"Here we are, man." Blair tossed his Fargo hat into the seat before lifting his bulging carry-on to stow above their double seat. "Wow, check out the leg room."

"Not as if you need it, shorty," Jim teased, placing his bag next to Blair's before folding his six-foot plus frame to take a seat next to his friend, roommate and unofficial police partner.

Graciously choosing to ignore the last comment, Blair continued to explore the mysteries of his seat. "Hey, we got foot rests, oh wow... cool!" He pulled a padded extension out from under the seat. "We're living large, Jim!"

"Yeah, Amtrak could give the airlines a few lessons on how to make their passengers comfortable," Jim admitted, settling into the soft seat.

"You know, the railroad had a significant part in forming this country," Blair started.

Jim stopped him with a steely look. "Sandburg, we're on vacation. Now, I know this is difficult for you to wrap your brain around, but could you turn it off... please?"

"What? I'm just making conversation," Blair protested, fighting a grin. "I'm doing my part in keeping your education current, Mr. ESPN."

Jim answered with a quiet huff.

"Hey, we're moving!" Blair softly exclaimed, looking out his large window.

"Didn't you and Naomi ever take the train?" Jim asked, thumbing through a magazine he'd found that depicted the advantages of train travel.

"Sure, but I wasn't very good at catching them... couldn't run very fast over the rocks. Naomi had to kinda toss me. Good thing I didn't weight much... why are you looking at me like that?"

"You're kidding..."

Blair laughed at the horrified look on his friend's face. Shaking his head, he pulled his laptop out of its case. "Getting there was always half the fun, man."

Jim let his head fall back against the padded chair and enjoyed the fact he wasn't driving. Blair's attention was currently divided between his laptop and the passing scenery. Few seats were empty as people roamed the aisle, causing Jim to recall an earlier conversation he'd had with his roommate. Blair had baulked at arriving at the Cascade train station early, but Jim had insisted, already having arranged for Simon to drop them off an hour before the train's scheduled departure. General seating was a gamble and he wanted Blair sitting at his side while they rode the rail to the eastern Washington town of Ephrata, where Blair's adopted `Uncle' Buck would be picking them up later tonight.

A late straggler approached, looking for an available seat as she pulled her wheeled luggage along. She was small, her stature made shorter by her stooped shoulders. Her gray hair was pulled back into a neat bun. Sharp eyes met Jim's briefly before moving on and picking out the last available seat across the aisle. Jim prepared to stand and assist with her rolling luggage, but she seemed happy to leave it in front of her legs, another testimony to the spacious seating arrangements onboard.

The porter, a cheerful man with a goatee, worked his way down the seats, checking tickets and answering questions. Jim removed their tickets from his inner jacket pocket and double-checked the information. They were riding train number eight, the Empire Builder. If they rode to the end of the line, they would end up in Chicago day after next. It sounded tempting; they made good pizza there.

"Tickets, sir." The porter stood next to his seat.

"Here you go."

"Ephrata?" The porter's curious eyes drifted over both the men sitting together.

Jim nodded, long since comfortable with the looks he and Blair drew from others. They were not the typical roommates and friends, unless you considered Felix and Oscar, but that was television. Blair dressed in his normal Salvation-Army style flair; jeans, flannel and oversize military surplus winter coat. His long, wavy hair fell free to his collar, partly hiding a set of silver hoops dangling from one ear lobe. His granny glasses made him appear years younger than his age of twenty-six. A decade older, Jim's own appearance was more subdued. In Blair's own words, he `screamed cop' wherever he went. Short military haircut, tan Dockers, gray cable hand knitted sweater and black leather jacket. The only thing the two friends wore in common was their sturdy hiking boots. Blair's Uncle Buck lived in the remote scablands known as Dry Falls. Wearing anything else was just plain foolish.

"We're visiting a friend," Jim explained.

"Nice area, good fishing," the porter said before handing the stubs back and moving on.

When the man from the dining car arrived to take reservations for dinner, Jim accepted a five-thirty time slot for two. They had fifteen minutes to relax. Having a good view out both sides of the car, Jim could appreciate the vibrant colors of the setting sun over the waters of the Puget Sound to his left and, at the same time, peek into the backyards of expensive homes on his right. Their train moved north, towards Everett; the rails ran parallel to the coastline. In several locations, it felt as if the car was skimming along the top of the choppy waters. The silence of their travel was pure pleasure to Jim's sensitive hearing. If he wanted to, he could easily hear the sounds from the engine at the head of the long line. In fact, he could make out the conversation between the engineer and his assistant.

They were discussing possible snowfall on the pass.

When the announcement arrived for dinner, Jim nudged Blair. The sun was gone, keeping the younger man's eyes on his work while he listened to his music through headphones. Blair preceded him down the aisle as they walked towards the dining car two cars ahead. Walking on a moving train was like walking on a boat, the train swayed gently side to side. When Jim's enhanced sense of touch and hearing picked up a jarring movement at the front of the train, he grabbed Blair's right wrist, putting it on the handrail just in time.

"Whoa!" Blair muttered as the car jerked roughly. A child a half a car length ahead lost her balance and fell onto the lap of a young woman, who helped the red-faced girl to stand with a laugh.

Blair turned and gave Jim a wide-eyed look. "How'd you... ahhh, cool, man."

Jim pointed forward. "Move, taskmaster. We're on vacation, remember?"

Blair eyed Jim with a look that read of future tests - vacation or no vacation.

At the dinner table, set with a white linen cloth and real china plates, they sat side by side as instructed by the attendant, who then escorted a third diner to share their table. Apparently this was common practice on board as several smaller parties were being grouped together to eat. Jim recognized their eating companion as the late arrival sitting across the aisle from them.

"Hi! I'm Blair. This is my friend, Jim. We're going to Ephrata," Blair announced cheerfully, an ease that Jim always envied.

"I'm Stella. Nice to meet you both," the woman answered. "I'm riding to the end of the run."

"Chicago, right?" Jim asked politely, picking up the menu. The steak sounded tasty.

"That's right," she answered glancing over her own menu.

"Jim, we should try the chicken. It's roasted," Blair said, pointing at the selection on Jim's menu.

Jim knew where this was going. "Go for it, Chief. I'm having the steak."

"You should reconsider, young man. I didn't get to my age eating that poison," Stella advised, instantly making a friend for life as Blair graced her with a brilliant smile.

"That's what I've been trying to tell him, Stella. He refuses to listen!"

"We're not having this conversation, Junior," Jim warned setting his menu aside. "So, Stella, what's waiting for you in Chicago?"

She sighed, her face turning sad. "My past, I'm afraid. I'm tired of running from it. I turned eighty last week. I'm going to meet it head on."

Blair leaned forward, eager to find out more. Jim watched Blair begin to work his charm. He was an anthropologist by trade, and during times like these, it seemed to take control. Blair thrived on meeting people, learning what made them feel, hurt, and laugh. This story sounded too inviting to pass up, and, more importantly, it side-railed Blair's desire to control Jim's menu selection.

Jim would have given the woman a rose, if he had one to give.

"Wow, it sounds like you have a fascinating story to tell," Blair said, inviting her to continue.

But it looked like Blair was going to be denied the story. Stella changed the subject. "The chicken does look good. I think I'll order it... so, what do you men do for a living?"

They had a pleasant meal. Stella showed interest in both of their occupations, never once asking what a grad student was doing with a Major Crimes detective from the city of Cascade. Jim suspected they could have admitted to being drug lords on their way to a meet with extraterrestrials and she wouldn't have batted an eye.

He liked her. They continued to chat to their final cups of coffee.

"So, Jim jumps on the skid of the helicopter and handcuffs himself to it. I mean, I thought I was toast, you know? And this nut was convinced he'd totally gotten away." Blair kept his voice low, much to Jim's relief. Blair seldom shared some of the extreme cases with anyone, let alone a virtual stranger.

Stella calmly nodded her head, her eyes turned to Jim, as if assessing him.

Jim wondered if he measured up to her expectations.

"Oh, my. You two do lead interesting lives. I'll bet you've seen a lot." She leaned forward, keeping her own voice low. Their plates held the remains of their meals, waiting for the waiter to return and clear the table. "Have you ever worked on a kidnapping case before?"

Jim nodded, noticing Blair's eyes slide down, suddenly fascinated with his water glass. "We have, actually."

She shook her head slightly. "It's so sad, so much heartache..."

Jim exchanged a quick look with Blair.

"Well, listen to me! Keeping you both for so long." She gathered up her coat and left a few bills on the table. "I'm sure you both have more interesting things to do than listen to me talk. It was nice to meet you both, thank you for sharing your interesting stories, Blair," she said before leaving.

She moved fast for an eighty-year-old woman.

Blair turned to Jim with a puzzled grin. "What was that all about?"

"Who knows?" Jim answered. "I'm thinking cheesecake. You want anything?"

"Oh, man..." Blair moaned, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, I'm thinking a referral for a good heart specialist. You're going to need one at this rate."

Jim flagged down the passing waiter. "Do yourself a favor; don't quit your day job, Seinfield."

Blair could type with the speed of a machine gun when he wanted to. Jim could see he was half way through his second laptop battery and showed no signs of slowing down. Where did he get that kind of energy? They had just finished a long week of all night stake outs. By rights, Blair should be sleeping right now.

The steady clicking of the keyboard never failed to make Jim drowsy. With his seat back and a small pillow for his head, he could easily fall asleep right now. Jim shifted into a more comfortable position and closed his eyes.

The first gasp of pain caused Jim to wake and turn. Stella leaned forward in her seat, her hands clasped to her abdomen, her face pale. The teenager beside her slept on, oblivious to his seatmate's distress.

"Stella?" Jim leaned across the aisle, keeping his voice low. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Blair pause and remove his headphones. "Are you okay?"

She gave him a faint smile. "Dinner... doesn't agree...oh!"

Jim quickly left his seat and knelt next to Stella's chair. Taking her small, frail wrist in his hand, he felt her erratic pulse drum out a weak beat.

This was not a case of indigestion.

"Blair." Jim motioned his friend to join him. Blair was at his side in an instant. "Keep her calm. I'm going to get a porter."

"Right," Blair said, switching places and giving the old woman's arm an encouraging pat. "So, not feeling very good, huh?"

Jim moved quickly and found the porter with the goatee three cars back. After explaining the problem, he used a small radio to notify a second porter to meet them with the first aid kit. Jim was pleased to hear they also carried an oxygen bottle. He led the way back to his partner and Stella.

Opening the last connecting door to their car, Jim felt his stomach drop as he spied Blair, along with another passenger, performing CPR. Stella lay on her back in the aisle. The other passengers watched wide-eyed as Blair pressed down on the frail rib cage and counted to fifteen, his voice low and determined.

Just before they reached the train tunnel at Stevens Pass, billed as the longest such tunnel in the United States, Stella was declared dead.

Blair dropped back into his seat, exhausted; their train trip had lost its appeal. Sudden death had that kind of effect on him. Rubbing a shaky hand down his face, he made a point to keep his eyes diverted from the aisle. The porters had already removed Stella's body and personal effects to some unknown location on the train. Jim had spoken to them briefly, probably giving them a short report of what he'd witnessed.

"Here, Chief."

Jim was back, a plastic water bottle in hand. Blair took it. "Thanks, man."

With a sigh, the cop sat down, sneaking a peek at his friend. "You okay?"

"Yeah, it's just... so sad."

"Yeah. I don't think she suffered very much," Jim whispered.

Blair slowly shook his head. "Eighty years... think of the stuff she witnessed; the first vehicle, miracles of medicine, space travel... two world wars, sinking of the Titanic, assassination of Kennedy..."

"Taking a morbid turn on me, Chief?" Jim asked.

"Yeah... I guess," Blair admitted. "I wonder what we'll see when we get to be eighty."

"Maybe you with a hair cut?"

"Not the hair, man," Blair responded automatically, his heart not in their usual banter.

Buck Stevens waited at the train station. It was late, for some reason unknown to him; the train was overdue by more than an hour. Not an unheard of event, but still... knowing his unofficial nephew was on board, he worried. At least Ellison was riding along.

He enjoyed Jim Ellison's company, although things always seemed to happen whenever the cop was around. For that matter, things always happened when Blair was around. The two of them together certainly made life... interesting, which brought him back to ponder why Amtrak was so late.

Finally, the single headlight was visible in the darkness. The air had a nip in it that promised snow. The winter had arrived, finally, bringing cold weather and a few flurries of white stuff. As was usual in the desert land of Eastern Washington, the snow stayed on, blowing from drift to drift until it would finally melt, sometime around April. Buck stuck his hands into his wool coat and left the protection of the small station to stand in the wind.

As soon as he spotted Jim and Blair stepping off the train, he knew something was wrong. Blair's greeting seemed off. Pain creases lined his forehead. His exuberance was missing, as well as his normal smile of greeting. He knew Blair had been working hard at the University the last few weeks, plus he helped Ellison at the police station. Maybe all the work was too much.

"Buck," Jim greeted the ex-navy seal with a strong handshake and nod before placing his Jags cap on his head.

"Jim, good to see you." Buck waited for Blair to set down his duffle bag before folding him in a bear hug, a tradition that never felt wrong whenever he greeted the only child of Naomi Sandburg. "Hey, runt. What's wrong?"

"Hi, Uncle Buck," Blair muttered into the other man's ear, lingering for a moment before breaking away. "Everything's cool."

Buck didn't push. "Let's hit the road; your ride was later than normal. It'll be after midnight by the time we get to the orchard."

They chatted about the orchard and the college football season as they drove the deserted streets through Ephrata, heading north towards Soap Lake, then beyond to the huge coulee that formed Dry Falls. Blair sat in the back bench seat of Buck's old Toyota Land cruiser, sharing the small seat with their luggage. Buck monitored the rearview mirror, judging the time it would take before Blair nodded off. As soon as the curly head leaned against the upright duffle bag and the blue eyes closed, he broached the subject.

"Okay, spill," he asked Jim, keeping his voice low.

Jim held a hand up, his head tilted as if listening. It was a full two minutes before he answered. "We had a problem coming over."

"What happened?"

"An elderly woman on the train died... heart attack. Blair did CPR. He's taking it hard, we had dinner with her earlier. She seemed fine then," Jim replied.

"Damn."

They turned onto the long dirt road leading to the orchard. The rough ride over the washboard surface woke Blair from of his doze. Buck parked in front of the single story house. The porch light glowed, lighting the path across the bare frozen ground. Unlocking the door, Buck ushered his guests inside. He was proud of the house, constructed from the original stonewalls after employees from a rivaling orchard had burned it to the ground last spring. With help, he had it rebuilt, using the exact floor plan, but upgrading the insulation and added a few perks like a flagstone entry and new wooden floors that glowed in the lamplight.

"Wow, this is nice," Blair commented, looking around the small living room. "You got the floors done."

"Yep, finished it last month," Buck said. "Your room's ready, if you two want to call it a night."

"Sounds good, we'll see you in the morning," Jim said, steering Blair ahead. "Let's see if we can get through the night without burning your house down."

Buck shook his head in response.

Cop humor.

// "Stella, try and relax. You're gonna be fine," Blair said, unbuttoning her collar. "Jim will be right back with help."

A small hand gripped his forearm, surprisingly strong for such a tiny person. "Listen... to me, Blair," Stella whispered, causing the younger man to lean forward from his crouched position in the aisle. "Not Stella, Maude... Maude McVey."

Another spasm of pain flitted across the old woman's features, bringing a gasp. Blair patted her hand, throwing a longing glance down the darkened aisle. Where was Jim with that help? He almost missed her next few words.

"Couldn't do it... went to Seattle, instead. Too beautiful..." The words lost their strength, tapering off to a whisper that needed a sentinel with enhanced hearing to pick up.

Blair turned back in horror. The grip on his arm had relaxed.

"Stella!" He woke the teenager next to her. The youth grunted, his eyes widening in realization. "Help me with her!" Blair ordered, checking for a pulse in her wrist. Nothing.

A heavyset black woman appeared at his side, telling Blair she was a nurse. Together, they moved her into the aisle and began the fight to call back Stella's departing spirit. //

"Blair! Wake up!"

Jim was back, finally! "Jim... she died... help me..."

Another rough shake brought Blair fully awake. Jim was standing next to his twin-sized bed. Weak morning light seeped in the through the window. The room was much as Blair remembered it, knotty pine paneling and an authentic Nez Pierz berry basket hanging on the wall.

"You were dreaming, Chief," Jim said unnecessarily as he sat down on his matching twin bed. He looked half asleep, his short hair spiking in different directions and dark stubble on his square jaw.

"Sorry, Jim. Go back to sleep," Blair invited; tossing his own blankets back and moving to sit up. The room was cool and Blair rubbed his arms briskly.

"Nah, I can hear Buck up. Coffee's on. I'm smelling biscuits and gravy," Jim said, sniffing the air with a happy, anticipating look.

"Yep, that's Uncle Buck. You two are peas in the same pod, man," Blair muttered around a yawn.

"He's Navy, Chief. You can't get much more opposite than that!" Jim declared in his best Army Ranger voice.

"Oh, brother!"

They rummaged through their bags and changed into clean clothes. Wandering through the house to the back kitchen, Blair was struck again at the beauty of the new home. Buck had lived in this spot all his life, the original house and land belonging to his family for three generations. Buck's grandfather built the first structure by hand, no power tools, it boggled Blair's mind. Now, the only original part left standing was the stone foundation and exterior stonewalls. Blair vividly remembered the night they'd been forced to escape through a tunnel in the kitchen.

"Morning, slackers. Ready for breakfast?" Buck called out from where he stood, next to the stainless steel gas range. The kitchen was warmer than the rest of the house. The table looked much like the one Blair remembered from before the fire. In fact, a lot of the furniture was much the same.

"Morning," Jim answered, heading for the coffee pot on the counter. "You gonna offer coffee or what?"

"Get it yourself, foot soldier," Buck ordered, giving Blair a once over. "How you feeling this morning, Blair?"

"Good," Blair answered automatically. "How'd you find all this furniture, Uncle Buck? It looks just like your old stuff."

"I met a... friend, in Ephrata. She's an interior decorator. She found most of this stuff for me."

Blair met Jim's amused look. This was going to be so much fun. "So, you're telling us you have a girlfriend!" Blair said brightly, accepting a mug of coffee from Jim and sharing a smirk.

Buck pulled a large pan of baking soda biscuits out of the oven. He held the pan high with an evil grin. "If you two think you're gonna start in on me about this issue, I will point you in the direction of the nearest restaurant. Gotta warn ya, though. It's a long walk; you may make it in time for lunch."

The sight of the golden brown treats and the thick, country-style gravy on the stove caused Jim to visibly shudder. "Shut up, Sandburg. Don't torment our host," he ordered gruffly, all the evidence of his earlier teasing evaporated.

"Traitor!" Blair accused with a laugh, dropping into a wooden chair at the table. "It must be true what they say about an army traveling on its stomach."

They finished the pan of biscuits in no time, with a small stack of sliced ham on the side. Blair enjoyed his biscuits with honey and homemade blackberry jelly, ignoring the gravy. He fought Jim for the last biscuit, losing the battle, but managing to snag the last thick slice of ham with his fork.

Buck watched with easy tolerance. Thinking back to when he had lived with Buck as a child, Blair remembered the strict rule - no horseplay at the dinner table, one of Blair's first experiences with `house rules'. Buck must be getting soft in his old age, Blair thought to himself with a chuckle. Not that he would say that out loud.

"So, what are we doing today?" Blair asked. They'd made no definite plans this week, just getting out of Cascade was vacation enough.

"There's an auction in Electric City today, wanna join me?" Buck asked.

"Sounds interesting, I'm in," Jim replied around a mouthful of breakfast.

"What about you, runt?"

"Nah, I'm just gonna hang here, if that's okay," Blair said.

"You're gonna work, aren't you?" Jim asked with a shake of his head.

"Just for a bit," Blair insisted calmly. "If I get it out of the way, then I have the rest of the week to goof off."

"Yeah, right..." Jim moaned, wiping the last bit of gravy off his plate with the last bite of his biscuit. "That's `Blair-speak' for more tests, Buck. You've got to save me from this guy."

"Get out of here, you two," Blair ordered, standing and collecting the dirty plates. "I'll clean the kitchen."

After the two men showered and drove off, Blair finished cleaning the kitchen and set up his laptop in the living room. He did fully intend to hammer out a few outlines for his classes, but first he wanted to research the name he'd forgotten. The name Stella had confessed just before she died.

The Internet was a wonderful place, full of facts and trivia waiting for Blair to sift through. First, he found some family trees, built by folks sharing their genealogy. Without a date of birth, Blair scanned the entries. A website caught his eye. He opened it and read an article posted in a `Crime Library'.

"Now, why did this get picked up..." he muttered to the empty house.

Jim held his prize as Buck parked his Toyota. It was mid-afternoon. The auction had been fun and productive. Buck had a shipment of irrigation pipes and supplies scheduled to be delivered next week and Jim was the proud owner of a complete set of `Brains Benton' children's stories, all six hardbacks with dust jackets. They had been his favorite as a young boy, but his brother had traded his books for baseball trading cards without asking. He'd been looking for another set ever since. The trick was keeping Blair from finding out about them.

"Hey, Chief," Jim greeted, entering the house and spying his friend sitting on the sofa. The laptop was opened, captivating all Blair's attention. The younger man barely acknowledged their arrival. That was perfectly fine with Jim; he'd already sworn Buck to secrecy. Now all he had to do was sneak his purchase by Blair.

Blair entered their room as Jim finished tucking the brown wrapped books into his duffle bag. "Jim! Guess what I found!"

"What?"

"Stella was involved in an old kidnapping!" Blair said, waving his hands in the air as he spoke. Buck entered their room, drawn by the excitement in the younger man's voice. "Remember when she asked us about kidnapping... at dinner? Anyway, she was the nanny for this kid. She must have been in her early twenties. The infant was taken right out of his crib, just like the Lindberg baby! And Maude disappeared without a trace."

Jim couldn't take anymore. "Hold it!" he ordered, stopping Blair with a hand on his arm as the smaller man started to pace the floor. "What are you talking about? Who's Maude?"

"Stella! She said she was Maude McVey."

"When?"

"Just before she died. She must have changed her name! What if she kidnapped the baby---" Blair asked, grabbing the front of Jim's sweater and tugging on it in his excitement.

"And you just now get around to telling me this?" Jim inquired, giving Blair a small shake before releasing him and rubbing his forehead.

"Uh... I forgot," Blair admitted sheepishly. "Until I remembered... I mean, I dreamed it this morning."

"Blair, show us what you found on the Internet," Buck suggested.

Jim followed the two men to the living room, walking as if in a daze. Was it possible for the two of them to take a trip without getting involved in something criminal? Blair's ability to find trouble or have it find him was phenomenal.

"See?" Blair asked, pointing to his computer.

Buck and Jim sat side-by-side on the sofa, reading the information. On January 27, 1932, a Chicago man and his wife woke up to find their three-month-old son missing from his crib. The live-in nanny was also gone. Chicago police discovered the missing nanny was having a relationship with George `Machine gun' Robinson, a local gangster. The nanny, Maude McVey was an orphan who grew up in a Chicago slum before meeting Robinson at the tender age of nineteen. The ransom was paid, but the child was never found - alive or dead.

Jim leaned into the back of the sofa. "Sandburg, tell me exactly what she said to you."

Blair dropped into the mission-style, oak rocker. "Okay, let me think. She said `not Stella'. Then she said something about not being able to do something, too beautiful," Blair said, pausing to bite his lower lip, his forehead creased in thought. "Oh yeah, she said she went to Seattle instead."

"Instead of what?" Jim asked.

"Don't know," Blair said with a shrug. "So, you think she kidnapped the baby and took him to Seattle? We've got to find out! I found out the parents are dead, but they had another son. We gotta tell him his brother is alive."

"Sandburg, we don't know that for sure. I'll call the Feds today, tell them what happened," Jim said, standing. "Did you eat? We stopped and picked up some burgers. We brought you a basket of chicken strips and fries if you're hungry."

Blair followed Jim into the kitchen where Buck had set the bags of take-out. "Yeah, that sounds good, thanks. But we're gonna follow through on this kidnapping, right?"

Jim shrugged. "We can give the Feds the website you found and you can type up a statement. We can email it to the Seattle office. After that, I don't see what else we can do."

Blair took a seat and reached for the chicken. He pulled a face and sighed. "I was hoping we could solve the kidnapping. You know, reunite the brothers. Just think about it, they'd be in their sixties."

"If the victim is still alive, I'm sure he has no idea he had been kidnapped as an infant. We may not be doing him any favors," Jim said, distributing sodas and passing out the straws.

"He has a right to know," Blair insisted. "It's not right. He should know who is real parents were."

"Sandburg, he has to be found first, then we can have this argument."

The FBI agent that took the report sounded intrigued, promising to get a team out to Buck's orchard as soon as possible to take a statement. The afternoon passed with ease. Blair returned to his Rainier work and Buck showed Jim the peaceful art of tying fishing flies.

Blair glanced up from his laptop. Jim had made another one of his annoyed sounds. The cop sat at an oak table that reminded Blair of the style found in old libraries. A bright desk lamp directed a small pool of light on the strange looking clamp device that Buck had set up for Jim to practice on. Blair had to laugh at the idea. A sentinel could thread a needle in pitch darkness.

"What's wrong, Jim?"

"I keep crossing the thread," he muttered to Blair's question.

Buck sat his book down and walked over to examine the work. "You might be getting obsessive with the details, Ellison," Buck commented with a wry grin. "You're already doing a better job then I'll ever be able to accomplish."

Blair abandoned his work to take a look. "Let me see."

"Careful, the cement's still wet," Jim warned.

"I won't touch it, man. I just want to look."

The small fishhook displayed in the clamp had been dressed in flowing black feathers forming a long tail. A fine, fuzzy looking black yarn had been wrapped all the way to the eye. Over the top of the yarn, a long feather spiraled and was secured with thin black thread. The amazing part, Blair realized, was the entire fly was smaller than his thumbnail.

"Wow, that's pretty cool. What's it called?" Blair asked, leaning close to peer at the fly.

"A wooly bugger," Jim answered, forced to lean back while Blair got close to his work.

"It's a wet fly, great for fishing at dusk. You just inch it along the bottom of the lake and get ready for a fight. The big boys love `em," Buck said, thumbing through a small spiral book. "Let's get you tying a few dry flies, Jim. With you showing this much skill, you should be able to jump right to the more challenging ones."

Jim looked like a kid being praised for the first time. The happy, relaxed smile made him look years younger. Buck set the open book down and pointed to a colorful fly.

"Okay, this is a Royal Coachman. Let me show you how to form the wings."

Jim squeezed the clamp and let the wooly bugger drop into his palm, which he extended to Blair. "Here, Sandburg. Put this one in your flybox."

"Really?" Blair asked in surprise as he took the small gift. "I get it?"

"Sure, I'll make more. Simon could use a few too," Jim said.

Buck laughed. "We'd better hit the fly shop tomorrow for more supplies. Sounds like you're on a roll."

Blair returned to his laptop, setting the fuzzy imitation bug down carefully on the coffee table. He knew he was grinning like an idiot, but he couldn't stop. For whatever reason, he was ridiculously happy to be the owner of Jim's first fishing fly. No way was he planning on ever using it. It was destined for the small wooden cigar box he kept in his sock drawer.

Blair paused before returning to his outline, caught up in watching his best friend and his childhood mentor working together, both men's strong backs turned to him as they bent over their work. The sun had disappeared hours ago, leaving the comfortable room without benefit of the natural light from the large picture window. Buck had installed a wood pellet stove into the stone fireplace, which kept the room at a comfortable temperature as well as providing a cheerful glow. A floor lamp and Jim's desk light were the only two sources providing light in the room.

Warmth flowed in Blair's chest, growing until it spread through is entire body and down each limb. It stole his breath and made him dizzy for a second, but it was a nice, enjoyable feeling. Blair felt like a millionaire, rich with friendship.

Jim's head turned to pin Blair with an inquiring look, one eyebrow raised in question. Blair flapped his hand back, offering a depreciating grimace and dropping his gaze back to his work. The gesture seemed to pacify the older man and he returned to watch Buck's fingers tie the fly.

`Sheez,' Blair thought. `Get a grip, Sandburg.'

The two FBI agents arrived right after breakfast. A short, heavy-set man in his fifties introduced himself as Dirk Lakers and his partner Pete Wilson, a younger man with glasses and a receding hairline that made Jim realize his wasn't so bad.

Buck invited them into the kitchen, since the living room was still cool from the previous night's low temperatures. Jim had just finished washing the last breakfast dish. The room still had a lingering aroma of cooked bacon. Since the coffee maker had just finished with its second pot that morning, Blair took two extra mugs down from a cupboard and poured coffee for the agents.

"We understand you're a police officer in Cascade?" the older man asked Jim.

"That's right, detective with Major Crimes," Jim explained as he and Blair took positions around the kitchen table. Buck excused himself from the meeting, claiming chores that needed his attention in the barn. Jim nodded to Blair. "Sandburg rides along as an observer with the department."

The older agent studied Blair. "Now, you're the one that heard the woman admit she was Maude McVey."

Blair nodded. "Yeah, I looked it up on the Internet and found the connection with the kidnapping."

"Well, it appears she was telling the truth," Pete Wilson said, removing a file from an expensive looking leather case. "We had her fingerprints compared with the original prints of the kid's nanny taken in the infant's room. They're a match."

"Wow," Blair commented, his eyes wide. "I can't believe she was a kidnapper. Wait, the cops were taking fingerprints in the thirties?"

"Oh sure, the International Association of Criminal Identification was formed in nineteen-fifteen. Formation of the FBI's Identification Division was in nineteen-twenty-four. Then the records of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation housed at the Leavenworth Penitentiary were removed to Washington - among them the core collection of over eight hundred thousand fingerprint cards," Lakers said.

His partner gave him a fond look. "He loves to quote that stuff."

"Any idea where the child ended up, Agent Wilson?" Jim asked them.

"Please, call me Pete. Dirk and I don't stand on much ceremony. One of the perks in working out of the Spokane office," Pete said. "Now, since you're law enforcement, we'll share what we know. `Stella' appeared in Seattle about fifty-eight years ago, went to work for a big department store there. She worked her way up the ladder until she became a buyer... did pretty good for herself. She lived alone her entire life and - as far as we could tell - lived a quiet, clean existence."

"So what happened to the baby? What was the kid's name, anyway?" Blair asked.

Dirk answered, "Hershel Adams. We're checking Seattle's Children Welfare's records to see if any infants were found abandoned or mysteriously appeared on the front steps of a church, but that's going to take some time. Some of those papers are still in boxes."

"What about the boyfriend? The gangster, Robinson?" Jim asked.

"We think the two of them had a falling out, probably over the kidnapping," Dirk said, picking up a report. "He went on to rob a few banks and ended up dying in a botched robbery, appears he wasn't the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree."

Blair tucked a strand of hair behind an ear with a thoughtful look. "Did you guys talk to Hershel's relatives yet? Stella sounded like she was returning to Chicago to make things right. Maybe she contacted them."

"We did let the brother - a Newel Adams - know we had a possible lead on McVey. But he hadn't heard anything. He's Hershel's only sibling, runs a large shipping company headquartered in Chicago," Pete said. "Did McVey say anything else to you, Blair?"

"She muttered something towards the end, but it was too soft to hear," Blair admitted.

"Okay, we'll continue to plow through the records and check out the private orphanages as well. Problem is, back in those days, a lot of adoptions occurred off record. Folks just took in kids without filing paperwork. We may never find out where the kid ended up, providing he wasn't killed," Dirk said as he gathered up his papers.

"I'm betting he's alive," Blair said with confidence. "She was too nice to be involved in killing a baby. I'll bet she felt bad just being involved."

Jim and the agents shared a knowing look. She wasn't that nice, or she would have tried to make it right sixty years ago.

That afternoon, the three friends headed north. Buck knew a restaurant north of Steamboat Rock that served the best T-bones in the state. First though, he promised to let Jim browse around a well-stocked fishing store to pick up more supplies for his new interest in fly tying. The day had warmed up; enough that Blair decided to leave his floppy eared, Fargo hat behind. That way Jim couldn't rag on him about scaring off the locals.

At the fishing store, Blair wandered the aisles and checked the prices on clamps and tools. If Jim continued to tie flies, this place was a goldmine for Christmas presents. He'd have to sneak the money to Uncle Buck and ask the man to mail the gift to Rainier, though. It was impossible to get a package into the loft without `Radar-Ellison' finding it, shaking it and correctly guessing what was inside. He'd have a better shot at sneaking raw meat by a panther.

Long capes of elegant feathers hung on the walls; rows of thread and tinsel wrapped around small spools formed a vivid rainbow on the sloped display case. The back of the store was filled from floor to ceiling with books and videos. The long fly rods stood at attention on rotating circular racks. Blair picked up a small white tag attached to a nearby rod and squinted at the penciled mark.

Seven hundred dollars?

"Wow," Blair muttered, dropping the tag and eyeing the nine-foot pole.

"Yeah, pricey, aren't they?" a pretty brunette said, suddenly standing at Blair's elbow.

"No kidding, I had no idea. I get to fish with a borrowed pole when I go out," Blair explained, noticing the name tag the woman wore: Jessica. "You work here?"

She nodded. "I have to make enough money to supply my awful fishing habit somehow," she said with a conspiring wink. "We call these rods, by the way. It doesn't do to call them poles. The uppity fly fishermen get all defensive."

"Really?" Blair glanced about the store. "Any of them here now?"

"No, you're safe," she admitted with a soft laugh. "They go home in the winter. I don't have to put up with them until spring. But I can always see them coming. They wear enough expensive Orvis clothing to pay my mortgage for six months."

"Fly fishermen have special clothes?" Blair asked. Maybe he could look into writing a paper. It sounded interesting.

"Oh sure, shirts, pants, socks, hats, belts, coats... and that's just for men. Don't even get me started on the women's department."

Blair laughed. "Okay, I won't. I'm Blair, by the way."

"Jessica. So, where do you fish?"

"I live in Cascade, my friend and I fish around there and some in the Puget Sound. We went to North Idaho a few months ago, that was great," Blair said. As long as she didn't get too technical, he felt confident he could hold this conversation without sounding too stupid.

"Oh, yeah. You found my favorite spot. I love the country up there. Fishing's pretty decent around here too. Ever try Dry falls?"

Blair nodded proudly. "My Uncle lives there, he owns the orchard just below the falls."

"Really! God, I'm so jealous!" she said, crossing her arms and studying Blair with frank appreciation. "I caught my first five-pounder there. Rainbow... I love that lake; it's perfect for float tubes."

Blair snuck a peak at her left hand. No rings.

"So, I should call you this spring when I come out? Maybe we can fish the lake together," Blair suggested. Who would have expected fly-fishing to be a means to dating pretty women?

"Yeah, please." She handed Blair a business card. "Just call the shop, if I'm not working, they'll get word to me. We've got some great demos we can use, another one of the perks for working here. I've got to warn you though..."

Blair waited for the wrecking ball to appear and destroy his plans for a dream date. "What?"

"I'm a catch and release girl," she teased with a mischievous look before walking to the back of the shop.

Blair turned to track her exit. "You're talking fish... right?" he called out.

"Ready, Chief?" Jim asked, appearing by his elbow with a small sack of feathers and fur. He joined Blair in watching the woman walk to a back storage room. "You playing nice?"

"I thought I was, man," Blair answered. "Where's Uncle Buck?"

"In the Land cruiser," Jim said heading for the front doors.

They drove north. The steakhouse was less then an hour away. Blair thought it weird to drive so far just for dinner, but Buck had promised the food was worth it. Not that Jim was complaining, Blair noted. The cop had purchased a beginner's manual for fly tying and was busy reading it quietly in the front seat.

A fly tying clamp was definitely looking like a good idea this Christmas.

The first jolt came unexpectedly. They were driving on a long stretch of straight road that paralleled Banks Lake on the left. High cliffs of rim rock formations bordered them on the right.

"What the hell!" Jim shouted, twisting in his seat to look out the back window.

"Here they come again!" Blair cried, bracing himself with both hands.

"Hold on!" Buck ordered grimly.

A black Dodge Durango rammed them again from behind, causing Buck to fight the steering wheel just to keep them on the blacktop. Another identical Durango followed. The attacking vehicle was no match for their small Toyota. The third hit was more of a tap, but Buck had never regained total control after the second hit, so it was enough to send them onto the shoulder, opposite the lake and down a short incline in a full four-wheel drift. Their left tires hit a line of rocks collected from the cliffs above. Combined with the speed of their slide, its high center of gravity and its short wheel base, the Toyota flipped onto its side.

Blair's world became chaos for a brief few seconds. Glass broke, sending square fragments everywhere, the seatbelt dug into his gut, loose tools and miscellaneous items that had been stored behind the small bench seat flew up, some hitting the back of his head and shoulders. Finally, just when Blair was convinced the Toyota was going to end up on its roof, they slowed to a halt. The rocky terrain sloped at an angle and allowed the small SUV to roll back onto its tires again with a bounce.

Before anyone could move, Jim's door was wrenched open.

Jim sat slumped in his shoulder harness, a trickle of blood flowed from a cut over his right eye. Blair could see they were surrounded by several masked men, each holding large automatic handguns.

"Get out!" the nearest man shouted. When Jim was slow to respond, the gunman flicked open Jim's seatbelt and roughly pulled him out.

"Hey!" Blair shouted from the back. There were only two doors; he'd have to wait before he could exit through the front seat. "Take it easy!"

"Easy, Blair," Buck muttered softly as he carefully climbed out through Jim's door. The driver's door had taken the brunt of the abuse. It would take a body shop to get it open again.

Blair followed Buck out, standing on shaky legs. Jim looked dazed, but able to stand on his own. They were efficiently frisked, hands quickly patting them down. They took cell phones and Jim's gun from the holster nestled at the small of his back. Jim quietly allowed the search, not commenting when he was disarmed.

"Jim? You okay?" Blair whispered. Seeing a docile Jim was starting to freak him out.

Jim's eyes seemed out of focus, but he stood without assistance. With a nod in Blair's direction, Jim kept his attention focused on the masked men that threatened them.

"What are you men looking to prove?" Buck asked, calmly sizing up the six masked men.

"Shut up," one of the men ordered. He was taller than the others and acted in charge. "Take him."

Before Blair could protest, two sets of hands jerked him away from Jim's side, spun him around and dragged him back towards the road and the two SUVs on the shoulder. No other cars had passed turning their attack. The area was too remote.

"Hey! Hey, wait a second! You don't want to do this!" Blair blurted out, trying to twist his arms out of their grasp.

Sounds of a fight broke out behind him. Blair fought the hands that held him, keeping him from seeing what was happening with Jim and Buck. He dug in with his heels and tried to shake off the hands. It was like playing tug-of-war with King Kong, not going to happen. Just as he reached front Dodge, a single gunshot sent a flock of birds nesting above in the cliffs into the sky.

"Jim!" Blair screamed, cursing, kicking, and twisting franticly in the men's grasp. "Uncle Buck! Damn it, let me go!"

As hard as he tried, Blair couldn't see what was happening. The masked gunmen were immune to his curses and pleading. It was crazy. None of this made any sense. A red shop rag lay on the floor of the vehicle, just inside the open rear door. The man on Blair's left arm released one hand long enough to snatch it up. Blair cursed again and twisted his head, catching the sickening sweet odor coming from the rag seconds before it was slapped over his mouth and nose.

He held his breath as long as possible before giving in to the dizzy black spots appearing before his eyes. Within a few short gasps, the drug weakened his struggles until his eyes closed and he gave into the blackness.

A warm, wetness scraped across Jim's cheek, feeling as rough as sandpaper. Jim cracked an eye, wincing in pain from the sunlight. A movement of red hair inches from his face caused him to flinch away. The pain seemed to split his head in two and he groaned.

"Ginger! Get away!" A man's voice ordered.

The sandpaper stopped assaulting him and the redhead disappeared, giving Jim the full effects of the afternoon sun. With a groan he brought up a hand to rub his aching head.

"You okay? Try not to move around."

Jim took stock of his surroundings. He was on his back in the dirt, the Toyota close, its passenger door wide open. An older man and his golden retriever knelt by the still form of Buck. The ex-Seal was on his side, the left sleeve of his coat soaked in blood.

"Blair..." Jim groaned painfully, it hurt to move, to talk. "Did you find... a third man?"

The man shook his head. "You two were the only ones here when I stopped. I called the police and an ambulance. What happened? Did you two have an accident? How'd this guy get shot?"

Jim forced himself to sit up, holding his head in both hands before attempting an answer. The pain in his head was somehow attached to the waves of nausea erupting from his stomach. He swallowed hard. "We were attacked, forced off the road. My partner's been taken," he explained. "I need your cell phone."

"I called already, help should be here soon," the Good Samaritan explained patiently, as if talking to a mental patient.

Jim struggled to his knees, then his feet, lurching toward Buck in a drunken stumble and causing the man to pull back in fear. Jim held up his hands and dropped to his knees beside Buck. "It's okay...I'm a cop. I need to call the FBI."

"Wow..." Hands fumbling for his phone, the man handed it over to Jim. "You know who attacked you? Took your friend?"

Jim extended his hearing, relieved to hear Buck's heartbeat steadily thumping. The stranger was doing a decent job stopping the bleeding with a small towel.

"No, but I have a feeling the Feds may have a few ideas."

After being rerouted through several people, Jim got Dirk on the phone and reported the attack and Blair's kidnapping. The agent promised to meet them at the hospital in Coulee City. As Jim handed the phone back, a small green leaf caught his eye. It lay in the dirt in about the same spot that Blair had fought with his kidnappers.

Jim rose painfully to his feet and retrieved the leaf, studying it carefully. He'd never seen anything like it and it certainly didn't belong in the desert land they were in now. The bluffs of the Upper Grand Coulee did not support much in the way of greenery, at least not like he was seeing here. Hearing distant sirens, Jim tucked the leaf into his pocket and returned to Buck's side. The man was still unconscious. Considering the beating they had both received, it was a miracle he and Buck hadn't been killed and left for dead.

The first police units arrived, skidding to a noisy stop on the shoulder of the road. Help had arrived.

If Blair were to write a list of things he hated, waking up after being chloroformed would be very high on that list; right under having your hands tied behind your back, being blindfolded and a cloth stuffed in your mouth. In fact, Blair thought to himself, he was pretty much experiencing that entire list at the moment. He knew he was in a vehicle, probably the same one that had forced him off the road. If the driver of the Durango pulled into a Wonder Burger drive-through, his life would officially suck rocks.

Letting his thoughts drift from his personal `pity party' for a moment, he concentrated on what was happening around him. Voices of the men that had attacked him buzzed in his ears, droning on about schedules and payments. Blair remained still, hoping to hear something useful. He must not be fully free of the drug, he realized as he struggled to listen to what the men were saying.

"...Not supposed to kill..."

"...Fought like a..."

"... Matter, orders are orders..."

"... Him try to do better..."

Blair groaned softly, not caring if they knew he was awake. They were talking about Jim or Uncle Buck. Which one had they killed? He kicked out in frustration, feeling his boots hit the side of the interior.

"Hey, settle down, buddy," a voice said loudly, coming from somewhere near his head. "We've still got an hour's drive before we deliver you."

Blair kicked the wall again in frustration, then realized his error when the smell of the chloroform returned and the damp cloth was pressed over his nose again.

Damn! Stupid, Sandburg! Real stup...id...

Buck scowled at the doctor. He grumbled at the nurse bandaging his arm. He cussed at the sheriff deputy trying to ask for his full name and date of birth. When Jim appeared in the treatment room, he turned his foul mood on the ex-ranger and found it reflected right back.

"Where's Blair?" Buck asked abruptly, relieved to see Jim in relatively one piece. Jim's knuckles were scraped from the fight, and his face sported a fine collection of bruises, one black eye, a swollen lip and a small bandage above his right eye. Jim's fight must have lasted longer than Buck's. His had ended when the gun fired.

"Don't know," Jim answered with a frown of his own. "You done? I'm not going to wait much longer."

"You'd better wait for me, Ellison, or I'll kick your ass," Buck retorted heatedly. "Find me my shirt and coat; these clowns won't bring them to me."

"Mr. Stevens, you've had some serious trauma. A gunshot wound is nothing to take lightly," a young intern explained calmly as he entered the room.

"Thank you," Buck answered grimly. "Did you bring the AMA papers for me to sign?"

Thirty minutes later, the two men left the hospital. The FBI agents offered to drive them to the only car rental agency in town. They made it just before closing, renting a late model Ford F250 Diesel truck, putting the cost on Buck's Visa card. They'd already given their statements to the Grant County Deputies. An APB was out for the vehicles and the men who had attacked them. The license plates of the Dodges had been removed. Buck didn't take much stock in finding Blair that way. It was a big state, and no one had seen which direction the Dodges had gone.

"Okay," Jim said to the two agents as he unlocked the rental. "Let's find a quiet place to talk. I need everything you've got on this sixty year old kidnapping case."

"Wait a minute, detective," Pete said. "What makes you sure your partner was taken because of our case? It's a possibility, but what about your cases in Cascade?"

"We aren't in the middle of anything right now. We just got off a routine stack-out and ended without incident," Jim explained. "Sandburg was the last person to hear Maude McVey's confession; I'm thinking someone wants to know what she said."

It was dinnertime and most of the diners were full. The four men ended up in a large truck stop off the highway. Long combination commercial trucks and expensive RVs lined up for fuel under the oversized gas pumps.

Buck adjusted the sling on his arm as he followed Jim to the rear of the diner and slid into a booth next to the man, the two agents sat across the table. Jim picked up two menus and slid one in front of him.

"We might as well order something. It's going to be a long night," Jim said matter-of-factly.

The agents did the same and they waited until after the waitress had taken their orders before getting down to business. Buck felt restless. He wanted action, not food, but they had no clues. He checked Jim's profile, wondering if the man had a plan. According to Blair, this man had incredible enhanced senses, but would they be enough to find Blair?

It had to be.

Buck wasn't going to let those unknown gorillas get away with this.

"Okay, we haven't learned anything new regarding the kidnapped Adams infant," Dirk said, starting the conversation on a negative note.

"What about the ransom? That was never recovered, right? How much did the family pay?" Jim asked.

Pete fielded this question. "Not a lot by today's standards, only a quarter million. They didn't find the money when Robinson was killed in the botched bank robbery. Everyone assumed McVey still had it."

"If she did, she didn't live on it. Her standards were very modest," Dirk added.

"Has her place in Seattle been searched yet?" Jim asked.

"Yes, a team from the Seattle office went there this morning," Dirk said, pulling a fax out of his pocket and referring to it. "Nothing found of much interest. She had her mail stopped and a neighbor watering her plants. According to the neighbor, she was due to return in two weeks."

"If she was confessing to a kidnapping, she was being very optimistic," Buck commented.

"Maybe she didn't plan on going to the police," Jim mused. "Sandburg thought she was going to set things right... maybe she just wanted to contact the brother."

"What do you two remember about your attack this afternoon?" Dirk asked.

"Not much," Jim admitted. "About half a dozen Caucasian masked-men forced us off the road in two black Dodge Durango. No identifying marks or jewelry. They carried nine millimeters Glocks. I got the impression they were hired mercenaries."

"So far, nothing's turned up on the APBs," Pete said.

Jim pulled a folded tissue out of his pocket, unwrapping the small leaf. "I found this at the scene. It may have come off one of the gunmen. Anybody recognize it? I've never seen one like it."

Buck picked up the small fan shaped leaf, recognizing it instantly. "It's a Ginkgo leaf."

Dirk leaned forward to examine it. "Like the Ginkgo that people buy at the health food stores?"

"Yeah," Buck muttered. "It's not common. In fact, the Ginkgo is the sole survivor of the era of the dinosaurs. It was almost extinct, except a group of Buddhist Monks kept a few alive."

Jim nodded, looking optimistic for the first time since he regained consciousness. He leaned towards the FBI agents hopefully. "Anyway we can find out how many trees like this in the area?"

"We've got a nursery in town that sells these trees, Jim," Buck explained glumly, knowing Jim was hoping for a short list of landowners. "I know where the owner lives."

The food arrived at that moment, pausing the conversation while plates where distributed. Jim and Pete got matching burgers and fries. Dirk started pouring his ranch dressing over a chef's salad. Buck glanced down at the club sandwich he'd ordered, wondering how in the world he was going to manage to choke it down.

`If they keep this up, I'm going to need a new pair of hiking boots,' Blair thought to himself.

He hung between two men. They weren't giving him enough time to collect his fuzzy thoughts together long enough to order his legs to work. The blindfold was still in place, as well as the gag. The latter issue was a real problem.

Blair felt like throwing up.

The ambient air temperature changed, and he heard the echo of footsteps on a stone or tile floor. Judging by the delays of the echoes, they had just entered a large building. He worked at controlling his stomach muscles while they hauled him several more feet, taking unseen turns, until he was tossed onto a springy mattress. A fresh laundered smell drifted up from the fabric under his face.

"Tie his feet."

Strong hands captured both ankles and he was spun until he lay full length on the bed. Blair groaned as the movement caused his stomach to flip. The first convulsion hit without warning. Bile burned his throat.

Oh, God! He was going to choke!

"Remove the gag!" A new, older voice ordered sharply.

Rough hands pulled off the cloth tied around his head, along with several long hairs. The wad of fabric was removed just in time as the first wave of vomit hit with force.

A nearby voice cursed loudly.

If it weren't for the fact Blair felt sicker than a dog, he would have gloated. Serves these guys right, he thought, as several heaves left him curled miserably on the bed, his ear and cheek in a puddle of his own making. The smell was enough to start the process all over again.

"How much chloroform did you give him?" the older voice asked them, his disgust evident.

"He starting fighting during the drive, we had to dose him again."

"Wonderful... get him cleaned up and call me when he's ready."

"Wait... wait a minute, man," Blair protested weakly.

But they ignored him, lifting him easily from the bed and dragging him along. The floor became smooth and the sound of running water told Blair he was in a bathroom. Without warning he was pushed under the cold spray of a shower.

"Hey!" Blair shouted from the shock.

"Shut up!"

A terry cloth wiped at his cheek and pulled his hair. They pulled him out from under the spray, dropping a larger towel over his head and roughly rubbing his head dry, leaving the blindfold in place.

"Untie him for a second. Let's get his coat off."

"Why are you guys doing this? What do you want?" Blair asked. Nothing like a cold shower to help a kidnap victim wake up a little, he mused.

They ignored him. Busy with removing his coat and retying his hands. Blair flexed his fists, pulling against the ropes as much as possible as they tightly tied him. Years ago, his mother had dated a magician. The guy was good. Blair has only been ten at the time, and loved to ask him his secrets. One trick, he had been told, was to expand your arms and legs as much as possible, hoping for some slack when you relaxed.

They cinched the knots down hard. Apparently, they knew that trick too.

A few minutes later he was back on the bed. The ruined bedcover was gone, replaced by the rough feel of a wool blanket under his cheek. They retied his ankles together.

"Mr. Sandburg. This doesn't have to be unpleasant for you," the voice said with an east coast accent.

"Yeah? I don't recall getting much of a choice," Blair said sarcastically. It was weird having a conversation with someone while wearing a blindfold. Only small bits of light leaked in near his nose, just enough to confirm the lights in the room were on. Blair's stomach still rolled with nausea, but he had nothing left to expel. His head pounded and he was in no mood for chatting. "These guys shot one of my friends!"

This must have been news to East Coast. One of the kidnappers spoke, sounding defensive. "We didn't have a choice. I don't think he's dead. They both knew how to fight."

"Go help take care of the vehicles, I'll call you when I'm ready," East Coast ordered, still not sounding happy.

Blair's relief at the news the gunshot may not be fatal was short lived, the mattress dipped as East Coast sat down. Squirming to get as much distance as possible from his invisible kidnapper, Blair's heart thumped a rapid beat against his ribs with fear.

"You were on a train with Maude McVey. All I want to know is what she told you. Then we'll return you to your life and everyone's happy," East Coast explained.

What? All this was about Stella - or Maude?

"You gotta be kidding me, man!" Blair blurted out. "We made a report. I already told the FBI everything!"

"What did she say?"

For the life of him, he couldn't understand what harm it would cause to repeat the dying woman's last message. If it meant Blair got released, it was worth it. "Uh, okay. She said she was really Maude McVey. And she couldn't do it. She went to Seattle."

"What else?"

"Something about `too beautiful'."

"What else?" the man repeated calmly.

"Nothing!" Blair explained, lifting his head a little. The guy was sitting close to him, but Blair felt the urge to raise his voice in an attempt to make himself clear. "That's it! Nothing else!"

"What else?"

Okay, now Blair felt like the only actor in a play without the script. What did this guy want from him? He dropped his wet head down on the bed and pondered the question carefully.

"Is this about the ransom money? Because she didn't say anything about that. I'm telling you everything she said to me," Blair insisted, another shiver running up his spine.

"What else?"

The FBI thought the Ginkgo leaf unworthy of their time. Jim didn't care; he'd rather investigate without them along. The agents left after dinner with promises to look into living relatives of the dead gangster.

They had slim to nothing in the leads department.

"Turn here," Buck said, pointing to a side road.

Jim steered the truck down a dirt drive leading to a spacious single story rambler. The acreage around the house was meticulously landscaped, complete with fountains and waterfalls. Jim picked out two small trees with the same fan shaped leaves in the front yard, most of the leaves already off the branches.

Damn, maybe it wasn't much of a clue after all.

A tall woman met them at the front door, ushering them into her home.

"Buck, good to see you. You said over the phone this was an emergency?" she asked, eyeing his sling. "Are you okay?"

Buck shook his head. "I'm okay, Darcy. I've got a family emergency. I can't really explain it all to you now. This is Jim Ellison; we're looking for information on Ginkgo trees. It's important."

She nodding, not looking surprised at such an odd request at eight PM at night. "A good shade tree. What do you need to know?"

Jim pulled the leaf out of his pocket again. "How many places around here have Ginkgos?"

She took the yellow-green leaf from his hand and shrugged. "Well, you need good sunlight and drainage with regular watering. Most folks around here find them to be too much work, especially if you don't have an easy water source close by. I expect folks along the lakes or Columbia would plant a few. I have two in my yard. They're both young ones, no idea if I lucked out and got both sexes."

"Trees have genders?" Jim asked, surprised with this news.

"Sure, the female Ginkgos produce fruit. The males have cones. It's best to be careful where you plant the females, that fruit can ruin paint. Smells bad too, like rancid butter. It takes about 20 years before they start to reproduce, so I still have a while to go with mine."

Jim raised the small leaf to his nose and took a tentative sniff. Yes! There was the smell of rancid butter.

"Any mature female trees in the area that you know of?" he asked, mentally crossing his fingers.

"I know Western State in Cheney planted a bunch, not sure if they're producing. I heard of some big ones along the Columbia, south of ninety, and Seattle has some at the Arboretum. You might try the Ginkgo State Park out of Vantage. The ranger there is a friend of mine, she knows more about them than I do."

Jim gave Buck an inquiring look. Buck nodded. "Okay, thanks," Jim said. "We'll do that. We appreciate your help." He stepped towards the door, eager to be on the way.

"Wait; let me get Jody's number for you. The interpretive center is closed for the winter, but she lives right next door."

They waited long enough for her to scratch out the number before thanking her again and returning to the truck. Buck awkwardly climbed into the cab, letting Jim close the door for him. They were quiet for a few minutes as they retraced their path towards the main road.

"Jim, we're taking a leap of faith here," Buck complained.

"I know," Jim admitted. "I can't explain it to you, but I've got a feeling we're on the right track. This leaf hadn't been out there for very long. Chances are one of the men had it on their clothing or shoe or something. It's rare enough to check into."

"What about the FBI?"

Jim shrugged, turning the truck towards the road to link them up with Interstate Ninety. "We're not keeping anything from them. We've got their number. We'll call from a payphone if we find anything. You know this Ginkgo Park that she was talking about?"

"Yeah, it's right above the cliffs of the Columbia River just north of Ninety. You can see it from the freeway. It's going to be close to midnight before we get there, Ellison."

"And your point is?"

Blair was beyond `freaked out' and heading pell-mell towards `seriously scared out of his mind'. This guy did not understand the word `no'. He continued to ask the same question until, tired of the game, Blair just stopped answering. They left him alone after that, with his thoughts to keep him company.

What he should do was rest, maybe even sleep so he could be ready to run when the opportunity arose.

Yeah, right, fat chance that was going to happen anytime soon.

Footsteps approached and he braced himself for more questions. But instead, hands began to untie his feet and his heart soared.

They were letting him go! After all, he had been blindfolded the entire time. The kidnappers had worn ski masks. He couldn't identify anyone. They must be convinced, finally, that he was telling the truth. Now they were going to let him go.

Blair's day was looking up.

His lower legs were numb from lack of circulation, but Blair tried to walk as they hauled him by the arms off the bed. A draft of cooler, musty smelling air hit his nose, a garage maybe? Descending three steps to a hard concrete-like floor, they untied his wrists. Blair was turned and guided down, almost gently, into a hard seat.

Okay, this was odd. Perhaps they were parking him here while they cleaned out a trunk. He was willing to brave a few hours riding around inside a trunk if it meant he was getting out of here.

A wide band circled his chest, binding him to the hard back of the chair. This was not looking good.

"Uh, guys?"

Hands pulled at his shoelaces, working them loose enough to slip off his hiking boots, followed by his socks. Blair felt cold metal under his bare feet.

"What are you guys doing?" His words echoed back at him. The room they were in sounded large and empty.

They continued to ignore him. More straps secured his arms to flat wooden armrests, his bent elbows touching the back of the chair. The calves of his legs were tied by rope to a horizontal bar underneath the seat. When they finished, Blair could only manage to move his head, wiggle his toes and fingers and slide his butt a few inches either way in the seat. It was a horrifying feeling. Blair's mind returned to the night in Lash's dentist chair and his fear quadrupled, along with his breathing.

When East Coast's voice spoke, Blair flinched.

"What else did Maude McVey tell you Mr. Sandburg?"

Blair dropped his chin to his chest, taking deep, slow breaths to try and calm his racing heart. "Please... listen to me, man. I've told you everything I remember. She just didn't say anything else to me." His voice sounded pathetic in his own ears, but he was beyond caring.

Cold, wetness touched his heels. Water flowed over his toes, its level rising until both feet were submerged.

What the hell?

"One last time, Mr. Sandburg. What else did she say?"

A stark fear gripped his heart and squeezed. He felt a panic attack coming on. What were they going to do?

"Nothing! She didn't say any--- UURRRGGGGHHHH!!"

Heat coursed through his body, an electrical current so hot and fiery, climbing up his legs and finding each nerve ending, burning him from the inside out. His muscles contracted. He bit his tongue. The straps on his chest and arms dug into his skin as he attempted unsuccessfully to leap out of the chair.

As suddenly as it started, the current was shut off and Blair hung in his bindings, panting hard and trembling.

"That was the lowest setting, Mr. Sandburg. We have nineteen more to try before damaging your heart. So, tell me. What else did McVey say?"

Blair felt moisture build behind the blindfold. He sucked in enough air to curse their stupidity. They were going to kill him. All for a question he didn't know the answer to.

Buck's friend must have called the Park Ranger to warn her they were coming. After detouring to Buck's home to pick up supplies and weapons, they arrived at the Ginkgo Park just after eleven. Traffic had been light, allowing them to make excellent time. Yet Jim felt an urgency growing in his chest that he couldn't explain even if he wanted to. He knew he had to get to Blair soon.

The small modest single story home sat within walking distance of an interpretive center perched on the edge of a high bluff overlooking the Columbia River. A woman stood in the open doorway as they stepped out of the rental.

"Stevens?" she called out.

"Yes, ma'am," Buck answered. "This is Jim Ellison. Can we talk?"

"Come in," she answered with a nod.

Her husband, a silent man with a bullet shaped head and a no nonsense expression guarded his wife from the doorway leading into a rear kitchen. She led them to a tiny living room and urged them to take a seat on a worn leather couch. Shallow shelves lined the walls, filled with polished exhibits of petrified wood and crystals. Books and magazines on rock collecting and natural history filled another bookcase next to a threadbare overstuffed chair.

"Darcy said this is a family emergency."

"It is, my nephew's been kidnapped. The FBI's investigating," Buck explaining, pointing to Jim. "Jim's a police detective from Cascade; he's also my nephew's roommate. The only clue we have is a leaf from a Ginkgo tree. Darcy said you might know if there are any trees in the area."

She gave the two men a startled look. "Uh, I'm afraid there are more than she thinks. I've been selling seedlings each year for the last five years. They're being planted everywhere."

Jim leaned forward. "This tree is a female and has fruit."

"Okay..." she nodded. "That's a different matter all together," she said, standing. "Come back to my office." She led the way to a small converted bedroom. A large topographical map hung on the wall. She flicked on the light. "Now we've had a grove of Ginkgo trees growing along the Columbia for the last twenty-five years. I know the couple that owns the property. They have a winter place in Arizona, they won't be back for four or five months."

Jim held his breath. She pointed a finger to a spot on the map.

"It's about thirty miles south of here. You need to cross back over the Columbia and head south," she said.

Jim zoomed in on the map. Following the topographical lines that indicated the different elevations, he saw she was pointing to a low area close to the banks of the Columbia River. The main road swung to the east, away from the location, but a small dirt track should take them close enough.

"You say the people aren't staying there right now?" Jim asked.

"They've got a property management company that rents it out to vacationers. It's not a mansion, but you still have to come up with some bucks to stay there," she answered.

"Any other places with mature Ginkgo trees?" Jim asked. Although this place looked promising, he wanted to cover all the bases.

"Yes, towards Crab Creek, there's another old homestead that has a grove... um, let me think. There's a place on the west side of the river, below Wanapum Dam too... not a lot of trees, but at least one female..." she said.

Jim felt his chances of quickly finding Blair shrink as she pointed to at least five locations. It would take them all night and most of tomorrow to check them out, providing they had the correct part of the state to begin with. There was still the matter of the Ginkgos in Seattle and Cheney to consider. Jim massaged the skin around his bandaged forehead wearily. What was he thinking?

"Do you have an extra map of the area we can borrow? We'll bring it back," Buck promised.

She did, leaving the room to retrieve it and giving the men a chance to talk privately.

"God, Buck. Maybe this is hopeless," Jim admitted.

"No, wait, Jim," Buck said, stepping near the wall map and pointing to a spot with his good hand. "If we follow this road about half way up this mountain, we'll see four of the five locations. Can you see well enough in the darkness at that distance to tell if there's any activity?"

Jim looked at the road Buck was indicating, just east of the Columbia River, it would take them up the western slope of the Saddle Mountain range. Its elevation was twenty-four hundred feet; giving them a view of the Columbia River, Crab creek, and the area around Wanapum Dam. It could work. Jim read the name of the mountain Buck pointed to and blinked several times.

Blair would call it karma, or fate, or even a sign from heaven.

Buck's finger rested on a place labeled Sentinel Mountain.

Blair took the full contents of the bucket directly in his face. He gasped as the icy water brought him back to consciousness, his shuddering movements pulling on the straps that held him to the chair. His dark world had been reduced to pain and misery. His throat was damaged from screaming, even though he'd learned hours ago his screams earned him no pity, relief, or comfort.

He was ashamed to admit, had he known what these people wanted, he gladly would have spilled his guts. But he didn't know. He couldn't even guess what this guy was looking for, so making up a fabrication wouldn't work here.

Blair had begged. He'd pleaded. He'd used every cuss word he'd ever heard, in every language. But the questions never varied. The tormentor was relentless, he had no soul. Nothing seemed to get the man to understand, Blair did not know.

"Okay, Mr. Sandburg. Let's try this again and please try to stay conscious for more than twenty minutes. My man is getting tired of lugging the ice water from the kitchen," East Coast said.

"Just... kill me," he croaked in a voice his mother wouldn't recognize.

"McVey said she went to Seattle. What did she say next?"

"N-n-no... you ask... and ask, but you're not... listening to me." A harsh sob caused him to stop and take several deep breaths. His body had already embarrassed him in more ways than he wanted to think about. He'd been crying steadily for what seemed like forever. "She said... something, but it was so soft... no one heard it... not even Jim."

"That's right; our reports show it was just you with McVey at the end. You're the only one that can tell my client what he wants to know, so it's up to you. Have you had enough? Are you going to tell me what I need to know? We still have three settings to go."

Blair had learned to despise the snapping sound; it meant pain.

Chin resting on his chest, Blair rocked his head from side to side as he sobbed. "I didn't... hear anything... please, stop..."

"Let's try another level, shall we?"

Somehow he had enough energy to scream, which was surprising in a way. He'd thought his vocal cords were all but finished. Maybe the screams were being fueled by the currents that rocked his body and made his skin itch like a million red ants eating him alive. He drew in a fast breath for another scream before blacking out again and missing East Coast's next comment.

"You know, I'm beginning to think he truly doesn't know."

They found the road on the first try.

Jim was silent as he pushed the needle as fast as he dared. The dirt road had not had much in the way of maintenance over the years, and it showed. The twin beam from the headlights shot out into the darkness as the truck took the corners and climbed the mountain. Jim concentrated on keeping all four wheels on the road, yet found time to ponder their situation.

His experience as a ranger, cop and detective told him to check out the first house the ranger had mentioned. The owners were away, making it a perfect location. They didn't have time to waste.

But Jim couldn't stop but consider the odds. The astronomical odds!

Sentinel mountain? SENTINEL mountain?

A small voice in his head spoke, a voice that - over the last year - had grown. It was a gentle voice, persistent, relentless, not giving up, not shutting up.

Climb the mountain.

"This looks high enough," Buck announced, breaking into Jim's thoughts.

They parked and got out. The air was cold. The wind pulled at his jacket and tried to lift his Jags cap from his head. Jim adjusted his sight, using the faint light from the clear night's stars and scanned the panoramic view. The Columbia flowed like a wide ribbon, cutting the dark landscape in two. The concrete wall of the Wanapum dam held back the water and formed a wider reservoir, popular with the boaters. To the north, Jim could see the mountains of the North Cascades, white with winter dressing.

"Well?" Buck asked, standing at his side and adjusting his injured arm in its sling.

"Show me the map." It was time to get down to business.

Buck held the map out, given by the park ranger to keep with her blessing. The locations in question were circled with red marker. Jim matched the first circle with its actual location, spotting the large home close to the base of the mountain. Zooming in, he identified a new Land Rover parked in the driveway. This was the location she had first told them about. It looked like vacationer had rented the place while the owners wintered in Arizona. The lights were off. The house seemed asleep for the night. Jim worked on matching the other houses, using the large Gingko trees to help pinpoint their location. Only two of the four homes had lights on, the location on Crab Creek and the one below the dam.

None of the houses had visible black Dodges. But they could be in garages or tucked out of sight behind buildings.

"I can't tell," Jim said, his eyes bouncing between the four homes. "We'll just have to check each one."

Buck cursed softly at his side. Jim felt the same frustration build; they had done nothing but waste more time. Just as he started to turn back to the truck, Jim's eye caught a strange flickering at the house below the dam.

"Wait a minute." He stared at the light fixed on the front of the attached garage. It changed back to its previous strength. Then a few seconds later, it dimmed again. Jim felt suddenly cold. He knew what could cause that. Hell, he'd seen it first hand.

"What is it?" Buck pressed.

"Quiet, give me a sec," he answered, rushing his words.

Using his line of sight to give his ears a direction to track, he picked up the faint but clear scream.

Oh, shit.

Maybe it was something in his expression, but Buck refused to be put off again.

"Dammit, Ellison! What do you see?"

"Come on," he replied tersely, spinning on his heels and running for the truck. "He's in the house below the dam."

Buck barely climbed in before the tires threw gravel. Jim reversed in a three-point turn and accelerated down the mountain road.

Looking back, Jim remembered little of the drive. They had to head north, catch the interstate bridge over the river and head south to reach the house. He longed for a cell phone, a way to call for back up without stopping and finding a payphone or waking a civilian. Jim watched the road for a trooper, hoping they would try and pull him over.

"Look!" Buck pointed to a light rising in the night sky. They were on the bridge now, crossing over the mighty Columbia.

Jim recognized the blinking light as a small private airplane. It was taking off from somewhere below the dam, rising in altitude over the river. From their angle, he couldn't read the registration numbers on its tail.

"The map shows a private airstrip about a quarter of a mile south," Buck said. "You think it could be them?"

"I just hope Blair wasn't with them," Jim replied grimly, his knuckles white on the wheel.

Buck barked out the turns to take, soon they were bouncing over potholes and in sight of the Ginkgo trees. Like the others, most of the leaves had already fallen; only a few managed to cling to the branches till the next high wind arrived. A ranch-style home sat among the tall trees, the light over the attached garage burning steadily. Jim pulled the truck off the road and killed the engine.

Both men carried automatics as they silently neared the house. When they where within a hundred feet, Buck paused and looked at Jim expectantly. They had been in a similar position last summer.

"Well? What do you hear? Is Blair inside?" Buck asked.

Jim tilted his head and extended his hearing. The house was quiet. He picked up the hum of central heating, a motor from the refrigerator and, in the garage, a single heartbeat.

"Someone's in the garage."

The lock on the front door showed signs of being picked. Would they find the owners of the house inside? Perhaps murdered in their sleep? Or had they been away for a few days? Jim sniffed the air carefully once they slipped into the living room.

No blood. Maybe the owners were gone.

They passed through a dimly lit living room. A few cans of soda sat in odd spots throughout, not in keeping with the overall tidiness of the home. Buck followed, watching his back. A short hallway off the back took them through a spacious mudroom. Two pairs of boots rested on a carpet square, one large man's size, the other much smaller, perhaps his wife's. Jackets hung on the wall. Bins for recycling stacked against the other wall. Jim zeroed in on the door, which should take them to the garage - and hopefully Blair.

Buck watched Jim turn the knob and carefully ease the door open. Without have to confer, both men stood off to the side. It was just a standard precaution. Buck knew Jim would hear if anyone other than Blair was on the other side, but some booby traps wouldn't be heard or smelled.

Nothing blew up, shot at them or swung through the opening and they entered the darkness of the large three-door garage. The light from the living room reflected dimly on the shiny paint job of a parked car. After a second, Jim flicked on a switch by the door and flooded the area with light.

The back of Blair's curly head was visible over the roofline of a Lincoln Towncar. The other two stalls were empty.

"Sandburg!" Jim called, jogging around the long car and pausing to curse with vehemence.

Buck steeled himself, moving to Jim's side to get his first full look at his nephew.

Blair hung by straps in a sturdy chair. A wide black cloth was tied over his eyes, covering half his chalky, white face. His upper body and lap were soaking wet. He was breathing in hitches, a thin smear of blood mixed with drool trailed from his mouth. He was barefooted, both feet submerged in a shallow metal pan filled with water.

With sick realization, Buck understood what Jim had seen from the mountainside.

Jim was moving now, reaching Blair in three long strides. Kneeling directly in front, he gently eased off the blindfold to reveal two red and puffy closed eyes.

"Hey, Chief, we found you. You're safe now," Jim said softly.

Blair jerked back in his chair with a frightened cry. "No!"

Buck was attempting to unbuckle an arm strap one handedly and flinched when he heard the gravelly croak. He saw Jim's eyes narrow with anger, but the man continued to speak in a soothing, calm voice.

"Blair, open your eyes. It's Buck and Jim. You're okay now."

Blair seemed lost in his own private hell. His body shaking, tears flowed down his cheeks. Both eyes remained tightly closed. Jim had the wide chest strap off and was working on the other arm while Buck still fumbled with his.

"Come on, buddy. Open your eyes," Jim continued to plead with an almost quiet desperation. Buck could see the cop was shaken and scared.

Hell, he was scared. Blair had been tortured. It was beyond belief. How could they possibly fix this? Buck clamped down on his emotions and concentrated on getting his fingers to finish undoing the last of the buckle.

"Yeah, that's it, Darwin. We're here now. You're safe."

Looking up from the buckle, he saw Blair's eyes open, staring at Jim. The younger man's tremors were growing by the second, but he appeared to recognize his roommate.

"Get... them out..." Blair said with effort. Both arms were free now and he hugged himself tightly as if freezing.

Jim understood instantly and cursed softly. "Oh, shit, Blair. I'm so sorry. I should have done that first." He went to the rope that bound his friend's legs and started to work on the knots.

The water, of course, Buck thought to himself. It was how these bastards delivered the electricity. Gripping a wet shoulder firmly, he smiled at Blair as he squatted down to get eye level. "Hey, runt, we've been looking for you."

Blair turned his head to look at Buck, causing the older man to swallow hard. Gone was the youthful exuberance he was used to seeing in Blair's face. Dark pools filled with terror looked out of Blair's eyes. Buck kept his own expression calm, giving Blair a gentle squeeze. Jim had the rope off his legs now and Blair kicked his knees up in a jerk, clearing his feet from the water.

Buck chanced a glace at Jim and saw raw fury incarnate. Jim's entire face was hard, as if chiseled out of stone like the presidents on Mount Rushmore. His mouth compressed so tightly, his lips were white and bloodless. When Blair made clumsy movements to get out of the chair, Jim moved. One strong arm under Blair's knees and the other circling his back and gripping under an armpit, Jim lifted the injured man easily.

Buck was unable to keep the surprise off his face, impressed with the cop's strength. Blair was by no means a lightweight.

"Just relax, partner. Let us do the work," Jim muttered so softly, Buck almost missed it. Buck ran ahead, opening the door as Jim carried Blair into the warmer interior of the house. Blair was silent, his eyes tightly closed, one hand anchored in a fistful of Jim's jacket. Back inside the living room, Jim carefully lowered Blair to a couch and started peeling the layers of wet shirts off.

"Buck, would you check the bedrooms for warm sweats and thick socks... and a blanket and some towels."

"Sure." Buck headed down a promising hallway, hoping to find the items in question. When he returned a minute later, his single good arm filled, Blair was shirtless and Jim was just finishing with his jeans and boxers. A strong scent of urine filled the room. Buck was relieved to see no obvious evidence of abuse on Blair's body. If they had beaten him on top of the electrocution treatment... Buck steeled his emotions. Losing control wasn't an option.

"...Perfectly normal reaction, Chief. Don't even worry about it," Jim muttered lightly as he snatched a large towel from Buck to carefully clean the blood and moisture from the younger man's face, then briskly dried him off.

Dropping the rest of the items on the sofa, Buck handed Jim a large pair of thick sweatpants. Blair would have to endure going commando for a while. Jim held the pants open for Blair to step into. The younger man clumsily lifted a leg while bracing himself with a hand on Jim's shoulder.

Once Blair was wearing the pants, Jim eased him back down to sit on the sofa and gently pulled a sweatshirt over his head. He examined both Blair's feet before encasing them in heavy-duty boot socks. The owner of the house must be a large man, judging by the double X's on the clothing tag, causing the borrowed sweats to make Blair look a lot smaller than he actually was.

"Buck, find a phone and call for help... and an ambulance," Jim ordered without looking up from his job.

"I already checked. Phone lines are cut," Buck reported. "We'll have to drive him out."

"Okay, let's get him warmed up first," Jim suggested, kneeling on one knee beside Blair and taking another clean towel and gently attacking the wet curls. "How about something to drink, Chief?"

Blair remained silent and withdrawn, avoiding both men's eyes. Occasional shivers ran down his body, after effects of the electrocution.

Buck turned towards the kitchen, glad to have another task to keep him busy. Without the use of both arms, he wasn't much help right now, except for fetching. When he returned with the water, Blair was wrapped in a blanket, leaning back against the couch, his eyes closed in exhaustion.

"Okay, let me see your mouth, Sandburg. Open up," Jim said.

Hesitating slightly, Blair opened his mouth to reveal a nasty looking cut on one side of his tongue. Buck winced, knowing the cut would need stitches.

"The bleeding stopped. We'll have the doctors check it out. Want to try some water?" Jim held the glass while Blair slowly sipped, insisting Blair drink at least half before setting it aside.

Buck watched Jim fuss, amazed at the man's natural ease as a caregiver. Sure, Jim mentioned he'd been a field medic in the army; a lot of guys got that job handed to them. But they didn't all display this kind of bedside manner. Jim only seemed to show this facet of his character around Blair. Feeling like an intruder, Buck's gaze roamed the living room, noticing the empty cans of soda and a few magazines left open on the side tables. Their significance was obvious to the ex-Seal.

The bastards had lounged around while Blair was being tortured out in the garage. Buck's anger swelled, causing his hands to shake uncontrollably. Somewhere in the house, the soft sound of a central heating system clicked on - probably set by an automatic thermostat. Under normal circumstances, Buck would have hardly have acknowledged the sound.

"Jim..." Blair's hand emerged from the blanket to grab Jim's wrist, his eyes wide and panicky.

God, that voice! Buck's nails cut into the skin of his palm. How long does a person have to scream to sound that bad?

"Okay! Okay... calm down, Blair," Jim soothed with a gentle smile, moving close to wrap an arm around Blair's trembling shoulders. "I'm listening. No one's going to sneak up on us. Buck and I think they took off in an airplane. Now, save your voice, okay? It needs a rest here, kiddo. We're just going to sit here a minute and let you warm up."

Blair relaxed a fraction, after a few long seconds he closed his eyes and rested his head on Jim's shoulder. Jim adjusted the towel around Blair's neck, drawing it close to catch any drips from the damp hair. A violent wave of tremors shook Blair hard, causing Jim to tighten his hold.

Without realizing it, Jim started a slight, gentle rocking motion which soothed Blair even more. Buck released a pent up breath and sagged into a nearby chair. When Jim looked at Buck over the top of Blair's wet curls, Buck saw the silent rage and anger in those blue eyes.

Jim's usual strong armor of emotional detachment was slipping.

Buck realized his good hand was clinched in a tight, hard fist.

It would appear Jim wasn't alone.

Blair refused to be carried again.

Frankly, Jim was surprised his friend had allowed it the first time, it wasn't Blair's style. But they needed to leave and Jim would not consider letting Blair walk outside in socks. In the end, it was Buck's idea of borrowing the boots from the mudroom that ended the stand off. Jim scratched a quick note to the owners, explaining briefly who to call in order to be reimbursed for all missing or damaged property. Then, while Buck stayed with Blair, he jogged out to the truck and drove it to the house.

"It'll take a minute for the heater to warm up," Jim explained as Buck helped Blair, still wrapped in the blanket, climb into the cab and slide towards Jim on the front bench seat.

Jim took the dirt road slowly. Each pothole drew a painful gasp from the man huddled at his side. When they reached the pavement, Jim heard a small sigh. By the time Jim merged with the eastbound lane of Interstate Ninety, Blair's damp head was resting on Buck's shoulder and soft snores filled the cab.

"He needs a hospital." Buck muttered quietly.

"I know."

"Can you tell how bad he's hurt?"

"He's in shock. He needs a twelve-lead to know if his heart's okay. Best case scenario... he'll be sore as hell for a few days."

"What did they use on him?"

"Not sure, I could see scratch marks on the metal pan holding the water... they looked like they may've been made by clamps. They must have taking the device with them in the plane."

Buck combed his fingers through his hair. "What about his voice?"

"He should heal, with time."

"So, why did they leave him?"

"Probably realized he doesn't know anything."

Buck was quiet for a few moments, the questions apparently all asked as he gazed out at the passing darkness. He rubbed his injured arm for a moment before starting up again. "They had a chance to kill us... but didn't. They could have killed Blair, thank God they didn't. So, what do they want? Who are these guys? It takes real money to arrange all this. I have a hard time believing they're going through all this trouble for a quarter mil."

Jim agreed. "We'll find out. Whoever's behind this, they just made a serious mistake. It's personal now."

The first hospital they reached was in Moses Lake. During the transfer to the gurney, Blair woke, afraid and confused. Jim waved the hospital staff back, letting Blair sit a minute in the cab of the truck, his body turned to face the open door. Jim stood close, lightly rubbing a blanketed shoulder until the shaking eased. The gurney was taken away and replaced with a wheelchair. Once Blair seemed calm, they wheeled him into a brightly lit treatment room.

Jim briefed the doctor quietly after coaxing Blair up onto an exam table. Buck went off to make a phone call to the FBI agents. Jim stayed close, available should Blair become frightened again.

"Mr. Sandburg? I'm Doctor Chase," the doctor said. "I'm going to give you a brief exam... nothing unusual. I'll tell you everything before it happens, okay? My nurse is going to put a few patches on you; we'd like to get a picture of your heart activity. While she sets that up, I'd like to check your pupil response. May I shine this penlight in your eyes?"

The house looked exactly the same in the morning light as they'd left it yesterday. Jim killed the engine and scrubbed his face wearily, the familiar weight of Blair's head back on his shoulder again. After hours of cardiac observation and hospital visits from the two FBI agents, Blair had insisted he was not being admitted. His stubbornness was tainted with exhaustion, but it still gave Jim some comfort to see this small part of Blair's spirit return.

Buck opened his door. "Let me get the house unlocked and his bed turned down before we get him inside."

Blair stirred on Jim's shoulder. He'd refused any pain medication before leaving the hospital. Jim didn't want to think how the other man's body was going to feel in a few hours.

"Sandburg? You awake?" He craned his neck to try and get a look at Blair's face.

"Ummm... ow, ow, ow..."

"I've got those pills the doctor prescribed."

Blair lifted his head slowly and rubbed his neck with a hand completely covered by the sleeve of a sweatshirt. "No," he croaked, trying to shift sideways on the bench seat, towards the passenger door. He froze, a gasp of pain escaped.

"Stay put for a second." Jim was out his door and around to the other side of the cab in seconds. He reached in and looped an arm around Blair's waist, taking a gentle grip on the smaller man's upper arm. "I'm not going to carry you, Chief. Just let me slide you out, then you can stand."

It worked, but Blair's face was drawn and pale by the time he stood next to Jim.

"Damn it, Sandburg. Take the pills, you don't have to hurt this much," Jim muttered, keeping his grip on Blair's arm as they made their way towards the house.

"No..."

Blair might have been speaking softly, but Jim recognized the obstinate tone.

"Fine, but youare going to lie down. No options. You'll rest and do what we say or we'll haul your butt back to the hospital," Jim threatened.

"No hospi'ul," Blair said resting heavily on Jim's arm as they climbed the three steps onto the porch. Buck was watching from the open door. "No stan'ers..."

Jim worked at trying to understand the slurred words. Blair's tongue was still feeling the effects of the numbing shot the doctor had to use before putting in the sutures. It sounded like Blair didn't want `strangers'. Jim didn't need to ask why, how can you protect yourself from a faceless enemy? Every male stranger Blair met might be the man that had tortured him.

"Okay, I understand, Chief," Jim said, his earlier irritation completely gone. "But you do things my way for a while, got it?"

They were in their room now. Blair sagged down on the edge of his bed, his strength apparently spent. "'kay"

Jim bent down to remove the large boots from Blair's feet. "You need anything before you lay down?"

Blair's eyes were already closed as he shook his head. Jim guided him down sideways, aiming his head to land on the pillow. Judging by his respiration, Blair was asleep before Jim finished getting him under the covers. Jim took a second to reposition his head on the pillow to best accommodate his breathing before standing straight and stretching his spine, his hand pressing against the small of his back.

"What?" he asked, catching the look on Buck's face as the man stood in the doorway.

Buck raised his good hand. "Nothing, nothing. So, which one of us takes first shift?"

"I doubt they're coming back. I'll be able to hear anyone approach," Jim said. "We can both catch some sleep; can you set the alarm to give us six hours?"

"You betcha." Buck checked his watch. "I'll see you at fourteen-hundred."

Jim dropped wearily on his bed, pulling off his shoes. He would have no problem keeping his senses on alert while he slept. He'd done it before with less sleep. Knowing Blair was back and relatively safe, would make it that much easier.

A barely visible shudder under Blair's blankets immediately drew Jim's attention. Remembering where Buck stored the linen along with a few extra blankets, Jim retrieved a wool Pendleton. He gently draped it over the sleeping form, adding it to the top of the existing bedding. Stripping out of his clothes, folding them carefully on a chair, Jim slipped between the sheets of his own bed, grateful to be off his feet.

In six hours, he would wake, eat and form a game plan.

Jim returned the phone to its cradle.

"What time are they coming?" Buck asked from his position in front of the stove.

"After dinner, that way Sandburg has a chance of getting some food in him before he has to tell his story," Jim explained.

Buck slid the folded omelet into Jim's plate, the smell of mushroom and cheese made the cop's mouth water. They'd both been awake for about an hour, taking turns in the shower, keeping their voices low, and walking softly around the small house. Outside, the sun was low, almost touching the top of the canyon walls.

"Thanks, looks good, impressive for a one handed guy."

Buck shrugged as he dropped into his seat to eat. "It's a Navy thing. Plus, it's easy and filling."

"Plus Sandburg's asleep and can't give us his lecture about the average adult's weekly serving size of eggs," Jim answered before filling his mouth with his first forkful of light, fluffy eggs and cheese.

Unable to hide the look of guilt, Buck gave Jim a small grin. "It may have crossed my mind."

Jim washed the eggs down with hot coffee. "I've been thinking about this business with the old kidnapping and Blair's abduction."

"And?"

"I agree these people aren't after the money, it just isn't cost effective."

"So, what are they after?"

"The baby," Jim said, resting his elbows on either side of his plate and tenting his fingers together. "Only now he would be a man in his sixties."

Buck continued to stare, not comprehending, his food untouched for the moment.

"What's the one threat this sixty-year-old man could pose to his family?" Jim asked softly.

After a moment, Buck thought of a likely answer. "Inheritance?"

Jim picked up his fork and resuming his meal. "Give the man a cigar."

Buck shook his head. "His only sibling was the brother, right? The guy owning the shipping company? How would the missing brother affect the inheritance?"

"The business may be family owned, which means there may be a will," Jim said around a mouthful of eggs.

"Ahhh, I get it. The will may name the kidnapped child as a benefactor, in the event he's found," Buck said picking up his fork. "When the FBI called the brother about finding Maude McVey, he somehow found out who'd been the last one with her. He thinks maybe she blurted out the identity of his missing brother."

"So he hires some mercs to take Blair and get the information," Jim added darkly.

"How we going to prove any of this?" Buck demanded.

"We'll nose around; get all we can on the brother. Then..." Jim wiped his mouth and set his fork down on the empty plate. "I have a plan."

Any answer Buck had went unheard as Jim picked up a faint moan from the other end of the house. He rose from the table. "Sandburg's waking up."

Buck waved him out. "Go, I'll finish this and fix whatever he wants to eat, just come tell me."

"Thanks," Jim tossed over his shoulder, already out of the room.

Blair's eyes were open. His face was white and twisted in pain, short gasps marking his distress.

"Hey, hey, easy, Chief," Jim said, picking up the pill bottle and shaking out one small, white pain pill. He grabbed a water bottle and sat next to Blair, careful not to jostle the man. "I'm going to lift your shoulders, just enough to get the pill and water down. It's half your dose. It'll take the edge off."

They performed the maneuver and Jim eased Blair back down onto his pillow. Moving to drag a desk chair close, he transferred off the bed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "How ya feeling?"

"Okay," Blair croaked, his eyes closed.

"Liar."

Blair managed a deep breath and opened his eyes, searching Jim's face. "I `memba a gunshot," Blair said, his damaged voice made even more alien by the two stitches the doctor put in his tongue.

Jim nodded. "Buck took a round through his arm, right below his elbow. He's okay."

That seemed to take some of the worry away from the younger man, relaxing his face a few degrees. "Thank God... how long did they..."

"Almost nine hours," Jim answered thickly. Considering what Blair was experiencing during those nine hours, it seemed indecently long. "I'm sorry, Chief. We tried---"

"Jim, don't..." Blair interrupted. "You came... that's what mattahs."

"Save your voice, Sandburg," Jim admonished lightly. "The doc said no talking for the next few days."

Blair managed to pull a face as he slowly drew back the covers, mouthing the word `bathroom'. He grimaced with pain as he moved. Using Jim's arm, he pulled himself up and stood drunkenly on his own for a minute, breathing deeply through his mouth.

"No sprints, junior. Just taken each step nice and slow," Jim said as they began the long exodus towards Buck's bathroom. "Your muscles got a thorough workout; they're going to be sore for a few days. You know, you have time for a long bath, if you want. It could help."

After getting the younger man squared away on the toilet seat, Jim retrieved some towels from the same closet he'd taken the extra blanket and picked up Blair's travel-sized shaving kit. He gave a short report to Buck on his way back to the bathroom. Blair was finished and attempting to remove his oversized sweats when Jim returned to dump the towels and kit on the closed lid of the toilet. He leaned over to start the bath water. Buck's new bathroom had an old-fashioned claw-foot bathtub. A large window opened up to the back yard, displaying the kitchen garden with the desert cliffs in the distance. The setting sun lit the tops of the cliffs with a reddish hue that reminded Jim of an Ansel Adams' photograph.

Blair gave the window a nervous glance before stepping out of his drawstring pants.

"You want me to drop the blinds?" Jim asked. It was very unlikely anyone could see in. The area was too remote and there were no visible roads in that direction. Still, Blair nodded. "Okay, that's no problem," Jim told him.

The deep tub was filling fast. Blair began his laborious climb over the side, with Jim's hands supporting him, and sank into the warmth with a look of sheer bliss. A fresh bar of soap and a nylon scrubber sat within easy reach.

"Okay, you're on your own. If you need anything, just grunt. I'm listening," Jim said lightly, then gave his friend a stern look. "Don't - under any circumstances - attempt to get out on your own."

Blair nodded, distracted by slowly splashing the warm water up his arms.

"Sandburg, look at me," Jim ordered, squatting down. "I'm serious. Don't try to get up. Promise or I'll get a book and camp out in here."

Placing his right hand over his heart, Blair went through the actions of a witness placing his left hand on an imaginary bible.

"Cute," Jim said, secretly pleased to see any humor at all coming from his best friend. "Just remember, I can hear you. What do you want Buck to fix for dinner? Oatmeal or eggs?"

Back in the kitchen, Buck poured Jim a fresh cup of coffee. "You sure he should be alone in there?"

"Yeah, I'm listening and he promised not to stand," Jim assured him, picking up the mug. "We'll give him twenty before coaxing him out. He asked for oatmeal, by the way."

Easing down to let the warm water soak his shoulders, Blair closed his eyes and relaxed. He could hear Jim and Buck in the kitchen; their murmuring voices a major comfort. He was not alone. He was safe again. The past twenty-four hours had been hell, but it was over.

Well, except for the little fact his tongue felt three sizes too big and his body was a candidate for road kill.

He spent the first ten minutes letting the heat soak into his abused muscles and trying not to spit out the stitches on his tongue. They felt so weird in his mouth. When the water began to lose some of its heat, he washed his hair, moving like a ninety-year-old man. He applied the cream rinse and let it set while he scrubbed his arms and legs, checking his skin for damage. It was amazing how much pain he was experiencing without any visible signs of damage to his body. Part of him couldn't believe he was even alive. Towards the end, he had just wanted it to end. Even death had been preferable over the pain.

God, he was such a coward.

"Ready to get out?"

The sudden noise startled him, sending water splashing onto the floor.

Jim set the clean clothes down on the closed toilet lid. "Sorry, Chief... didn't mean to startle you," Jim said using an extra towel to mop up the water.

Blair nodded, more than a little embarrassed. At least he was saved from having to explain, after all, he was under orders not to talk, not that he clearly remembered much of what the doctor had said.

Normally, Blair preferred to use the shower to rinse his hair. But the way his body felt right now, standing under the shower spray was going to take more strength then he possessed at the moment. Finishing his final rinse by dipping his head back into the bathwater, he let Jim pull him out of the tub and accepted the towel. He wasn't surprised when Jim stood close by as Blair slowly dried off.

The pain was better now, probably a combination of the bath and the pill he'd let Jim give him. Still, he lost his balance trying to step into the boxers and Jim was quick to grab his arms. There was a time he'd have died with embarrassment. He was naked, with another man - a cop, for crying out loud - helping him dress. He hadn't needed help dressing since he was five.

But the last year of living with Jim had changed him, taught him about friendship. No, more than friendship, Blair decided as Jim steadied him again as he maneuvered into a pair of sweatpants, this time they looked like Buck's - Blair knew he hadn't packed any. Maybe it was the unique `give and take' of their relationship, but Jim had taken a position in Blair's life that had never been filled before. Hell, Blair didn't have a name for it.

The sweatpants were too big and they didn't have a drawstring. Jim took a large safety pen out of his jeans and pinched in the waistband. Now Blair could wear them without fear of them falling off his hips. The sweatshirt covered the impromptu tailor job adequately. Blair rolled the sleeves back two folds while Jim gathered up the wet towels.

"You want to shave? You have time," Jim commented.

After making sure he was fine to stand on his own, Jim left with the towels. Blair blinked at his reflection in the mirror, fuzzy with fog. The shave helped his mood some. Blair repacked his things back into the zippered bag and left it on the counter. Wearing a pair of slippers, he shuffled out into the kitchen. A cushion was waiting for him in his regular chair.

"Hey, runt," Buck said setting a bowl of oatmeal in front of him. "You warm enough?"

Blair nodded, picking up the spoon and stirring the oatmeal slowly, keeping his eyes down. He sampled the oatmeal; it slid across his injured tongue without any discomfort, but remained tasteless. Before he could finish, Jim joined them at the table.

"Okay, I got a hold of Simon, he'll be here tomorrow," Jim reported, eyeing Blair's bowl.

Blair looked up in surprise, why was Simon coming?

"Jim has a plan," Buck said.

After Jim outlined his idea, Blair shook his head. Jim's idea sounded ludicrous. How could a man plot to kill his brother, a brother he'd never seen, just to keep control of a business?

Jim must have seen the disbelief on Blair's face. "Sandburg, it's the only reason that makes any sense."

The sound of a car approaching reached the kitchen.

Blair felt his heart hit the roof of his mouth. He twitched as Jim gave him an understanding pat on the arm.

"Easy, Chief. It's the FBI team, they're here to get our statements," Jim said softly before going out to meet the men.

Blair tucked his head down, unable to look at Buck. He knew Jim was right, how could he not be right? He was a sentinel. If Jim said it was the two guys from the FBI, then it was.

But still.

Pushing away from the table, Blair slowly stood.

Buck was at his side instantly. "You okay, Blair?"

With a nod, Blair started towards his room. Moving faster than his body would have liked, he made it into the room in time to miss meeting the federal agents as they came into the house. Thankfully Buck hadn't followed. Blair leaned heavily on the closed door, willing his heart to slow.

What was wrong with him?

"You guys want some coffee?" Buck asked as the two agents entered, escorted by Jim.

"Thanks, that sounds good," Dirk said.

Buck watched Jim search the kitchen for Blair, then, discreetly tilted his head.

He's listening for something, Buck realized, but what?

Jim met Buck's glance questioningly. With a slight shrug and headshake, Buck went to the cupboard to retrieve two more mugs. Blair just wasn't up to visitors right now and Buck was going to make sure they respected his wishes.

"We finished with the Wanapum house this morning," the younger agent, Pete said. "The owners were in Walla Walla for the week, visiting grandchildren. The two Durangos showed up at a small dirt airstrip just south of the house."

"Forensics come up with anything?" Jim asked returning to his seat at the table. He nodded his thanks as Buck refilled his coffee.

"No prints in either of the cars. Whoever they were, they know enough to be careful. It'll take longer to process the entire house; we have a lot of prints that need to be matched. We did find evidence of someone being sick and the nasty business in the garage, of course," Pete commented sadly, looking around. "Where's Blair?"

"He's lying down," Buck answered.

"You guys said on the phone that you tracked Blair down by that leaf?" Dirk asked incredulously.

"We got lucky," Jim said with a shrug. "It was a rare tree."

"Damn, don't take this wrong - I know how much you city cops love working with us Feds - but if you ever want to step up to federal investigations, I've got some people that would love to meet you," Dirk said with a wry smile.

"In accordance with our fragile working relationship, I'm going to remain quiet," Jim answered, his eyes showing a slight trace of humor in an otherwise expressionless face. He continued, "Blair told us they only asked him about McVey's last words, nothing else...nothing to give us a lead on what they're searching for. But I have a theory that may interest you."

For the third time, Buck listened to Jim's plan. He had to admit to himself; the plan sounded like it might work. The agents were favorably receptive to the idea. By the time they had worked out all the issues, the coffee pot was empty and the burner turned off.

"Frankly, as much as I want to personally throttle their necks and watch them die," Jim said, "I'm more interested in getting to the person that hired them. Those men were professionals; they could have easily killed us on that road. They could have killed Sandburg, but they didn't. For that, I'm grateful. But the person responsible for sending them is going down."

"Your captain's aware of the situation?" Dirk asked.

"Yeah, he's willing to play along. We need to set this up somewhere else though," Jim said with a glance at Buck. "I'm not willing to risk this place."

Buck sighed and rubbed his forehead, thank God for small favors. His insurance company would go broke if he had to start over... again.

It was after nine when the agents drove off.

Jim was amazed with their willingness. They seemed like decent men, for Feds. And they hadn't batted an eye when told Blair was not up to giving his statement. Jim had promised to set up another meeting, as soon as Blair was able.

Finding Buck cleaning up in the kitchen, Jim lent a hand before bidding the man goodnight. They needed to get their bodies back in a normal sleep cycle. Stepping softly, he entered their room. Blair was back in bed, on his side, the covers up to his ear.

The younger man's heart rate gave him away.

"They've left," Jim said.

Blair remained motionless. As Jim started undressing for bed, he worried about his roommate's withdrawn behavior. Blair was normally the last person to keep his feelings bottled up inside, preferring to verbalize, analyze and criticize openly. Was it more than emotional? Was Blair coming down with a virus on top of everything else? Blair's thick hair was mostly dry. Buck had cranked up the pellet stove, keeping the house warm all afternoon. Blair should sleep fine.

"You okay?"

Rolling over, Blair answered Jim's question without speaking. He looked miserable.

"What's wrong?" Jim asked in alarm. If they left right now, they could be at the hospital before eleven.

But Blair shook his head. "Coward..." The word sounded ugly, even without the gravely voice.

Jim was taken back, confused for a moment. Then he realized Blair was referring to himself.

It was time to set things straight.

"No, you're not, Sandburg," Jim said fiercely, leaning forward, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together as he sat on the edge of his bed. "You just need time."

The look on Blair's face remained unchanged.

Jim scrubbed his face. What could he say that didn't sound like psychiatric mumbo-jumbo? Jim thought back over his military career. Blair wasn't the first person he'd known abused to the point of wanting to run every time there was a knock on the door. Hell, those had been soldiers, men and women that had the benefit of training to prepare them.

Blair was a university teaching assistant.

"Listen," Jim started again. "I once worked with a man - hell of a guy. More ribbons and crap on his uniform than you've got jars of dried herbs. He spent a month as a guest of the Viet Cong. Now, by the time I met him, that was history for him. But every time he saw a certain face, he ran - sometimes in tears. And I'm here to tell you, no one gave him shit about it. Understand?"

He had Blair's attention now, so he pressed forward. "You're brain is still working in survival mode, junior. You just need some time. I swear to you, it's going to get better."

Blair's eyes had become wet, but he nodded. "Yeah...'tanks, man."

"Go to sleep. It'll get better tomorrow, I promise," Jim repeated with confidence.

The next morning, Jim woke to the unhappy voice of Simon Banks in the living room. From the sounds of it, Buck was trying, rather unsuccessfully, to soothe his feathers. Jim rolled out of bed with a groan. When they had spoken yesterday on the phone, Simon hadn't said much. Apparently he planned to let Jim have it with both barrels, in person.

Dressing silently and checking to make sure Blair was still sound asleep, Jim slipped out to take his punishment.

"Jim... how nice to see you," Simon deadpanned. He was standing rigid in his vest, casual corduroys and his French-style beret. His `you-just-crossed-the-line-mister' glare was firmly in place on his dark face.

"I can explain, Sim---"

"Jim, don't even go there!"

"Gentlemen!" Buck interrupted. "Let's take this to the kitchen, I'll make some coffee. We'll sit down and talk about this without waking Blair." He led the way, expecting full compliance from both the cops.

Jim hid a smile. He'd hate to see which man would come out on top if push came to shove. It was nice having the ex-navy Seal on his side.

Ten minutes later, he rethought that idea. Buck had jumped the fence. Now he had two men glaring at him.

"Guys! I didn't have a lot of time to make phone calls," Jim repeated, trying to keep from squirming.

"You had over an hour in the hospital while I was being stitched up, Ellison," Buck stated. He turned to Simon to add, "And he nearly left me behind."

"Okay, yeah... maybe I wasn't thinking clearly. After all," Jim said, playing his last card. "I was recovering from a blow to the head, remember?"

Simon raised both hands. "Enough. Let's move forward here. I'm going to end this by saying - Jim, if you ever find yourself in a similar circumstance and forget to call me again, I'll kick your sentinel butt from here to Peru and back. Got that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Simon turned to Buck with a pleasant look. "How you doing, Buck?"

"Not bad considering. You?"

Jim scowled into his coffee and stood up. "I'm going to check on Sandburg."

Blair was awake and already dressing when Jim walked in.

"You look like you're moving around better," Jim commented, snagging the second sleeve of Blair's flannel shirt and helping him put it on.

"Yeah," Blair admitted, his voice still rough but on the mend.

"How's the throat?"

"Bettah... I'm gonna see if Uncle Buck has some ga'lic or gingah, that'll help," Blair finished tying back his hair. It had dried while he was asleep and looked wilder than usual. "Simon's heah? He yelling at you?"

"We're fine," Jim said, avoiding the question. "Don't overdo it today."

When they reached the kitchen, Simon paused in his conversation. Standing from the table, he approached Blair, looking him over carefully. "Sandburg, are you okay? Should you be moving around?"

"I'm fine... tanks," Blair answered quietly. "I'm sawey `bout this."

Simon looked at the other two men in confusion. "Sorry? Am I missing something? What did Sandburg do to be sorry about?"

"Nothing, Simon," Jim answered quickly, a hand on Blair's shoulder. "He's just taking on the sins of the world a little this morning."

"Blair, you're the victim. You've got nothing to be sorry about," Simon insisted sternly. "Now that that's settled, lets get this plan hashed out. I got a few ideas driving over."

Jim gave his boss a grateful look, his earlier irritation at the man gone. "Okay, sounds good. Buck, you sit. I'll make breakfast this morning."

Buck gave Blair a mock look of horror. "This is a good thing, right, runt?"

Blair smiled, taking a seat. "He's good, when he wants ta be."

Two days later, Blair shifted nervously in his seat. Jim sat next to him, behind the wheel of Buck's rental. Buck sat on Blair's right. The two FBI agents were parked three blocks away. Blair felt almost normal again, physically at least. He was speaking normal, his lisp completely gone. After long meetings with the Feds, the plan was in place. It turned out the will left sixty-five percent of the business to the kidnapped son, being the first born; in the event he was ever located.

Now Blair, Jim, and Buck sat - waiting.

Their attention was on a small hotel, at the north end of the large city of Spokane, Washington. Simon Banks had rented a room, under the name S. G. Banks, recently from Seattle. It was a stretch, but he had driven through Seattle after he became aware of Blair's kidnapping.

The plan was simple. Simon called Newel Adams three days before, telling the man he wanted to talk about Maude McVey and hinting they had some unfinished business to discuss. Adams had sounded wary and suspicious, but Simon had acted cool, keeping his tone neutral. Finally he agreed to meet in person and see what Simon had to say.

The meet was set up for two PM. It was fifteen minutes past and Blair was getting restless.

What if the guy didn't show?

"Stop squirming, Blair," Buck said.

"Why hasn't he shown yet?" Blair asked.

Just then, Dirk's voice came over the radio in Blair's lap. "Heads up, folks. White BMW may be our guy."

"There," Jim said, pointing to a small, expensive car turning into the parking lot and parking in front of the office for the single story `L' shape motel.

They watched a short, rotund man exit the driver's door and walk towards the office. Blair could see a thick mane of white hair above an expensive looking black leather jacket. The man emerged from the motel office and headed towards Simon's room, about half way down the long building.

"I'm moving in," Jim said, opening the truck door. "You stay with Buck, Chief."

Before Blair could answer, Jim was gone.

"Well, that's a change from `stay in the truck, Chief'," Blair joked nervously. He slid towards Jim's vacated seat to give Buck some room. "At least he left the radio."

"It's not like he needs it," Buck answered. "I just wish we had access to Simon's wire. I'd love to be a fly on the wall in that motel room when Adams sees Simon acting as his long, lost brother."

Blair smiled as he watched Jim casually stroll down the sidewalk towards the motel. "Yeah, I gotta feeling Newel's gonna be in for a big surprise."

"All units, Ellison's making his move," Dirk's voice said. "Standby for my signal."

Jim was about even with the BMW. Acting like a man admiring a fine vehicle, he paused to look the car over. Then a split second before the sharp report of the shot reached Blair and Buck's location, Jim was running for the door, gun in hand.

"Oh my God!" Blair blurted out, reaching for the handle of the door.

"Blair, no!" Buck shouted, but his left hand was still in a sling. Before Buck could reach him, Blair was out of the truck and jogging towards the motel in an unsteady gait. A second shot sounded from Simon's room. FBI agents were appearing, guns drawn.

Blair wasn't even half a block away before a strong hand clamped over his wrist; bring him to a clumsy halt in the street.

"Blair Sandburg, I said stop!" Buck growled, towing him back to the sidewalk and towards the truck.

"Uncle Buck! Let me go!"

"No," Buck said. "You had clear orders to stay put and out of the way. I'm going to make sure that happens. What's done is done, they'll let us know as soon as they can."

Fighting the older man was useless. Even one handed, Buck had the determination of a pit bull. In a few seconds they were back at the truck. Blair's attention was on the motel, watching the parking lot to catch sight of a familiar face.

Neither man saw the large man, automatic in hand; appear from the doorway of the empty adjacent brick building. The man spoke with an east coast accent.

"Hello, again, Mr. Sandburg."

Blair felt his blood freeze in his veins.

He knew that voice.

Jim entered the room to find Simon down. Adams spun to face him, bringing his gun up to point at Jim. Barely having time to shout out his identity, Jim was forced to fire when he saw Adams' finger begin to tighten on the trigger. Jim fired on instinct, without thought, shooting to make sure the bullet would do the most damage.

Adams dropped to the carpet.

Switching his attention from the dead man to Simon, Jim knelt down by his boss. "You okay?"

Simon's hand clutched his chest painfully, each breath made the man grimace. "This little twit... made a disparaging comment... about my family tree... and pulled a gun."

"You hit?" Jim asked, looking for evidence of a bullet hole in the taller man's shirt.

"No... I'm fine. Vest did its job," Simon replied as FBI agents poured through the open door.

"Johnson, set up a perimeter and notify SPD we'll need their coroner," Dirk ordered to one of his men as he squatted next to the dead body, checking for a pulse. Satisfied the man was dead, he joined Jim and Simon. "We got a clear recording. You did good, Captain."

Simon looked pleased. "Can't let Jim... have all the fun."

"Jim? Jim? Is everything okay? Is Gus okay?"

The men stared at the radio in Dirk's hand, Blair's sudden transmission a surprise to them both.

"What the..." Simon muttered, confused.

Jim reached for the radio, taking it from Dirk's offering hand. "Sandburg?"

"Jim! What happened? We heard a shot, is Gus okay?"

Jim and Simon exchanged puzzled looks, then, as if a light bulb clicked on, they got it.

"Oh, shit," Simon whispered.

"Blair, everything's okay in here," Jim answered carefully. "I'm going to let you talk to Gus." He tossed the radio to Simon as he headed for the door.

"Jim! Where are you going?" Simon asked.

"Sandburg and Buck are in trouble, I'll work my way behind them. Keep him talking." Jim slipped out the door, hoping the doorway was out of sight from whoever was threatening his friends.

A nearby breezeway allowed the motel guests to access a back parking lot. Jim ran for the back and down an alley. Extending his hearing, he picked up Blair's voice.

He sounded scared.

Blair swallowed hard. Buck was on his knees in the side alley. The man had his gun, equipped with a silencer, pointed squarely at Buck's temple, threatening to shoot if Blair didn't follow orders. Blair stood at the corner of the brick building, holding the FBI's radio. He looked back at the gunman. It was strange matching a face to the voice that had caused so much pain. He reminded Blair a little of Brackett, only older. Brown hair and eyes, the gunman could pass for an executive on Wall Street.

"Did you hear that?" Blair asked.

"Yeah," the man answered

"Give it up," Buck said, keeping his eyes on the brick wall in front of his face. "All you're doing is increasing your odds of getting caught."

The man eyed Buck coolly, not looking the least bit alarmed. "You know, I only need one hostage. I'd stay quiet if I were you."

Blair felt his knees start to collapse, causing him to grab the corner of the building and close his eyes.

Oh, God! He said hostage!

Fighting to keep from throwing up, Blair pushed back the panic that pressed in. He couldn't let himself fall apart. Buck needed him. Jim was coming; he'd understood his signal. All Blair had to do was keep this monster... no, this man - just a normal man, in the alley a little longer.

"Mr. Sandburg, I'm talking to you," the man repeated, beginning to sound angry.

"Sorry... what did you say?" Blair asked, unable to keep his voice steady. He decided to use his fear to his advantage. Let the man think he was too terrified to fight back.

"If you can keep from wetting yourself again, look and tell me if Adams is being transferred to a car yet."

Blair felt his face burn as he did was he was told. "Uh... no, I don't see anyone coming out yet."

"Damn, I'm going to have to scrap this assignment," the man said to himself. He looked down at Buck. "Stand up. Mr. Sandburg, join us please."

Blair ordered his feet to move. He knew he was shaking and avoided looking at his uncle, afraid of the disappointment he expected to see in the older man's eyes. It was like approaching a snake, knowing any minute it could strike out and bite.

"Sometime today, if you'd be so kind," the gunman quipped, seeming to enjoy the terror he was causing. When Blair neared, he grabbed an arm and pulled him close, using Blair as a shield. Pointing the gun to indicate the direction he wanted, he ordered Buck to walk ahead. "I never did like working with Adams. He was an idiot."

"We're not armed, we can't stop you. Just go," Buck said, walking a few feet in front of them.

A blue Jeep Cherokee was parked on the side street at the other end of the alley. The rundown neighborhood was mostly empty buildings and RV storage lots. The streets were empty of people and passing cars.

"You just don't know how to shut up, do you?" the man said as they neared the jeep.

Blair watched as the gun was redirected, taking aim for the back of Buck's head. The move was so casual, for a split second Blair didn't realize the significance. A sudden truth brought it all to crystal clarity. This man was a professional, and both he and Buck could identify him now.

They were dead men.

Blair dropped the radio and grabbed the end of the gun, clasping the silencer with his right hand and pushing upwards, but the man's finger had already tightened on the trigger. "Run, Uncle Buck!" he yelled just as the gun discharged. A flash of heat seared Blair's palm and fingers, causing him to scream in pain.

Buck fell to the sidewalk.

"FREEZE! Cascade Police!" Jim shouted from behind.

Adjusting his hold by snaking a thick arm around Blair's neck, the man spun them both around. Now Blair was facing Jim and shielding the gunman. Blair gasped, cradling his burnt hand to his chest, barely able to make out Jim's form on the sidewalk.

"Let him go, its over!" Jim shouted, his right elbow locked straight in a classic two handed shooter's stance as he aimed for the man holding his partner.

"I don't think so; I'm driving out of here. You stop me and he's dead," the gunman answered. "Now, put it down!"

"Jim, don't!" Blair called out, certain the man planned on shooting Jim.

"You're not taking him again," Jim insisted coolly.

"Put it down, or Mr. Sandburg is dead right now." The silencer, still warm was pressed against Blair's ear.

Blair watched in horror as Jim began to set his gun down, flexing his knees and slowing reaching for the sidewalk. It was a nightmare! Jim would be shot just like Buck.

"No!" Blair yelled. He wasn't going to let this happen. The arm around his neck squeezed hard, cutting off his air.

"Shut up," the gunman whispered calmly.

"Blair! Stay still," Jim called out, his gun on the broken concrete at his feet.

Oh, God. Blair felt the muzzle of the silencer shift away, catching sight of the barrel as it pointed towards Jim. Time seemed to slow down and black spots danced across Blair's vision. He continued to claw at the arm circling his neck with his left hand. He really needed a lungful of air. Blair's eyes flicked back to Jim.

Maybe it was the lack of oxygen playing tricks, but Jim looked almost smug.

Three things happed at once.

Blair heard a nearby thud.

Jim leaped to the side, just as the gunman's gun spit another deadly round, missing him and chipping at the sidewalk.

Finally, the crushing arm around Blair's neck released him.

Blair pulled away, falling gracelessly to his knees before rolling to one side and looking back.

The gunman was down. Uncle Buck stood over him like an ancient knight who had just killed the dragon, holding something slender and long in his right hand. Jim scooped up his own gun and sprinted over just as Buck kicked the automatic its silencer several feet away from the unconscious man's reach.

"Uncle Buck! You're not shot?"

"Nope, bullet nicked my best coat though," Buck answered, setting his weapon down to help Jim roll the gunman over on his stomach. Jim handcuffed the man's hands behind his back.

"Sandburg, you okay?" Jim asked, reaching for the dropped radio and checking it for damage.

"Oh, sure," Blair said, glancing down at the blisters on the red palm of his right hand, amazed a silencer could cause so much damage. Not that he would have done anything different had he known.

Buck appeared at his side, carefully taking Blair's wrist to examine the burns. "Sorry about that, runt. Thanks for saving my life, by the way."

Blair took a shaky breath; still unable to believe they were all alive and well. "I'll heal. Where did you find that... whatever it was you hit him with?"

"It's a section of cable, wrapped in plastic coated insulation. I've been keeping it in my arm sling for a few days now. I've learned to be prepared around you two." Buck retrieved the cable and let Blair get a close look.

Finished with his radio communication, Jim joined them, taking Blair's injured hand as Buck had while Blair studied the cable. It was heavy. Blair hefted it with a surprised look. "Wow, I need to get one of these."

Jim grunted as he gently turned Blair's hand to see the damage, his face grim as he studied the hand. "Can you flex your fingers?"

Blair moved the digits in question. "I'm fine, Jim."

"No, these are second degree. You need to be treated, Chief."

Jim watched the ambulance crew load the gunman into the back of their vehicle, accompanied by two armed FBI agents with orders not to let him out of their sight. Still unconscious, the gunman's vitals were steady. Buck's blow to the head didn't look fatal. Jim had mixed feelings on the issue.

"Come on, guys," Blair moaned from his position several feet away. "I'm fine!"

"Sandburg."

"Blair."

Jim watched as both Buck and Simon tried to intimidate the younger man into going to the hospital. Blair was standing strong, or rather, sitting strong. He glared back at the two men from his perch on the back bumper of a City of Spokane police car. His hand had been cleaned by the medics and was wrapped in sterile gauze. Blair tucked his hair behind an ear as he searched the group of Federal agents and city cops, his eyes finding Jim's and conveying a complete story in one look.

Blair was at the end of his rope.

Jim excused himself from the FBI team. Dirk and Pete had wanted the full story behind the `Gus' signal that had alerted Jim and Simon to the danger. Shouldering his way through the crowd, he laid a hand on his friend's neck.

"Ready to head back, Chief?"

Blair stood with a sigh. "More than ready, Jim. Can we really get out of here?"

"Jim! What about that hand?" Simon demanded.

"So? We'll watch it. He's an adult, if he doesn't want further treatment, he's entitled," Jim explained stepping in front of Blair and addressing the medics. "Thanks, guys."

A slight pressure of Blair's forehead resting between his shoulder blades told Jim of his roommate's exhaustion, followed by a soft, "Thanks, man. I owe you."

Jim, Buck and Blair said their good-byes to Simon who had decided to remain a few days in Spokane to visit with a cousin that lived there. The two FBI agents promised to call with updates on the case.

Jim wasn't surprised when the drive back to Dry Falls was made in silence. They were tired, even conversation was too much of an effort. Blair had nodded off before they reached Moses Lake. A quiet discussion between the two older men about the options of stopping for dinner or just pushing on to the orchard ensued. In the end, they drove through until they were home.

The next afternoon, during the routine chores of everyday life, Jim realized Blair was missing.

"Buck, did Blair tell you where he was going?" Jim asked, locating the older man in the small utility room off the kitchen.

"He's gone somewhere? I told him to bring me his dirty laundry," Buck replied with a raised eyebrow as he filled a washing machine with dirty clothes. The dryer was running on high and a pile of clean jeans sat in a basket ready to be folded.

"His coat's missing, and his hat. He's probably taking a walk," Jim mused, chewing his lower lip.

"He's still not acting normal."

"You noticed, huh?"

Jim snagged his coat and a watch cap before heading outside. The day had started out clear and cool, beginning a dry, cold snap that promised to continue through the weekend. Blair's gloves were on the small table by the door and Jim stuffed the left one into his pocket before heading out. It didn't take long for Jim to track down his best friend. The walk took him north, towards the panoramic view of Dry Falls and the small desert lakes at the foot of the high cliffs.

Blair was sitting on the ground, his back against a house-size boulder, protected from the wind. His knees were tucked in tightly against his chest, his eyes fixed on the distant falls with a pensive expression. Jim paused for a minute, unnoticed. Blair's voice had sounded normal this morning and he seemed to move with little residual pain from his earlier torture.

But some injuries ran deeper then skin and muscle.

"Hey, Darwin. What's with you running off when chores need to be done?" Jim asked lightly as he settled down next to his friend. The ground was littered with rocks. Jim brushed a few of the larger ones aside before he settled in. He leaned against the large bolder, knowing the cold weather sent the snakes into hibernation this time of year.

Blair accepted the single glove with a nod, slipping it over his hand. "Thanks, I forgot to grab it."

"You okay?" Jim let the real concern he felt color his question.

Blair avoided Jim's gaze and looked back at the cliffs with a shrug.

Okay, this was going to be harder that he thought. It felt strange having to pry information from Blair, definitely a new experience.

"Dirk called," Jim continued casually. "The guy that snatched you and Buck yesterday is awake and talking. His name is Frank Snipes; his fingerprints matched a file the Feds have on a Chicago based organized crime family. He's one of their enforcers. Apparently Adams was connected with organized crime, one of the reasons his business is so successful."

Blair sighed. "So, Adams is dirty. Why didn't Dirk and Pete tell us that to begin with?"

"I don't think they knew at the time, who knows how the Fed's think?"

"Maybe... maybe when Stella kidnapped that baby, she was doing the child a favor," Blair said.

They fell into an easy silence.

Jim snuck a peek at his friend's profile; Blair was still staring at the cliffs.

"So, what is it about these cliffs that intrigue you so much?" Jim asked, opting for a new subject.

"Other than their beauty, you mean?" Blair asked.

"Well, they're nice, but the place could use a few more trees," Jim teased.

"Jim, this is a shrub-steppe habitat. This land provides the complete food chain for the animals that live here," Blair said automatically before glancing up and seeing Jim's grin. He shook his head with a wry grin. "Okay... I'm just amazed at the spirit of the geologist that figured out how they were formed. I told you about him, William Bretz. He refused to believe the party line about how this was all created. I mean, everyone said he was nuts, man, with his idea of massive floods forming the land. Yet he lived to prove them all wrong." Blair's voice trailed off.

"You're a lot like that, Sandburg," Jim told him gently.

Blair dropped his forehead to his knees and sighed, a picture of misery.

"No, Jim. I'm nothing like Bretz."

"What's eating you, kid?"

Blair took a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket and silently handed it over. Jim opened the page and started reading, the message was written in old-fashioned style handwriting. Jim's eyes jumped to the bottom, it was signed by Stella.

Blair and Jim,

If you're reading this, my indigestion must be worst than I thought. Forgive me for slipping this into your luggage. But I feel I must tell someone in case I don't arrive in Chicago.

My true name is Maude McVey. I was the nanny that kidnapped the child from the Adams' couple in Chicago back in the twenties. Call the police; I'm sure the case is still open. I was going back to speak to the younger brother, Newel and confess. I pray he did not follow in his father's footsteps.

The baby is alive and well. I placed him with the neighbors of a girlfriend that had moved to Olympia, Washington. They're both still alive and will verify the true identity of child; Fred and Susan Victor. I've kept my eye on him for sixty years, he's a good man.

Thank you for a pleasurable dinner, you two are very special.

Please forgive me.

Stella.

Jim read the letter through a second time. The mystery of the missing child was solved.

"Huh... she must have slipped this into your carry-on when I went down to the bathroom. You were sleeping," Jim said, refolding the paper.

"I guess," Blair replied glumly. "Good thing I didn't find it before Snipes played `light-up-Sandburg', I'm sure I would have spilled my guts."

A glimmer of Blair's real problem taunted Jim. This was still about Blair's experience in that Wanapum house. Jim tapped the folded paper in his palm as he thought. "Sandburg, you wouldn't have talked," Jim said.

Blair snorted, his face still hidden behind a curtain of hair.

"You wouldn't have," Jim pressed; nudging his friend with his shoulder.

Lifting his head, Blair turned and eyed Jim carefully. The pain in the younger man's eyes stole Jim's breath.

"You don't know that, man," Blair whispered sadly.

"I do know that," Jim answered evenly. "There are a lot of things in life I don't know, but I think I can consider myself an expert on this subject. You would never knowingly do harm."

Blair's eyes grew moist with tears. "Jim... I... it hurt... bad. I think... I would have."

Jim cursed Snipes, wishing the worst possible death imaginable to fall upon him. Taking a cleansing breath to try and shake his fierce anger, Jim draped an arm around Blair's shoulders and tucked him close to his side. He switched his gaze back to the cliffs, feeling Blair raise a hand to swipe his nose.

Tomorrow he was going to call Dirk back and make sure the Feds refused to cut a deal with Snipes, if it wasn't too late. He wanted to see the man get every charge possible thrown at him, even if he had to camp out in the prosecutor's office to make sure.

"Blair, just like Bretz knew he was right about the falls, I know I'm right about you, okay? So, when you start to doubt yourself... trust me."

He felt Blair lean into his side.

Buck laid the paper down on the table and picked up his coffee. "Well, that's that. You two going to look up this Olympia couple?"

Jim shrugged. "What's the point?"

"Jim! We've gotta find this guy. He deserves to know about his real family," Blair said.

The three men were enjoying a late lunch. Just as Buck had considered starting his own search, the two roommates had wandered back in. Blair seemed relaxed. Although his eyes were a little red, the younger man's smile was genuine and he confessed to being famished. Buck had a pot of homemade chili and cornbread ready.

"Chief, how are we going to make his life any better when we explain he was kidnapped from a father who was involved in Chicago's organized crime and his only brother was looking to kill him for the controlling rights to a transport company that is probably infiltrated with that same organized criminal element?" Jim asked gently before taking a large bite of honey-covered cornbread.

Blair rolled his eyes. "Okay, maybe we're not going to blurt all of that out in the first second...but, we've got to tell him. He has a right to know the truth."

"I'm sure he'll like to hear it from the man that shot and killed his brother," Jim said frankly.

"Guys... let's table this discussion for now, okay?" Buck said, not wanting to see a real argument begin. It continued to amaze him how these two men had become such close friends. They had very little in common. "You two only have a few days of your vacation left, how do you want to spend it?"

Jim shrugged as he chewed.

Buck turned to his nephew. "Blair?"

"Well... there is this girl I met at that fishing store. She sort of invited me to call her. Why don't we pick up your interior designer friend and go to that steakhouse you told us about? We just need to find a woman for Jim... he prefers redheads, but I figure we'll have to make do with whatever we can find on such short notice."

"What?" Jim choked, spraying cornbread across the table.

"Sounds good to me," Buck said. "I know a nice lady that lives in Soap Lake. She's a good dancer, has most of her original teeth. We can call her."

"Great! It's a date, then," Blair replied happily, ignoring the sputtering from Jim. "I'll call the fly shop after lunch and see if she wants to go."

"I'm not agreeing to this!" Jim insisted loudly.

"One thing, though," Blair asked, "What's it mean when a woman says she's into catch and release? That's a good thing, right?"

Epilogue

Jim watched Blair walk across the campus towards his truck, wrapping his scarf tightly around his neck with his bandaged hand. Zooming in on the white dressing, Jim saw the gauze had come loose again. He shook his head. Although the hand was healing nicely, Blair was too casual about keeping it clean and covered. Jim sighed; repeated lectures and threats to go to the campus clinic whenever the bandage needed fixing were always laughed away. Blair stated he didn't have the time.

All in all, Jim thought Blair was getting better. Although he was staying in the loft more than normal for his active, social lifestyle, he was making plans to attend the Christmas parties on campus and at the station. But late at night, when he was tired, Jim could see traces of fear in his eyes, usually when Blair thought Jim wasn't looking.

Jim was very careful to keep appearances casual, but in fact, he was always looking.

By the time Blair opened the passenger door and climbed in, Jim was ready.

"Hey, Jim! Did you have to wait long?" Blair asked as he set his backpack on the floor.

"Just got here," Jim said, turning sideways in the seat towards Blair. "Give me your hand."

Blair held it out without protest. "Guess what? Your Christmas present came in today. There is no way you're going to figure it out, man. It's hidden. You'll never get to hold it or shake it... ouch... or even sniff it. And I'm not going to let you either, until Christmas morning."

Jim examined the pink, healing flesh carefully, holding Blair's wrist with his left hand as he finished unwrapping the less than sterile gauze and removed the medicated square protective dressings. "That's nice... are you sure you're not playing in the sandbox during recess with this hand, Chief? I've seen cleaner bandages after week long field maneuvers."

"I had to help unpack some artifacts that arrived. It's fine," Blair said. "So, aren't you going to ask about the present?"

Jim resisted the temptation to say, `you mean the fly-tying clamp?' He had inadvertently overheard Blair and his date from the fishing shop conspiring together last week. Secretly, he was pleased with the gift; even though it was more money than Blair should be spending on his limited budget. Jim glanced up, if you looked up the term `unrestrained excitement,' it could be illustrated with the exact expression on Blair's face.

"Not a tie organizer that needs batteries?" Jim asked, ripping the plastic cover off a fresh roll of sterile gauze and wrapping Blair's hand with familiar ease.

"Nope, not even close," Blair grinned, "And that was for Simon, remember?"

"Then I'm clueless, Mr. Kringle. I'm forced to wait a few days, I guess." He finished with two pieces of white tape and released the hand. "Ready for lunch?"

"Sure, where?" Blair asked, flexing his hand and looking pleased about his holiday secret.

"Taco Mamas." Jim turned the key and checked his side mirror before pulling out from the curb. The university was empty as most of the students and teachers were off for the holidays. "By the way, I got an answer back from my friend on the Victor couple."

Blair was instantly alert. "Really? What'd he say? Are they alive? Do we know where the kidnapped child... I mean `man' is?"

Jim nodded, holding up a palm to stay the rapid-fire questions. The argument that had started at Buck's table had been placed on hold, with the agreed understanding to wait. If and when they learned what had become of Adams' oldest son, whey would discuss it again. Jim's opinion was still the same; let sleeping dogs lie.

"Well? Come on, Jim! Stop with the dramatic pause and spill!"

"Nicholas W. Victor."

Blair studied the roof of the cab. "Why do I know that name?"

"You heard it in the news this week, the hearings on the Casino Corruption."

A perfect `O' was formed by Blair's mouth, his eyes wide with surprise. "No... no way! Too freaking weird, Jim."

"Yep, Hershel Adams is the Washington State Deputy Prosecutor for the Organized Crime Unit out of Olympia."

The End

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