"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."

The end

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