "Ah..."

Jim entered and lifted Blair's larger knapsack off a hook on the wall. He tossed it onto the futon and started opening dresser drawers. "How many of these journals talk about us?" Jim jerked a chin toward the full bookshelf against the wall as he stuffed clothing into the pack.

Blair was so amazed at Jim's actions; it took a second for the question to register. Jim was packing for him?

"Sandburg!"

"Ah, one, man, only one." Blair licked his lips. "After that `Sons of the Dragon' incident, I got Kelso to put it all in a safety deposit box."

"Good. Make sure you bring anything that has your sentinel research with us. Got it?" Jim pierced him with a steely look.

"Got it." Blair started pulling out desk drawers and rummaging through the contents. Some of his generic stuff, pre-Jim, was still floating around on computer disks. Which raised another question. "Jim? What about my laptop?"

Jim paused, a pair of rolled up socks in one hand. "Anything on it?"

"No, just software. I keep all my stuff on disks."

"It's too bulky. Just dump the temporary memory and leave it." Jim resumed packing.

Reality came crashing down. People were going to come into their home and go through all their belongings. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. "This is unreal. We gotta call Simon. He'll help."

Jim turned with a frown. "You want Daryl and Joan in danger? Remember the bomb that destroyed the bull pen? How many people do you want to involve?"

Something must have told Jim just how sick Blair's stomach suddenly got. How the world was suddenly graying. How gravity was distorting, because Blair was having a hard time standing up. Jim caught both Blair's upper arms and guided him to the edge of the futon to sit.

"I'm sorry, Blair. I'm not mad at you. It's just we don't have time for discussions and votes. You're going to have to trust me, completely, without question. Got it?"

Barely able to summons up enough spit to swallow, Blair nodded. "You should be mad, all this is my fault."

Jim sighed. He turned back to the pack and zipped it shut. Going to Blair's closet, he flung aside hanging garments until he found a heavy flannel shirt and a jacket. Pulling them off the hangers, he tossed them to land next to Blair. "Put those on. Then I need your help out in the living room."

Blair slipped into the shirt and carried the jacket. Jim had his pack. He dumped it by a similar one already resting against the door. Crooking a finger, Jim walked over to the high brick wall in front of the stairs. He took Blair by both shoulders and repositioned him until his back pressed into the wall.

"Cup your hands. I need a boost."

Blair bent his knees, braced his shoulders against the roughness and made a step with his hands. Jim gracefully stepped up, reaching high and came back down with a small oilskin package.

"What's that?" Blair asked.

"Money and fake ID's." Jim smiled, patting Blair's cheek. "Ever since the `Sons of the Dragon', I've been thinking something like this could happen to us. Naomi and I put this together."

"You did?" Blair followed him back to the door. When Jim lifted his coat off the hook and slipped it on, Blair donned his own jacket.

"Yep." Jim took a second to look around the loft, his gaze resting on the table, the stairs, fireplace and the doors to Blair's room. "Chief, I don't understand genetics, science or how a nerve cell works; but I know this - the second you knocked me down and that garbage truck passed overhead, I knew we had a special connection."

Blair smiled. "This puts a whole new spin on that expression, `you're getting on my nerves', huh?"

Jim smiled, and then turned serious. "Listen to me, Junior. Whether it had been a bad case of the flu, a broken leg - hell, who knows, both of us end up in the hospital too damn much - my point is this; someone would have stumbled on to us. It was just a matter of time. Got it?"

Blair's chest felt tight, his eyes burned and his nose tickled.

A corner of Jim's mouth quirked upwards. "So, no more guilt trips. It's no one's fault." He opened the door.

Blair picked up his own backpack and checked his pocket for his wallet and keys. He turned to look at the loft. "Are we coming back?"

"If staying away means we stay free, no." Jim pulled Blair out into the hallway and closed the door. "Let's get going. We've got some serious burrowing to do."

The beginning...

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