The phone was ringing.

Blair rolled toward the wall, clamped the edge of his pillow over his head and tried to go back to sleep. There was no way he was going to answer that phone. His friends knew better than to call the loft this late at night. Therefore, the call has to be for Jim - simple logic.

Pulling the edges of the blankets higher, he burrowed into the warmth. It was Saturday... no, wait, probably Sunday by now and he had no plans to leave the futon until the sun was high in the sky.

The insistent ringing leaked through the feathers, then stopped. Curious while even half asleep, Blair lifted one corner to listen.

"Ellison."

Yep, he knew Jim would answer and he didn't sound happy.

"What is it?" Jim's voice sounded thick with sleep. "Crap..."

Blair reluctantly unfolded the pillow to listen, more awake now. Jim had dropped his voice to a whisper which only fueled Blair's curiosity. Not enough to warrant leaving the futon, but almost. He raised his head, hoping to catch a few more words.

No dice. Jim was making a point of talking quietly. Blair could hear the phone being returned to the cradle, then silence.

Blair waited.

The stairs up to Jim's room always creaked. No matter where Jim placed his feet, at least two steps made a noise.

He rolled onto his back. This was like waiting for the second shoe to drop, if Jim was the type of person to drop his shoes, which he wasn't. He was the type to carefully tuck them under his bed. But the point was the same and Blair couldn't go back to sleep until he heard those creaks.

Tossing back the covers, Blair gave up going back to sleep. Even though it was late May, the nights were still cool. He reached for the sweatshirt he'd dropped on the floor, pulling it over his head as he walked out of his room. Jim's tall silhouette was visible in the living room, a dark shape standing in front of the long bank of windows.

"Hey."

Jim turned. "Watch your step, Chief."

"I do have some night vision, man," Blair stated softly as he carefully located the post in the center of the room with both hands, then felt for the sofa before arriving to stand at his roommate's side. "What's up?"

Jim stood in his boxers and tank top, his arms folded over his chest. He turned back to study the sleeping city. "Nothing."

Okay, time for a more direct approach.

"Who was on the phone?"

"Simon."

Single word answers, not looking good.

"Why did he call at..." Blair reached for Jim's arm, only to find the man wasn't wearing his watch. "... whatever time it is and wake us up?"

After a long delay in which it became obvious to Blair he wasn't going to get an answer, Blair tried another approach. "I guess I'll call him back and ask him."

Jim moved, catching Blair's arm before he could take a second step toward the phone. "Matro was found dead in his cell," he said in a flat voice, still looking out the windows. He released Blair to scrub his own face with both hands wearily. "He was hanging by strips torn from his bedding."

Blair's brain stalled. He opened and closed his mouth, searching for a response before giving up and focusing on Jim's words, allowing his mind to follow its own path. Matro was dead. The Bunko Captain that had poisoned Simon, been sort of responsible for a woman's death, attacked Jim and left Blair in a car trunk to drown was now dead.

Dead meant no trial.

No wait, Matro wasn't going to trial. They learned last Friday that he was going to testify against Rossetti for a plea bargain and an agreed sentence recommendation.

Oh, shit.

"Sandburg?" Jim turned his head to fix a hard stare on his friend.

"He's... he's dead?" Blair repeated slowly.

"Yeah," Jim reported bluntly. "Simon got the call from Seattle."

That's right. Blair remembered Matro was being jailed in Seattle because of security issues. "You going in?"

Jim shook his head. "No point, King County and Seattle Police are handling the investigation. I wouldn't be allowed anywhere near the scene."

"I'm not understanding this, Jim. Matro was going to serve some time, but not that much. Why would he kill himself?" Blair's eyes were becoming accustomed to the dark. He could see Jim's expression and a new thought scared him. "He did kill... I mean, you said it was... Jim?"

"Rossetti is a powerful man, Chief," Jim explained carefully. "Let's just say I'm not convinced. It's best to keep an open mind."

"Rossetti?" Blair's mind made the connection. This was not getting any better. In fact, this was beginning to suck major rocks. "You think he did... had someone do this? Because of that deal with the prosecutors?"

Jim shrugged. "I wouldn't be surprised."

They stood quietly for a few moments before Jim slapped Blair's shoulder. "Well, no point in worrying about this now. We might as well get some sleep."

Back in his futon, Blair shifted around until he could locate a remnant of body heat and listened to the creaks. Jim was finally climbing the stairs. He closed his eyes. Dawn was hours away, but he didn't expect to fall back to sleep. Who was he fooling? He thought over the things Jim didn't say. Blair might be a newcomer to the world of police, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to be able to figure out the obvious; if Rossetti had Matro killed, then he somehow had managed to do it from the inside of his jail cell.

Another fact fell into place. Only a cop or a jail guard would have been able to commit the murder.

Blair sat up in bed, pulling his knees close to his chest and circling them with his arms. Shit!

Jim sighed. Blair was up again, a faint rustling of paper drifted up.

Damn, should have known Blair would never fall back asleep after learning about Matro. This was why he hadn't wanted to tell him. But keeping a secret from Sandburg was like politely asking a starving dog to drop a bone, it just wasn't going to happen. Taking a moment to put on his robe, Jim went back downstairs. Blair's desk lamp was on, painting a soft yellow rectangle on the bare wood floor into the kitchen.

"Jim?"

"Yeah," Jim answered, heading for the stove.

Blair appeared a moment later, standing sheepishly in the doorway. "Sorry, man."

"It's okay." Jim filled the coffee pot with water as Blair wandered to the table and sat down. "Hungry?"

"Any Pop Tarts left?" Blair asked hopefully.

"Cripes, Sandburg," Jim said with a snort. "You've turned into such a junk food junkie."

"Hey, you try having nothing but liquids for six weeks," his roommate protested. "Besides, it's your fault. You got me hooked on sugar, man."

Jim didn't comment as he opened the cupboard and pulled down the coffee grounds and eyed the selection. "Strawberry or chocolate?"

"Strawberry."

He tore open the package and dropped two into the toaster before returning to his coffee preparations. In truth, he was glad to see Blair snack on high calorie foods. Every time Blair wore a tucked in T-shirt it was easy to see he'd lost too much weight. Even Simon had made a few comments. The doctor had removed the wires two days ago and Blair had graduated up to eating soft foods. Jim just made sure the soft foods available in the loft held a high amount of carbs.

"So... how does Matro's death affect the case against Rossetti?" Blair asked quietly, drawing invisible lines on the table top with his finger.

Jim had been expecting the question. Expecting and dreading it at the same time. He finished measuring the coffee into the basket and hit the on switch before answering. It occurred to him they were sitting in darkness, except for the light from Blair's room.

"Watch your eyes, Chief," he warned before flicking on the overhead light. Blair waited a second before opening his eyes and looked expectantly at Jim, waiting for the answer. "It doesn't help, but it's still a strong case."

"Really?" A half smile appeared and the younger man leaned back in the chair. "Good, I was worried."

The toaster popped and Jim snagged a paper towel to use as a plate, setting the snack in front of Blair. "We've got plenty to take to trial," he said, stealing a corner of the pastry and blowing on it as he walked back to retrieve two clean cups.

"Like?"

Jim set the cups down and leaned a hip against the counter. "We have the records we found in the mini-storage," he started, clicking off each item with his fingers. "The video tape, your testimony..."

"But I never actually saw Rossetti," Blair pointed out.

"The video tape shows you both together."

"What about all the interviews Simon and the IA guys had with Metro?"

"Not admissible," Jim said. "It's all hearsay."

"Then I'm going to testify?"

Jim nodded, pouring two cups of coffee and taking them to the table. "It won't be right away, but yeah," he replied. It was time to move the conversation to other things. "Look, Chief. There's no point in worrying about this now. New evidence may be found. The investigation is still ongoing. Let's not borrow trouble."

"Yeah," Blair agreed. "You're right."

"So, now that we're up and drinking caffeine, what's your plan for today?"

Using his tongue to catch a runaway dribble of strawberry filling, Blair shrugged before mumbling his answer. "Waz gonna sleep late." He tossed the last of the pastry in his mouth, gently chewed as he pointed to Jim as if to say `what about you'?

Jim pretended to give that some thought, although he'd already decided there was no way he was going to let Blair out of his sight until he learned the outcome of Matro's apparent suicide. Rubbing the back of his neck, he replied with a similar shrug. "No real plans, I'm open for ideas."

"Cool!" Blair leaned forward, his eyes bright with sudden inspiration. "I've been thinking about some tests."

Jim slumped in his seat. He'd been had.

"Tell me again why I'm doing this?"

Blair tried not to sound as if he'd already repeated himself five times, even though he was positive he had. "Okay, I'm trying to test that balance thing you did when we were playing basketball. Remember? The day Matro- "

"I remember, Chief," Jim interjected unhappily.

"Oh... right, anyway... I want you to cross the railing without falling off so I can establish a baseline to work from. I'm convinced if we work on your heightened sense of touch, you'll improve your balance dramatically," Blair explained.

They'd left the loft as the eastern sky began to lighten, driving south. Blair said he knew of a park that had specialized setups for athletes with winding trails for joggers and places to warm up, including railings mounted between posts. He hoped to have Jim walk the waist high railings like a balance beam without slipping off.

"With or without shoes?" Jim asked.

"Ah... both."

"Naturally." Using Blair's shoulder to steady himself, Jim stepped up onto the two and a half inch handrail. "If I break a leg, I'm not going to be a happy sentinel."

He fell half way across, landing lightly on the grassy side of the railing.

"No problem, Jim." Blair patted an arm encouragingly. "I expected a few falls. Try it again without shoes and socks."

This time Jim made it three spans, a total of nearly twenty feet. He walked slowly, both arms out from his sides for balance. Blair checked his stopwatch and scribbled a few hasty notes as he went.

"Are we finished?" Jim asked.

"Baseline, big guy. We're finished with the baseline," Blair told him.

It never failed to amaze Blair how Jim could show the patience of Job when doing certain activities like stake outs and such. But the minute they began to work on his sentinel skills, the big cop turned into a four year-old. One thing Blair was starting to realize about the guy was the value of the food bribe.

"Just work with me here and I'll treat for breakfast."

Jim's smile rivaled the rising sun. "You're on."

"Okay." Blair led the way back to the place where Jim had climbed onto the railing, talking as he went. "Now, this time, I want you to close your eyes. I'm going to be right beside you. But instead of relying on your vision, man; I want you to use touch." Bracing himself as Jim used his shoulder again to mount the rail, he continued. "Let yourself totally go, Jim. Every inch of your skin is responding to the gravity around you."

He looked up, Jim stood tall, closing his eyes and listening. A flush of warmth traveled through Blair's chest. This was so cool. This was what he'd dreamed of all his life, a real sentinel to work with. No, more than just work with, Blair was helping. They were exploring the world of the sentinel side by side.

"Think of the gravity like a plumb-line. It's your ally. You don't need to see. Each muscle in tune, ready to keep you balanced." Blair spoke softly as Jim's face relaxed, and a since of confidence seemed to appear. "Okay, just step out and let your body take over."

Holding his breath, Blair waited. Jim's first step was slow, but fluid. The next two steps seemed a little faster, but still moving with an appearance of control. Jim's arms were loose at his side. It looked like he was simply crossing the street. Blair grinned. This was going to be so cool.

Jim's step faltered and before Blair could move, he was falling.

"Jim!" Blair dropped to his knees at Jim's side, thankful he'd fallen in the grass and not the graveled pathway to his left. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Jim sat up, brushing old grass clippings from his sweatshirt.

"What happened?"

"I think I zoned," Jim admitted sheepishly. "Everything kind of blinked out for a second and then I was eyelevel with the bug world."

"Okay... okay, I should've expected this..." Blair dropped back to sit on his heels while chewing his lip. Jim was too focused on a single sense, that being touch. But Blair still wanted Jim to keep his eyes closed, so that canceled out sight. "Okay, how `bout this." He scrambled to his feet and jogged over to a nearby bush, plucking off a cluster of small lavender flowers and holding it to his nose. "Perfect!"

Jim was standing back at the starting point, patiently waiting for the next instruction.

"Now, I want you to try again and keep your eyes closed. I'm going to give you this lilac. I'm thinking your brain is going to register the scent and keep you from zoning." Blair held out the flower, but snatched his hand back as Jim reached for it. "Wait, I don't want you to hold it." He checked his jeans pocket. "I've got a paperclip..."

Finally, Jim was ready. He stood on the rail; the lilac flowers clipped to the collar of his sweatshirt. Blair repeated the basic instruction as before and fell silent as Jim began to move.

When he'd completed the same distance as before, Blair let out a whoop of joy. Jim opened his eyes and jumped down.

"Oh my GOD! Jim! JIM! You did it, man!" Blair slapped the sentinel's back and held out the stopwatch. "Look! You cut your time in half! Your balance was awesome! Crap! Why didn't I bring a video camera?"

Jim laughed, holding up a hand. "Rein it in, Skippy. Now, how about that breakfast?"

Later that morning, after breakfast and over an hour of listening to one very excited grad student, Jim drove back towards Prospect Street. His stomach was happy. He even got Blair to eat a high calorie meal.

"Who knows how many previous circus performers might have been sentinels over the years, Jim. Some of those folks were amazing!" Blair said, looking up from his notes. He'd been writing nonstop since leaving the restaurant.

"Uh huh."

"I mean, think about it, Jim. It's been proven that the human brain only uses a small percentage of its capacity..."

Jim let the lecture wash over him, not particularly listening to the details. He'd learned enough over the months to know this euphoric stage could go on most of the day. Jim had to admit this discovery couldn't have come at a better time. Blair would be running to the library, researching the internet, and calling fellow colleagues and even medical doctors until he'd satisfied every last detail. And more importantly, he wouldn't dwell on Metro's supposed suicide and the pending Rossetti trial.

His cell phone rang. Blair picked it up from the cup holder and passed it over, his lecture on brain activity placed on hold.

"Ellison."

"Jim... more bad news," Simon announced grimly. "Can you and Sandburg come down to the station?"

"Can we swing by the loft and change, or do you want us as we are?" Jim asked.

"Casual is fine, how long before you get here?"

"We'll be in your office in twenty minutes." Jim ended the call and handed the phone back. "Simon wants us."

When the two men walked into Captain Simon Banks office, Jim had run several scenarios through his head; and none of them good. Simon knew this was his day off. He knew Jim had been working long hours recently. Therefore it had to be very bad `work related' news or they wouldn't have been summoned to the police station. Since Blair's presence was also requested, Jim had a feeling this had do to with Matro's death.

"Jim... Sandburg, have a seat." Simon stood next to his coffee pot. "Want a cup? It's fresh."

Blair shook his head first, causing Jim to copy the motion. He just wanted to get this meeting over with.

Simon returned to take his seat. "Okay, there's no easy way around this..." He paused to rub his forehead. "I just got a call from the Captain in charge of the evidence department, seems we have a problem with the video that was found in Rossetti's nightclub."

"What!" Jim shot out of his chair.

"Jim, calm down." Simon ordered sharply. "Sit back down and let me finish," he ordered firmly.

"Simon, that tape is critical!" Jim was cut off.

"Ellison! Sit! Down!"

Not even Jim could ignore the commanding presence of Simon Banks when he stood and looked down his long nose at his detective. Jim forced himself to sit, his pulse pounding in his ears.

"We still have the tape," Simon explained calmly after sitting. "But the chain of evidence has been compromised. The tape was found out of the secured area, the seal had been broken. It's very likely that the prosecutor won't be able to get it admitted to the jury." He raised a hand. "Jim, before you say anything. IA has already started an investigation. And no, we are not getting to take part, so don't even ask. I've already been there and tried."

The office was quiet for a few seconds.

"First Matro, now the tape... Rossetti's doing this somehow, Simon," Jim explained, once he trusted himself to speak calmly.

"Rossetti's attorneys have filed a motion to reconsider bail. The hearing is tomorrow morning in front of Judge Eiler," Simon told them grimly.

"Shit." Jim closed his eyes and dropped his head. Eiler was one of the old school judges. He'd look carefully at the change of circumstances and no doubt lower the bail. Rossetti was a rich man. Richer then the IRS was probably aware. He'd make bail. Rossetti was going to be released.

"Jim?" Blair's face had paled.

"It doesn't look good, Chief."

"Half a million."

"That's all?"

"Yep, he was out within three hours."

"Shee-it! I wish I could come up with that kind of dough."

Blair continued to doodle on the legal pad he'd found on Jim's desk. Too tired to even raise his eyes to see which two passing cops were having the conversation. It didn't matter. The entire floor was talking about Rossetti's release from custody, pending trial, and the snafu with the video.

Judging by the abuse which Jim's keyboard was being subjected to, Blair suspected Jim was not having a good day. It was nearly quitting time. Blair had only been at the station for about an hour and a half. He'd been at Rainier, babysat by two plain-clothed police officers with instructions to keep him in sight the entire day. Then, at three that afternoon, he had been hand delivered to Jim, like a freaking UPS delivery. He half expected them to ask Jim to sign at the `x' when they'd walked him into the bullpen.

"Ready to go?" Jim opened the middle drawer, dropped his pen inside and slammed it shut.

"Yeah." Blair reached for his backpack.

"Excuse me?" A young man with the FTD Florist ball cap walked into the bullpen with a long white box. "I've got a delivery for B. Sandburg?"

Blair started to raise a hand, but was cut off with a brisk body check by Jim that forced him backwards. He landed with a plop back on the chair he'd just vacated as Jim pushed his way through. Blair rolled his eyes with a sigh. "For crying out loud, Jim."

"What is it?" Jim demanded, stepping between Blair and the box.

"Just sign here, sir," the man said.

"Set it down on the desk," Jim ordered, pointing to an empty desk across the bullpen. "Let me see your job order."

The delivery kid looked ready to bolt for the door and Blair wished he could ease some of his fear. Other detectives gathered, no doubt responding to the threatening overtones Jim was throwing out like shrapnel from an exploding hand grenade.

"You dating some rich babe, Hairboy?" Henri commented.

Simon had joined them from his office, scowling at the crowd milling around the desk. "What's happening?"

"Sandburg got roses," Jim responded, he turned back to the delivery kid. "Who placed the order?"

"Ah... it doesn't say... I could... call..."

Blair squeezed into the circle of cops, tired of being on the fringe. The roses were red, the type that cost a small fortune with long stems and perfect pedals. Blair frowned; he wasn't even dating at the moment. Having your mouth wired shut for six weeks had kept him out of the mood. So, who would send these?

"Are there any other Sandburgs that work here?" Blair asked, his mind going to the most obvious solution.

Simon graced him with an appraising look. "Good question, I'll go check." He turned to the delivery man. "Come with me, you can call your boss and check about who sent these."

"There's a tape," Jim stated, taking a yellow pencil from a nearby coffee cup and using it to lift a common cassette tape from the tissue.

Henri stepped back. "I'll get a player."

The crowd was starting to shrink and Blair was finally able to get close enough to stand next to Jim and look closely at the flowers. "I don't get it, Jim."

"Don't touch anything, Chief," Jim told him needlessly. He eyed the tape closely. "No prints... damn it."

"Here's a tape player." Henri set it next to the box and opened the door to allow Jim to ease the tape in. Using the eraser head to push it firmly in place, Jim closed the lid and hit play.

After a few seconds of silence, the soft chords of a familiar tune began to play. Blair recognized the song almost immediately.

"... Every breath you take... every move you make..."

"My wife loves this song," one detective muttered quietly.

The song continued. No other comments were made as it played. Jim shifted his stance, crossing his left arm over his torso and cupping his right elbow. He began to rub his chin with his right hand, his eyes narrowing at the player as he frowned.

"... oh, can't you see? You belong to me... my fool heart aches... with every step you take..."

Shit. Blair didn't want to hear anymore. The familiar words were taking on a completely new ominous meaning. He watched Simon walk out of his office and knew by the older man's expression what he'd found out. No one by the name of Sandburg worked in the building. Blair crossed his arms and felt goosebumps sprout up under his sleeves.

The song finished and the tape fell silent. Finally after a full minute, Jim hit the stop button.

"Chief?" He turned to look down at Blair. "Any idea who'd send you this?"

Blair shook his head, not trusting himself to speak out loud and risk sounding as freaked out as he currently felt. No sense in letting the entire Major Crimes Unit know he was scared of roses and a copy of Sting's popular bestseller.

"Okay, I want this taken down to the lab - use gloves," Simon ordered. "Henri, take the delivery kid's statement and cut him loose. Ellison, Sandburg... my office."

Jim waited until Simon had his door closed and all three men were safely inside before speaking.

"It's Rossetti, Simon! I'm sure of it."

Blair dropped into a seat, the words from the song still haunting his thoughts. Jim paced angrily, like a caged animal. Blair ignored the sympathetic look Simon tossed toward him as he walked behind his desk and sat down with a sigh.

"I'm not arguing with you, Jim. But we still have to prove it."

"He's taunting us!" Jim smacked his fist into a palm. "What's the DA saying?"

"None of the suspects involved in the video production that we arrested are willing to talk now. They've all heard about Matro and they're clamming up. The IA's investigation is progressing, although they won't say how. The rumor mill is pointing back to the Burglary Unit. Seems one of our old friends, Detective Higby, was in the evidence room the day before the tape was found." Simon propped his elbows on the desktop and folded his hands together as if in prayer. "The Feds have been talking to the Chief, who's been talking to me, no one is happy."

Blair's mind tuned out the conversation; neither man seemed to be including him at the moment anyway. His thoughts returned to that day Matro had attacked Jim and taken him to Rossetti's nightclub. He'd been so worried about Jim he had not giving thought to his own predicament, until Rossetti had touched his face. Being blindfolded had only heightened the feeling of helplessness that had paralyzed him. The guy had wanted to buy him! He had acted like a man on a shopping trip.

Blair's stomach began to churn. His lunch was making its presence known.

"Chief!"

Blair blinked, looking up from his study of the carpet. Jim was leaning on the edge of Simon's desk, both men looking expectantly at him. "What?"

"Did you hear my question?" Jim asked. The blank expression answered the question. Jim repeated himself, "Doesn't your semester end this week? Any chance you could get someone to cover you?"

Blair sat up. "Now hold on, Jim. I'm willing to drag your cop-shadows around. I'm not about to run and hide," he complained.

"Sandburg," Simon was using his `let's be reasonable' voice. "Your testimony is the strongest piece of evidence left. The Feds wanted you yesterday, but I told them we could keep you safe."

"Wanted me? What the hell does that mean?"

Jim tossed Simon an angry look before answering. "It doesn't mean anything, relax. Simon is just saying everyone is worried about your safety. Rossetti can... make things happen. The Feds are just concerned that someone in the bullpen might fall under his influence."

"Someone did... remember, Jim?" Simon interjected. "That's what started this whole mess in the first place!"

"Simon, I'm not going along with their plan," Jim turned to address his boss. "Blair is not going to disappear. Hell, this trial could be dragged out for years."

Oh shit! They were talking about some kind of witness protection thing! Blair's mind switched off, no longer able to follow Jim and Simon's argument. This was unbelievable, this wasn't happening to him. He hadn't felt so out of control of his life since the day Kincaid had dragged him up to the helicopter waiting on the roof. At least in that situation he had a clear idea which team he had wanted to be on; this situation sucked! No way was he going with the Feds. Jim could keep watch. He would know...

`But he has to sleep sometime,' a small voice in his brain reasoned.

`He's a sentinel, he'll always be on alert,' Blair answered himself.

`He shouldn't have to be. It's not his problem, it's yours. His life shouldn't revolve around keeping you safe from this creep.'

Blair's fingers were getting tingly. It was getting hard to catch his breath. He did not like where his thoughts were going.

`He's my friend...'

`You're a liability; you should go with those Feds. Or, better yet, just take off.'

`No! Jim needs me to help him with his senses.'

"Some help ...spends all his time ... rescuing you..." Blair muttered out loud between gasps for air before his vision grayed out.

Jim spun back to his partner, cutting off his involvement in the heated argument with his boss. "Blair?"

Blair was doubled over in his chair, his long hair hiding his face. He was breathing fast, way too fast. His fingers curled inward.

"Wonderful!" Jim muttered, dropped to one knee as he forced his partner to sit up straight in his seat. "Sandburg, stop. You're hyperventilating. Work on holding your breath."

Simon quickly moved around the desk and dropped to kneel on Blair's opposite side. "Should I call someone, Jim?"

"No, wait a second." Jim captured Blair's head with both hands over his ears, turning it to see his face. "Look at me, Chief. Slow it down."

With visible effort, Blair fought down the panic attack, taking large gulps of air and forcing himself to hold his breath. After a few minutes, he was able to breathe at a slower rate. Jim eyed him critically, not liking his friend's pale color, the look of a trapped animal.

He felt like kicking himself for his stupidity. Blair was not an idiot. Jim had been so focused on his argument with Simon, he'd managed to give off enough clues about the Fed's protection program. They'd wanted Simon to turn Blair over this morning after learning about the videotape. Simon had told Jim and Jim had hit the roof.

He wasn't about to let the government separate them. If it came to Blair's safety, Jim would find a way to keep Blair in one piece and at his side; even if that meant Jim would have to leave his job and Cascade. And not just because Blair helped with his Sentinel abilities. Jim felt the same responsibility for Blair that he'd felt for the Rangers under his command in the Army. Captain Ellison never left a man behind and Sentinel Ellison had the same creed.

"Sorry... Jim," Blair said, looking at Simon, then quickly away. It didn't take a sentinel to see the faint blush growing on the observer's face. "I can't believe I did that."

"Forget it, Chief," Jim answered softly. "It's been a shitty day all around."

Simon rose to his feet, shaking his head wearily. "Both of you go home. You've got round the clock surveillance on the loft tonight. Just promise me you'll stay inside and we'll talk about this some more tomorrow," he pleaded half-jokingly.

Jim nodded. "Good plan, Sir. Come on, Chief."

Jim went from sleep to fully awake and on alert that something was wrong in less than a second. He lay perfectly still, just listening. The normal sounds of the loft gave no clue as to what had woken him; the faint electrical buzz from the TV, the slight rattle from the wind gently buffeting the window panes, the hum from the old refrigerator - all normal sounds. Then his ears located the new element, the one that spoke of danger. Blair's window was being eased open, one inch at a time.

Silently jack-knifing up in bed, Jim checked the number of heartbeats below.

"Son of a ... " he muttered, throwing back the light sheet and running for the stairs.

Silently entering the small bedroom seconds later, Jim looped an arm around the waist of the man halfway through the open window and yanked him back into the room to fall back on the futon, where he belonged. "What the hell are you doing, Sandburg?" Jim hissed.

Blair landed on his back, his full backpack clutched to his chest. He scrambled off the bed, matching Jim's fury with his own. "What does it look like, Jim?"

"It looks like you were sneaking out your window," Jim shot back, taking a second to turn his back on Blair and slam the open window down. "Care to explain before I handcuff you to the center post?"

The room was dark, the only light available managing to find its way in from the skylights in the kitchen. Still, Jim was able to take in every detail of his friend. Blair was dressed in dark jeans and a black cotton sweater, his hair had been pulled back and he wore his sturdy high top sneakers; his pack slung high on one shoulder.

"I'm leaving before something else goes wrong. Last time you got hurt. I'm not letting it happen again."

"I got hurt?" Jim repeated slowly.

"Yeah, and it could have been worse. Matro wanted to shoot you in the head. He had his gun out and pointed at you, Jim. I'm not going to watch Rossetti do the same. And I'm not going to go with the Feds either. I'll swear I'll be back for the trial," Blair's demeanor slowly changed from anger to resignation as he spoke. "I'll listen to the news or read the papers. You said the trial could take over a year, man. I'll just travel or something."

Like the proverbial light bulb in the cartoon, the one that blinked on above the character's head, Jim understood. "So you're not taking off because you're scared of Rossetti?"

Blair planted both fists against his hips with a look of indignation. "Of course not! I'm just not going to let you or anyone else get hurt because of me!" the younger man protested loudly.

The last three words seemed to echo in Jim's addled head, bringing understanding. "Chief... Blair, this is not because of you. This is not your fault. Rossetti is the one that's behind this. Not you."

Blair didn't look convinced, if anything he looked even more miserable. "Helloooo, Jim? The flowers? The tape? I must have done something!"

"What? What could you have possibly done different?" Jim argued, waving his hands in the air. "I saw the tape, Chief. You didn't say one word to that sick bastard!"

Blair's gaze slid towards the closed window as he played nervously with the strap over his shoulder. "Matro told me not to say anything," he whispered.

"It wouldn't have mattered," Jim told him gently, his earlier anger gone. "Even with your mouth wired shut, two black eyes and a broken nose, you caught his eye. He's a dirt bag, Chief, a user. He saw the potential money he could make and then had it taken away. He's just sick enough to become infatuated with you. Plus he's getting off on rubbing the PD's face in knowing our chances of stopping him are dwindling to squat."

Blair backed up to the futon and sat down hard, letting the pack slide off his back. "Man, I'm such a screw-up..."

"No, you're not." Jim lowered to sit beside him. "You're the victim. I'm just sorry that working with me has put you in this position."

Blair laughed. "That's exactly what I was thinking when I went through that window, man. Me working with you puts you in dangerous situations."

Jim groaned. "Okay, maybe you are a screw-up, because I have no idea how you can believe that. I thought you were supposed to be some kind of genius, how can you add two and two and end up with five?"

With a hint of a smile, Blair shrugged. "Math was never my strongest subject."

"What, `B' plus?"

"No way!" Blair puffed out his chest in mock irritation. "I actually got an "A" minus once! I couldn't eat for a week."

Jim snorted, not sure to believe his friend. He let the matter drop to return to a more important issue. "Listen, Sandburg... no more stunts like this one. You understand?"

Blair's shoulders slouched again as he remained silent.

Not a good sign.

"I'm dead serious here. No. More. Disappearing. Acts." Jim inflicted each word with every ounce of warning he would muster. This was not the time for half-veiled comments and jokes. He had to make Blair understand how vital his cooperation would be.

"Jim..."

"Look at me!" Jim snapped sharply, reminiscent of previous orders he had barked out as a Captain in the Army. "This is not open for discussion! I can't be a hundred percent if a part of my brain is worried about you."

Blair had a rebellious spirit, part of that upbringing from his mother, no doubt. Jim could see that spirit fighting for control on his friend's face. Jim rethought his mode of attack. Time to stow the Ranger for a bit. He sighed and draped an arm around Blair's shoulders, ignoring the prickly feeling of the yarn fibers on his skin.

"When you were locked in that trunk and I couldn't get that crowbar to work, then the car sank into the lake..." Jim rubbed his closed eyes with his free hand. "I gotta tell you, Chief. I'm still having nightmares here."

"You're not the only one," Blair muttered, his misery evident in his voice. "I could feel that car sink. I could still hear you working on the lock. I knew we were underwater, yet you let yourself sink too..." Blair gently nudged Jim with a shoulder before slipping out from under the arm and standing to pace as he talked. "The idea that you might be hurt or... worse. You can't help yourself, Jim. You're the guy that always jumps in the way or runs to the rescue. It must be part of the Sentinel genetic makeup or something."

"Simon was there, as well, Chief. We're your friends. We were not going to give up. You would have done the exact same thing, don't even try to tell me different."

"Okay, okay..." Blair stopped pacing and scrubbed his face. "I guess I'm just freaking out, as usual. I seem go from panic attacks to stupid ideas with ease."

"Cut it out, Sandburg," Jim chastised. "We already discussed the incident in Simon's office, drop it. As for your stupid idea, I'm not going to argue with you on that. It was totally stupid. Now we're back to the part where you look me in the eye and promise never to do that again."

Blair dropped his hands and glared. "Shit, you have a one-track mind."

Jim raised an eyebrow. He'd said enough. No more talk, he wanted that promise.

"All right! Damn you, Ellison!" Blair curled both hands into fists. "I promise!"

Jim was the model of calm. "Promise what?"

Between clenched teeth, the words Jim had waited for were spoken.

"I, Blair Sandburg, promise not to try and escape from the protective custody of Jim Ellison."

"Or from any other agency that is so deemed by Jim Ellison to be protecting Blair Sandburg," Jim added with a knowing look.

Blair's face took on a darker glare, but he repeated the sentence and finished the oath.

Two hours later, both roommates woke as the phone rang. This time Blair didn't hesitate. He beat Jim to the phone by a few seconds.

"Hello?"

"...."

"Hello?" Blair tried again, watching Jim's face as the other man waited, knowing that the older man was listening.

"...Soon..." a non-human voice said.

The handset was snatched from his fingers and Jim brought it up to his ear. "Who is this?"

It was Blair's turn to wait and watch, only he wasn't blessed with sentinel hearing, but from the looks of it, no more was being said.

"Is that you Rossetti? You're not fooling anyone... shit!" Jim punched the `end' button. "He hung up."

Blair frowned. "What was that? It sounded like a robot."

"It's a device that disguises your voice," Jim said.

"They really have those kinds of things? I thought that just happened in the movies," Blair said.

"Yeah, they have them-"

The phone, still in Jim's hand, rang and Jim cut himself off to answer it. "Listen to me you jackass! I...oh, sorry, Simon" he muttered, covering his eyes with his hand. "We just had a prank call, I thought you were... what? How bad?"

Blair's heart skipped a beat. He gripped the back of a kitchen chair with both hands.

"Okay, we're on our way...no... he's safer with me. We'll be there in twenty." Jim ended the conversation and replaced the handset. "There's been an explosion at the University, Chief."

"No," Blair whispered in horror.

"Simon's on his way, so he doesn't know much."

"I'll get dressed." Blair headed for his room, his mind swirling with visions of fire and devastation. Minutes later they were in the truck, heading for the campus. The city seemed deserted, only the street sweepers moving about. Jim used his blue `Kojak' light, cutting the normal commute into a fraction of what Blair was used to. As they neared the familiar buildings of Rainier University, evidence of disaster began to unfold through the windshield; flashing red revolving lights from fire trucks and ambulances, heavy dark smoke, broken windows. Blair searched for `ground zero', his heart sinking as he realized everyone's attention seemed to be focused on Hargrove Hall.

He was out of the cab before the Ford came to a complete stop, not hearing Jim call his name as he sprinted across the lawn. He was brought up short by a strong hand on his arm.

"Damn it, Chief. I said wait for me!" Jim gave his arm a rough shake before releasing him. "Now, this time, stay close."

They wove between fire and police personnel busy with their tasks. No one challenged them or stopped them as they walked toward the damaged building. Heavy smoke poured out the open main doorway. All the windows on the main floor were gone, many belching out smoke.

Blair's eyes were drawn to a large hole, gaping open halfway down the side of the building.

"My office..."

"Ellison! Over here!"

Blair was pulled sideways and towed behind Jim to where Simon stood with an older man wearing a fire uniform and a white helmet with the word `chief' on the sides. Simon held a heavy, gray vest and looked angry. He thrust it into Jim's hand as they arrived.

"We'll talk about this later, Detective."

"Right... here, Sandburg. Lift your arms," Jim ordered.

His mind in a daze, head still twisted on his neck to get another look at the building that held his office, Blair didn't even register what was happening until he felt the thick weight of the vest rest on both shoulders. Jim even took a second to free his long hair. "What... why am I wearing this?"

"Just in case," Jim told him before looking back at Simon. "Thanks, Sir."

"Don't mention it," Simon answered. "Okay, this is what we know so far. They're still fighting the fire, but it looks like they'll have it knocked down soon. Joel's on his way. Witnesses say they heard the explosion, no one saw it though. The fire was heavy on the main floor, south side when the first trucks arrived."

"Anyone hurt?" Blair asked.

Simon's face softened an instant. "Yeah, unfortunately. A night watchman has been flown to the Harborview Burn Unit in Seattle."

The realization hit Blair like a kick to the gut. The phone call, just before Simon's might have been from the bomber. His office was the target. Now a man was hurt.

Jim's hand tightened on his shoulder and the memory of the promise he'd made hours ago to Jim came back to haunt him. "I told you, Jim!" Blair choked out. "Someone was going to get hurt because of-"

"No!" Jim cut him off. "This is not your fault."

"That was my office!" Blair insisted.

"Enough." Simon ended the argument. "Now is not the time, gentlemen."

"Simon, we got a phone call tonight," Jim told him. "It was right before you called. The voice had been electronically altered and it said the word `soon'. Now, I'm thinking Rossetti made the call. We need to get a subpoena for his phone records and get a record of the calls to the loft tonight as well."

"Alright," Simon fished his cell phone out of his pocket. "I'll get things started. There's Taggart," he pointed towards the large man coming their way. "I want you two to work with the fire investigator after they knock this down. See if you can," he pointed to his nose, "do your thing. Maybe you can find a clue that will connect this fire to Rossetti."

One thing was sure, Blair figured as Simon moved off to one side to make his call and Jim started talking with Joel, Blair didn't have to worry about getting someone to cover his classes this week. He gazed unhappily at the building that used to house his office and the anthropology department. It looked like the semester had come to an early end.

"Anything else, Jim?" Blair asked watching Jim sift through a pile of burned debris.

They had been at the University for hours. The fire was out and the sun was well above the eastern horizon. They'd already gone over the floor, returning a second time to Blair's office. Joel had reasoned the bomb had been in Blair's office, somewhere in front of his desk or where the desk used to be. The office was unrecognizable and Blair looked ready to throw up as he gathered a collection of books, binders and loose pages together in a box. Jim wasn't sure why he bothered, the stuff looked ruined.

"No, I'm not picking anything else up," Jim replied as he took one last look around.

"Sulfur... Joel said a timer device had to be used to give the arsonist time to get away, maybe he used a regular road flare," Blair suggested, wiping his grimy hands on his filthy jeans.

"Yeah, that would work." Jim stepped over the broken shards of pottery. "What's this?"

"What?" Blair watched Jim move aside a ceiling panel on the floor. "What do you see?"

"Not see, smell," Jim replied holding up a single long stem rose. Remarkably, the panel had protected it. Except for the wet ash that clung to its pedals, it looked unscathed. "I'm willing to bet this is a match for the flowers delivered to the office yesterday." He stood, keeping the rose. "Come on, let's go find Simon before we head out."

After checking with Simon and turning the rose over, he hustled Blair and the box towards the Ford. Having him out in the open, even though the campus had been closed to the public during the investigation made him nervous. He didn't bother to cover the seat before pushing Blair into the truck cab. He could have them steam-cleaned later. They both needed showers and food. Simon had promised to swing by later to catch them up on the investigation.

During the drive home, the cab was unusually silent. Jim had no words for his friend. That office had been important to him. Hell, even Jim was rather fond of it. The quirky room had matched his quirky guide.

He slapped the steering wheel hard in frustration.

"What?" Blair asked, jarred alert.

"Nothing, sorry," Jim said. "I'm just pissed."

"Oh... yeah." Blair paused to yawn and winced. "Ow...me, too. I can't believe all that stuff is gone," he added sadly, turning to watch the passing scenery.

Jim glanced over, catching a reflection of Blair's face in the glass. Blair looked exhausted. His face was almost complete black from soot. "Sorry about your things, Chief."

Blair shrugged, looking calmer the Jim expected. "My important stuff, the papers on you, are at the loft. The student's scores are logged into the campus main computer. I guess they have insurance to replace their equipment. Those artifacts though..."

Jim noticed an important part of Blair's verbal inventory was completely left out. Was he not ready to deal with the loss?

"What about your box? Any of that salvageable?"

Blair shrugged, studying the black dirt under his thumbnail. "Whatever, man. I'll try and see what I can save. Naomi always warned me not to hold on to the material things, I guess she was right."

Arriving at the loft, Jim checked out the food options while Blair showered. They were running low on groceries, he'd have to do something about that. Jim pulled a package of pancake mix out of the cupboard. He was whipping the batter when the first soft sob from the bathroom floated out. Jim hadn't even been aware he was listening. Pausing, he tilted his head and dialed his hearing up even more, catching another soft cry. Blair was doing his best to muffle the sounds of his distress.

Damn Rossetti! If the guy had walked into the loft at that particular moment, Jim would have killed him with his bare hands.

The box from the fire caught his eye. Jim left his meal preparations and walked into Blair's room. The box was a regular sized, the type that held reams of paper. Its contents half filled the box; charred loose papers, soaked wet from fire hoses, blue ink from a pen running free into the fibers. The corner of an open journal peered out from under soot covered photos. Jim zoomed in on the date and did the math.

Blair would have been fifteen when he wrote that journal entry.

He spun on his heels and marched to the phone, punching the numbers in with fierce jabs of his finger.

"Rhonda? I need a favor..."

When Blair exited the bathroom wearing sweat pants and a T-shirt, his skin pink from scrubbing, Jim's stack of cooked pancakes had grown to six inches. He had added frozen blueberries, thawed out in warm water as an afterthought. Jim snuck a look at his roommate's face. To a normal person nothing looked amiss. But Jim could see a hint of redness around the eyes.

"Wow! I didn't think I was hungry, but I think I'll change my mind. Thanks, Jim." Blair sat at the table, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

"No problem, if you're half as starved as me, we'll need a few more stacks of these babies."

Sounds of footsteps nearing the door came just as the meal was being cleared from the table. The knock on the door caused a passing flicker of fear on Blair's face. He looked at Jim expectantly.

"Ellison? It's Pederson and Howe. We've got some guy that says he's got orders to pick up a box."

Jim nodded. "It's okay, Chief. I'll explain in a second," he whispered as he pulled his gun from the drawer and went to let them in. His ears told him three men stood in the hallway, all heartbeats were calm. "Slide a business card under the door," he ordered and waited. In a second, a white card appeared. Jim toed it off to the side, using his sentinel vision to read without picking the card up. `Cascade Fire Restoration and Record Retrieval'

Opening the door, Jim stood off to one side, his gun pointed towards the floor but at the ready. An older man with Albert Einstein hair stood between two plain-clothed officers. He looked up at Jim in surprise.

"Please come in, sorry about the gun," Jim said, tucking his weapon out of sight back into its drawer.

"Ah...thank you, I understand you're a police officer, yes?" The man's German accent was thick, reinforcing his appearance. "This is an emergency, yes? The fire at the school?"

"That's right, let me show you." Jim returned the gun before addressing his roommate. Blair stood behind the kitchen chair, his face clearly advertising his confusion. "Chief, the department sent an expert out to get to work on your things from the box."

"Expert? What kind of expert?" Blair asked looking back at the newcomer.

"I restore documents, young man. We must move quickly, quickly! I need to get them into the freezer as soon as possible." The `Albert look alike' slapped the back of one hand into his other palm as he spoke. "Where are the papers?"

"Oh...oh! In here," Blair flashed a broad smile taking the man into his room and leaving Jim behind with the two cops.

"Captain Banks will be coming by later," he told them. "You want some coffee? I can loan you a thermos."

"Sounds great!" Pederson admitted. He was a heavyset man, partially bald with a face that had been scarred from a bad case of Chicken Pox as a child. His partner was younger, tall and thin.

Both men were on loan from Cascade Police Organized Crime Unit and had been personally requested by Jim. They'd proved themselves in the past as far as Jim was concerned. Most importantly, they'd been partners for many years and were good friends. Too good to let the other become corrupt by a crook waving a wad of money.

"So, how's Sandburg holding up?" Howe asked as Jim filled a thermos with hot water in preparation for the coffee.

"He's keeping it together," Jim answered.

"You hear about Higby?" Pederson asked, pulling out a chair and taking a seat. "He's missing."

Jim left the thermos in the sink to warm up. Crossing his arms, he leaned back into the counter and gave them his full attention. "What? How long has he been missing?"

"Way we hear it," Howe said, "he took off from his desk the moment the news of that video got out. Hasn't been seen since. Not by his partner or friends or anybody."

"You ask us, those two don't deserve a second chance," Pederson said with feeling. "Brass should have canned them after that attack on the stairs. They stink up the entire department."

"He's the one that IA thinks screwed with the video?" Jim asked bluntly. He knew this was station grapevine gossip, but it was worth hearing.

"Yeah, according to Gonzalez in Evidence, his signature was in the log a few days before the video was located outside the evidence locker. No chance in hell a prosecutor is going to get that admitted now. Too easy to claim the video was altered," Howe explained. "With the digital technology you can put the President in Saddam's lap and make it look real."

Jim grunted in agreement, turning back to pour out the water and fill it with fresh coffee. As he handed it over to Howe, Blair emerged from his room followed by the restoration expert carrying the box like he held the original Declaration of Independence. Jim instantly liked the old man.

"Jim! Wolf thinks he can save my stuff. Isn't that cool? You sure the department is okay with this? They know it's my stuff, right?" Blair sported a wide, hopeful smile, his eyes sparkling with eager anticipation.

"Yeah, they know," Jim lied. "It's okay, Chief."

"Cool!" Blair followed Wolf to the door. "Thanks so much, man. I hope you can save my journals, the rest of that stuff is important too, but not as special as my travel notes."

"Ah, Blair. I will work on everything with the utmost care! I am so thrilled to see such a young man who still values the written word," Wolf declared solemnly. "I am off to get started now. I will call you when I am finished."

After the guests left, Blair returned to the kitchen to finish drying the dishes, a happy smile on his face. "This is so cool, Jim. I can't believe Simon even thought about my stuff. I'm not going to forget this, ever! I can't wait till he gets here and I can thank him."

"Well, we still have a few hours till he arrives, I'm going to grab a shower and try and get a few hours sleep. I suggest you do the same." Jim headed up the stairs to get his robe, leaving the rest of the kitchen clean up to his roommate. Once up in his room, out of Blair's view - and hopefully, earshot - Jim pulled out his cell phone and called his boss. "Simon? Yeah, I'm whispering... listen, I need to ask you a favor. When you get here, Sandburg is going to thank you for authorizing the cost of having his notes and personal journals restored by a professional service... I know, I know. Just go along with it, okay?"

The body of Detective Higby was found two days after the University bombing. The call came to the loft, interrupting the argument between the two roommates.

Blair threw himself onto the sofa as Jim stomped off to answer the phone. He hadn't been allowed out of the loft since their trip to Rainier. Simon visited frequently, updating them on the IA investigation, the improving condition of the security guard injured in the bombing, and the speculations of the Fed's on the case against Rossetti.

As far as Blair was concerned, the threat appeared to be over. No more prank phone calls, no flowers being delivered to the loft, no nothing.

Blair wanted out. He had to get out of the loft. He didn't even care if it was only a trip to the station and back, he was nursing a serious case of `loft fever'. He'd worked on his dissertation, cleaned his room, even cooked a gourmet meal last night, having a little fun with on-line shopping at a local grocery store that made deliveries. Enough was enough. He couldn't spend the rest of his life hiding.

Jim hadn't agreed.

And that's what had started their argument. Part of Blair's brain knew he was being unreasonable, but it was a small part and he didn't care. He was trapped by his own stupid promise. How he had let Jim maneuver him into making that promise still mystified him. When it came to verbal manipulation, Blair had thought he was the king, not Jim. Now he wasn't so sure.

"Okay, we're on our way." Jim returned the phone to its cradle.

Blair shot out of the seat. Yes! Road trip!

"Go get your vest, Sandburg," Jim ordered. "Looks like they found Higby's body."

Suddenly, the idea of getting out of the loft didn't seem as appealing. "Body? As in... dead?"

"As in dead for a few days," Jim answered, slipping his holstered gun into the small of his back. He tilted his head towards the room under the stairs. "Vest. Hurry up, you wanted to get out of the loft, remember?"

Oh, goody. Blair headed for his room, trying to remember where he'd last put that Kevlar vest. Why was it, his wish had to come in the form of getting to see a body, a body that had been dead for days. Blair buttoned a flannel shirt over the vest, thankful the weather was overcast and cool, even though it was late May. Once out on the street, Jim waved to the two officers, this time, a woman and her male partner.

"Where are we going?" Blair asked as he pulled himself up into the passenger seat and closed the door.

"The old cannery by the river. Seems a real estate agent found a new padlock on the door and called the police. A uniform found the body inside."

Half an hour later, they arrived at the scene. A long narrow wooden building with peeling white paint sat next to the riverbank. In the city's early days, boats loaded down with fresh salmon unloaded their catch. Working in the cannery had been hard, with long hours. A dwindling supply of the salmon forced the cannery to close its doors over forty years ago. `For sale' signs advertised the building as available, but one look caused Blair to wonder how the building was able to stand up to even a light wind. The foundation seemed to be sinking into the ground, causing the wooden planks of the long wall facing the street to rise and fall in waves. The entire building was tilted at an angle.

Marked police cars with flashing blue lights parked in a huddled fashion around a large garage-sized door that opened up on metal tracks. The place was a beehive of activity, reminding Blair of the time Jim's friend Danny Chow had been shot and killed. It seemed more police personnel were needed when it was one of their own.

Jim stepped out of the truck, waiting patiently for Blair to join him before they headed for the entrance. A few feet away, Jim reared back with a wrinkled nose. Blair knew then it was not going to be pretty.

"Dial it down, Jim," he said automatically, without thinking.

"Whew, this is going to be ripe, Chief," Jim told him. "Make sure to breathe through your mouth when we get inside."

Blair nodded, following Jim into the coolness of the large, old building. As old as the building was, it still had electricity. The inside was mostly open, with a few vertical posts. Half way down the length of the structure, several bright lights on stands had been arranged in a circle, pointed inward. Police technicians and photographers were milling about in the lights. Blair could see bright colors of red and gold in the center.

"There's Simon," Jim said just as the man broke away from the working police technicians and joined them with long, fast strides.

"Hold up, Jim," Simon ordered, breaking off to glance at Blair with a worried expression.

"They found Higby?" Jim asked.

"Yeah, I just got here a few minutes ago. He was murdered, Jim." Simon rubbed his forehead. "I'll stand here with Sandburg. I want you to go check it over. No one has moved anything."

"Hey, wait a minute, Simon!" Blair protested, feeling his anger build. "I've seen dead bodies before, I can handle this."

"Just for once, I'd like to think I can give an order that you would follow without arguing, Sandburg," Simon complained. He nodded back over his shoulder. "Go on, Jim, Sandburg and I will wait here."

Jim patted Blair's arm. "Be right back."

Blair slammed both hands in to his pockets and pulled a face. For crying out loud, they acted like he was a novice. Dead women in bathtubs, bodies riddled with bullets, secretaries that crash... crap, he'd seen it all. He turned away from Simon with a flash of irritation and watched Jim walk away. Jim neared the lit area and a few of the technicians fell back to allow him in. Blair caught sight of a man's bare leg before Simon's chest blocked his view.

"Simon..." Blair growled.

"Sandburg," Simon growled louder, folding his arms with an unspoken show of authority.

"Look, I just want to keep an eye on Jim, okay?" Blair explained slowly, looking up into the frowning face of the Police Captain. "It's not like I have his sentinel vision or anything. They're at least a hundred feet away, man."

"Oh, all right. But stay put." Simon stepped to one side and turned to watch. "What the..."

"Shit!" Blair recognized the signs of Jim's zone instantly. He was standing like a zombie and two technicians were having to prop him up to keep the zoned sentinel from falling over. Blair broke into a run.

Skidding to a halt on the old wooden floor, Blair moved to replace the technicians and accept the weight of his friend. "Jim! Jim, man. Don't do this...Simon can you get everyone to back away. Give us some space?"

"Okay, folks. Let's take a break," Simon clapped his hands. "Just leave what you can here. I'll call you when we're done."

"Shouldn't we call for help, Captain?" a man asked, setting his camera bag down.

"No, no. It's okay," Simon insisted.

Blair tuned them out, his concentration fixed on his sentinel's lax face. "Jim?" he called softly. "You're going to so hate yourself in the morning, man. Listen to me." He ran a fingernail lightly up and down Jim's forearm as he spoke. "Take a deep breath, Jim," Blair breathed in to illustrate and choked on the putrid order. "On second thought... bag that idea."

"Why's this taking so long, Sandburg?" Simon asked as he stood helping Blair hold up the zoned man.

"I don't know! I'm at a loss." Blair fought back the panic, forcing himself to think. Voice wasn't working, touch wasn't getting through, smell was out... "Simon, you got a mint or something?"

"Yeah, wait a second." Simon transferred to a one handed hold to free a hand to pull a tin of Altoids from his overcoat pocket. "Here."

"Perfect." Blair took a small white mint from the opened box and carefully inserted it into Jim's slightly open mouth. "Don't bite, man. I need all my fingers." He rubbed the mint back and forth on Jim's tongue. Jim's eyes fluttered and he pulled back from the strong mint. "Yes! Jim, Jim... you back with us now?"

With a shake of his head, Jim grabbed Blair's arms to steady himself before regaining his balance and standing on his own. He looked at both men in confusion before realization dawned on his face. "I zoned?"

"Yeah, big time too. What did you zone on?" Blair asked. Now that Jim was back, he twisted to see if he could find the source of the zone.

And saw the body of Detective Higby.

Two sets of hands pulled him back. They spun him around to half carry-half drag him towards the entrance. Blair didn't resist. He couldn't muster enough strength to manage even a weak protest. It was as if someone had stolen all his energy. Only one thing was clear in his mind.

He'd been wrong, so very, very wrong.

He'd thought he'd seen it all. Hardly!

As they neared the entrance, Jim and Simon slowed to a stop.

Blair's legs refused to hold him up. They lowered him down, his arms caught in the vise-like hold of Jim's hands until his butt met the wooden floorboards. Jim knelt beside him, his face etched in worry.

"Chief?"

Blair blinked, curious of the sudden thick viscous feeling in his head like someone had filled it with heavy weight motor oil. A thought surfaced and broke through. `Shock, I'm in shock. How weird is that?'

"Sandburg, you still with me?"

Blair managed a nod, wondering if this is what it was like for Jim when he came out of a zone.

"Could you manage a few words for me, Chief?"

"Wh-why?" he croaked. "Why is ... he like that?"

Jim rubbed his closed eyes hard with a thumb and finger. He was tired. Tired of reading reports and sifting through data. With a sigh he finished the last of the water bottle and checked his watch. Crap, it was later then he'd realized.

"We got it!" Rafe entered the bullpen holding a file high in his right hand. Henri followed close behind. Both men had grim looks of determination on their faces.

Simon stepped out of his dimly lit office. "Keep it down, gentlemen."

Movement behind the Captain's broad back told Jim it was too late for the warning. He watched as Blair appeared to stand next to Simon.

"I wasn't really sleeping anyway," Blair reported dully.

"We found the scene in one of Rossetti's videos, his company produced it about a year ago," Henri explained as Rafe opened the file and set several large, color 8 by 11 stills down on Jim's desk. "A real sick film, let me tell you. But this scene was identical to how we found Higby."

"Right, except for the brown wig... sorry, Blair," Rafe looked up with a grimace and a flash of concern.

Jim picked up a photo; it was the same, right down to the gaudy silk red and gold silk sheets and the sex toys. Only this person didn't have a butcher's knife buried in his chest. He dropped the photo as if the filth in the picture was spreading to his fingers. "Rossetti is shoving this in our faces, Simon!"

"I agree, Jim," Simon answered, drawing near to look over the photos. "But we still have to play this by the book. It's going to take good detective work to bring him down for this murder, not emotional outbursts." He nodded to his men. "Good work, you two. I think this is all we're going to get finished tonight. Let's wrap this up and pick it up first thing in the morning. With Higby's murder, Major Crimes is back in the picture on this case, at least from this perspective anyway."

Jim stood. He was more than ready to call it a day. "Come on, Chief."

"Just a moment, Jim," Simon said, holding up a hand. "I want to talk to you and Sandburg in my office."

Jim followed Blair into the office. Simon switched on the overhead light and closed the door. Something told Jim more bad news was coming their way.

"The Feds called the Chief. I'm afraid they've got some valid issues about taking Sandburg into protective custody."

Blair stiffened. "What? They can't do that, can they?" He looked at Jim in alarm. "I have some say in this, right?"

Jim expelled a gust of breath through puffed cheeks, his eyes raking the office as he considered his options. He should have seen this coming. Rossetti may be playing a macabre game of cat and mouse with Cascade PD, but the Feds were watching and they'd be getting more and more nervous about the safety of their last witness.

"Jim! Tell me they can't just do this," Blair demanded in a loud voice.

"Calm down, Chief," Jim soothed taking a moment to look Blair in the eyes before turning back to Simon. "What are they suggesting?"

"For now, a local safe house. I think I can limit it to just nights. With Higby gone, I can convince them the danger here at the station is minimal," Simon answered.

"I'm staying there, too," Jim told Simon.

"I already told them that, they understand."

"Okay." Jim turned to stand directly in front of Blair, both hands resting on his friend's shoulders. "I think it's a good idea, Chief. I know I could use a full night's sleep. I promise you won't be out of my sight."

Blair swallowed hard, still looking unhappy, but willing to consider the new turn of events. The key to getting his partner to agree was to make it sound like Jim would benefit. Then Blair would be all for it. Jim knew it was underhanded and manipulative, but he also knew that Blair liked to pull the same stunt on him from time to time.

"I guess," Blair whispered. "Just for a few nights."

"I've seen cleaner youth hostels."

"I'll pass the comments on to the president, Sandburg. Now, go to sleep."

"You'd just think the accommodations would be nicer," Blair grumbled.

He didn't want to be sleeping here, the room had all the charm of a mission street flop house with dingy, smoke stained curtains - which hid iron bars, by the way - and ratty looking orange shag carpet. The sheets smelled like mildew and Blair was certain he'd seen a hoard of cockroaches scurry for the wall boards when Jim had turned on the light. Blair wanted to be home, in the loft with his books and a clean bathroom, which reminded him.

"Did you see that bathroom, Jim? I mean did you notice the green slime growing around the pipes going into the toilet? I peeked into the bathtub, it had the `mother of all rings' in it."

Rolling up on to an elbow Jim pinned Blair with his fiercest scowl. "I swear to God, Chief. If you don't shut up, I'm going to stuff a sock in your mouth. You've got to be as exhausted as I feel. It's after midnight. Now, put your head on that pillow and close your eyes."

Blair flopped backwards with a huff, he was tired. He was so tired he couldn't sleep, if that made any sense. The thought of closing his eyes scared him. He couldn't get the sight of Higby's body out of his mind. The cause of death was no mystery, having a humungous knife shoved through your ribs and into your heart had a tendency to kill you. Surprisingly, there was not much blood. As gross as that image seemed, it wasn't the knife that caused the cold sweat to break out on his brow.

"Sandburg, calm down," Jim said in a soft voice. "You want the lights back on?"

"Sure, might as well give the cockroaches more exercise, man," Blair answered, working for sarcasm but managing to sound like he was being strangled instead.

The lamp between the twin beds clicked on. Jim was sitting on the edge of his bed, his elbows resting on his knees as he scrubbed his face wearily. But he didn't look mad, which Blair expected.

"Want to talk about it, Chief?"

`No,' Blair thought as he sat up and scooted back until his back rested against the cheap headboard. "About what?"

"Whatever has your heart firing like a jackhammer."

"I hate it when you do that, Jim. It's not like I want the whole world know when I'm freaked out."

"I'm not the whole world, I'm just one exhausted sentinel," Jim said with a smile. "You're thinking about Higby."

Blair saw a chance to change the subject and grabbed it. "What made you zone, anyway? You never told me."

Jim shrugged. "I'm not sure, I just remember being so mad... the next thing I knew you're putting that mint on my tongue."

Blair chewed that over for a second. "You zoned on an emotion? Is that possible? Maybe it was a combination. But, if you think about it, your emotions could-"

"Nice try, Darwin, but I believe we were talking about what was freaking you out."

So much for the diversion tactic. Blair closed his mouth was a snap and glared at the blankets in his lap. Both of them were sleeping in their T-shirts and boxers. "It's a good thing it's almost summer, man. Because these are lame excuses for blankets."

Jim's sigh was loud and spoke of stretched limits to his patience.

Blair swallowed hard, diverting his eyes to the drapes, they really should be replaced. He wondered how many packs of cigarettes would have to be smoked to get drapes that color.

"Blair, it's okay to be scared."

"Good because I passed scared yesterday, I'm working on petrified here, man," Blair answered quietly. "Is it okay to be petrified?"

"Yeah, I think that's okay too."

"Rossetti's like the monster that used to live in the corner."

"Don't you mean `closet'?"

Blair frowned as he shook his head. "Nah, we didn't stay in places with closets. I had corners growing up."

"Okay, go on."

"That's all... he's out there. He's not in jail where he should be, he could be anywhere. I keep expecting him to jump out, like those cheesy horror flicks, complete with a hockey mask and chainsaw." Blair smoothed the blanket flat, then pleated it between his fingers, only to smooth it flat again as he spoke, unable to watch Jim, afraid of what he'd see.

The room was silent for a moment. Blair gave the blanket a rest and began to inspect his fingernails, checking to see if he'd gotten all the dirt out from under them. Between the Rainier explosion and being inside that cannery, he was having to clean his hands a lot lately.

"I know you never watched the video of you, Matro and Rossetti together; but have you ever seen a picture of Rossetti?" Jim asked.

Blair gave that some thought. "No, now that you mention it, I don't think I have."

"Wait a second." Jim walked over to his duffle bag and returned with a file. "I brought a few files with me, in case I couldn't sleep."

Blair didn't want to open the file Jim set on the bed. "Are there any pictures of ..."

"No, none from the cannery, just all we have on Rossetti, plus a few decent pictures," Jim explained.

Blair opened the file, his eyes spotting the picture clipped to the upper left. To Blair's surprise, it was a publicity shot of the man. He was expecting a mug shot. Actually, he was expecting something along the lines of his `monster' theory, complete with fangs and glowing eyes. The man looking back at him had neither.

"He... he looks like Mr. Rogers, the guy on the kid show," Blair muttered as he studied the kind eyes, a weak chin and graying hair. "A guy you'd expect to live next door."

"In his case, looks are deceiving. He's suspected of making snuff films as well as the porn he admits to. The Feds have been keeping surveillance on his estate. He's been keeping a very low profile. It appears he hires others to do his dirty work. Unless he managed to slip by the Feds, there's no way he could have personally killed Higby or set off the bomb at Rainier. I'm sure his goons are responsible for both," Jim said.

Blair shook his head, unable to make the connection between the face in the file and the memory of those fingers stroking his face over a month ago. Yet they were one in the same. He closed the file and handed it back to Jim. "Thanks."

"No problem." Jim returned the file to the bag before climbing back into his bed.

Blair leaned over and turned off the lamp. "You'd think the Feds could spring for an exterminator. Did you see the size of those cockroaches?"

"Sandburg..." Jim growled.

"Night, Jim."

Jim woke.

The room was still dark. Glancing at his wristwatch, he knew he'd been asleep for only an hour. Blair was breathing gently, a miracle in itself. He'd been prepared for nightmares. The last thing he'd wanted was for his friend to see the nude body of Detective Higby wearing identical glasses to Blair's and a wig of long brown hair. A dozen long stemmed red roses had been dropped in random across the body. The word `soon' had been scrawled across his chest, apparently written in blood, just below the knife.

Wide-awake and thirsty, Jim quietly slipped out of bed and pulled on his pants. The light seeped in under the door. Jim figured he'd get a glass of water, check on the night crew of federal agents that were guarding them and hit the john. Slipping through the door, he padded down the short hallway into an empty living room. They must be in the kitchen.

The house really was a dive. Sometimes you got a nice place, sometimes you got a dump.

Jim walked into the kitchen, it looked cleaner and he could smell lemons. Maybe they used a lemon scented cleaner. Suddenly, Jim froze. He extended his hearing.

He and Blair were the only two in the house.

Shit.

Jim hurried back to their room, keeping the light off as he entered. He crossed to Blair's bed and clamped a hand over his mouth, careful not to add too much pressure. Blair's jaw was still tender.

"Chief!" he hissed.

Blair woke with a fearful start, large dilated eyes blinking unseeingly.

"Get up. We're leaving. Don't make a sound. Got it?"

Blair nodded, doing as he was told. Jim handed him his clothes and shoes before finishing his own dressing. Possible scenarios ran through Jim's mind as they quickly dressed in the darkness, none of them favorable. All boiled down to the fact Blair was in danger. Jim knew they were near the interstate close to a major off ramp that was favored by truck drivers.

Blair was ready, pack in hand and Jim led the way as they slipped back into the hallway. Casting out his hearing like a fishing net, he reaffirmed no other heartbeats were in the house. The agents that should be guarding them were either dead or had abandoned them. Jim headed for the back door with Blair's hand anchored in the back of his shirt. The mud room off the back was crowded with an old washer and dryer and large quantities of toilet paper and cleaning supplies.

He pushed Blair to one side and lifted the heavy curtain covering the door's window a fraction of an inch to check the backyard. It looked clear. No visible alarm system was apparent and Jim didn't have time to investigate. None of the agents had mentioned an alarm system. He unlocked the deadbolt.

Then remembered he'd left his own duffel bag with his cell phone in the room. Should he go back? Something told the cop to forget it. They needed to leave. And fast.

They were at the alley when the explosion rocked the neighborhood, lighting up the sky like a sunrise and throwing bits of wood and shingles in every direction. Both men hit the dirt as the debris rained down around them like a spring shower.

With his ears still ringing, Jim dialed down the pain. Before the neighbors came to investigate, they needed to be gone. Latching on to Blair's arm, he jerked his friend to his feet and ran. Three blocks away, they reached a twenty-four hour truck stop and entered the area used by long distance truck drivers to shower, make personal phone calls and relax. Blair was talking and Jim realized he'd left his hearing dialed to zero, an unconscious action from the explosion.

"...you hear me now?"

"Yeah, sorry," Jim answered.

"You okay? What happened back there?" Blair whispered urgently between gasps for air as Jim herded him into the men's restroom.

"Shhh," Jim hissed. His senses were still reeling from the explosion, Jim couldn't tell if they were alone or not. Moving quickly, he peeked under the stalls, no feet. "I'm not sure what happened. I woke up and we were the only two alive in the house."

Blair leaned against a sink and wrapped his arms around himself in a hug. "Alive? Where'd the Fed guys go? Did you smell a bomb?"

Jim shook his head. "No, nothing. But the bomb could have been sealed so tight I wouldn't have been able to."

Blair shivered, dropping his head and closing his eyes. "Shit, that explosion scared me, man. If you hadn't of got us out of there..." He shivered again, tightening his arms. "What are we going to do now? Call Simon?"

Jim shook his head. "No, we need some distance. I'm a little fed up with the kind of protection we've been getting."

Blair lifted his head, his eyes clouded in confusion. "Distance? Where we going?"

"How much money do you have?"

"A little over ten bucks," Blair admitted sheepishly. "I haven't been to the bank."

Jim pulled out his wallet. "I've got fifty-three," he muttered. "We need a car, but that's not going to be enough."

Blair dropped his arms, bracing himself on the rim of the sink. "Jim, this is a truck stop, we can get a ride. Which direction do you want to take?"

"They don't accept riders," Jim answered, then caught the knowing look on his friend's face. "Do they?"

The truck driver let them off in Portland. It was morning, the sun appearing as a red ball filtered by the cloud cover. Blair raised a hand in a final farewell as the eighteen wheeler pulled out from the parking lot of the shopping mall.

"What a nice guy," Blair commented. "Normally they just drop you off on the freeway ramp or at the truck stops." He eyed the large shopping mall, wondering why Jim had asked to be dropped of at this particular place. "So, we going to call Simon now?"

"Nope," Jim headed for the nearest building, a Denny's restaurant. "Let's get some breakfast."

Blair trotted along. He could eat.

They asked for a booth near the back and Jim made Blair take the side that allowed the cop to keep his eye on the front door. Blair had a feeling Jim already knew all the exits and had a plan. They ordered and drank coffee while waiting for the food.

"I can't remember the last time I was in Portland," Blair said around a suppressed yawn. He hadn't slept during the drive down, even though the driver, a friendly man named Stu with fifteen grandkids, had offered the sleeping birth. The time had passed quickly and Blair found himself enjoying the old man's stories of his family. Pictures of kids had been taped to every available surface in the cab, easily visible from the driver's seat. Stu had admitted he wasn't supposed to take riders, but would often break the rules if the mood struck. Even Jim seemed to relax during the ride down.

"Do you know anyone down here?" Jim asked.

"Ummm... no, I don't think so. Why?"

"Just wondering, it's better to be somewhere that neither of us have family or friends," Jim answered, his attention drawn to a large van parking. They watched a family of five climb out of the van and head for the entrance.

Blair pondered their situation. "We're not going back for a while, are we?"

Jim didn't answer right away. The waitress reappeared to fill their mugs. Jim spoke after she left. "Until I know what's going on, we're just going to lay low."

"On sixty bucks?" Blair asked with raised eyebrows. They'd be through that in two days, easy. "What kind of `low' are you talking about, man?"

Jim smiled.

After breakfast was finished and Blair carefully wrapped up the uneaten toast and stuffed it into his backpack, they crossed the large parking lot towards the shopping mall. Once inside Jim checked the directory. Blair watched as the different store employees begin to roll up the metal gates and get ready to open for the day. After a moment, Jim snagged his arm and headed off down the center of the mall.

"We're not exactly in the position to buy new shoes, Jim," Blair said as they walked. "What are we doing here?"

"I want you to contact Jack Kelso, you know his email address, right?"

"Sure... but Jim, I don't have my laptop. It's back at the loft," Blair explained.

"I know. There's a cyber caf here. You can log on and contact him. I'll tell you what to say. With his..." Jim glanced around carefully as he spoke, "...experience, he's the perfect person to contact Simon, without asking a lot of questions."

The caf wasn't open. They waited ten minutes before a young woman in jeans, a peasant blouse and sandals appeared with a key. She chatted as she let them in, turning on the lights and powering up a computer for their use. A high counter ran along the side-wall holding three computers. Jim stood patiently by as Blair perched on a high stool, took out his glasses, put them on his nose and logged into his account.

"Okay, ask Kelso to contact Simon in person. Not to tell another soul we've sent this. We'll contact Simon tomorrow evening at six. He's to wait for us at McDuff's and sit in the back table the Major Crimes group always sits at. Simon is not to let anyone know we've made contact," Jim instructed, keeping his voice soft.

Blair looked over at the shop keeper. Two men in business suits had appeared and were ordering coffee. No one seemed to be paying any attention to them. "Jim, with that explosion... Simon's gonna think we're dead. He may not believe Jack," he whispered back.

"Tell Kelso that I said Simon still owes me front row tickets for the Jags game for losing the bet."

"Okay," Blair typed in the message, not bothering with spell check. "How's that?"

"Good. Send it," Jim ordered.

"Okay." Blair climbed off the stool, tucking his hair behind an ear and adjusting his glasses. "What now?"

"Let's grab a bus schedule and get familiar with Portland," Jim answered.

Jim waited for Blair at the magazine display. He was tired and his feet hurt, but mostly he was hungry. They'd spent the day walking around downtown Portland; each ate a hotdog from a street vendor for three dollars and learned the locations of the cheaper hotels, none of them cheap enough. Unfortunately, it looked like they'd be spending the night on the streets. The day had warmed up, but Jim worried about the night. How cold was it going to get?

"Okay, we can eat like kings for a little over six bucks," Blair said, appearing at his side with a large paper bag in hand. "And... I got a hot tip on a decent place to sleep," he added with a grin. "For free, almost."

"Where?" Jim returned the Woodcraft magazine and walked at his friend's side toward the main doors to the Red Apple grocery store. They turned left and walked down the sidewalk towards a small park that stretched along the banks of the Willamette River. The homeless were already claiming the best benches and picnic tables. Jim led the way toward a free table further down.

"The guy at the deli said we might be able to get a spot on Twelfth and Grison. We'll have to sit through an AA meeting, but afterwards, folks are allowed to crash till morning." Blair straddled the picnic table bench and began to pull out containers of food, lining the seat between them.

"You bought all this for six dollars?" Jim asked in wonder.

Blair chuckled. "I think the guy liked me. He said I was skinny and needed fattening up. Plus, a lot of this was going to be tossed anyway." Blair pulled out two plastic spoons and removed the wrapping, handing one to Jim. "Dig in."

They feasted on tough fried chicken that had sat under the heat lamps too long, stale bread with butter and potato salad. A large container of chocolate pudding was shared as both men scooped out large spoonfuls to enjoy. Jim had to admit, he was full. He'd enjoyed better meals, but food was food. They needed the calories.

"Jim." Blair's attention seemed drawn toward the river and Jim tracked his gaze.

A man was strolling along the path, his left hand jerking in a fast repetitive motion up and down his front. His tan coat was frayed at the cuffs and a large dark patch of dirt crusted where his hand rubbed his coat spoke of a habit that seemed years in the making.

"You full?" Blair asked, looking down at the uneaten food.

Jim sighed. Blair was forever trying to save the world. "Go ahead, Sandburg. But be careful."

Flashing a grin, the younger man gathered up the chicken, one roll and the leftover salad and pudding. "Be right back."

Jim watched as his guide cut a path across the grass, approaching the strange man in a non-threatening manner. Dialing up his hearing, he marveled at Blair's quick way of making friends. He even got the man to laugh as he accepted the food and waved back at Jim.

Jim lifted a hand in return and waited for Blair to come back to their table. "You're amazing, Sandburg."

"Hey, do unto others, man, good karma sent out returns in spades, and all that other stuff." Blair pulled a string out of his pack and tied his hair back. "So, you want to try a little ten step program? I'm tired."

The found the mission without problem. The room was crowded with homeless men. Quickly dialing down his sense of smell, Jim managed to get two folding chairs side by side and they sat down to listen. When the roster arrived for signing in, Jim faked a signature and passed it over Blair to the next man. During the break, they grabbed a cup of bad coffee and talked to the man in charge about the possibility of sleeping inside.

"Oh... sorry, guys," a man with thin hair, overdue for a haircut, said. "We're full up for tonight. I can put you on the list for tomorrow, though."

"Okay." Jim gave him two alias names and they returned to their seat. The sun had set, the streetlights were blinking on outside. It was better to be sitting inside, than walking the streets. Blair had made yet another friend, the man sitting next to him, an ex-music teacher that had become an alcoholic when his wife had died five years ago.

"You two need somewhere to stay?" the man asked.

"Yeah, we're passing through," Blair explained. "No money for a hotel."

The man nodded knowingly. "You can get fairly comfortable under the bridges. Keep out of the weather that way," he said softly as the meeting started. "But, you should leave now, get a good spot before it fills up."

"Thanks, man." Blair patted his arm while reaching down for his pack. "Good idea."

Outside again, they headed back towards the river. Jim kept his eyes open, making sure to check out each dark doorway and alley as they walked. The streets were empty of cars, the stores closed up. Portland became another city after hours.

"At least we got some free coffee," Blair said.

"Yeah, if we're lucky, we'll only be here for another forty-eight hours. We'll know more when we've talked to Simon tomorrow." Jim pointed towards the enormous old iron bridge above. "Let's try this one."

They followed the grassy slope up to where the bridge anchored to the land. In the crevice under the supports a man could walk without having to crouch. The ground was scattered with flat pallets of cardboard. A few men were already curled into balls under filthy blankets. Jim steered his partner towards a far corner that was still available. It was dark and Jim was forced to dial his sight up to almost a ten to see. He located a nest of cardboard and urged Blair to move towards the back, up against a concrete wall.

Jim was no fool. He'd been aware of the curious looks directed their way during the meeting and while they walked the streets. Their clothes were still too nice looking, they didn't fit in with the other homeless. If he'd thought they would be living on the street for more then a few days, he'd insist they hit the thrift store for more suitable and warmer clothing. Depending upon what he learned from Simon, he might still do that.

"Use some of this cardboard as a blanket, Chief," Jim whispered as Blair sat down. They shook off a large piece and shared.

"Night, Jim."

"Good night." Jim felt Blair curl up close to his back and relax almost immediately. Jim, however, was not so quick to sleep. As tired as he was, the soldier in him refused to drop his guard. With Blair between the concrete bank and his back, covered by cardboard, he was invisible. More importantly, no one would be able to get to him without first getting over Jim. The familiar, hard pressure of his gun against his back was an additional comfort. If Rossetti managed to learn they were in Portland, it was doubtful that he'd think to look under a bridge.

After nearly two hours of waiting, and watching a few more men straggle in to find a place to sleep, Jim closed his eyes and gave into his exhaustion enjoying the soothing sounds of the river.

The attack came suddenly, without warning. Jim woke swinging. Something hard hit him in the head; it felt like a steel-toed boot. Bright stars appeared in his graying vision and he wanted to throw up. He was being dragged, strong hands gripped his arms, bands of steel seemed to wrap around his legs and knees. There were too many of them.

"Hey! Leave me..." Blair's panicked voice pierced Jim's confusion. Harsh slaps echoed off the concrete, cutting off any further pleas.

Jim bucked, fueled by sheer fury as he twisted and fought the hands that held him down. Someone was pulling his wallet out of his jeans' pocket. Another blow to his head, right above his ear knocked him senseless. A long ripping sound of cloth being destroyed came from Blair's location.

"No!" A desperate whisper now, Blair's plea was answered with more hard slaps. A violent volley of resistance sounded as Blair cursed, thrashed and seemed to fight back with everything he had.

The sheer weight of the attackers kept Jim pinned down, unable to help his guide. Strength wasn't going to work. He needed a plan, fast. Going limp, Jim acted dazed, as if weakened from the second blow to his head. As he listened to Blair fight, Jim got a good look at the men that held him, having no problem seeing their faces in the darkness. These were not Rossetti's men. The strong odor of unwashed bodies filled his nose, nearly making him gag. Along with the stench, the growing smell of male arousal told Jim he needed to act fast. As the sound of Blair's fight seemed to wane, additional sounds of tearing cloth met the ears of Jim's captors and they became interested in what their companions were doing. The hands that held Jim down relaxed.

"Don't!" Blair's loud shout of outrage was smothered by a hand. "Ji-mmmppth!"

Just as Jim was about to make his move, a tall shadow rose up and swung a heavy rock down hard on the head of one of Jim's attackers. The hands pinning his left arm to the dirt disappeared. Jim exploded into action. He shot out with a crushing blow to the exposed throat above him. Another hit from the rock-wielding rescuer and Jim's left leg was free. He kicked out, snapping the head of his last captor backwards. Jim rolled up on his knees and finished him off quickly before launching himself towards the men who were starting to get serious with his partner.

The fight was over almost too soon. Jim and his silent helper were the only men left standing. A strong desire to kill still pumped through the sentinel's veins. His chest heaved in rage. Jim raked his gaze across the immediate area for any other threats. His wallet was resting in the lax hands of one of their attackers and he quickly retrieved it as he eyed the man who had helped him. It was the same man that Blair had shared their food with earlier that evening. A low moan interrupted Jim's thoughts. Blair curled into a tight ball in the dirt and Jim to drop to one knee next to his partner.

"Blair. " Jim brushed a clump of tangled hair back, smearing blood across Blair's cheek and bringing a violent shudder from the younger man. Blair's shirts hung in long strips, his back jeans' pockets were ripped off. They'd managed to get his leather belt opened as well as the fly to his pants. The waistband was half way down his hips. Jim had to bite down hard on his lower lip to keep from cursing. A sudden, intense impulse to finish off the surviving attackers caused both hands to shake. Jim took a deep breath.

He had to get back in control.

"Sandburg, look at me," he ordered. They didn't have much time. The likelihood that someone heard the attack and Portland Police might be en route was too strong. "How's your jaw?"

Another shudder accompanied by a quiet sob answered, but Blair allowed Jim to turn his head, keeping his eyes tightly closed while his face was checked. Jim used his thumbs, pressing down to feel for fractures. Thankfully, his friend's jaw was still in one piece. Judging by the damage, most of the blows had been higher, giving him a bloody nose.

"It's okay now, Chief. You're safe. It's over," Jim told him. "Sit up."

Blair didn't resist as Jim pulled him up. As if realizing for the first time he was still partly undressed, Blair scrambled to raise his jeans and re-buckle his belt with awkward movements.

"We've got to leave," Jim said quietly, stripping off his own outer shirt and draping it over Blair's shoulders to warm him and hide the ruined clothes. "Can you walk?"

Blair shook his head, his long hair swinging out from his head. He was shaking like an old man with advanced palsy. Cursing the fact he couldn't give his friend time to recover, Jim hugged him tightly as he stood, bringing his partner into a standing position. Blair swayed like a drunk and Jim held him close until he recovered enough to stand on his own.

"Come on, Chief." Jim bent down to snag Blair's pack before tucking the younger man under his arm. Seeing their mute ally standing off to one side, still holding the rock in his hand, Jim nodded his appreciation, unsure if the man could see him in the darkness. "Thank you."

But the man returned the nod, dropped the large stone and resumed his nervous, jerky motion, his fingers rubbing the stain on the front of his coat as he wandered off into the night.

Blair stumbled at Jim's side as they walked; his death grip on Jim's arm almost painful as they moved away from the bridge. Once Jim was satisfied they'd gone far enough from the sight of the attack to be safe, he found an empty bench next to the back end of a building and pulled Blair down to sit at his side, keeping his arm around the younger man's trembling shoulders.

"I'm sorry, Chief."

Blair remained silent. Jim set the leather backpack in his partner's lap and he released Jim's arm to hug the pack tightly to his chest. With his arm free again, Jim did a quick inventory; the money in his wallet was still there, his gun was in its holster, even his badge and ID had been left untouched. Jim had a feeling that robbery was secondary in their attacker's minds. Pulling a semi-clean handkerchief from his pocket, he folded it to expose the cleanest section and carefully started cleaning the blood off Blair's face.

All of the blood was coming from Blair's nose. Satisfied he'd gotten as much of the blood off as he could, Jim gently pinched Blair's nostrils with the cloth and patted Blair's far shoulder with his other hand. "Hold this in place till the bleeding stops."

The eastern sky was just starting to lighten up, dawn was less then an hour away. Jim sighed and rested his head on the rough brick wall behind the bench. He was starting to cool off from the fight, his bare arms registering the chill in the predawn air. Maybe a large city was not the safest place to stay hidden from Rossetti. They should move on, perhaps towards the ocean beaches. Jim knew at least three of the seven attackers now lay dead under the bridge. Jim had no problems with the fact he'd killed them, but their deaths were likely to bring much police activity into the river park.

No doubt about it, they needed to move on. First, they would find a second-hand store and spend more of their sparse funds for clothes. Then they would thumb a ride west.

Blair lowered his hand.

Jim gently took his friend's chin in hand and turned the bruised face for inspection. "Bleeding's stopped. You okay?"

"Yeah... I'm good. Thanks, Jim," Blair muttered quietly, clenching the bloody cloth in a tight fist. He wasn't shivering as much as before. A faint flush of embarrassment was creeping up his neck. "I ... couldn't fight them."

"Neither could I, Chief." Jim briefly squeezed the shoulders under his arm. "If you hadn't been generous with our dinner last night, I have a feeling neither of us would be alive to enjoy the sunrise this morning."

"Which tag is seventy-five percent off?"

Blair peered up at the sign over the rows of used clothing. "Blue."

"Good... how's this?" Jim held up a long sleeve black shirt for inspection. "The fabric's heavy cotton. Should keep you warm."

"Whatever, man," Blair muttered, wishing they were gone. He wanted to be out of Portland, not on a last minute shopping trip that Jim was insisting they take.

After leaving the river park that morning, they'd headed north-west, finding a nice, sleepy neighborhood of middle-class income families. Jim had purchased a box of day-old donuts from a corner convenience store, insisting Blair eat at least one. Eating the stale pastry had been similar to choking down pillow stuffing. It still sat in his gut like a brick.

"This should do it." Jim headed for the counter with Blair's new clothes draped over his arm. The girl at the checkout counter rang up the purchases and doing a poor job of acting nonchalant about Blair's appearance. Blair cringed when Jim handed over the twenty dollar bill and only got a few coins back for change. That money was needed for food. He hated the fact he needed clothes. At least Jim was getting a sweater for himself.

"No bag, miss," Jim told her.

She handed the receipt over with a smile. Blair could feel her eyes follow him as Jim ushered him towards the dressing room. Jim carefully pulled the stapled tags off by opening each bend in the metal carefully, as if the clothes had been brand new from Nordstroms. Blair pulled the curtain closed, tossed the change of clothes on a bench and started to undress. His eyes caught the reflection in the full-length mirror.

"Sandburg?" Jim whispered after a few seconds.

Blair dropped his gaze. "It's cool, Jim. Be out in a second."

Damn, he looked like hell! No wonder the woman had stared. His face was red from the abuse, his nose swollen, and his hair looked like someone had taken an eggbeater to it. He removed Jim's shirt and started peeling off the remains of his own clothes, purposefully keeping his mind blank. He was sore, along with the slaps, they had punched him repeatedly. After pulling on the long sleeve black T-shirt, the blue thermal Henley and the button up flannel, Blair donned the jeans. They were a little long and loose around the waist, but he didn't care. He folded the hems once and pushed his feet back into his sneakers.

"Here, Jim." Blair handed the shirt back, then scooped the ruined clothes and bundled them into a ball. "What now?"

Jim slipped back into his shirt and pulled the brown cotton sweater over his head. "We leave."

Sweeter words were never spoken.

It was noon before they found a ride, a young couple driving an old station wagon on their way to the coast. Blair and Jim spotted them struggling to change a flat tire. After offering to help, they were repaid with a free ride. The backseat was littered with empty pop cans and newspapers. After the man, an overweight computer programmer from Camas, Washington hastily cleaned out the clutter, they were on the road.

Blair settled into the seat with a sigh. His body was beyond sore. After leaving the thrift store, they'd found a gas station that was willing to hand over the key to the men's room. They'd cleaned their faces and Blair had done his best to comb his dirty hair. They must have walked ten miles that morning. His left knee felt swollen and stiff. His head was pounding. He opened his pack and pulled out an aspirin bottle, shaking out two white pills and dry swallowing them. When Jim held out his hand, he tipped the bottle. The final two pills and a sprinkling of white dust landed in the cop's palm. Jim had taken a beating under that bridge, too. Blair had been shocked when the sun had risen and he saw the lump on the side of the other's man's head.

"You two guys on vacation?" the woman asked, turning in her seat as she talked.

"Sort of," Jim answered wearily. "We're looking for jobs, thought we'd try the coast."

She nodded. Her long brown hair was in a beautiful French braid, framing her pretty, plump face. "I remember what it was like before Lamont and I found our jobs. These are hard times." She pointed a finger towards the back. "Can you reach that ice chest? That flat tire sort of screwed up my plans for a picnic, we have to be in Astoria by three. You two are welcome to share lunch, I packed plenty of food."

Jim reached a long arm over the seat and popped open the white plastic lid of a large Coleman ice chest. "Sure, what can I pass you?"

"The sandwiches are in the plastic bag, there's grapes and chips and Pepsi," she instructed.

Jim handed up the items and she passed out the food. Blair looked at the sandwich he'd been given. He really didn't feel like eating, but knew it was stupid to pass up a free meal. He took a bite, knowing without having to look that Jim was keeping an eye on him. The car was quiet as they ate. Soon the suburbs of Portland fell behind them and they were driving through green fields with grazing cows and stands of tall evergreens. The Columbia River flowed on a parallel course to their right, its water rushing towards the ocean.

Blair finished his sandwich and waved off any more food. Jim pushed a water bottle into his hand with a look that said `not an option'. He took small sips as he stared out his window, leaving the small talk to the other three in the car, aware of Jim's concerned looks. After an hour of driving, Jim slept. Lamont turned on the radio, filling the car with country-western music.

Just as they passed a road sign advising thirty miles to Astoria, the radio switched to news.

"In the local news, Portland Police are investigating a possible gangland murder rampage. The bodies of four men were found under the St. John's Bridge this morning. Police are requesting any persons that may know of information regarding the incident to call nine-one-one. Downtown business owners are renewing their demands that the city address the issue of the homeless population, feeling this latest incident is just another indication of ... "

The woman flicked off the radio with a sigh. "God, I'm glad we don't live in the city anymore."

"Yeah, it's not getting any better, that's for sure," Lamont answered.

Blair's mind tuned out their chatter as he turned over these new facts. Jim still dozed next to him, his shoulder and head leaning against the door, arms crossed.

Four dead.

The river blurred and Blair pressed his fingertips into his closed eyes. Jim hadn't told him. Not that Blair expected him to, but still...

He glanced over at his sleeping friend. There had been no shots fired under that bridge, Blair would have remembered, the attack was still vivid in his memory. One minute he'd been curled up, his back pressed up against Jim's and drifting into a dreamless sleep. The next thing he knew, hands were hitting, pulling, grabbing. The terror had been so intense and complete that Blair could do nothing but fight the hands. There was no time to process why, or who, or even where Jim had gone.

But Blair was certain that Jim had not fired his gun. His eyes rested on Jim's arms, one hand was partially tucked between his forearm and chest as he slept.

Jim killed four men with those hands.

Wasn't there someone else, though? Didn't Jim say that man by the river had been there and helped? Yes, the man he'd given the rest of their dinner to. Maybe he's responsible ...

Blair scrubbed his face hard and turned to look at the river again. What's the point? Four men are dead. It seemed wherever Blair went lately, death followed. Granted, this was different, those men were bent on taking what they wanted. Blair hugged himself with a sigh, remembering the promise Jim had literally forced from him back at the loft. Running seemed like such a good idea. It was just a matter of time before Jim slipped up and got hurt. Blair knew one thing for sure, he'd never forgive himself if that happened.

The seaport town of Astoria sat perched on the south bank of the mouth of the Columbia River. First claimed in 1792 by Robert Gray for the United States, the land had been fought over by the British, Russians, Spanish and Americans until Thomas Jefferson commissioned Lewis and Clark on a three-year journey.

Jim had never seen Astoria before, even though he could remember the facts of Lewis and Clark's expedition from hours of childhood reading and imaginary role-playing with his younger brother. He read everything he could get his hands on. On the hill above the river, he could see a tall tower and knew it was called the Astoria Column. Detailed murals of the expedition had been painted on walls. A person could climb to the top and look out for miles up and down the coast.

Lamont and his wife let them off in downtown Astoria, near a large maritime museum located on the shore of the river. Blair buttoned up his flannel shirt and slipped his pack onto his back. A cool breeze was blowing off the wide river, making Jim realize the nights would be colder here than in Portland.

"We have three hours before we can call Simon," Jim announced looking at his watch.

Blair didn't have a comment. In fact, Blair hadn't spoken a word to him since he'd woken in the backseat of the station wagon.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," came the subdued response.

Jim wasn't convinced. More than likely, his roommate was still sore from the attack. That caused Jim to remember they were out of aspirin. He pulled out his wallet and counted the bills. They needed more money. "Come on, Chief. I've got an idea."

Jim found the store he wanted a mile walk west. A small pawn shop displaying knifes, guitars and power tools looked like the perfect place. Inside the store, a pleasant looking man in his fifties, built like a fireplug nodded a greeting as they entered. Two women were peering into a glass case asking to see the display of rings. Finally when the women left without making a purchase, the shopkeeper approached.

"May I help you?"

Jim slipped off his watch, knowing its value was close to three hundred. "I'd like to pawn my watch."

"Jim! No, man!" Blair hissed, grabbing Jim's arm to keep the watch from being offered.

Jim looked at his friend in surprise. Where was this coming from? "Relax, Chief. It's just a watch."

"No, you've already done too much," Blair insisted. He looked near tears.

"Excuse us a minute." Jim took Blair's arm and pulled him away from the counter. "Sandburg, what's wrong with you?"

Blair bit his lip. "You love that watch and I don't have anything to pawn, Jim. We're using your money to buy the food and my clothes. I can't help, it's not right," he blurted out breathlessly. "You made me promise to stay with you, but I'm nothing but trouble. Those guys wouldn't have tried anything if you'd been alone. You're going to get hurt..."

Blair's voice had risen until a deaf man would be hard pressed to ignore the outburst. Blair was like a burst dam, gushing with pent-up fears and concerns. Jim carefully cupped a hand over his partner's mouth to stop the protests.

"Calm down right now, Chief," he whispered keeping his smile in place for the sake of the clerk and hoping the stern look in his eyes carried a clear message to his friend. They did not need to attract attention. "Trust me, okay? We'll talk about this after we get outside. For right now, just wait quietly while I finish this."

Jim returned alone to the counter. The man had a knowing smirk on his face.

"Trouble with the little woman?"

Keeping his face expressionless, he laid the watch down. "How much?"

The man picked it up, gave it a quick glance and shrugged. "Twenty bucks."

Jim knew enough about pawnshop deals to know he was being screwed over. "I'm sure there's more than one shop in a town this size." He plucked his watch out of the man's palm.

Out on the sidewalk, Jim turned to his friend, ready to demand an explanation. Although he was sure another shop was around somewhere, he wasn't in the mood to canvas the city. One look at the younger man's face though and Jim held his tongue. If Webster's Dictionary decided to print an illustrated copy, a picture of Blair's face could appear next to the word `miserable'.

"Shit, man. I'm sorry."

Jim cast his gaze skyward, his anger evaporating. "Come on, kid. Let's find another shop, the guy was probably going to screw us over anyway." He gently cuffed the back of Blair's head as they headed down the sidewalk.

An hour later, Jim was putting his wallet away. The third pawnshop owner had taken one look at them, mostly at Blair, and handed over enough cash to make the pawn worth it. The fact that the owner was a grandmotherly type that looked ready to ply them with milk and cookies probably had a lot to do with it. "Let's get some dinner while we wait to call Simon."

Blair fell into step at his side. It was obvious he was still berating himself for the outburst. Jim spotted a caf that looked adequate for their needs. Once inside, they were led to a corner table partially hidden from view by a row of plastic palm trees. Jim couldn't have asked for a better table. Spending a few moments to look over the menu, he glanced up at his partner. Blair hadn't even opened his menu. Jim closed his with a sigh, it was time to sort this out. When the waitress returned, Jim ordered two fish and chip meals with orange juices. After she left, he folded his arms on the table and eyed his friend.

"Okay, Sandburg. Spill it."

"What?"

"Whatever is bothering you. It's not as if we don't have a truckload to choose from," Jim answered with a grin.

Blair's responding grin was faint, but present.

"Chief, we're down but not out," Jim pressed. "The watch is not a big deal. If things go well, I'll be able to get it back in a few days. What was all that crap about `fairness'? What's fair about what happened to you under that bridge. For that matter, this whole thing can be traced back to Simon breaking your jaw a few months ago."

"That wasn't his fault, Jim," Blair answered as he played with his fork.

"You're so quick to forgive everyone, except yourself," Jim pointed out. "Another thing, what was that comment in the pawnshop about you being `nothing but trouble'?"

"It's true, man," Blair said, glancing up in surprise as the waitress returned with two large bowls of steaming clam chowder. She set them down on the table and added a long basket of saltine crackers.

"Excuse us, miss," Jim said quickly. "We didn't order this. We're having the fish and chips."

She brushed her apron, avoiding Jim's eyes. "I know, your meal's being prepared. I was thinking you men could try out our new recipe for chowder... let us know what you thought."

Jim broke into a wide smile, causing the woman to blush. "We'd love to, ma'am. Thank you." Jim waited till she left before picking up his spoon and starting in. The chowder was excellent. "Eat up, Chief. You're going to like it."

After trying a sample, Blair began to eat.

When both bowls were empty and several crackers had been consumed, Jim returned to their conversation. "I do not consider you trouble, Sandburg. You have a tendency to find trouble, true, but mostly due to the fact you work with me. I can't help but feel responsible for some of it."

"Well, you're not."

"Neither are you."

"Yes, I am."

"No, you're not."

"I am, man."

Jim shook his head and rubbed his brow. Somehow, he'd lost the thread of the conversation. "Sandburg, you're wearing me out here. Knock it off," he joked.

Blair sat back in the chair, folding his hands in his lap, his face stony and non-responsive.

Great. Jim realized he'd managed to piss his partner off.

"Sorry," Jim added quickly. "Let's try this again." Jim scratched his scalp, feeling the tiny granules of dirt mixed in his hair. "We're both tired. Let's just agree to table this for now. Everything will seem easier after a good night's sleep." Seeing the look of surprise, he continued. "Yeah, I think we deserve it, Chief. Depending on what Simon tells us, we're not risking another night under a bridge."

Their fish baskets arrived, piled high with fries. The waitress removed the empty chowder bowls on her trip back to the kitchen. The smell of fried fish was intoxicating and Jim broke a large fillet in half to dip in a side dish of creamy tartar sauce. The first bite was hot, causing Jim to dial down his sense of touch while dialing up taste.

Blair was chuckling softly as he squirted a mound of ketchup next to his fries. "You look like you want to be alone with your food, man."

Jim grinned; little did his partner know how much better good food tasted to a sentinel.

Another yawn appeared out of nowhere, causing Blair's eyes to tear up. Between a full stomach and lack of sleep, he could get a job in Hollywood as an extra in a zombie thriller - Night of the Living Dead. He let his eyes close and leaned a shoulder into the brick wall next to the phone booth. Jim said it was time for the call.

Then they were going to find a hotel for the night.

Blair really, really liked that part of the plan.

"Okay, it's time." Jim palmed the change he'd gotten from the diner and began to feed quarters into the payphone. After a few seconds wait, he punched in a phone number.

Was Jim calling Simon's cell phone? If so, why make the man go to McDuff's?

"There's a tall, black man sitting at a table to your right. May I speak to him?"

Blair blinked, frowning as he listened. What did Jim do? Call the phone booth between the men's room and the big round table that the Major Crime gang always occupied? Blair had to admit anyone would be hard pressed to trace the call that quickly.

"Simon? Yeah... I know, believe me, it's good to hear your voice, too." Jim turned to smile at Blair. "He's with me... yeah, we've been better, but we'll live. Tell me about the explosion. I woke up in the middle of the night to find the damn Feds had split... oh... okay."

Jim's face got a pained look and Blair knew the news was going to be bad. More dead bodies, he bet.

"Damn... yeah. How many people knew we were there?" Jim rubbed his head as he listened to his boss. "Simon, I'm telling you, something stinks. I'm sure we've got a mole and my money's on the Feds. I don't trust them, they can have a bad penny just like any other agency."

Blair shifted, his feet beginning to hurt from standing in one spot too long. Simon must be saying something that Jim didn't like because Blair was reading all the early warning signs of an `Ellison Explosion.' He laid a light hand on Jim's arm and squeezed, hoping to send a silent message of support. It must have worked because Jim took a calming breath and flashed him a sheepish grin.

"Okay, okay. I see your point. But only the DA... and make them swear to keep it to themselves. We're in Astoria, Oregon. There's a Motel Six in town. We'll be staying there, at least for tonight...yeah, we could... okay, hold on a second." Jim turned to Blair, making writing motions. Blair quickly pulled out a pen and a pad of paper from his pack. "Okay, go ahead, sir...got it. You sure it's safe? No, if Kelso gave it to you, it's probably okay. I'll talk to you then." Jim hung up the phone.

"Well?" Blair pressed, returning the pad and pen while Jim folded the paper he'd used and pocketed it.

"Let's get a room, Chief. I'll fill you in there."

Later, Blair dropped into the padded chair with heartfelt thanks. His feet echoed the feeling. Jim had gone in alone and booked a single room. Then, later, he'd snuck Blair in. Even though they'd broken the law, technically, Jim said they had no choice. The deception allowed them enough money for food tomorrow.

The room was clean, not a four-star by any means, but to Blair it looked like a palace.

"You want the first shower?"

"Yeah, but first I want to know what Simon told you," Blair said.

"Okay," Jim toed of his shoes, his nose wrinkling.

It must suck sometimes to have a heightened sense of smell, Blair realized.

"The safe house was completely destroyed. Whatever was used, caused such a high heat that they're having problems sorting out how many bodies were inside. Simon hasn't told anyone about Kelso's contact yesterday. He will let the DA know we made it out okay. He has to; they were considering dropping the charges against Rossetti."

"What!" Blair shot to his feet. "They can't do that!"

Jim held up a hand. "I know and keep it down, Chief. I'm supposed to be the only one in this room, remember?"

"Sorry."

"It's okay, I understand. Anyway, I told Simon it was okay to let just the DA's office know we're alive and well."

"So, you think the leak is someone in the FBI?" Blair asked.

"Yeah, I do. Nothing happened until we got to the safe house."

"But ... he'd be killing his fellow agents, too," Blair said in disbelief.

Jim nodded. "I know. Rossetti must be using some big bucks to keep you from testifying." Jim's eyes narrowed. "Which is kind of odd, now that I think about it. Why go through all that stuff with the roses and messages, then turn around and try to blow you up?"

Blair saw his point. Rossetti had made it very clear at their first meeting what he intended. The roses, the song, even Higby's death all spoke of that same intent. Why the bomb in the house? "Who knows man, I can't begin to figure out a mind as perverted as his." He folded his arms across his chest, not able to suppress his shivers. "I'm gonna hit the shower now."

It was still daylight outside, yet both men longed to sleep. It felt fantastic to be clean again and Jim even went so far as to hand wash both his and Blair's socks after he showered, not caring if forced to wear damp socks in the morning.

Blair crawled into the queen-size bed with an audible sigh. "Oh, man... I think I'm going to sleep for a month, Jim."

"I'll give you till one tomorrow." Jim triple checked the locks on the door, then moved a chair from the small desk and tilting it, so the back of the chair was wedged firmly under the handle. He went to the window and tested the locks. Their room was on the second floor with a view of the water.

He let the curtain drop, blocking the sunlight and went back one more time to check the door.

"Jim..."

"What?"

"Would you give it a rest?" Blair said, sitting up in bed. "You've checked that door a hundred times, man."

Jim finished checking the door before turning back to pin his partner with his best `don't-mess-with-the-ex-ranger' look. "And your point is..."

As usual, the effect was lost on his young friend. "I'll spell it out for you, Joe Friday. Go. To. Sleep."

Jim flicked off the light. He had made a point to avoid commenting on the multiple bruises that covered his friend's arms, legs and torso. He knew he sported a few of his own, nothing like Blair's but enough. Each blackened patch of skin was a visual reminder of his failure to keep his partner safe. He wasn't taking any chances tonight.

"Try not to kick me, Sandburg."

Blair's snort was the only answer. Before Jim could find a comfortable position on the cheap mattress, Blair was asleep.

The darkness was so thick he felt as if he was fighting while submerged in Jell-O. Hands grabbed him, held him down.

"No! Stop it! JIM!"

The hands seemed fashioned from steel. They cruelly dug into his muscles while the sounds of tearing cloth filled his ears. Why was it so dark? He'd known fear before, hell, he was on first name terms with a thousand demons, but it all paled when compared to this. He knew what the ripping sounds meant, what he was unable to stop from happening.

"Jim!"

Hands... so many...

"Jim! Wake up! You're dreaming!"

In a flash, Jim opened his eyes, cutting through the darkness. Memories of the dream clung to his brain like streamers trailing a rising kite and he plucked the hand from his shoulder, bending it backwards.

"Oww! Shit!" Blair blurted out in a strangled voice. "Jim! Stop!"

Jim blinked down at his friend. He'd rolled over, flipping Blair on his back, one hand gripping his throat, the other a breath away from breaking his wrist.

"Chief!" Jim pulled his hands away in horror. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Blair rasped, rubbing his throat. "Remind me not to wake you up within reach of those arms."

Jim fell back on to his side of the mattress. "Damn it, Sandburg. I'm sorry..."

Blair flipped back the covers and slowly rolled out of bed. "Forget it. I should have been more careful. You want a glass of water or something while I'm up?"

"Yeah... thanks."

Jim flopped an arm over his eyes, cursing himself silently. He figured he'd be waking Blair from nightmares, not the other way around.

"Here you go," Blair said, sounding back to normal as he handed Jim the plastic cup of water and sat his own down next to the bed. "Want to talk about it?"

"What?"

"Your dream. The way you were cussing at those guys in your sleep, I figured you were dreaming about last night. By the way, Jim. You've got a serous case of potty mouth happening here." Blair lay back down and pulled the covers up to his chin.

"Nothing to talk about, Sandburg," Jim answered in a flat voice. "I screwed up, you got hurt. End of story."

Blair didn't answer right away, causing Jim to wonder if the man had gone back to sleep. And he should be asleep, not dealing with Jim's subconscious fears.

"Jim, we were both running on fumes last night with - what, three hours of sleep in the last forty-eight? So, you fell asleep, big deal, man. You can't be expected to stay awake for days on end, you're just as human as the rest of us, Oh Mighty Sentinel."

"I should have heard them coming."

"The river."

"What?"

Blair rolled to his side, propped his head in his palm as he talked, his eyes bright with discovery. "I've been thinking about that, and I have a theory."

Leave it to Blair to get scientific at a time like this.

"The sound of the river was amplified under the bridge, the noise sort of bounced around in there. I think it acted like a white noise generator on your hearing, man." Blair's eyes darkened with guilt. "Crap! Of course it did, I should have figured that out before we went under that bridge. What was I thinking?"

"You can't know every little detail, Chief."

"But my job is to help you with your sentinel problems, I totally dropped the ball on this, Jim."

Jim shook his head. "Okay, here's the deal. I'll forgive myself for falling asleep, you forgive yourself for not realizing the river would lull me to sleep."

"But it's not the same..."

"Sandburg," Jim warned, pushing Blair gently on the shoulder to get the other man to lie down. "The mighty sentinel has spoken. Go. To. Sleep."

Blair enjoyed a lazy stretch, then gasped in pain as his body reported in for the morning.

Damn, he hurt. Why did bruises always feel worse the second day?

"Here."

A hand appeared and Blair squinted at the four Advils within.

"Whaa `ime izit?"

"Little after eleven. You hungry?" Jim asked after watching Blair fumble to get all the pills in his mouth and wash them down with the water he'd left by the bedside.

Blair dropped his head back down into the pillow. He was starving, but he craved the warmth and comfort of the bed more. Then there was the whole `get-up-and-moving' thing. That was going to hurt. On the other hand, room service wasn't an option, and they didn't have any money even if it was. Still, if they...

A gentle nudge woke him. Blair opened one bleary eye, seeing a fuzzy outline of a fully dressed sentinel.

"Time's up, Chief. We've got to check out."

The blankets lifted, and Blair waited for the cold to hit his skin. It never happened, the room was warm. A pressing issue low in his abdomen screamed for his attention. He needed to move, bruises or no bruises, otherwise it was going to get embarrassing. A guiding hand on his upper arm helped him become vertical without too much pain, probably due to the Advil Jim had given him.

"Thanks, man." He headed for the bathroom, his voice rough from sleep, his mind fuzzy. "I thought you said it was eleven. We have until one, right?" Blair liked the room. The thought of returning to the streets was enough to make him cry.

"I did say that, about an hour and a half ago," Jim said just before Blair closed the door. He flashed a smile, waving his hand in a shooing motion when Blair froze in confusion. "Go on, we've got just enough time for you to shower. Then we'll get some food."

Standing on the sidewalk at Jim's side half an hour later, Blair tilted his head back and let the sun warm his face. The weather seemed perfect. A light breeze blew off the water, keeping the bright sun hanging in the cloudless sky in check. Blair enjoyed the feeling of being clean again. They'd shared a disposable razor, used up a bar of soap and emptied two small bottles each of shampoo and conditioner. Blair didn't even mind the fact his socks were damp. He was rested and on his way to a hot meal.

Blair found it impossible to recapture yesterday's feeling of despair. Sure, being attacked hadn't been high on his list of `fun things to do', but it was history now. Jim had done what needed to be done to keep them both safe, Blair would trust his partner's decision and not bring the matter up again. It was time to file the incident in his mental drawer labeled `Memories Best Forgotten.'

He rocked up on his toes a few times to warm up for whatever the day was going to throw at them. "Where to, Jim?"

"I called Simon while you were in the shower, he's in Astoria. He'll meet us at the restaurant," Jim announced.

"Simon! Here?" Blair quickly captured his damp hair into a ponytail, using a rubber band he'd found in the hotel room. Simon had money! Blair knew he was grinning like an idiot, but didn't care. The day was definitely looking up. "What are we waiting for? Let's go!"

Jim caught his arm before he could go more than two steps. "Hold on, Meriwether. You're going the wrong way."

"We're not meeting him at the fish 'n chips place?"

"Nope, I didn't want to risk going back to the same location, we're heading for another restaurant. I saw it in the phone book while I was at the corner mini-mart this morning. It's on the other end of town. You up for a walk?"

"Lead the way, William. Hey, that makes us both captains, man. We're Simon's peers now," Blair snickered as they headed the other way.

"Let's keep that between ourselves, Darwin."

Blair fell into step next to Jim. If Simon was in town, they had access to a car again. No more walking! Blair felt like dancing a jig at the thought. Maybe they could head back to Cascade after eating!

Life was more than good. It was fantastic!

As they crossed an alley entrance, Jim tugged him sideways. "This way."

At the back of an old, two-story brick building, the ground sloped up at a sharp angle. The city had built a wooden flight of stairs to allow pedestrians to climb up to the neighborhood built into the side of the hill. The houses above looked as if they'd been around for over a hundred years and Blair began to appreciate the history behind the old town.

He climbed behind Jim, his eyes on the old houses above and his mind drifting. Astoria must be old. Probably a major port for the clipper ships during the eighteen hundreds. He knew from stories he'd heard that the mouth of the Columbia River was one of the most dangerous waters to navigate in the world.

Reaching a landing wide enough to hold a bench for weary pedestrians, Jim stopped. Blair barely avoided bumping into his back. Jim studied the street below, his hands gripping the railing.

"What's up? Where's the restaurant?" Blair asked.

"Over there," Jim pointed to the left. "We need to recon, Chief. I'm not ready to walk in there without making sure Simon wasn't followed."

"Oh." Blair copied Jim's position and looked over the view. The roads were heavy with traffic. A long line of cars, trucks pulling camping trailers, and expensive motor homes traveled a long, steel bridge that spanned the wide river. On the Washington side, the bridge was low, maybe twenty feet above the water. But when the bridge reached the Oregon side, it rose up to a breathtaking height to allow the tallest of ships to pass beneath, then coiled into a large, lazy loop to drop the vehicles back down to street level. Blair had never seen a bridge quite like it.

After a long fifteen minutes, Jim rubbed his eyes and sighed. "I think it's safe. I don't see anything that looks suspicious."

"Can we eat now?" Blair asked eagerly.

"We'd better, before your stomach gets arrested for disturbing the peace," Jim joked as he led the way back down the stairs.

Blair rolled his eyes and followed.

Simon was sitting in the back of the `Pig-N-Blanket' restaurant drinking coffee and watching the door. His face lit with pleasure as they walked in. Jim was pleased to notice he remained seated however, acting nonchalant.

"Good to see you, Jim...Blair," he said as they sat down on the opposite bench. When Blair reached out in greeting, the gruff captain's mask slipped just a little as he clasped the younger man's hand in both his and squeezed. "You okay, Sandburg? You look like shit."

Blair nodded, his smile wide and answer full of choked emotion. "Hey, Simon. I'm so glad you're here, man."

"Me, too." He released the hand and turned to search Jim's face. "You look marginally better, Ellison. What happened? You both said you were clear when the house blew, but you look like as if you'd both got banged up."

Ignoring Blair's muffled snickers, Jim opened up his menu. "Tell you later."

"Yeah, after we eat!" Blair added.

The waitress appeared with coffee and took their orders. They passed the time listening to Simon share trivial station news, then switched to how his son, Daryl, was trying out for softball. Finally, their food arrived. Jim had to smile at Simon's amazed expression as he watched Blair eat. The food was good, and in no time both his and Blair's plate were wiped clean.

"Well, gentlemen. Is that going to hold you or should we order more?" Simon asked as he folded his paper napkin and laid it on his empty plate.

"No, I'm good," Blair said, patting his stomach. "Can we go home now?"

Catching Simon's look, Jim squeezed his roommate's shoulder. "Chief, you're still in danger." It was like watching a kid find out Santa was a myth. Jim felt like Scrooge. "I know it feels like our adventure is over because Simon is here, but we still need to keep ahead of Rossetti. At least we've got help now, right?"

"But," Blair swallowed hard before continuing. "But, I've got to get back, Jim. I've got things to take care of."

"Listen, Sandburg," Simon interrupted softly. "We'll go someplace quiet and talk. I'll catch you two up with what's happening and we'll go from there. How's that sound?"

For a moment, it looked like Blair was going to argue further. Jim nudged his shoulder. "Come on, Chief. Let's go listen to Simon."

"Yeah... okay, but first we need to get your watch," Blair demanded angrily, turning back to Simon. "We can do that much, right?"

An hour later, Jim was sitting in Simon's car, wearing his watch. They'd crossed the Colombia, turned left and followed the coast north. The small towns of Chinook and Ilwaco had come and gone. Blair's earlier good mood had done the same. The drive was made in strained silence with none of the men feeling up to small talk. Blair sat slumped against the door in the back seat, his eyes on the passing scenery.

"I've got a rental at the north end near Ledbetter Point," Simon advised them, breaking the long silence without warning.

"Hope the owners have insurance," Blair muttered from the back, so low only Jim would hear it.

Simon continued unaware. "The Fed's are aware you're both alive, the DA had to tell them, Jim. But they don't know where either of you are. They're not too happy, but until they can prove to us they have a clean department, they're just going to have to live with it."

"Where's Rossetti?" Jim asked.

"He's under orders to remain in Washington State. I'm told he's still at his estate, but that's just the word of his attorney. He doesn't have another hearing for weeks."

"What about the safe house blowing up?" Blair asked, still sounding peeved. "It's obvious he's the one responsible."

"The judge needs more than our guesses, Sandburg," Simon told him patiently. "The investigation of the explosion hasn't revealed anything to point us to Rossetti. Joel did manage to find some parts of the bomb. He's very impressed. The timing mechanism used lemon juice to dissolve the triggering device. Don't ask me how he figured that out, but he did. "

"He's right, Simon. I remember smelling lemons just before the house blew." Jim scrubbed his face. "I didn't realize..."

"How could you, man?" Blair said, coming to life and leaning over the back of their seat to talk. "It's not like that's a rare scent to pick up inside a house. We use a lemon scented cleaner at the loft."

"Anyway," Simon continued. "Thanks to your friend, Kelso, we've got a safe way to communicate with Joel. The DA's given us an account to draw the funds we need for food and housing. The Chief is aware of our situation. We just need to lie low and keep you alive."

"For how long?" Blair groused moodily. "You guys said this could go on for a full year!"

"The Federal Prosecutors are burning the midnight oil on this," Simon promised. "Motions are being filed to re-address bail. But we'll have to be patient. Try looking at this as a vacation. We've got a secluded house on the shore of Wallipa Bay. We can relax, do some clam digging, whatever; as long as we keep a low profile and don't contact anyone while we're here." Simon caught Blair's eye in the rear view mirror. "That part is vital, Sandburg. No one is to know you two are here."

"But, what about Naomi?" Blair exclaimed as if suddenly realizing his mother might think he was dead.

"It's okay, the only one that thinks you're dead would be Rossetti, since he probably hired the bomber. The rest of the world didn't even know you were in the house. The Chief has cleared your absence with Rainier. Officially, you two are on loan to the Canadian Government for a joint operation involving drugs."

Jim nodded, happy with the plan. It sounded like Simon had thought of everything. Rossetti's sick infatuation with Blair had apparently transformed into a desire to kill. Blair was the last direct link, everything else would be deemed circumstantial. With the man's hoard of high-priced lawyers, Rossetti would likely never see the inside of a jail cell again if Blair died.

"We'll make a stop in Ocean Park and pick up groceries," Simon explained as he pulled into the parking lot for a large store with an old-fashioned western store front. "What do you guys feel like eating?"

When they reached the house, Blair was surprised to see such a beautiful location. Back at the store, Blair had spotted a map of the area, adding it to the cart. He had studied it during the last leg of the trip. He knew they were on the northern tip of the North Beach Peninsula, a long and extremely narrow strip of land that protected the Wallipa Bay. A large wildlife refuge occupied the very tip and they were staying in one of the houses whose property bordered the refuge.

"Hold it, Chief. Stay here with Simon while I check it out," Jim ordered as Blair moved to open his door.

Blair obeyed, using the time to study their new safe house. He half expected another dive like the one that had blown up, but this was fantastic. It was painted slate blue, a boxy looking two stories with a small tower-like room as a third story. The house sat within a stone's throw of a narrow strip of beach.

Blair was itching to explore.

Jim returned to the car, giving an all clear and the men began to carry the groceries inside. Blair liked the house instantly: big open rooms with plenty of large windows that looked out onto the bay. After they put away the groceries, Simon assigned rooms. Blair stuck his head in the room he'd been given, appreciating the cleanliness and view of the water, then explored the rest of the house. He found the stairs to a small observation tower; an airy room set up with chairs and a high-powered telescope. Blair took a peek, getting comfortable on a padded stool. He had a three hundred and sixty degree view over the top of the low scrubby pines. The blue ribbon of the Pacific Ocean stretched up and down the peninsula.

He was still playing with the telescope when Jim found him.

"Simon wants to know what you feel like eating for dinner."

Blair continued to look at the magnified shoreline of the peninsula tip called Leadbetter Point and a small island just east called Grassy Island. "Whatever, man. I'm easy."

"Pasta and chicken?"

"Sure."

"You okay, Chief?"

Giving up his bird watching for a moment, Blair answered, "What do you mean?"

Spreading his hands to indicate their current location, Jim shrugged as he continued, "You're taking this easier than I expected, that's all."

It was Blair's turn to shrug. "Not much I can do about it, is there? I mean, the important thing is to make sure Rossetti goes to trial and pays for all the suffering he's caused. To do that, I need to stay hidden. I'm not thrilled about it, but I understand. I'm just happy we're getting to stay in a nice place for once."

Jim nodded. "I hear that. With Simon here, it's going to be easier now."

Blair stood with a grimace, his bruises still making his movements stiff and painful. "What are the chances of getting some of our things sent out to us? I could use some of my books and my laptop."

"Clothes would be nice, too," Jim added with a smile.

"That too, man. After I get my books and my laptop," Blair insisted. "Hey, maybe we can work on some more tests..."

"Oops, I think I hear Simon calling," Jim interrupted as he turned to jog down the stairs.

"Coward!" Blair called after him.

"Our packages have arrived," Simon announced from the doorway as Blair and Jim returned from another long walk up the shoreline.

They had been living on the peninsula for three days. Jim had to admit to himself, he was enjoying their forced vacation. The last two months had been hectic, and not in a good way. Now they slept in, took leisurely walks in the wildlife refuge, played poker, read a few paperbacks they'd found in the house and took turns cooking. The weather had continued to hold, bringing day after day of warm breezes off the water each afternoon. Last night, they'd driven to the nearby town of Oysterville, looked around, and bought fresh oysters for dinner.

A man could get used to this.

"Great!" Blair covered the last few feet in a sprint, proving his bruises were mostly healed. "I can't wait to get to work on some outlines for new tests. I hope Joel remembered everything."

Simon stepped aside as Blair kicked off his sneakers and padded into the kitchen to open the boxes sitting on the floor. The older men shared an indulgent smile. Apparently, Blair's maximum time for the life of leisure was seventy-two hours. He'd made a few despairing comments at breakfast that very morning about being bored.

Jim helped himself to coffee and watched while his roommate tore into the boxes like a junkie looking for his next fix. Each box brought a different comment.

"Yes! He remembered! I needed this, great. Ah oh, not this one, the green binder! Hey, I thought I returned this one, oh well. Okay! There it is! Where's the workbook that should be inside? Crap, I'm going to need more paper. Oh! Oh! My laptop! Come to poppa, baby. I've so missed you!"

"How was your walk, Jim?" Simon between sips of coffee and Blair's running commentary.

"The same, a few visitors in the refuge. I managed to keep Sandburg from striking up conversations this time."

"Good, those teenage girls looked ready to follow him home like puppies yesterday. You'd think he was a rock star or something," Simon grumbled.

"Are we sure these boxes are safe, Simon?" Jim asked eyeing the shipment.

"Joel assured me that he personally packed each box and delivered it to the DA's office. There is no way they could be traced to us," Simon replied. "I'm just glad they got here. I'm tired of sharing my wardrobe with you two clowns. Besides, a bored Sandburg is a trouble making Sandburg."

"I agree; I even let him work up a few tests for me yesterday." Jim mocked shuddered. "Well, we always have your handcuffs..."

"Ha. Ha." Blair tossed an irritated look over his shoulder. "You two going to help me truck all these books up to my room or what?"

"I believe we've been given our orders, Jim." Simon set his coffee down on the counter and squatted down to lift the nearest box. "Holy smokes! Why is it text books weight three times heavier than a normal book?"

"It's the price we pay for a higher education, man," Blair quipped, lifting the heaviest box and heading for the staircase.

After Blair's boxes had been relocated, Blair remained in his room, happily unpacking and greeting each textbook like a long lost relative. Jim and Simon returned to the kitchen. A few boxes filled with the items Jim had requested still needed to be moved.

"At least you didn't ask for a forest of printed paper, Jim," Simon commented as he reached to pick up the closest box.

"Someone's coming, Simon." Jim looked out the kitchen window, his hand involuntarily reaching for his hidden gun.

"I don't see...oh, it's one of the girls from yesterday," Simon stood at Jim's side. "Who's the man with her?"

"I don't know, maybe her father?" Jim went to the back door and had it opened by the time the two strolled up the brick walkway to the house, the man's arm casually draped over the girl's shoulder. Simon stood just off to one side, covering his back. Using his advanced sense of hearing, Jim checked the immediate area, no other heartbeats sounded. He relaxed a bit.

"May I help you?" Jim asked politely, smiling at the girl.

She looked about fourteen. Large for her size, she wore shorts and a cropped top with the words `Spoiled Princess' in pink glitter. Jim remembered her from the group of girls yesterday. She'd been the quiet one, her eyes on Blair the entire time he'd chatted with them. The man at her side was about Jim's age. Dressed in expensive but casual clothes, he looked like a businessman on vacation.

"I'm sorry to bother you," the man said with a smile. "I understand you gentlemen are renting this house for a while?"

Jim felt Simon move to stand at his back. He let his boss answer.

"That's correct, can we help you?"

"Julie said she met you three yesterday in the wildlife park." The man patted the girl's shoulder and dropped his arm.

Jim was becoming irritated with the visitor. Could he just get to the point? Before he could answer, the man reached behind his back with his left hand. It reappeared with an ugly looking silenced automatic which he pointed at the girl's head.

"Both of you move back into the house," he ordered quietly, all business.

Talk about stupid! He should have seen this coming. Jim stepped back, holding both hands away from his sides. The girl looked genuinely terrified, her eyes wide as she stumbled over the threshold, the man's firm grip on her upper arm the only thing keeping her from falling.

"I know you're both cops. I know you've got weapons. Put them on the table or I kill her right now." He shook the girl, producing a single tear from the child's eye.

Jim set his gun next to Simon's on the kitchen table. The man pushed the girl into Simon's arms. Taking a small two-way radio from his pocket, he raised it to his face, his eyes never leaving either man. "Phase one complete."

"What do you want?" Simon asked unnecessarily.

Jim didn't expect an answer from the man. He recognized the precise efficient manner of a hired mercenary. A moment later the gunman was joined by four others, equally armed and silent. Both Simon and Jim were frisked. They found Jim's backup gun strapped to his ankle, relieved him of it and forced them down onto their knees, hands clasped behind their heads. The girl was pushed into a corner chair and told to be quiet.

"Well, well, seems we have finally caught up with you gentlemen." Rossetti walked into the kitchen followed by a sixth mercenary. He looked around the kitchen, displeasure replacing his smug smile. "Where is he?"

"Rossetti, you're going down. Don't make this worse for yourself!" Simon demanded, his eyes squinting in anger.

"Captain Banks, may I just say you are a fool. I do not go anywhere unless I choose to." Rossetti waved a hand towards the prisoners. "Keep them here. If either man makes another sound, kill the girl. Two of you come with me."

Jim wanted to shout a warning up to Blair, but knew the man wasn't bluffing. Rossetti strolled out of the room, looking for all the world like a man on a self-guided tour. Jim tracked the footsteps through the lower level until he heard them on the stairs.

Blair studied his room with a critical eye. No doubt about it. The student desk was okay, but he was going to need more shelves in here. He could switch rooms with Jim, but he didn't want to give up the view of the bay. If he shoved the full-sized bed against the far wall and moved the dresser...

"Hello, Blair."

Spinning on his heel, Blair let the book slip from numb fingers and crash to the floor.

Rossetti.

Oh, shit.

"You seem surprised. Surely you realize if I want something, I get it," Rossetti purred as he entered the room.

Blair swallowed, unconsciously trying to moisten a suddenly parched throat. There was no way Jim would let this monster walk up here, unless...

"Where's Jim? What did you do to them?" he demanded, taking a step backwards. His butt hit the desk and he had nowhere to go. Two men, framed by the open doorway, backed up the criminal and blocked Blair's escape. If it wasn't for the two story drop, he'd risk jumping through the screened window. Something told him two broken legs wouldn't stop Rossetti from doing whatever he wanted.

"Nothing, yet. My men are with them in the kitchen." Rossetti raised a hand to reach for Blair's head, pausing when Blair held up his hands to ward him off. "Unless you want me to change that?"

The hidden meaning was as clear as an interstate road sign and Blair forced himself to drop his arms, letting the man complete his aborted movement. He shuddered as fingers tentatively touched his hair then combed through, catching wind knots he hadn't had time to deal with. Rossetti frowned, his gaze switching from Blair's face to his messy hair.

"From now on, you are to keep your hair perfectly combed for me at all times," the man ordered, clenching his fingers into a tight fist and pulling until Blair's head was tilted painfully at a sharp angle. "Do you understand?"

Blair tried to ignore the sharp pinpoints of pain from his hair roots. "If you don't relax, dude. There won't be any hair left to look at," he muttered obstinately through clenched teeth.

Rossetti seemed startled. He broke into a broad smile and released his hold. "You're even more than I imagined." He broke off from his intense study of his victim and turned to the men standing behind him. "Bring him."

They marched him down the wide staircase, one thug on each side, his upper arms and wrists completely immobilized. When they entered the kitchen, Blair saw the teenager from yesterday sitting tearfully in the corner.

"What the hell?" He looked quickly at Jim and Simon; both men seemed okay as they kneeled on the tile floor, reminding Blair of old war movies where the prisoners were told to keep their hands together behind their heads, their elbows winged out. "What are you doing, Rossetti! Why did you have to bring her into this?"

"She was very helpful," Rossetti answered with a shrug. "But I can't have her telling anyone I was the person that took you."

What? Blair looked back at the girl. She was sobbing quietly now, her shoulders shaking. How could she be responsible for this? Yet here they stood, crowded into the kitchen.

"What are you planning, Rossetti?" Simon demanded.

Rossetti smiled, examining both the cops with an assessing eye. "Nothing much, I have what I want. Under different circumstances, I might consider bringing you two gentlemen for a film I've been thinking of producing. But I don't have time. Once the Feds learn their last witness is gone, my attorneys assure me the case will be dropped. After a cooling off period, I'll change my name, move my operation and open up again." His eyes returned to Blair. "It will be nice to have some free time to enjoy myself."

Part of Blair's brain, the part that wasn't terrified, was madly turning over options to keep the others from being hurt. As much as the thought of going with this creep caused him to hurl chunks, he was willing to try anything. "Okay, you found me. Let's go. You don't have to hurt anyone."

"Sandburg, we've seen him," Jim growled. "He's going to kill us."

"NO!" Blair pulled at the hands that held him. "I promise I won't fight you... just don't...listen, man, you said you're going to change your name anyway. You don't have to..."

"Blair, don't promise this asshole anything!" Jim ordered. "We're dead no matter what he says to you."

The girl sobbed loudly, hugging herself and curling till her forehead rested on her knees.

Rossetti wasn't fazed in the slightest. Looking like a man who was pondering what color tie to wear for the day, he pointed to two of his men. "Take them into the trees and do them. I don't want the mailman to find the bodies any sooner than necessary. The rest of you come with me."

"No! NononononoNO!" Blair kicked out with both sock-covered feet, flailing uselessly in the men's grasp. Lifted off his feet entirely by his upper arms, he was carried out of the kitchen and down the walkway. Rossetti walked ahead of them, staying a safe distance from Blair's kicks. A panel truck waited in the driveway, its back door rolled up to expose a padded bench with straps. Blair tried yelling, hoping to alert a neighbor or passing motorist. A meaty hand that smelled of sweat and gun oil cut off his first word. In no time he was on the bench, held in place with straps, his hands and ankles duct-taped together. Rossetti personally stuffed a cloth into his mouth and held him still while a wide strip of tape finished the gag.

"Can you breathe okay?" Rossetti asked Blair, sounding genuinely concerned, like a dog owner towards his prized pet.

Arching against the straps, Blair tested their strength and found it more than enough to hold him. He gave up, spent and sick with worry, his thoughts on Jim, Simon and the girl. Jim would get them away, Blair's brain insisted, not even noticing as Rossetti began to stroke his hair again. Jim and Simon could take two men easily. Blair closed his eyes as the truck's motor roared to life and they lurched forward.

They'll be fine... they had to be.

Jim listened to Blair's desperate attempts to convince Rossetti not to hurt those left behind. It sounded like they had entered a big van or panel truck, as Blair's muffled protests echoed. The distinct sound of duct tape being stripped off a roll met Jim's ears. There was a short burst of colorful cursing then Blair was quiet.

"Hey! Dick-cop! I'm talking to you!" The nearest gunman cuffed the back of Jim's head with his free hand before stepping back. "I said stand up, are you stupid or something?"

Jim rose to his feet in one move. Seeing Simon had been allowed to lower his hands, he followed suit. The girl was standing within the captain's protective stance, his arms around her shaking shoulders. She was wordlessly crying as she buried her face into his broad chest. The gunmen stood back motioning for the three of them to walk.

Searching the room for inspiration on how they were going to get out of this mess, Jim took a step towards the open doorway. How far were these men willing to walk into the woods? They'd acted professional up until now, keeping out of reach and not standing too close to each other. It was unlikely they'd provide either Simon or himself a chance to overpower them.

Just as Jim reached the doorway, he smelled it.

Lemon juice.

Faint, but there. The smell came from one of the few remaining boxes not carried up to Blair's room, one of the boxes containing his own things. Knowing he hadn't asked Joel to pack anything with a lemon scent, Jim realized a second bomb was about to detonate.

"Go ahead of me, sir," Jim said motioning for Simon and the girl to pass.

Simon gave Jim a strange look, but complied. He took the girl out into the sunshine, patting her back and murmuring soft reassurances. Jim fell in behind, knowing both gunmen would follow. How long had it taken the first bomb to explode? Jim thought back to the night he and Blair had fled from the first safe house. Maybe five minutes?

Shit, he needed to slow this down.

"Listen," Jim stopped and turned to talk. "I don't know how much Rossetti is paying you, but we can double it. My father is rich. You stand a chance of making a bundle, plus we can put you into a witness protection program. Rossetti will never find you."

"Jim?" Simon muttered in disbelief.

Jim ignored his boss, keeping his eyes on the gunmen. "What do you say? No one would know."

They snorted, their obvious rejection written all over their faces. "You've got to be kidding, Ellison. You think we got where we are by being stupid? We've heard this shit a hundred times, by men richer than your old man."

"You're willing to kill a child?" Simon demanded. "You could at least let her go. She has nothing to do with this!"

The second gunman looked like he was becoming uncomfortable with the idea of killing the girl. It was obvious, though, that he wasn't the one calling the shots. The first gunman looked at them with cold eyes and sighed. Jim got the feeling he'd gotten his kicks as a kid by drowning puppies.

"Move," Cold-Eyes ordered. "Or I'll do her here and make you two carry her body."

Jim didn't want to risk it. He turned back towards the distant tree line. Catching Simon's eye, he mouthed the words `be ready'. Simon understood. Gathering the girl closer to his side, he walked on ahead.

Ten steps.

Nothing.

Fifteen steps.

Jim lost the scent of lemon now. Had he just been imagining it?

Twenty steps.

They were about the same distance from the house as Blair and he had been when the first bomb had gone off. If it didn't happen soon, it was going to be too late.

Twenty-five steps.

Jim started working on plan `B'. If he jumped the nearest man, he might be able to buy enough time for Simon to get the girl safely away. Jim would more than likely be killed, but at least the girl had a chance.

Thirty steps. They were nearing the trees. Jim prepared himself mentally for the task, sending a quick prayer heavenward for Simon and the girl. Simon had to live; he would be the last person with a chance of getting Blair back.

The soft pop was the only warning Jim got. Dialing his hearing to zero just in time, the house exploded into a billion pieces of wood and plaster. Jim turned on a heel, covering the distance to the first man just as the shock concussion hit them. As the gunman lurched forward from the blast, Jim made sure his fist was in the path of the falling face. The gunman was unconscious before he hit the grass.

The blast knocked Jim to his knees, almost out of reach of the man's gun. Flinging himself full length into the grass, Jim snatched up the automatic from the gunman's open palm and shot Cold-Eyes in the chest with three rapidly fired rounds, making a tight pattern. The final gunman looked down at his chest with wide eyes before crumpling to the ground.

Chunks of house pelted him and Jim took a second to cover his head protectively, waiting out the debris rainstorm. He could feel the radiant heat from the explosion now and realized this bomb was much more powerful than the first one. As Jim sucked in the scent of lawn and dirt, two other facts were apparent.

The person responsible for these bombs wasn't Rossetti.

And the bomb was in Jim's box, not Blair's.

They'd drugged him.

Blair's tongue felt five times too large. All the moisture had been sucked out of his mouth. He was certain his throat had cracks in it, like the time Naomi had taken him to the Mojave Desert when he was seven. He remembered peeling up saucer-sized pieces of ground, fascinated by the way the extreme heat had caused the top layer to crack and shrivel, forming a scale-like pattern for miles.

Some of that desert sand must have found its way into his eyes. Blair blinked painfully at his surroundings, not recognizing anything. The last thing he'd remembered was being loaded onto a boat, still taped hand and foot. Then a syringe had appeared then... nothing.

He took inventory. The tape was gone, he had freedom to move all his limbs. The gag was gone, that was a relief. Ever since Lash, even the thought of a gag made him shudder. He patted his chest, his arms heavy and stiff. He was clothed. Blair took a deep breath.

Okay, he needed to check out his new location. That meant he was going to have to move.

With a low groan, he rolled to one side and pushed himself into a semi-sitting position. He was in a bed. A bed with clean sheets and an expensive looking down comforter. No one yelled at him to stay still, so Blair guessed he was alone. The room was about the size of his own bedroom in the loft, only no window. Swinging both legs over the side of the bed, his toes sank into an expensive carpet.

He never had a chance to put on his sneakers.

Blair rubbed his temples. He must still be under the effects of the drug; his thoughts were ricocheting around like a jackrabbit on speed.

Water. He really, really wanted some water - thank you very much.

Lurching to his feet, he headed for the smaller of the two doors. It opened, much to his surprise, on to a bathroom. He made a beeline for the sink and used his palm to trap the water from the faucet, slurping greedily for several long seconds.

"How are you feeling?"

Blair spun, flinging droplets from his lips and chin. Rossetti stood in the open doorway, two of his henchmen at his back. He was dressed like a businessman, ready for a day in the office.

"What do you care, man?" Blair replied evenly. "You're just going to kill me anyway."

Rossetti seemed truly surprised. "Kill you? Mr. Sandburg... Blair - may I call you Blair?"

"No."

"All right then, for now. Mr. Sandburg, I've spend literally thousands of dollars to ensure that you could be safely brought to me, very much alive. Why would you believe otherwise?" Rossetti gestured, opening his hands as if to encourage an answer.

"You tried to kill us at the safe house in Cascade," Blair insisted.

Rossetti shook his head. "No, I don't even know what you're talking about. I admit I ordered your office destroyed. You won't need it anymore. But I'd never risk killing you. I was told you were somewhere in Canada. I had an Internet website created by a phony company advertising a reward for anyone who reported your location. Your face has been viewed by thousands of people all over the world."

Blair felt sick.

"That's why those girls acted like I was some kind of celebrity," Blair muttered, leaning his butt against the counter top.

Rossetti smiled, folding his arms smugly across his chest.

"Dinner is ready. I've taken the liberty of asking the cook to keep it simple. The sedative in your bloodstream may cause discomfort for a few more hours." Rossetti stepped back, sweeping his arm grandly. "After you."

Blair closed his eyes, pondering his options. He could refuse, but what would that gain? The more he saw of the house they were in, the more information he had on how to escape. Besides, the guy was acting civil. Why rock the boat?

Blair pushed away from the counter. He'd play along, for now.

One thing was obvious; they were in some kind of huge house. If Blair were to guess, he'd pick something along the lines of a castle. The floors were flagstone, the walls either stone or large cinder bricks. But the fixtures and the air handling vents were all new. Someone had spent a lot of money to make the place look old, yet keep the comforts of the twenty-first century. Each window they passed was covered with heavy drapes, making it impossible to see the landscape.

Turning yet another corner in the long corridor and after descending a full level to a lower story, they arrived in a large dining room. Blair took one look at the array of framed artwork and blushed to his roots. Oils, charcoal, acrylics and photographs lined the four walls. Some small, about the size of a single sheet of notebook paper, others large enough to be twice the real size of the subjects, but all had the same theme.

As an anthropologist, Blair had studied many types of cultures and many types of sexual preferences. As an individual, he'd always preferred woman. Over the years, he'd been casually asked out by other men, but had not been interested. His exposure to graphic illustrations of same gender sexual acts was limited, mostly when he'd been young and curious. He still preferred the Playboy magazines, however. When his mother had found one under his mattress, he'd tried the line about `just reading the articles.' Naomi hadn't believed him.

Blair took the seat one of Rossetti's men pulled out for him. Keeping his eyes on the glossy finish of the teak tabletop, he remained quiet, as a large bowl of soup was set before him. The faster he ate, the faster he could hopefully get out of this room. Blair picked up the spoon and made short work of the soup while Rossetti chatted. You'd think they were two old friends spending a weekend together. Once the bowl was empty, Blair finished off the glass of ice water, ignoring the red wine that had been poured for him by a thin man wearing a waiter's outfit. He pushed away from the table, cutting off his captor's trivial chatter about the beauty of the French Riviera in summer.

"I want to go back to my room," Blair demanded, standing up.

A strong hand shoved him down and he landed hard on the chair again.

"Mr. Sandburg, you are being rude." Rossetti tossed his linen napkin down on the table in an annoyed manner and rose. "That was just the first course."

"I'm full," Blair replied bluntly, succeeding in returning Rossetti's unhappy expression with his best stubborn look.

Rossetti sighed, walking around to stand next to Blair's chair. Blair felt Rossetti's hand, stroking the length of his hair, playing with the strands. "You need to relax. We've got the rest of our lives to get to know each other. You have no idea how lucky you are, Mr. Sandburg... Blair. I've never allowed myself to fall in love before I met you. I didn't have time. But I've realized there is more to life then making millions of dollars. I cherish the day Matro brought you into my life."

Blair squeezed his eyes shut, longing to break every one of Rossetti's fingers.

It dawned on him that someone had washed, dried and combed his hair while he'd been drugged. It was too clean, too silky. The thought that they had performed this task while he had been helpless to stop them made Blair furious. He didn't have time for this shit.

Blair did the only thing he could think of under the circumstances. He was outnumbered. They had guns. He didn't even have his pocket knife or shoes. But he knew human nature, and he knew enough about Rossetti to understand how to break the mood.

Blair threw up, covering his shirt and lap in vile smelling vomit.

"Looks like he managed to get off the peninsula," Simon stated.

They stood grouped around a table at the Longbeach police station. Federal, county and city officers had converged within hours. The single airport in the area had reported no planes leaving. The only two roads out of the peninsula had roadblocks.

After tying up the surviving gunman and calling for help from the girl's house, the narrow strip of land had been sealed up hopefully in time to keep Rossetti from escaping with Blair.

"He must have taken a boat," the police chief, a man in his late sixties with the last name of Newton, commented. He shook his head, scratching under his chin as he studied the map on the table. "We've got plenty of places a person could tie up in the bay. Once he gets out of the harbor, he could go anywhere if he's got the right type of boat."

"Coast guard is patrolling the waters and searching from the air," a Federal agent said. "But without knowing what kind of boat we're looking for..." He let the comment die a premature death.

Everyone in the room knew the ending anyway.

Jim turned away from the map with a sigh. This was getting them nowhere. He rubbed his forehead. The meeting was accomplishing nothing except a king-size headache. He leaned a shoulder against the window frame and stared out into the night. It was going on twelve hours since Rossetti had walked into that house. The man seemed untouchable, able to go here and there without the Feds even realizing he'd left his estate outside Cascade. Of course, now they knew about the underground tunnels. Federal agents had obtained a search warrant with Simon's and his eye witness account from earlier. The judge had signed the search warrant as well as a warrant for Rossetti's arrest, no bail this time.

Too little, too late.

Jim rolled his shoulders to ease aching muscles. There was no point in dwelling on the past. What he needed to concentrate on was finding Blair. His thoughts returned to what he'd heard while kneeling on that kitchen floor, just before they'd been ordered to walk towards the woods. Rossetti had given his men instructions, but they'd made no sense at the time.

Rossetti had ordered his men to dump the truck as planned, then something about contacting them.

`I'll get in touch from Peter Iron-something,' the criminal had said.

Jim had tried everything he could think of to remember more, even meditating. He had holed up in a spare office and asked Simon to keep everyone out. He'd done the breathing, he'd tried visualization like Blair had taught, he'd even tried prayer.

Nothing.

It wasn't a matter of Jim forgetting. Rossetti had mumbled. Jim had repeated the partial comment to those in the room, no one knew of a man by such a name. They'd interviewed the surviving killer after he woke. The result was the same.

They still had nothing.

A hand touched his shoulder and Jim turned to see Simon at his side, offering a water bottle. "Here, drink."

Jim accepted the bottle, downing half quickly. He'd been so focused, he hadn't realized how thirsty he'd become. "Thanks."

"We should be getting more faxes soon, Jim."

Jim nodded. The local news reported the fire as a tragic accident, killing all inside. As far as Rossetti would know, no one survived. The idea was to buy time to find Blair. The detectives back at Major Crimes were working frantically to pull together any records found at Rossetti's estate that might give them a clue as to where Blair had been taken. But the paper chase wasn't easy. Rossetti had made his fortunes with dummy companies as well as legal businesses. He had hundreds of employees on the books. None with a name similar to the one Jim had overheard.

"He's been with that creep half a day," Jim said glumly.

"Sandburg's resourceful," Simon insisted. "He knows how to survive."

A tightness in his gut caused Jim to cringe. Maybe he shouldn't have gulped that water so fast. He replaced the cap on the bottle and set it on the window ledge. "God, Simon, if we don't find him soon, Blair may not want to be found."

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. Right now, let's just concentrate on finding him and taking Rossetti down."

"New faxes." A female officer entered the squad room with multiple copies and Jim left the window.

After another thirty minutes of study, they knew more names, but none that helped the investigation.

"Okay... what do we know?" Simon stated. "He has the place in Cascade, apparently his main operation locale. He also has houses in Florida, Vermont and Texas. Those are the one under his name, now the companies have timeshares in half a dozen vacation timeshares, literally giving the man access to several continents."

"Our best lead is this Peter guy," a Fed commented, looking at Jim. "You're sure you heard him say Peter Iron?"

"I only caught the first syllable of the last name," Jim answered. "But, yeah, I heard it." He left out the part about Rossetti being in the back of a truck several feet away from the house at the time.

"We know by process of elimination he escaped by boat," Simon continued. "Question is... which way would he go? Out to Sea? Or inland?"

"He's obviously had this kidnapping planned, but according to the girl she had emailed the bogus company last night. He didn't have a lot of time to put this together," Chief Newton commented. "He had to arrange for a boat and the truck that transported them. Would he have time for another car to meet them somewhere in the harbor? I'd be willing to bet he went out to sea. With enough fuel in reserve, he could have put some distance behind him."

"I agree," Simon said with a nod. "So we're back to that name."

"You know, I've been thinking about that," the police chief added. "We may not be looking for a person."

Newton might not be in charge of a large police force, but Jim began to realize the man knew how to work out a tough problem. "Not a person, what then?"

"A boat."

"You know a boat called Peter Iron?" the senior Fed said in disbelief. "And you just now think it's worth mentioning?"

Newton shot the man a look that spoke of his feelings towards Federal Agents. "This is a long shot, at best. I'm thinking of a wrecked boat, but it's the most photographed shipwreck on the coast, the Peter Iredale, a British barkentine."

Jim gripped the edge of the table. That name sounded very much like the one Rossetti had muttered. "Where is it?"

"Just south of the Columbia Bar. It's at a state park called Fort Stevens in Oregon. Only a few timbers are sticking out of the sand now," Newton told them.

"What's a barkentine?" Simon asked.

"It's the name used for a sailing ship with three or more masts having fore-and-aft sails on all but the front mast, it required fewer crew members. Ships like the Peter Iredale were very popular in the Pacific in the eighteen hundreds," Newton explained to the group.

"I can't see how a shipwreck helps us any," one of the Feds grumbled.

Jim wasn't so sure. They were spinning their wheels here. "I'm going to check it out."

"Well, if you want, I can call a friend who works at the Columbia Maritime Museum in Astoria. I doubt there's a person alive who knows more about local shipwreck history," Chief Newton told them.

Jim nodded. "Do you think we could make that call right now?"

"Jim, it's late," Simon protested.

"I don't care," Jim stated. "Every second that Rossetti has Sandburg is one second too long."

"I'll call her. She's a night owl anyway," the Police Chief told Jim.

After the Chief left the room, the Feds went back to study their reports. Simon pulled Jim to one corner, looking less than happy with the latest turn of events.

"Jim..."

"Simon," Jim cut him off. "I know what you're going to say. But this is getting us squat and I'm not waiting any longer. I've got to do something, even if it's chasing down a long shot."

"And how do you expect to make this little road trip, Detective?" Simon asked sharply. "I seem to recall you don't have any transportation."

Trust it to Simon to point out the obvious. It was time to back off and remember who his friends were. "Actually... I was sort of hoping..."

Simon snorted. "As if I'd let you drive off by yourself."

The Chief's friend, a woman named Michele Hoover agreed to meet them at the museum. Once Jim was given a vague location, he realized at once it was the same place he and Blair had been dropped off when they had first arrived in Astoria. An hour later, they were standing at the glass doors of an enormous building on the south shore of the river. An elderly woman in her seventies let them in, introducing herself as Michele.

"Newt said you both are interested in the Iredale." She led them to a large display hanging on the wall near the entrance.

"We're looking for a kidnapper," Jim explained.

"A kidnapper." She shook her head. "What does he have to do with a shipwreck?"

"Maybe nothing," Jim admitted. "But I thought I heard the kidnapper say Iredale. Is there anything about this shipwreck that might tell us where he would go?"

She looked confused. "I'm sorry, I'm just not following your logic. That ship went down back in nineteen-oh-six. Only a bit of the hull structure is left. You couldn't hide a mouse on that ship now, let alone a poor kidnap victim."

Jim sighed. She was right, of course. He knew that. The Feds had already reported the Coast Guard personnel had searched the area around the shipwreck during the drive down to the museum. The tide was up, completely covering the timbers of the hull, the beach had been deserted, and no boats were reported in the area off the shore. This was a waste of time.

"Would you tell us what you know about the Iredale?" Simon asked gently. "Maybe something will trigger an idea for us."

She smiled, transforming her finely wrinkled skin into a mischievous pixie-like appearance. "Oh... be careful what you ask for, young man. Never, never ask a historian to tell you what they know, unless you have a lot of time on your hands and a comfortable seat!"

Simon returned the smile. "Consider us warned, but please, go ahead."

"Okay, I'd love to." She pointed to the map of the Washington and Oregon coast as she started. "Cape Disappointment and the North Head lighthouses are located here and here. They drastically improved the safety of mariners near the mouth of the Columbia River. Built in 1856 and 1889 respectively, the two lights prevent the loss of vessels and human lives in the waters of the Pacific. These waters are very, very dangerous! In fact, the U.S. Coast Guard has a long operational history out of Station Cape Disappointment, including its National Motor Life Boat School. This is where Coast Guard coxswains from all over the country receive training for operations in heavy weather and heavy surf conditions. The men and women of Cape Disappointment save lives every year as pleasure and work vessels find themselves in trouble along the coastline and bar."

Jim rubbed his jaw, she reminded him of Blair as she warmed up to her subject. He just wished she'd get to the part about the shipwreck.

"Now, even in these modern times with GPS and radar, ships still find themselves in trouble all the time. In fact, we just had a shipwreck this year, an American fishing boat called the `Ida E.' Only a few shipwrecks are viewable, though, and that's why the Iredale is so popular. On Jetty `A'..." She pointed to the spot. "A ship called the `Bettie M' can be seen. Another, the `Alice' occasionally shows a bit of skeleton in Ocean Park. The `Admiral Benson' at Benson Beach continues to snag fishing gear, but time and tide will break them down until even they disappear." She turned her back on the wall display and walked over to a padded stool.

"Enough general stuff, you boys wanted to know about the Iredale." She settled onto the stool and grasped her jeans-covered knees, preparing herself for the next part of her talk. "Well, the `Peter Iredale sailed from Salina Cruz, Mexico, on or about the twenty-sixth of September, nineteen-oh-six, with a thousand tons of ballast, and a crew of twenty-seven, including two stowaways. She was bound for Portland, Oregon, under the command of Captain H. Lawrence. The ship's passage was uneventful until the night of October twenty-fifth when Lawrence sighted the Tillamook Light at oh-three twenty. The vessel entered the mouth of the Columbia River in a thick mist on a rising tide. Now, unexpectedly, the wind veered to the west and as the vessel was trying to back away from the shore she was struck by a heavy northwest squall. She grounded on Clatsop Sands and was driven ashore by a strong southwest sea and a westerly gale. She was soon dismasted, and the crew was taken off by lifeboat, with no loss of life. A Naval Court was held at the British Vice-Consulate right here in Astoria to investigate the loss. The conduct of Captain Lawrence and his officers were commended, the loss being ascribed to the weather, particularly the sudden wind shift," she ended and smiled brightly.

"What happened to Lawrence?" Simon asked.

She shrugged. "Nothing much, he got another ship and continued his career until he retired. He always loved the Iredale, though. He settled down to live here on the coast..." her voice faded and her eyes widened.

Jim's pulse quickened and he held his breath, almost afraid to hope.

"You know... there is a possibility I might know of a place you could try." She slid off the stool and headed for a phone on a nearby counter. "There will be hell to pay calling this late, but you both say this is a kidnapping, right?"

"Yes, ma`am," Jim insisted.

"Okay, then. Let me phone a fellow historian I know." She made the call and when she'd finished, she hung up wearing a broad smile. "I was right. Lawrence purchased a small island south of here, he build an old house. Now, the house is gone but he named the island after his shipwrecked boat. The name never truly stuck, only the old-timers that live in the area remember, and darn few left, at that. I'd almost forgotten."

Jim couldn't stand it. He had to ask. "Where is it?"

Rossetti backed away in disgust and Blair would have laughed if his throat wasn't burning.

"Take him and clean him up!" the man shouted. "Then bring him to my room."

Strong hands jerked him out of the seat to stand. Blair had bought some time, that was all.

"I'm not your play toy, you pervert!"

Rossetti returned to his seat, calmly picking up a spoon. "You will be whatever I decide you will be. Your friends are gone, killed in a fire. Unfortunately, I lost two good men. However, on the positive side, the authorities believe you perished as well, so I really shouldn't complain."

If he'd had anything left, Blair would have thrown up a second time. "You're lying..."

"No, if you'd like, I'll have the local paper brought to us on the next supply run." Rossetti waved a hand. "Get him cleaned up."

They pulled him out of the room. Blair stumbled along in shock.

A fire.

Why would Rossetti's men die in a fire?

Unless... it followed an explosion? From another bomb?

Rossetti said he wasn't responsible for the bomb in the first safe house. Now there had been a second one? Who was doing this? Jim got out the first time it happened, would he be so lucky the second time?

He had to be. Blair refused to believe his friend was dead. Jim survived. And he kept Simon and that girl safe as well.

Back at the small room he'd first woken up in, he was pushed into the bathroom and ordered to shower. From the expressions on the guard's faces, Blair got the impression if he balked now, they'd just end up stripping his clothes off and doing it for him. As least, they let him close the door, giving him the illusion of privacy.

Blair turned on the water and began to unbutton his outer shirt; his fingers slipping on the vomit covered buttons. His hands were beginning to shake. What was he going to do now? He knew one thing for sure; he wasn't going to walk willingly into that guy's bedroom.

The door opened. Blair spun around, ready for a fight, not sure what to expect. It was the guy from the kitchen, the one that had brought him the soup. He gave Blair a timid smile and set a small glass of pink fluid on the counter.

"For your stomach..."

The man was gone and the door closed before Blair could think up a proper response. He picked up the glass and sniffed. It looked and smelled like normal Pepto Bismol. And his stomach did still feel like a ship deck caught in a storm at sea. He bit his lip.

God, he so needed a plan.

Rossetti checked the miniature video cameras for the third time. Hidden within plants and objects of art, he made sure each of the three cameras were aimed at his king-size bed. He was a man of detail, meticulous and careful with his preparations. In over forty years, those details had made him rich. Money brought pleasures, and an appetite. Rossetti soon became bored with what the normal world offered and turned his attention to the darker, less publicized world of pleasure. But even after countless films and shallow graves all over the world, his hunger could not be satisfied. He'd begun to believe he'd never fill the vacuum within, until he'd seen Matro's hostage.

Now the man was his.

Rossetti went to the small marble and oak wet bar and poured a scotch. He wore his best silk robe and nothing else. His eyes went to the antique mantel clock as he sipped his drink. It was nearly one in the morning.

Any time now.

On cue, there was a soft knock on his door.

"Enter."

Two of his men presented his new toy. They'd dressed the young man in the blue silk pants and long sleeve button-up shirt that perfectly matched his exquisite eyes, which currently looked back with a lackluster stare.

Rossetti smiled. Blair had taken the medication for his stomach. With the additive he had the cook put in, there would be no need for his men to stay. His new prize would be completely manageable. Rossetti noticed the white towel still wrapped around the young man's head, hiding those incredible locks of hair.

He frowned and his men instantly explained.

"He was slow getting ready. We though you'd like the pleasure of combing his hair yourself, boss. You want us to take him back and fix it?"

"No," Rossetti told them, setting his drink down and walking over. "You're right. I would like to take care of this personally."

Gently pulling the shorter man towards him, Rossetti watched Blair's face remain complacent. He moved willingly forward. One more little test. Rossetti leaned down and placed a gentle, almost chaste kiss on the other man's lips.

Perfect. He was completely perfect.

"Go ahead. I won't be needing either of you until breakfast."

"You still want a guard outside, boss?"

Rossetti nodded. Old habits were hard to break. He liked knowing there was someone outside to protect him against police raids and the like. One last defense to slow down any intruders and give him time to escape. The walls were thick, nearly soundproof. Not that he cared what his men heard. Let them think what they wanted. "Yes, but I don't want to be disturbed."

"Certainly, good night, sir." They left, closing the door behind them.

Rossetti looked down at the man in front of him. He'd spent so much money and waited months for this night. He planned on having many `good nights'. "How are you feeling, Blair? How's your stomach?"

Blair nodded. "Okay... I'm good."

"That's wonderful." Rossetti drew him towards the bed to sit on the edge. "I know you feel sleepy, but I'm going to make you feel very good. Then, later, we won't need any drugs to help you relax. Let's start by losing the towel. We'll comb those gorgeous locks of yours and..."

Unwrapping the towel as he spoke, Rossetti's words choked to a stop when the cherished brown waves of hair he'd been dreaming of for so many nights fell to the floor. Blair sprang up, driving a knee in between the older man's legs and Rossetti's only thought was pain.

White... intense... all encompassing... pain.

He never even saw the large porcelain vase as it swung down on the back of his head, sending him into unconsciousness.

Blair eased the older man down to the carpet, his eye on the door, half expecting to see it crash open and spew forth armed goons. The stupid vase had sounded like a gunshot to Blair's ears. Why couldn't he have grabbed something a little less noisy? But the door remained closed, and Blair sighed.

Okay, he needed to find something to keep this class `A' pervert quiet. Searching the drawers in the bedside stand first, Blair found an assortment of sex toys that made him shudder.

"I don't even want to think about what you had planned, man." Blair selected a ball gag and some leather straps with heavy brass buckles. These should do it. "It just lucky for me I live with a paranoid cop that taught me never to accept drugs, even Pepto Bismol, from crooks."

Blair rolled the unconscious man over on his stomach and secured his hands behind his back, another set of leather straps bound his ankles to the leg of the bed. The ball gag finished the task. Blair allowed himself a moment to sit on the floor and gather his wits.

That... had... been... too... damn... close.

He still couldn't believe his plan had worked. Back in the bathroom, he'd poured the pink medicine down the sink, taken a quick shower, then using a broken shard from the medicine glass; he'd calmly cut off his long hair. Wrapping it all up in a towel, he'd waited until the guards had grown inpatient with him. Once they brought in the clothes they'd wanted him to wear, the rest was easy.

Blair's hope was the shock of seeing all that hair falling out of the towel would provide the chance he needed to overcome the bigger man. It had worked.

"Okay, so now what?" Blair stood, going to the door and locking it quietly. Last thing he needed was to be interrupted while searching for a weapon. He eyed the room with a grimace, he noticed the man hadn't limited his desire to display his collection of porn art to just the dining room. "You have a one track mind, Rossetti," he muttered.

Blair searched the room, quickly checking drawers, closets, even under the bed. Finding each hidden video camera, he turned them off with a quiet growl. What a creep. No guns, knives, or weapons of any kind. Now what? He went to the heavy gold and blue silk curtains, finding the window behind them tightly shut. Obvious wires indicated it was hooked to an alarm system. He could see tree boughs in the darkness outside, swaying in a strong breeze. Lights below told him he was at least thirty feet off the ground. Even if he did manage to get through the window before triggering the burglar alarm, the fall would kill him.

Need to keep looking.

"Think, Sandburg, think." Blair unconsciously finger combed his hair back with both hands, forgetting for a moment he had entered the world of short-haired men. Without the weight of the long locks, his hair corkscrewed into tight curls that wrapped around each of finger. This was going to take some getting used to.

"I'm a big time crook. I have armed guards each night at my door. That means I'm paranoid." Blair studied the still form at his feet. "You've got an escape route, don't you? But where?"

He found it behind a bookcase. The entire unit swung out from the wall on a long piano hinge. "Dude, this isn't even an original idea." A long hallway opened up. Soft indirect lighting provided safe passage to the top of a long curved staircase. After descending at least two floors, Blair found himself in a room straight out of a horror flick. Stone walls and floor, chains, cages, whips, everything imaginable for torture was available. But the thing that really turned Blair's stomach was the framed pictures on the wall.

"Oh, my God..."

Blair swallowed the bile that tried for a second time in the same night to make an appearance. The color photos made that scene in the cannery with Detective Higby's body look like child's play. Men, women... Blair's hand flew to his mouth and he stumbled away.

Children.

After the dry heaves stopped, Blair drew a shaky breath. He wanted nothing more, at the moment, but to run back up the stairs and kill the bastard.

"You've got to be kidding, Jim."

"Nope, I can do it."

"You're going to kill yourself."

"I'm telling you, Simon. Blair and I have been working on this. I can do it." Jim finished taking off his shoes. Stuffing his socks into them and tying the laces together, he hung them around his neck. "Give me a cigar."

"Why? Are you taking up a new vice?" Simon asked with a scowl as he leaned over to peer down to the rocks and surf seventy feet below.

"I need to use scent to keep from zoning," Jim explained calmly. He'd prefer a flower, but none were available.

The island was close to the shoreline, he could see it easily in the darkness. Approximately fifty acres in size, it must have been a sharp point of land that somehow became separated from the shoreline. Heavy forest completely obscured any sign of a house, but a water pipe had been run between the two points of land, supported by sturdy looking cables. Jim knew he could cross on the pipe. He could use the cables to hold on to, but in the middle he'd have nothing but his balance.

"And what am I supposed to do while you're running around on the island?" Simon asked, handing over the requested cigar.

"Thanks," Jim removed the wrapper and stuck it into his pocket. The aroma of expensive tobacco would work perfectly. "I have the two-way you gave me. Once I find out if Rossetti and Sandburg are here, I'll tell you and you can bring help."

"I'm not getting a cell phone signal out here. The nearest town is Depot Bay, Jim. It's not going to be a quick job."

Jim nodded. "I understand. I need to get across before the rain starts."

Simon sighed wearily. "Fine, but I swear, Jim. You make me watch you fall to your death and I'm going to kick your butt."

In spite of the situation, Jim had to smile. He returned Simon's grip, clasping the other man's hand and forearm in a gesture of friendship. "Riiight, I'll see you soon."

The pipe was cool against the soles of his bare feet. Jim tested it with a little bounce before getting too far away from solid land. It seemed to hold. He covered the distance until the supporting cables reached mid thigh then it was time to let go. Taking a deep breath, Jim calmed himself. The wind was beginning to blow, a weather front was moving in from the ocean. It wasn't that strong, the island was blocking the wind, except for the gusts that found their way around and hit Jim from the side.

That was going to make this just a tad bit trickier. There had been no wind at all that day in the park.

Okay, enough stalling.

Eyes open or closed? Jim pondered the choice.

Open. He needed every sense available for this task. Taking a deep breath, he let his mind return to the instructions Blair had given him last week. Every part of his body needed to feel the pull of gravity and respond. Jim pictured an old-fashion scale in his mind, the type that was used to weight gold. Two small dishes suspended by chains from a bar with a center axis.

Blair had told him that a person's balance and muscle coordination came from the lowest part of the brain, near the brainstem. Jim prayed that part of his gray matter was receiving enough oxygen. Closing his eyes briefly, he waited until it felt as if his body was in complete sync, his mind turned off and taking a backseat to his sentinel abilities.

Bare feet walked with ease across the pipe, muscles anticipated each gust of wind before it arrived and compensated. Jim's balance was true and effortless. So natural was his form, Jim didn't even bother to use the supporting cables reaching from the island. The faint tickle of tobacco in his nose added just the right amount of extra input to his brain to keep him alert.

He reached the island without a single slip.

"Jim?" The call was quiet but urgent. Simon stood on the opposite side, squinting into the night.

"It's okay, Simon. I'm across," Jim said into the small radio before sitting down to put his shoes and socks back on. Just as he finished tying the last lace, fat drops of rain began to fall. Jim stood and keyed the radio. "I'll call as soon as I find Sandburg."

"Good luck, Jim. Be careful."

Jim didn't bother to respond, he was already moving silently into the trees.

"Why didn't I at least stop to steal a pair of shoes?" Blair muttered to himself angrily. His feet hurt. Walking around in a stupid forest in the middle of the night was hazardous normally, but it was downright idiotic when barefoot. However, he still preferred the stone bruises and cuts that made each step a dance with pain, to being Rossetti's bed partner.

Blair slowed to a stop and rested on a handy fallen tree. He'd already hit two dead ends. If he wasn't doing his usual `walking in circles' then this should be the direction to a road. He knew he was near the coast, he just wasn't sure which coast. The rain had started a while ago, adding yet another element to Blair's fun.

Within in a few minutes, Blair realized wet silk did nothing to keep a body warm.

Plus, he missed his hair. It was amazing how cold a bare neck and exposed ears could become. He rubbed the toes on his left foot absentmindedly as he considered his options. A few minutes ago, a bright flash of lightening had ruined his night vision. Being too impatient to wait for it to return, he pressed on and slammed his foot into a large rock. For the first time since he'd seen Rossetti standing in his room back at the safe house, he wanted to cry.

How stupid was that? Blair choked back a half sob - half laugh. He felt like crying because he stubbed his `widdle' toe.

Standing, Blair wiped the rain off his face and started forward again. This was not the time or place to start a pity party. At least he could see again, better in fact than before. Maybe dawn was near. Blair let that thought lift his spirits. Sunlight would bring a better chance of getting away.

"Stand up slowly!"

Blair dropped to his knees in a panic. Shit! He'd been found! Belatedly, he realized the voice was too far away to be directed at him. Besides he'd already been standing. He turned to run the opposite direction, but paused when he heard the next comment.

"Keep your hands up!"

Who was this guy talking to? When he'd first had to double back from the cliffs that lined the shore, he had caught sight of a man patrolling the shoreline. The guy had been carrying a big GI Joe-looking gun and wearing some sort of futuristic goggles on his face. It must be that guy, or another like him. But who did he find?

"Take it easy," a familiar voice said.

Jim? Someone got the drop on Jim?

No way! Not with Jim's sentinel ability.

Wait, that earlier flash of lightening, followed by a crack of thunder. What if...

He moved closer towards the voice.

"I don't know who you are or how you got on this island, buddy, but you picked the wrong place to trespass."

"So, I'll leave."

"Just walk ahead of me, wise guy."

Ohmygod! It was Jim! Blair froze, unsure of what to do. One thing for sure, he couldn't let this guy take Jim to Rossetti. They sounded like they were walking his way. Blair dropped to his knees. His hand landed on a thick branch lying on the ground. He hefted it, checking its weight. The branch was about three feet long and felt solid.

Blair grinned in the darkness. Time to play a little `Goon-Ball' and he was first up at bat.

"Jim...I'm close," Blair whispered. "I'm going to take out the bad guy. Don't get shot, man."

Sounds of rustling leaves neared then the dark form of a tall person passed by. Blair scooted a few feet to his left. He needed to get closer to reach his target. When the second shadow passed, Blair jumped to his feet and swung, starting his arc low and bringing the branch in an upward sweep. The last six inches connected to the back of the goon's head and the gunman dropped without a sound.

"Jim!"

Arms caught him in a bear hug and he was lifted off the forest floor in a crushing embrace. A wet face pressed against the side of his neck. Managing to get two handfuls of cloth, Blair tugged with a quiet chuckle. "Put me down, Ellison!"

His feet were returned to the ground.

"You okay?" Jim asked urgently as large hands moved to pin his head, covering his ears. He could see the flat planes of Jim's cheeks, chin and nose in the darkness as the cop tilted his face upward for examination. He had a feeling the sentinel was staring intently into his eyes.

"I'm fine. In fact, I'm great - now that you're here."

"Sandburg, tell me the truth, damn it. You hurt?"

"I'm fine. I swear! Shouldn't we be checking the guy I just clocked?"

"He's out for the count, slugger." A soft, yet explosive curse escaped Jim's mouth. "Your hair!"

"Jim, relax! It's okay, I'm the one that cut it," Blair patted the other man's arms before pulling Jim's hands from their hold on his head. "I'll explain later. We need to scram, big guy. Rossetti's got guards patrolling everywhere. You okay? Your hearing...sight?"

Jim nodded. "Yeah, damn lightening forced me to dial them down. I never heard the guy until it was too late. Come on, Chief. Let's tie this guy up and find a place to hide until Simon brings in reinforcements."

After using the gunman's own belt to secure him and stealing his semi-automatic, Jim led Blair deeper into the trees. He didn't hurry, though, giving Blair just enough time to avoid stubbing his toes again. Once Jim seemed satisfied they were safe; they huddled together on the dry ground under the boughs of a full cedar.

Jim produced a small radio.

Blair relaxed, leaned against Jim's shoulder and closed his eyes.

God, he was tired.

One thing about the Feds, they knew how to launch a full-scale attack in a just a few hours.

Jim listened to the boat motors bringing troops near the island. They arrived at dawn's first light and stormed the shore. Sporadic bursts of gunfire caused him to tighten his hold on his sleeping partner. At first, Blair had drawn up into a tight ball of misery, not even protesting when Jim had removed his own sweater and pulled it over the younger man's head. But even the extra warmth hadn't stopped the shivers, so he'd pulled Blair into a modified cuddle; his back against the tree trunk and Blair between his knees, curled up and sitting sideways. Neither man talked, unwilling to risk being discovered by Rossetti's men. With both arms wrapped around Blair's ribs, Jim had been pleased to note the shivers decreasing until his partner's head had finally dropped sideways and he closed his eyes.

Listening to the firefight, Jim studied the short curls framing Blair's face.

Why had he cut his hair?

Blair said he was fine, but how had he managed to spend sixteen hours in Rossetti's company without the pervert touching him?

Jim took a deep breath and picked up smells of wet silk, shampoo and a trace of vomit.

"Jim... come in."

Blair stirred, lifting his head and blinking slowly as Jim used one hand to answer Simon.

"Go ahead, Simon," Jim answered quietly.

"We've secured the house. We're sending out armed patrols to search for stragglers and bring you two in. What's your position?"

"About a quarter mile due west of the water pipe."

"Okay, give us a second. We'll get a team to you. Stay low till then."

"Copy that... and Simon? Have them bring blankets and a pair of shoes, nothing smaller than size eight and a half."

"Received... tell the kid, we've got Rossetti. He was still in the bedroom. Good work."

Jim smiled down at Blair. "I'll tell him, sir."

Returning the small radio to his pocket, he raised an eyebrow. "Bedroom?"

"You so don't want to know, man," Blair mumbled as he pulled away from Jim's hold. "Thanks, man. I think I was a step away from turning into a Popsicle."

"No problem, Sandburg. I was already wet, so no one's going to notice the drool stains," Jim answered quietly.

His eyes widening in alarm, Blair wiped at his mouth. "I didn't!" Seeing the grin on the cop's face, he huffed. "Way to tease a guy when he's cold and wet."

"Sorry, couldn't help myself. You're such an easy mark."

"So, Simon is okay, but what about the girl? Was the story about the fire a cover?"

Jim's good mood disappeared. "She's okay. But... the house was a total loss. I'm sorry, Chief. Your computer and books were destroyed."

Blair shrugged, scooting on his butt to Jim's side to rest his back against the broad base of the cedar tree. "It's all replaceable. But you and Simon are okay, that's what matters."

An armed Navy Seal team found them twenty minutes later. Jim waited till Blair finished tying the last shoe before wrapping a wool blanket around his shoulders and helping him to his feet. They walked to the house in a protective `Seal-circle'.

Jim eyed the house with disbelief. A cross between a gothic castle and something close to a lighthouse, the large house sat back from the edge of a high bluff, overlooking the sea. From the looks of the materials used, no expense was spared. Cut stones, marble, heavy polished beams and thick tile shingles on the roof must have set Rossetti back millions of dollars. Simon met them just inside the main entrance; a marble-floored hallway with oak panels and tapestries. Jim watched, amused, as Blair was caught up in his second bear hug of the morning.

"What's the deal with you two?" Blair protested, pushing away from Simon's chest and rolling his eyes. When Simon reached out with almost a reverent expression to touch Blair's shorn curls, Blair batted the hand away. "How many times to I have to tell you guys? Not the hair!"

Jim had to laugh.

Simon did not see the humor. "What the hell did he do to you, Sandburg?" the tall captain demanded.

"Nothing, Simon. I swear," Blair insisted. "I'll explain it all later."

Loud shouts of protest rang though out the hall, bouncing off the walls and two-story high ceiling. Rossetti came into view, wearing a black silk robe. His appearance was far from normal; his feet bare, his meticulous hair messed and the reddest face Jim had ever seen. When the criminal turned to see Blair standing between the two taller cops, he froze.

Blair raised a hand and waggled his fingers.

"I want my attorney," Rossetti said. "I'm not saying a word."

The FBI agent standing next to the man smiled. "We wouldn't have it any other way. Why don't we wait in your living room while my agents finish searching your house. We did mention the search warrant, didn't we? Would you like to see it again?"

Rossetti's eyes grew crafty. "Search away, gentlemen. I have nothing to hide."

"Simon?" Blair turned to the Cascade Police Captain. "Did you guys find the stairway off his bedroom yet? The one behind the bookcase?"

Rossetti turned towards Blair, his face transformed into an ugly, twisted mask of hatred. "I'll kill you!" Lunging away from the surprised Feds in a sudden move, he ran towards Blair. Just as Rossetti neared, Jim blocked his path and sank his fist deep into the man's stomach, half expecting it to emerge out the enraged man's back. As Rossetti doubled over, a dark fist came down like a hammer, catching the would-be attacker on the side of the head as he dropped to the marble floor with a sickening thud.

The FBI agent shot both cops a frown. "You two finished?"

Jim shrugged, taking a step back. "Not really. I don't suppose you'd consider letting me have a quiet ten minutes alone with him."

"Quit joking around, Jim," Simon said, pointing a finger at the unconscious man at his feet. "Your prisoner almost attacked one of my men. I'd do a better job guarding him if I were you." He turned back to Blair. "About that staircase, Sandburg. Care to show us?"

Once in the man's bedroom, Blair opened the bookcase and pointed. "Down the stairs. Make sure you check out the pictures on the walls."

The lead Fed, a tall balding man with thick glasses nodded. After the Feds passed, Jim noticed Blair showed no desire to follow. The cop turned to study the posh room with disdain. He'd already viewed the porn on the walls and wondered what kind of stuff was on display at the bottom of the stairs.

A slight nudge from Simon broke his musing. The Captain pointed silently to the floor next to the large four poster bed. A white towel rested on the carpet, covered with brown locks of wavy hair. Since the three of them were alone for a few moments, it was a good time as any to get an explanation for his friend's new look. Blair sat huddled on a needlepoint footrest, looking miserable, eyes closed, back against the wall.

Okay, first find two sets of warm, dry clothes, then maybe some coffee, then get the story.

"Jim, what are you doing?" Simon asked.

The first door Jim opened led to a bath the size of Rhode Island. He found the closet on this second try. "I'm stealing us some dry clothes." He disappeared into the closet and returned a moment later with thick terry cloth pants and matching tops, the kind a person might find at an exclusive spa, still inside the plastic from the store. "No one's going to have a hissy if we help ourselves, he's got an entire drawer full of these."

Blair changed first, using the bathroom for privacy. Jim went next. Just as he emerged from the bathroom, the Fed with thick glasses reemerged from the hidden hallway. "We've hit the mother lode, gentlemen!"

"What did you find?" Simon asked.

"Come and look for yourself, Captain," the man said graciously. "We've got records, photographs, videos. Rossetti is going to die an old man before all the jurisdictions standing in line to prosecute are finished. It looks like his latest video shows the murder of your own detective on it. We found it still inside the VCR."

Simon's eyes turned hard. "Show me."

"Simon, Sandburg and I are going back downstairs to try to find some hot coffee. We'll see you later," Jim announced as he noticed the look of panic suddenly appearing on Blair's face. "Come on, Chief."

Later, after finding the kitchen and helping himself to everything he needed to make a pot of coffee, Jim turned to study his partner. Blair sat at small oak table, his head rested on folded arms, oblivious to Jim's scrutiny. The short, curly hair was still a shock. He looked young, real young. A look that was amplified by the set of clothes several sizes too big. He'd rolled up the cuffs to his pants and turned back the ends of the sleeves several times. At least the Feds had managed to find a pair of boots that fit.

"Tell me about the haircut," Jim said as he sat down to join his partner at the table. There was nothing left to do now but wait for the coffee.

Blair lifted his head and rubbed his eyes. "Nothing to tell, man. I cut it."

"I can see that... why?"

Blair propped one elbow on the tabletop, supporting his head with the same hand as he gave Jim a tired smile. "I had to. He was getting kind of insistent and I needed the shock value. It worked."

Jim nodded.

"I figured since he seemed so intent on always touching my hair, having it fall out of that towel would stun him - at least long enough for me to..." Blair shrugged.

"Tell me the God's honest truth, Blair. It's just you and me right now. Did he do anything to you?"

Blair snickered. "He kissed me on the lips, Jim. No tongue." Blair slapped at Jim's arm. "Would you give it a rest? I told you, nothing happened. I'm fine. Just a little confused, I don't know where we are or even what day it is."

"We're on a small island off the Oregon Coast. And Rossetti took you yesterday," Jim told him.

"Oh," Blair muttered. "No wonder I kept running into cliffs and water. How did you get here? Boat?"

"No, I did the circus act. Walked across a water pipe," Jim told him.

Blair went from exhausted to full awake in less than a second. "No kidding? How long was the pipe?"

It was noon before the Feds were finished interviewing the three men and allowed them to leave. A Coast Guard boat waited for them at a protected bay on the south end of the island to take them back to Simon's car. The rain had slackened off, giving the coastline a short reprieve. Dark clouds waited offshore for their turn to release their payload.

Once they were safely inside Simon's car, Blair finally felt like he could relax.

"Where to?" Simon asked his passengers as he turned the key. "Cascade? Or a place for the night?"

Home sounded like a far off dream, as obtainable as a land with castles and dragons. How many days had they been away? The night in the Cascade safe house was another lifetime.

Crap!

"Rossetti didn't set the bomb!" Blair blurted out from the back seat.

"We figured that out, Chief," Jim answered. "It was in my box and his men had no idea it was even there."

"Question remains, who's trying to kill you, Jim?" Simon asked as he pulled out onto the two-lane road heading north.

"You said Joel personally delivered our stuff to the DA's office, right?" Jim asked.

"That's what he said."

"Then we should look there first," Jim stated with a deadly tone.

"So we head for Cascade?" Blair asked.

Jim shook his head. "None of us are in shape for a seven hour drive. With our luck, someone is bound to fall asleep at the wheel. Let's get a room."

"I was hoping you'd say that, Jim," Simon admitted. "Otherwise I was ready to invoke my captain's rank on you two."

The first lodging with a vacancy sign was a three-story hotel with each room advertising a view of the ocean. Located just south of Depot Bay, they were able to rent two rooms with a connecting door, drive into town for a few supplies and get a late lunch at a popular chowder house.

"Sandburg, when's the last time you ate?" Simon asked in amazement when Blair asked for a second bowl of chowder and more bread. Both Jim and Simon were still working on their first.

"Umm... with you guys, I guess."

"Day before yesterday? At breakfast?" Simon's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. He glanced at Jim.

Blair shrugged. "He gave me some soup, but I kinda got sick... on purpose," Blair added with a grin. "Besides, this is great chowder. We should try and get a recipe."

"Honey, Mo doesn't give out her recipes," the waitress said, setting a fresh bowl down. "Believe me, you guys aren't the first customers to ask."

After lunch, they headed back towards their hotel. All three men took turns yawning. It would be a contest to see who could fall asleep the fastest. Blair beat Jim into their bathroom and announced he was taking a shower. The warm water felt like heaven and he took several moments just letting the spray sluice off his shoulders.

Squeezing a large dollop of shampoo into his palm, he started cleaning his hair.

Oh... that's right. Most of it was gone now.

Well, at least he didn't have to wake up every morning extra early to fix his `do'. He'd save a fortune in gel and expensive conditioners, too. Blair quickly finished and turned off the water. Maybe having short hair would be better. It was impossible to know unless you tried, right? Changing into a clean set of boxers that Simon had bought earlier that afternoon, he tossed the towel into the corner and turned off the bathroom light.

Jim was in his bed, reading the local paper. The room was dark enough to sleep in, with heavy drapes hiding the rainy daylight. He could hear Simon's snores through the half open door.

"You going to grow your hair out again?" Jim asked as he folded his paper and slid down under the covers.

"I'm not sure. What do you think I should do?" Blair asked, climbing into his own identical bed.

Jim rolled over on his side, facing the door, his back to Blair's bed. "Grow it out, Chief."

"Okay."

Blair had to smile. He'd have his hair cut and styled, then let it grown out again. Maybe he would try a short cut later on, when he was an old man.

Nahhhh.

Blair entered the loft. "Now I know how Moses felt when he reached the Promise land!"

Pushing the younger man further into the apartment so he and Simon could enter, Jim closed the door and slid the deadbolt across to firmly lock the door.

"Moses never made it to the Promise Land, Sandburg," Simon told him. "You need to reread your Old Testament stories." He let his long body flop into the nearest couch, his legs sprawled out.

"Really? He didn't?" Blair frowned. "He had to wander around the desert for all that time and he never got over the finish line? Is that right, Jim?"

Jim tucked his gun away with a shrug. "And you're asking me because?"

Blair hit the answering machine, grinning at the mental image of Jim teaching a Sunday school classroom of kids. He could just picture Jim's take on the Garden of Eden scene, where God is explaining the `Earth Rules' to Adam and Eve.

You have the right to eat from any food source except the Tree of Life. You have the right to name the animals...

The first five messages were personal, fellow TA's and students calling Blair. A few more were hang-ups. One call wanted Jim to change his phone plan to MCI. The last call was from Joel, telling them to call the station as soon as they got in.

Simon made the call, nodding grimly as he listened. After hanging up, he looked at the roommates with raised eyebrows. "Joel's on his way over. I asked him to get everything he could on our DA's office without drawing any attention. He said he's come up with an interesting tidbit of information for us."

The large bomb expert arrived within the hour, clapping his fellow cops on the back and heading for Blair with a roguish grin.

"No!" Blair exclaimed with a short laugh, holding out both hands to ward the man off. "No more bear hugs! I already feel like an empty tube of toothpaste, man."

Joel had to settle for a single arm around Blair's shoulders. "Good thing Simon warned me about your new look, Blair. I got to tell you, it's going to take some getting used to. You okay?"

"I'm great. We're home. Rossetti's back in jail with enough evidence to keep him locked up for good this time, with or without my testimony. I'm no longer in protective custody." Blair smirked at Jim. "What more can a guy ask for?"

"How about finding out who's responsible for the bombs at the safe houses?" Joel asked with a mysterious and gloomy expression on his round face as he held up a thick manila, letter-sized envelope.

"Something tells me we're going to need a beer while we listen to this..." Jim headed for the antique refrigerator with a sigh.

Ten minutes later, the four men finished reviewing the copied files Joel had managed to smuggle out of the city's personnel department.

"I can't believe no one thought it important to tell us," Jim said in stunned disbelief.

"Joel, you realize you broke all sorts of laws getting us these copies," Simon explained, then smiled. "Great work."

"What are we going to do, guys? Everyone believes Rossetti is responsible for those bombs at the safe houses. He only admitted to blowing up my office. How are we going to prove it wasn't him?" Blair asked.

"Maybe what we should do is let Rossetti continue to take the fall for them," Jim said slowly, leaning back in the sofa and rolling the long-neck brown bottle between his palms as he talked. "If the real bomber thinks no one is the wiser, we could set up a trap."

"Let me guess, Jim," Simon growled. "You get to be the cheese."

"Not by yourself, man," Blair protested.

When the going gets tough, the tough goes camping.

Jim finished laying out the cabin tent and staking out the corners. The ground was level, with no chance of drainage problems should they get caught in a sudden rainstorm. Nothing was worse than waking to a puddle of water under the tent floor.

"Ready for the poles?" Blair asked, holding several shock-corded silver poles in his hand. "I think I've got it figured out."

"Okay, Frank Lloyd-Wrong. Build me a tent."

"Stand back and prepare to be amazed."

Jim snorted and went to rummage through the box of food supplies. They'd made a few stops on the way out of Cascade. It had been torturous to leave the loft after only staying one night. But it was necessary. They'd loaded up the camping equipment and other supplies for a comfortable stay, then they'd hit the grocery store and finally stopped by the station before heading east into the Cascade Mountain Range.

Jim found a six-pack of Snicker candy bars and broke the plastic wrapper to help himself. He thought back to the looks of shock, surprise and outrage on the faces of his fellow workers when Blair had entered the bullpen. Sure, they'd done their best to not show it, but he was sure Blair had picked up on their response. If anything, the observer had seemed almost overwhelmed by their concern. In the end, he'd promised that he would be growing his hair out as quickly as possible. He'd even assured them he knew a few herbal supplements that would expedite the process.

That crack from Brown about sharing the information with Jim had been uncalled for...

"Voila la!"

Jim checked on their temporary abode. "Not bad, Chief. But will it stand up in a breeze?"

"Oh, ye of little faith." Blair shook a corner post. The tent was ten feet square with a covered porch affair over the single entrance. As long as you remembered to lift your feet a bit to enter, it would do nicely. Two cots and a roll up table would easily fit inside.

"Huh. I may never go back to a pup tent." Jim picked up the folding cots. "Let's finish and start dinner. I'm starving."

After camp was made, and dinner cooked and eaten, they sat on comfortable camp chairs around a roaring campfire. The evening was perfect, just cool enough to be comfortable in a sweater, a hint of evergreen and cedar in the air, sounds of crickets and frogs making nature's own symphony from the nearby darkness of the forest.

"Hard to believe a few days ago we were living on the streets in Portland," Blair said quietly, the light from the fire dancing in his eyes.

Jim frowned at the memories, comparing the dinner of day-old chicken with the steak meal they had just finished. Portland seemed like a lifetime ago, yet still fresh in his memory. Maybe it was just the recurring nightmares he was having from the attack under the bridge.

"Stop it, man," Blair ordered suddenly. "It wasn't your fault."

Jim shook his head. "Sin by omission, Chief. I should have seen that coming and been ready."

"Well, hindsight is always twenty-twenty." Blair leaned out and snagged a small pink bakery box off the top of the ice chest. "Eat your dessert and forget about it."

The box held three cream filled sugar donuts. "Thanks." He lifted a treat to his mouth and took a large bite. Sandburg was right, they needed to move on. Live and learn.

"Want one?" Jim asked as he finished the first sweet donut and picked up the next one. "You bought plenty."

Blair shook his head, then looked at Jim with alarm. "I thought you bought the donuts."

Uh...oh...

"Jim?" Blair was standing in front of him now, his face scared and fuzzy as he stared into Jim's eyes.

Fuzzy?

Double - uh, oh.

They'd stayed up late last night brainstorming. They had talked about additional bombs, drive-by shootings, snipers from rooftops, any number of ways to take out Jim. The camping trip had been Blair's idea. Get Jim out of the city so no additional persons would be hurt.

No one had thought about poisoned donuts!

Blair could see Jim's eyelids beginning to lose the war with gravity. The older man slumped in his camp chair, his chin fell towards his chest.

"Jim! Come on, don't do this to me!" Blair pulled on his arm. He needed to get Jim to the hospital. "I can't carry you. Stand up!"

With obvious effort, Jim got to his feet. Using Blair's shoulder, the shorter man became a human crutch in their dash for the Ford. Blair had his hands full just keeping Jim upright, how the heck was he going to open the passenger door? Was it locked? Did Jim have the keys on him?

He never even saw the woman step out of the dark shadows.

"I'm afraid Detective Ellison isn't going anywhere with you, Mr. Sandburg," she said.

Blair didn't want her to be right, but the gun in her hand gave her the final word on the matter. He stopped and let Jim slip to the ground to land in an undignified heap in the dirt. Stepping in front of his fallen partner, Blair sized up the woman.

So this was the person responsible for blowing up two houses and killing the Federal agents that had been guarding them in Cascade.

"Who are you?"

"It doesn't matter," she replied. She was tall, built like a model and very beautiful. If it weren't for the mad glint in her eye and the way her mouth was set in an ugly snarl, Blair would have asked her out in a second. He often dated women older than him, a necessity when you started college at the age of sixteen.

"It does to me," Blair explained in a calm voice. "I need to get my friend to a hospital, he's been poisoned. But you already know about that, don't you?"

"Yes," she grinned with pleasure. "Only it's just a fast acting sedative. He can still hear every word we're saying. Both of you were supposed to eat the donuts. I wanted to make sure he knew the reason he had to die before I pulled this trigger."

Blair kept his stance as non-threatening as he knew how. "I don't like donuts much anyway. Why don't you talk to me? We can find a solution to your problems without anyone having to die."

"Shut UP!" she snarled. "You don't know anything! Ellison has ruined me. RUINED ME!"

Jim groaned, flopping a hand in the dirt with obvious frustration. The gun in her hand swung down to point at the fallen cop and Blair became scared.

"But how? He didn't do anything to you, Angela."

She froze, swinging the gun up to Blair again and penning him with her green eyes. "How do you know my name?"

Okay, that was a stupid slip. Blair wondered how to use his mistake to their advantage. "Major Crimes knows the bombs had to be set by someone that worked for the DA's office. It just took a little digging around to find out you're an attorney there. And you're the widow of Detective Matro. It wasn't Jim's fault that your husband died in that jail. Rossetti had him killed because he was going to testify."

"I don't even care about that, idiot! He was hound dogging every young thing that looked twice at him. I would have left that bum years ago, but his extra curricular activities kept us living the life I needed. I had plans to become the next Washington State Governor. My future was destroyed the minute it became known my husband was a dirty cop! And Ellison is the reason." The barrel of the gun switched to point at Jim's head as she bit out the last sentence.

Blair held out his left hand as if to wave her off, hoping to get her attention again. What were the odds that Jim avoided being shot in the head by Matro only to have his wife finish the job?

"That's not Jim's fault! You knew your husband was dirty! You chose to stay with him anyway. It was just a matter of time before he was found out!" Blair urged desperately, certain she could see the logic. "You're just in shock. You need help, Angela. Don't make your mistakes any worse."

She tilted her head and smirked. "I'm a prosecutor. I know what I've done, Mr. Sandburg. I've already killed two innocents. My only chance now is to kill both of you and start over. Maybe move back east."

She raised the gun to point at Blair's head, causing the man to cringe. Jim jerked suddenly, barking out a hoarse string of nonsense.

Several things happed at once.

Angela Matro took her eyes off Blair, distracted by the drugged man on the ground.

Blair dropped to his knees and brought up his right arm to display the handgun he'd pulled out of Jim's holster when he'd let his partner slip to the ground.

And Simon Banks roared out of the tree line, tackling the woman waist high in a classic quarterback sack.

Blair moved to shield Jim as Angela fired her gun before falling with a grunt to the hard ground. The bullet deflected off the ring of rocks that circled the fire pit. Blair could have sworn he felt it pass by his head as he knocked Jim flat on his back to protect him.

"Blair!" Simon bellowed without looking up from his job of roughly cuffing the woman.

"We're good, Simon," Blair replied, struggling to climb off Jim and grinning into the unfocused eyes of his sentinel. "Hey, Jim. Death by donut, huh?"

Jim lay on his back, covered with dirt and managed to pull a face in response.

Blair couldn't resist. Finally, it felt like this nightmare was over.

"Now who's drooling, big guy?"

&

"Let's eat!"

"Yes! Finally!" Blair catapulted over the back of the sofa, earning a frown from his roommate.

"Slow down, Blair. I'm sure Jim made enough for all of us." Joel Taggart followed at a more leisurely rate.

Placing the large glass dish on the hot pads, Jim nodded. "I did and since you have the energy, Chief, could you run up the roof and bring down the rest of our guests?" Jim slapped Blair's hand away. "Put the spatula down and no one gets hurt."

Grudgingly, Blair did as requested. Once he was out the door, Joel released a low laugh. "Oh, to have that kind of energy again."

"Tell me about it, it's like living with a tornado." Jim set a large green salad on the table next to a stack of plates and checked the loaf of garlic bread warming in the oven.

"How did the appointment at the barbershop go?" Joel asked, removing the foil wrap from a bottle of red wine.

"Sandburg doesn't go to `barbershops'," Jim explained, rolling his eyes. "He went to a salon where a friend of his works. I'm sure the place charges five times more then I pay at Chuck's on Central." Seeing the look on the other man's face, Jim held up a single digit in warning. "Think before you speak! One comment about my number of hair follicles and you'll be parked at the counter in the nearest Denny's."

Joel's mouth closed so fast, his teeth clicked.

"Anyway... he said it was okay. He didn't want company, so I'm not sure." Jim pulled out the bread, turned off the oven and added the last offering to the feast set out on the table.

"Well, I still can't get used to seeing him with short hair," Joel admitted, fitting the corkscrew carefully into the cork. "Did he ever tell you why he cut it?"

Jim smiled, thinking back to last night. After delivering Angela Matro to the police and shaking the effects of the sedative in his bloodstream, he and Blair had arrived back at the loft after midnight. Both men had been unable to sleep and the conversation had turned to Blair's time on the island with Rossetti. "Just typical Sandburg, thinking fast on his feet."

Voices in the hallway gave warning to the returning crowd. Blair, Henri and Rafe entered the apartment laughing and pushing each other to jockey for first place at the table.

"You've got a neighbor that sunbathes topless, Jim!" Henri snorted as Blair elbowed him out of the way. "Ow! Watch it, Curly!"

Jim began serving portions of lasagna to the hungry men. "Who are you guys talking about? Mrs. Lake across the street? She's nearly seventy years old."

"Yeah, now we find that out. Sandburg left that part off," Rafe complained. "He was just trying to ditch us, so he could eat all the food."

"Nearly worked, too," Blair added, crossing his eyes at Jim.

Once all the plates held enough food to keep the crowd busy, the men found seats in the living room and dug in. Jim kept a watchful eye on Henri, debating if he needed to get a drop cloth out of the closet for the man.

"So," Rafe asked, carefully using a napkin to wipe his lips. "Angela Matro is on suicide watch at the jail, looks like she's heading for a psych evaluation."

"She needs it, I can't believe how she fixated on Jim like that," Blair said, shaking his head.

"Just proves my theory anyone that wants to be an attorney should have their head examined first," Brown joked, catching up a long trail of cheese hanging from his mouth.

Jim set his plate down on the coffee table. It was time for that drop tarp. Halfway to the closet, he diverted toward the front door. Simon was coming.

"How does he do that?" Joel asked when the knock came seconds before Jim opened the door.

Simon stood in the hallway with a banker's box in hand. "I hope I'm not too late."

"Simon, you made it!" Blair set his dinner beside Jim's and greeted the captain with a broad smile. "Come in! We're just eating, I'll fix you a plate."

Simon walked in, presenting the box. "I'll fix my own plate. You might want to take this, Sandburg."

Accepting the box with interest, Blair set it down on the stairs up to Jim's room to investigate.

"Sandburg! Not there! Go to your own room to make a mess," Jim complained, but Blair never even looked up. Jim sighed and dropped head forward, his hand covering his eyes. "Why do I even bother?"

Blair had the box open. "This is fantastic! Jim, all my journals are here, plus a photocopy back up. What's this? Omygosh! He scanned them onto a disk? Too much! I can use the computers at Rainier to download them." A dreamy look appeared on the grad student's face. "I can use some of those entries of my earlier expeditions in class now... with overheads... oh, wow."

"Lasagna's getting cold here, Chief," Jim said patiently, secretly glad that a part of his partner's past had been saved from Rossetti's and Angela Matro's path of destruction.

With his plate full, Simon took the last place on the sofa next to Jim, leaving Blair to retrieve his plate and settle down on the floor with his legs crossed. Chewing his food carefully, without losing the euphoric look, Blair looked like a man with the winning lotto ticket.

"Thanks for picking up the box, Simon. I'll take care of the... paperwork for you later," Jim said quietly.

"Taken care of, Jim," Simon answered with his mouth full. He took a second to swallow before continuing. "The DA's office felt it appropriate to pick up the tab; after I explained it, of course."

"Really? Feeling a little nervous, are they?" Jim asked with a smirk

"Oh, yeah. Seems Matro's wife never took his last name. She wasn't directly involved in Rossetti's case, but had access to all the information. No one made the connection." Simon took an appreciative sip of the wine. "Ummm... this is really good, Jim. I didn't know you could cook this well. You're holding out on us."

"Still have to keep our meals on the soft side," Jim explained, pointing to his own jaw. "He's had a rough week."

"That's an understatement," Simon answered softly.

"So, where'd Matro's wife learn to build bombs?" Joel asked Simon.

"Well, officially she's not talking," Simon answered, talking to the group at large again. "That's why I'm late. Big meeting with the Feds. They think she was acting on her own. Her work computer is being checked out by the city's support services. Seems she had some interesting sites book-marked."

"Let me guess," Blair said. "How to build a bomb..."

"How to make poisons to kill Federal Agents," Henri added with a sad frown.

Simon nodded. "Yep, that's about the size of it. We'll know more tomorrow. We've got a staff meeting at ten sharp." Simon took a second to pinpoint each man in the room with a stern look, ending with Blair. "And Sandburg?"

"Yeah?" Blair answered.

"This time... don't be late."

Blair grinned. "You got it, Si...Sir."

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