"Hey, Simon."

"Jim." Captain Banks briefly looked up from his silent observation of Cascade's finest forensic team. They worked in a narrow alley, hemmed in by tall four-story high brick buildings on either side. Brick and asphalt gleamed around them, wet from rain, reflecting the dim afternoon light of winter.

"What have we got?" Jim adjusted the collar of his jacket, flipping it up to prevent the cold rain from slithering down his back. The bill of his Jags cap kept his face dry.

"Same as the others," Simon noted glumly, stepping back from the crime scene and pulling Jim with him with a nod of his chin. "Male, mid-forties, blow to the head, then strangled. This one is dressed as some kind of soldier."

Jim looked back at the body, catching glimpses of metal plates on his hairy chest and thong sandals laced high up his bare calves. "At least we have a change from the togas. If he wants to play dress up with his victims, why not GI Joe dolls like a normal deviate?"

"I'm sure I haven't a clue," Simon said wearily. "Now that we have a fourth victim, I'm going to suggest a task force to the Chief. I don't want to, but I don't see any way around it."

Jim nodded. The other cases hadn't been his either, but he wanted to be part of this. Simon seemed to read his thoughts.

"You're finished with the embezzlement case, right? Any other pressing matters?" When Jim shook his head, he continued. "Good, I want you in on this. Brown is still primary and he could use the experience of leading a team, but you'll be second. Work for you?"

"As long as I play," Jim admitted. "I don't need to be the quarterback every time. Let H bask in the media with my blessings." A hint of a smile accompanied the slight sarcasm. Jim did not relish any extra attention. He'd had all the media he could stomach after `True Crime' - one of those realistic cop shows - had followed him around earlier in the year.

"Riiight," Simon drawled, sliding a hand into his open raincoat and pulling out his cigar case. "Why don't you look around and see if you can find anything. Maybe the killer was running low on pine cleaner and left us a clue."

"We should be so lucky." Jim had already picked up the scent of the cleaner upon entering the alley.

"By the way." Simon's eyes turned back toward the ally's entrance. "Where's Sandburg? Doesn't he have Monday afternoons free?"

Part of Jim noted with amusement that Simon had memorized his roommate's school schedule, and part of him was irritated. Blair did have a life. He had goals that sometimes did not include donating free hours to help solve the city's crimes. "Something must have come up."

An hour and a half later, Jim had gone over every square inch of that alley and found nothing. This killer was a clean freak. He watched the team finishing up. The dead body was long gone, currently a guest of Dan Wolf's. The photographs were all taken. Persistent media vultures still pressed against the crime scene tape at the end of the alley. Brown had delivered a brief speech in time to make the Six o'clock News. Yet they still wanted more. Typical.

Disappointed he couldn't be of any help, he headed for Simon to let him know he was leaving. His cell phone rang.

"Ellison."

"Jim?" Blair sounded breathless.

"Yeah, Chief?"

"Ah... I'm going to be a little late. Sorry."

Something about the way the words were forced caused Jim to straighten. A well trained sixth sense kicked in. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Blair urged with fake enthusiasm. "I'm just kind of delayed here."

"Where's here? What's going on?" Jim searched his memory. What had Blair said that morning? He had a lecture, two classes and short office hours. Oh yeah, he was working with some student he'd met last week.

"Nothing's going on, Jim. But I don't think I'll be by the station this afternoon."

"Sandburg, tell me where you are." Jim's mind blanked out the crime scene around him. He focused on the sounds coming over the cell phone. It sounded like Blair was standing outside; he could hear the wind and the raindrops clearly. Yet his friend's voice seemed to bounce around with an echoing quality.

"Down on Franklin Street," Blair answered, his attention obviously on something else. "By that old feed store the city's starting to tear down."

"Why?"

The exasperation was evident for even a person without enhanced senses to catch. "Because I'm trying to get help for Lamont. He's being stubborn... Oh! Ah, Jim - gotta go. See you at home."

"Blair!"

The connection cut off.

"Jim?" Simon appeared at his elbow, concerned.

"I'm done here, right? I need to pick up Sandburg," Jim hastily explained before heading toward the alley's mouth. Simon followed with a frown. Pushing through the media crowd, Jim spotted his Ford boxed in by parked cars and media vans.

Simon pointed down the street. "I'll drive. I'm a few blocks away." He waved a hand toward Jim's truck. "So this wouldn't happen."

Jim flashed a grateful smile. "Thanks, sir."

Ever since Simon's trip to Lima with Darryl and that business with the illegal drug operation, Simon's attitude toward Blair had changed. Not to suggest Simon had felt any real ill will toward his roommate, but Blair's recent involvement in the rescue gave him a permanent place on Simon's team.

The secret was out, Jim realized as he jogged behind Simon, Blair was a handy person to have around. That is, when the younger man wasn't eyeball deep in his own troubles.

"How do I get in these messes?" Blair muttered under his breath, looking at the dizzying height above him. A flimsy looking ladder bolted to the side of the old silo should get him where he wanted to go. "And why does it always have to be in the clouds?"

Pushing fear aside, Blair started climbing, mindful of the falling rain. He knew Lamont had come this way. He'd seen a flash of blue on the catwalk connecting the sky-scrapingly high grain silos together. Lamont was wearing a blue raincoat. He tried not to think about the fact that this same catwalk was over fifty feet off the ground.

"Come on, Lamont!" Blair called out as he climbed. The rungs were slick and he had to concentrate to keep his tennis shoes from sliding off. "We talked about this, remember? You wanted the treatment."

"Nonono, death's looking for victims," a plaintive voice answered from above.

Blair zeroed in on Lamont's location. The voice came from across the catwalk on the opposite silo. In the old days, when the silos had been used to store grain for the feed store, it was delivered in bulk by the railroad. Long, narrow ramps with conveyer belts lifted the grain to the top of the silos and dumped it in. Lamont seemed to be working his way all the way to the top, toward the ramp.

That was not a good thing.

"Hey, Lamont! Don't go any further, okay? You don't have to go inpatient if you don't want to. We'll figure something else out." Blair was at the catwalk now. From the ground it had looked a heck of a lot more solid. Still, Lamont had used it to cross over and he was at least a hundred pounds heavier. It should hold him.

"Lamont?" he called out.

No answer. Where had the guy gone? The catwalk linked to another ladder on the other side. Lamont must have worked his way up and into the covered conveyer belt. Blair leaned out and tested part of his weight on the catwalk. Some of the metal decking was missing, but if he kept his hands and knees near the edge, he should be okay.

Heart in his throat, Blair started across. It was okay, the catwalk seemed to hold his weight without a problem, which was a good thing, Blair noted as his eyes refused to obey his order not to focus any further than the rusted metal frame he was currently crawling on. Whoa, the ground seemed impossibly far away. Like the time he had jumped out of that window at the police station to land on the scaffolding below. How far up had he been? That had been a short free fall. This was a walk in the park compared to that day, besides, he wasn't even dealing with wigged out militants.

"Mr. Sandburg?"

Blair looked up, halting midway between the silos. Lamont stood at the end of the catwalk. The man was about Blair's age, maybe older. It was hard to know for sure because of the damage a body hooked on meth suffered. Lamont's brain had taken the worst, reducing it to that of a simpleminded child.

"Hey, man. There you are," Blair said softly.

"I'm sorry."

And he did look sorry. His bloodshot eyes downcast, he took a swipe at his nose with his filthy blue sleeve. Living on the street had crusted his blond hair into matted locks that covered his eyes. His jeans were dark from grime and sleeping in alcoves and doorways, which had been the case the first time Blair had seen him last week at Rainier.

"It's okay, Lamont," Blair said. "Let's just take this conversation back down to earth, okay?"

The sudden appearance of Simon Banks' car on the street below caused the drug addict to look fearful again. Blair watched with a sinking heart as the tall and menacing shapes of Simon and Jim emerged.

Crap, talk about lousy timing.

"Nonono."

`Lamont, it's okay," Blair soothed. "They're friends of mine. They won't hurt you."

"Cops! They're cops!" Lamont cried out in alarm.

"Yeah, I know, I know." Blair cursed the fact that both men did scream cop, even in civilian clothes, not that Blair hadn't told that very same thing to Jim on more than once occasion. Street people could pick out a plain-clothes police officer nine out of ten times with alarming accuracy. "But, I swear, they're good guys."

Lamont wasn't about to be consoled. With speed borne of fear of incarceration, the addict literally ran across the catwalk to the only means of escape. Unfortunately for Blair, he blocked the way.

"Lamont! No, wait!"

"Sandburg!"

Not now, Jim! Blair screamed in his head as he scrambled to stay attached to the metal frame. Two hundred and fifty pounds of pure panic hit hard and Blair felt himself flying. He clawed the rain soaked nothingness as he dropped.

Jim watched in horror, his body frozen. It wasn't going to matter anyway. In seconds his best friend was about to dent the asphalt.

With his blood pounding in his ears, Jim watched Blair drop eight feet from the cat walk, arms desperately flailing for nonexistent handholds. A thin guide cable ran between the two metal silos. In typical Sandburg luck, Blair managed to hook his left leg - about knee level - around the wire. Jim heard vertebras snap in protest as Blair's weight spun under the wire. For a second it looked as if Blair would flip completely under and slip off, but he miraculously caught the wire with his left hand before his leg unhooked. His body swung back and he hung by one hand.

"Jimmmm!"

It was a scream signaling the end of courage, of a mind that could no longer hold back fear. And it motivated Jim like nothing else had ever done before. Simon was shouting out instructions for Blair to hold on as he fumbled with his cell phone. Jim sized up the problem as he ran. A tall chain link fence stood in his way. A heavy chain and large padlock locked the gate closed.

Jim eyed the barbed wire running at the top of the fence and quickly removed his coat. Tying the sleeves around his waist, he climbed up, tossed the coat over the deadly wire and went over, dropping to the ground. The large man who had caused the current emergency was almost to the ground, using the sides of the ladder as a slide. Jim ignored him; he had bigger problems to deal with.

The old silos were in the process of being torn down for a new parking garage. The city had purchased the land to accommodate the commuters that rode the train to work. The demolition was being done with the intent of selling the scrap to recycling companies. The work was in its initial phase and as a result the silos were being fashioned with ropes and pulleys to assist in bringing down the tall structures without additional damage to the railroad tracks and the road; once such rope setup was tied off to an overhead conveyer belt between the silos.

While Lamont reached the ground and ran away, Jim raced to the rope and snatched up the end. Thankfully it was long enough to reach the base of the ladder and Jim looped it around his arm before he started his climb.

He checked Blair's position. His friend had managed to catch the wire with his right hand now. Blair's head was bent. Wet strands of hair hung forward, his eyes were tightly closed, his breath shuddering from extreme terror. Zooming in on Blair's hands, Jim realized the bloody fingers of his left hand were beginning to slip. The old cable was littered with broken strands throughout its length. They stuck out like cruel looking barbs, sharp enough to rip and tear skin.

"Hold on, Chief! I'm coming!" Jim reached the catwalk, then climbed up a few more rungs. He needed enough height to pendulum out to Blair.

Blair lifted his head, noting Jim's position. He cried out fearfully when his left hand lost its hold. Deep lines of pain appeared on his brow as all his weight transferred to his right hand. There wasn't any more time. Jim tested the rope and quickly tied a large loop for his foot. He was going to get one shot at this.

"Blair, get ready," he ordered placing his right foot in the loop.

Somehow the plan looked a lot easier from the ground. Jim began to doubt himself as he judged the rope's angle and the path he would likely take.

Blair's right hand was starting to open up. Blood dripped down his wrist.

Out of time.

Jim released his hold of the ladder and fell. A second of exhilaration passed and he watched Blair draw near. Under different circumstances Blair's expression would have caused Jim to laugh outright. You'd think he'd never seen a man swing out on a rope before. Then Jim realized his error.

He was too low.

With a strangled cry, Blair's tentative hold failed.

With a painful thud, Jim caught his friend with his right arm. Blair clung like a monkey to its mother, arms and legs wrapped in a fierce grip. His entire body vibrated with terror. As the rope hit the catwalk above and they swung briefly underneath before swinging back in the opposite direction, Jim tried to suck in air and ignore the stabs of pain. They completed a second swing and started forward again. Jim caught his breath, noting the heavy scent of blood from Blair's hands.

"Hate to admit this, Chief," Jim said briefly squeezing his friend. "My plan stops here, any ideas on how to get down?"

Blair's short burst of near hysterical laughter warmed the side of Jim's neck. Their swings were slowing, each arc becoming shorter and shorter as the momentum played out. Jim peered past his feet to see Simon looking up in relieved exasperation, the falling rain spotting his gold-rimmed glasses.

"Fire department is on the way, Jim!" Simon announced loudly. "Nice catch."

Ten minutes later, the Cascade Fire Department had a long aerial truck in position. The tip of a seventy-five foot ladder snaked out toward Jim's feet. Jim was instructed not to try climbing down onto the ladder until the firemen were in position to assist. Jim had no problem waiting. Although his foot was starting to ache from the constant pressure, he could hold his position for hours if he needed to.

"So, anyway," Jim continued as the ladder drew near. "This body was dressed like a soldier during the time of Caesar. Wait till you see the getup the killer put him in."

Blair hadn't lifted his head once, although his trembling was gone. Perhaps this wasn't the best time to catch Blair up on the facts surrounding the new case, but it was best to keep Blair's mind busy with a new puzzle to solve than worrying if the rope above their heads was strong enough to hold them.

"A Roman soldier?" Blair asked, his voice muffled a bit.

"Yeah." Jim watched a pair of firemen start the long climb toward them.

"Costume look authentic?"

"No, more like something left over from a Halloween costume shop," Jim said. "Still, it's a switch from the white bed sheets the others had been wrapped up in." Jim shifted a little. "Listen, Chief, the calvary's here. In a second, someone is going to help you down."

Blair's response was to simply tighten his hold.

"Hey," Jim grunted. Damn, the kid could squeeze. "Look up. See the ladder?"

Blair reluctantly lifted his head and looked down Jim's back. He groaned miserably.

"Don't, Sandburg. I didn't save your ass to have you vomit on me," Jim warned in a mock threat.

Blair buried his face again. "Oh, God. I hate heights, man."

"How in the world did you ever manage to jump out of that plane in Peru?"

"That's different. You needed back up."

The firemen arrived.

"Ready, Detective?" asked a youthful face with red hair and freckles.

"Just a sec," Jim told him. "Blair? You need to let them help you down now. Ready? Just keep your eyes closed if you need to. They'll guide your feet."

"Okay," Blair whispered.

And that's what it took. As long as Blair didn't have to open his eyes, he seemed fine. Jim's stomach churned as he got a good look at Blair's hands. The left palm and pads of the fingers looked like hamburger. The right hand was slightly better. Jim waited until Blair was firmly positioned on the wide ladder before he stepped off the rope and slowly started the long climb down.

Once off the ladder, Blair opened his eyes. With a shudder, he stepped down to the street, took a step and collapsed gratefully to his knees, clutching his shredded hands close as he tossed his stomach contents onto the pavement.

Kneeling down, Jim steadied Blair's shoulders. Simon took the opposite side, grimacing in disgust and averting his gaze to catch Jim's eyes. "You guys okay?"

"Yeah, thanks for making the call," Jim said.

"No problem, who was the guy up there with Sandburg?" Simon asked.

"No clue." Jim looked at Blair's pale and sweaty face. He looked wasted. Two aid personnel stood by, ready to assist. "Let's get him patched up before we get the story out of him."

When Blair tried to stand, his left leg crumpled. Jim caught him before he hit the ground and quickly ran a hand down the injured leg, touching jeans soaked with tacky blood below Blair's left knee. It was a wonder the wire hadn't taken off his leg all together, Jim thought morbidly, seeing the long rip in Blair's jeans for the first time.

"Keep him here," one of the firemen ordered. "We'll get our gurney."

Blair eyed the crutches leaning against the corner of his hospital room glumly. He hated them already. What was the point? He glowered at identical hands swathed in thick bandages. It would be a day or so before he could grip anything adequately enough to maneuver. His movement even with crutches would be painful.

The past twenty-four hours had not been pleasant. He had panicked at first after waking yesterday from the anesthetic, unable to feel his hands. Knowing how they had looked before he'd been loaded into the back of the aid car, his first thought was that the damage had been permanent.

Only the surgery had been on his leg, not hands. The doctors had rushed him into surgery yesterday after they determined one of his tendons had been severed. Every passing hour would make reattachment harder. Luckily, the surgeon had found the ends and repaired the damage. But Blair had awakened confused, and when a male nurse in the recovery room had appeared over his bed, he had lost it. The poor guy had just been doing his job; Blair realized later, a little ashamed of himself for freaking out.

It hadn't been until Jim appeared, complete with a cap and mask, that Blair started to feel the terror abate, the tight band around his chest loosening enough to allow him to breathe.

Jim had seemed cool about the entire fiasco, though. That was nice.

Now, a day later and waiting for Jim to arrive so he could go home, Blair's hands ached, like being stung repeatedly by thousands of angry wasps. Blair's jaw was sore from clenching his teeth. And he wanted real clothes again. They had cut his best jeans off. As if he could just run out and spend fifty bucks for a new pair of Levi's, thank you very much. Jim had promised to bring him something from the loft. His legs were cold. The stupid gown he was wearing was paper thin and about as stiff.

The door to his room opened, interrupting his dark musings.

"Ready to go?" Jim entered, looking rested and happy with the world.

"Yesterday," Blair replied sarcastically. "Bring my clothes?" Too late he saw the small duffle bag in Jim's hand.

Eyebrow raised in admonishment. Jim set the zippered bag on the edge of the bed, within arms' reach of the patient. "Cranky, aren't we?"

"Ah... shit, man." The zipper was too small. Blair couldn't get his wrapped hands to work it open. "I hate this!"

Silently, Jim took the bag back and opened it. Removing a clean set of sweats, he shook out the pants and waited for Blair to flip down the covers before holding them open. Blair's left leg was thick with bandages and immobilized at the knee by a splint.

"Easy," Jim muttered as Blair slid off the bed to balance on his good leg. Jim assisted in pulling the sweats all the way up before helping Blair perch back on the edge of the bed again.

Just that simple movement caused beads of sweat to form on Blair's forehead.

"You should've seen Brown today," Jim said as he reached for the tie behind Blair's neck and worked the knot free. "He bought a new Hawaiian shirt for the press conference. The camera men had a hard time keeping him in focus. I think he did it on purpose. Lift your arms."

Blair followed orders, glumly watching his friend work the bulky bandages through the sleeves of his sweatshirt, dreading the way his injuries were going to effect the next few days. "The press conference to announce the forming of the task force? Did the county join?" Blair asked, trying to break out of his bad mood.

"Yeah, they sent a decent detective, too." Jim gathered the material into his hands and lifted it over Blair's head. "I've worked with him before: Ethan Bearchild."

"Bearchild?" Blair pursed his lips as Jim picked his tennis shoes off the floor and loosened the laces before slipping them over Blair's feet. He relaxed a little. Jim's patience this morning was nothing sort of amazing. "Salish?"

"Ah... nope, don't think so. Muckleshoot, down by Auburn - if I remember correctly. Not a very big reservation, they do okay though. Big casino." Jim finished with the last shoe and stood. "You'll like him."

"What? I get to work with you on this?" Blair held up his hand. "Like this?"

"Why not?" Jim shrugged. "Lots of reading to do; old cases, profiles, data. The symbolism alone with these killings could fill a textbook. I'm sure we'll find enough to keep you busy. Rainier's light this week, right?"

"Yeah."

The department head had been understanding over the phone, which was better then being fired. Rainier would plod along with or without Blair Sandburg there to watch and take part.

"Did they give you anything for pain?" Jim asked.

"No, and I don't want any. I'm okay," Blair told him, feeling out of sorts again.

A nurse entered the room, looking pleased to see Blair dressed and ready to leave.

"Ah, great," she said brightly. "Sorry I was delayed. It's been crazy here today. So, Mr. Sandburg, any questions before you leave us? Did the doctor explain your post-op care?"

"Yes, thank you." Blair pointed to the paperwork sitting on a small counter tucked under the suspended TV. "All signed. Can I go now?"

Once in Jim's truck and heading for the loft, Blair allowed some of the tension in his jaw to relax. Just the movements from the wheelchair into the cab of Jim's Ford made him rethink his plan on pain pills. He glanced over at Jim's profile, catching a flash of pain on the older man's face as he turned the wheel.

"What's wrong?" Blair demanded.

Jim shrugged. "Nothing, just a little sore. Banged up some ribs."

"What? When you did that Batman stunt with the rope?" Why hadn't Blair been told Jim was hurt?

Jim nodded. "Bruce had the rubber suit to protect him, Boy Wonder. It's not so easy in real life." A genuine smile kept the comment from stinging.

Blair closed his eyes. Damn, he'd let himself fall into a deep pit of self-pity. In fact, he hadn't even let Jim know how appreciative he felt. "I'm sorry, man. Sorry for being such an ass at the hospital today, too." Shifting in his seat, he carefully rested his injured hands on his knees. "Thanks for saving my life yesterday."

"Welcome," Jim replied casually. "So, tell me what you were doing up there in the first place? Who's Lamont?"

"I met him last week. Remember that real cold spell we had? He was sleeping under the bushes by Hargrove," Blair responded dully. He knew this was coming. Actually, he'd expected it last night when he'd been transferred to his room after surgery. But Jim had followed along and sat quietly watching TV with him until he'd fallen asleep.

"Ah huh, this is the `student' you told me you were helping?" Jim frowned, his attention fixed on driving. The traffic was heavier than normal for midday. "He's a drug addict, isn't he? Campus security should have run him off."

"I never said he was a student, Jim, only that I met him at Rainier," Blair protested. "And that's the point, man. Lamont needs treatment, not harassment by cops."

"Chief, I could smell the meth all over him. He tossed you off that catwalk and ran like the wind. All he cared about was scoring more rock." Jim glanced over at his passenger briefly as he argued his point. "He's too far gone. Treatment for methamphetamine habits just don't take."

"You don't know that," Blair protested. "He's sick, man. And I found him a bed with Recovery Northwest. They would have taken him, too." Blair sank in his seat, his shoulders hunched forward. "Only he went all weird on me."

Jim's sigh ended the argument. He parked the Ford in a half empty parking lot and removed the key. "Sandburg, I know you just want to help."

"Jim." Holding up a white mitt of gauze, Blair cut him off. "I know what you're going to say, okay? And I bet you know what my response will be. So let's just save our collective breaths."

"Not going to happen," Jim responded firmly, his eyes hard. "Anytime you pull stupid stunts that get you hurt, I'm going to call you on it."

Blair had to forcibly bite his tongue to keep from telling Jim everything was fine up until he and Simon had arrived. Lamont was going to come down. Blair just knew the man was getting ready to go with him. Whatever had originally frightened him, he just needed time to work through his system.

Jim misunderstood the silence as capitulation. "And what were you thinking? Climbing up on that silo? Didn't you pay any attention to the `no trespassing' signs all over that place?"

If it weren't for the fact Blair couldn't easily get his bandaged fingers around the door handle, he would have been halfway to the third floor by now. Jim was coming close to getting an earful. He wasn't going to be treated like a halfwit. Blair knew how to take care of himself.

Only one thing kept him from cutting loose and giving Jim a piece of his mind. And that was the heart-stopping moment when his fingers had lost their hold on that wire. Blair took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. "I know, I know. I just wanted to get Lamont down. It took me days to get that appointment for him."

Jim nodded. "I understand, Chief. Listen, tell me what you know about him. Where he stays, who his friends are. I want him picked up. He'd dangerous to himself and others."

"What?" Blair couldn't believe was he was hearing. "No way! You are not going to arrest him, Jim!"

"He knocked you off that catwalk, he trespassed," Jim explained. "Who knows what he does to pay for his fix."

"You've already tried and convicted him!" The unfairness of the situation was too much. Blair ignored the pain that shot through his fingers and clawed the door handle until he triggered the release. Pushing the door open with his shoulder, he stepped out and dragged his bad leg behind him. He ignored the expletives that erupted from the driver's side as he started limping across the street without regard for traffic.

"Sandburg! Stop!" Jim shouted angrily.

Blair refused to look back, too filled with anger. The pain kicked in as he reached the yellow center line. Blair paused, suddenly aware of his folly. His leg hurt. The distance to the far curb seemed like a hundred miles. The irony caused him to groan, it was the same distance to go back to the Ford to retrieve his crutches.

Shit!

Then Jim was at his side, looking ready to rip Blair's injured leg off and beat him over the head with the bloody stump. The padded end of a crutch was thrust under his left arm pit and Blair transferred most of the weight off his left leg. He closed in eyes in relief, glad he wasn't going to end up face down on the road.

"I'm not fighting with you about this, Chief," Jim growled as he positioned the second crutch under his right arm.

"I don't want to fight at all, man," Blair said wearily. And he really didn't. Jim had made with the rescue yesterday, literally snatching him from certain death. The last thing he wanted to do was fight. "But I'm not letting you guys blame Lamont for my stupidity. I followed him, Jim. He didn't invite me to join him on top of those silos."

Taking a second to roll his eyes heavenward for a brief moment, Jim shook his head. His attention shifted to an oncoming car. "Let's get inside before we both end up road kill."

Jim pulled his hands from the dishwater and opened the door to let Simon into the loft.

"Bad timing?" Simon asked as he walked into the loft and shrugged out of his raincoat.

Jim returned to the sink. "Nope, just cleaning up. What's the latest? Did you bring the files?"

Simon set a thick envelope on the table. "Our latest victim is one Marcus Tartan. Fifty-one, retired Army turned realtor. His bio's inside. As a member of the task force you get a complete set of all we have on our four victims. Too bad you missed the first meeting. We covered some good ground. How's Sandburg?"

Jim finished cleaning the last plate and ran it under the facet before adding it to the other clean dishes in the drainer. "Pissy. I suppose duct taping him to his futon places me somewhere in the category of kidnapping."

"That bad? What's got his love beads in a twist this time?"

Jim noticed Simon looking at his refrigerator with something close to longing. "He's mad at me for wanting to bring in the scum that knocked him off the catwalk. You hungry? We had meatloaf, I could make you a sandwich out of the leftovers."

"Throw in a beer and I'll have to marry you, Ellison." Simon pulled out a chair and sat, eagerly waiting for the promised meal. "What's with Sandburg and that guy anyway? He didn't look like someone I'd expect the kid to be hanging around with." Simon shot Jim a guilty look. "No pun intended."

Gathering the fixings for the meatloaf sandwich, Jim lifted a corner of his mouth in humorless acknowledgement. "Said he met him last week. The guy was sniffing around campus, probably panhandling for drug money. Sandburg got the stupid idea of trying to help, even managed to get him a treatment bed. You want catsup?"

"Sure." Simon leaned back, hooking a long arm around the back of his chair. "You sound pretty pissy yourself, Jim, but considering the kid's penchant for helping, he's staying in character. Remember the Iceman case? So why the anger?"

Slicing uniform sections of meatloaf, Jim kept his eyes on his task. "Blair would have died yesterday. That fall would have split his liberal head open like a watermelon. And for what? A meth user? He's supposed to be smarter than that, Simon."

"Yeah, okay. He's young and idealistic. Again, this is nothing new. Besides, it all turned out okay. He's going to heal. You need to let it go."

Jim set the plate holding the finished sandwich down and pulled two beers out from the fridge. Frustration still drummed through his body. He tuned into the soft snores coming from Blair's room. Simon was right. He was holding on to the anger. He wanted the person that had nearly killed his friend behind bars. He wanted Blair to see the hidden dangers of well meaning but ineffectual attempts to change the world. The prostitute had merely bruised Blair's heart. This meth user could have stopped it.

"Great meatloaf," Simon said after swallowing. "Reminds me of my grandmother's."

"Thanks, old family recipe," Jim muttered.

"Granny got it off the back of a soup can," Simon admitted with a grin. "So where is Sandburg?"

"Sleeping," Jim said briefly wondering what the odds were that Simon's granny bought the same soup that Sally had taken her recipe from. "Hopefully he's in a better mood when he wakes up."

Simon chuckled. "You two are priceless."

Blair managed five hours of sleep before the pain grew more than even an exhausted mind could ignore. By the silence of the loft, he figured Jim was up in his bed asleep. That would mean it was close to midnight, or maybe a little after.

The crutches still leaned against the wall next to the small window overlooking the living room. Moving slowly, Blair retrieved them and made his way quietly as possible to the bathroom. After taking care of things, he stood in the short hallway and considered his options. He really didn't think he could go back to sleep. Dim light filtered in through the cracked blinds over the window, giving just enough illumination to allow Blair to see. The TV beckoned him with a silent `come hither' call.

Yeah, right.

Living with a sentinel was not everything it was cracked up to be.

Blair shook off the foul mood. Not again, he wasn't going to let his mind take that path. No more pity-fests. Blair caught sight of white squares on the kitchen table. Curious, he hobbled over and discovered papers and photos.

It was hard to tell in the darkness but it looked like the case Jim had told him about. Careful not to make noise, he carefully gathered the documents with bandaged hands and returned to his room. If he couldn't sleep, he could at least catch up on the handiwork of the latest serial killer.

He closed the door before turning on the light and got comfortable on his futon. There were about thirty pages in all, boring reports with boxes titled `victim' and `witnesses' and meaningless codes. The county police used forms very similar to the city's. He skimmed the names and dates of births then quickly went to the officer's narratives.

Four victims -three men and a woman - were all strangled by a small diameter cord of some type.

Blair shivered. The cold facts printed on paper did not match the horror of the deed. He'd never forget the first time he had read Jim's official report of his kidnapping by Lash.

Don't go there, Blair told himself. He forced himself to read on.

The real connection between the killings was the way the killer dressed the bodies before dumping them. The first three were wrapped in sheets, similar to a toga. He had used a fabric strip for belts and even fashioned old looking sandals from cardboard and leather laces.

Blair looked at the photos from yesterday's discovery. This guy was different. He got to play the part of a guard. Jim was correct when he guessed a Roman guard, Blair realized. It did look like the killer was dressing him up to be a guard for Julius Caesar or maybe Augustus. The detailed report of the costume told Blair the iron rings that made up a typical Roman mail shirt were actually plastic. A belt had been fashioned into a scabbard holder complete with a long plastic sword. The helmet was a painted hardhat with cardboard cutouts, also painted a dull bronze, which hung down in the front to cover the cheek and jaws of the wearer.

Blair was impressed. The killer had gone to a lot of work to make his victim appear authentic. He turned back to the pictures of the earlier victims. Maybe there was more to the togas.

Jim woke early to the smell of coffee. Stretching like a cat, he froze as the pain stole his breath.

Damn, nothing like separated cartilage to make a person appreciate living.

Speaking of injuries...

What was Blair doing up this early? The doctor's orders for bed rest and limited movement had been clear, although the words `Blair' and `rest' didn't frequently get used in the same sentence. In a perfect world Blair would take the week off and relax around the loft, but Jim knew that was not going to happen. He'd rather drag his partner down to the station each day and plant him in a safe corner so he could keep his eyes on him.

Although remembering Blair's attitude from yesterday, he wouldn't word it quite that bluntly. Let Blair think he was getting away with something by tagging along. He didn't want another fight first thing in the morning. After finding his robe and slippers, Jim headed for the coffee. The living area was empty; he could hear Blair still in his room. The coffee pot was half full, but still smelled fresh, so he helped himself. Strolling over to the French doors, he tapped with a knuckle.

"Morning, Jim. Come in."

Blair sat on his bed, his left leg straight out, his right bent at the knee with his foot tucked under his left thigh. Books, papers and photographs completely covered the blankets. Ever the student, he awkwardly clutched a pen in one hand and scratched notes in a notebook balanced on his right thigh. His left hand had less mobility due to the heavy wrappings and could only be used to hold the book open. An empty coffee cup sat on another closed book.

Jim eyed one of the photos. "You found the case notes."

"Yeah, man, and I think I've got something." Blair's eyes sparkled with the fever of discovery. Coupled with his rat's nest of uncombed hair, he looked ready for the nut house. "Look at this!"

Snagging the desk chair, Jim pulled it close and took a seat. Blair pushed a photo closer to Jim. He recognized the second victim, Seth Tomlinson, a twenty-three year-old mechanic. "Yeah?"

"See the tunic?" Blair used the tip of his pencil to point.

"Yeah, I told you they were found in togas, Chief," Jim explained. "We already made that connection."

"No, Jim, not a toga. It's a tunic," Blair dropped the pencil and clumsily picked up the notebook. "See? I sketched it. Is this what he was wearing?"

Jim frowned. Why the fuss over some old bed sheets. He looked at Blair's drawing. "I can't vouch for your dimensions, but it looks right. I remember the two reddish stripes the killer added."

"Perfect, that's what I figured, but no one took photos of the clothes, so I wasn't sure."

"I'm sure they have photos, probably just didn't think to add them to the task force packets. What's the significance?" Jim asked.

Blair picked out another photo, eagerly thrusting it towards Jim. "Now she had a cloak, right? See those marks near the corners? Those are called `gamma' patterns."

Whoa! Jim gave Blair a startled look. What was he saying? "You mean these marks mean something? What?"

Both hands sweeping out in half circles, Blair hurried to explain. "Only that the killer is picking a specific time period, Jim. The guard's getup could be first century AD, maybe Eastern Legionary."

"What?"

"Roman foot soldiers made up Legions. A legionary's armor consisted of a helmet and mail shirt made up of small iron rings," Blair waved a hand next to his head. "The killer just used whatever he had available for the costume. Now the others fit, too."

Jim blinked. "They do? Guards wore bed sheets?"

Blair pulled a face. "Work with me, okay? Not guards, normal citizens - but from the same era. See?" He was pointing back at his drawings now and fumbling for pictures.

Jim leaned forward and quickly lined up the four pictures of the victims in a row, making a `go ahead' gesture for Blair to continue.

Blair did. "She had the cloak with the gamma pattern, typical of women's clothes at Dura Europus. The wedge-ended stripes on the men's cloaks have also been found on fragments from En Gedi."

Jim felt a headache start. "Whoa, stop a sec, professor. Where?"

"Oh, sorry. Ah, Dura Europus is in Syria. Some of the earliest paintings of Jews come from the synagogue there, about 250 AD." Blair seemed to be able to pull these facts from thin air. "And En Gedi--"

"Next to the Dead Sea," Jim interrupted. "I know that one."

"Right!" Blair flashed a smile. "South of Jerusalem, actually, on the road to Masada. They excavated some caves near En Gedi and found tunics with the same stripes. In fact they found similar scraps and fragments in Masada."

"Your point, Sandburg," Jim interrupted again to prevent yet another verbal side trip.

"Well, only that the killer is dressing his victims up in clothing to depict Jews and Romans during the first century, man. Don't you think that's significant?" Blair shook his head briefly at Jim's response. "I do!"

"Yes," Jim told him quickly before his roommate blew a gasket. He wondered how many pots of coffee Blair had downed. "You're right. This is important. And you'll get a chance to tell the task force all about it today."

Blair's smile dimmed. "Me? Can't you explain it?"

"Not half as well as you can, Sandburg," Jim said honestly as he stood up. "Besides, this is your work, you should get the glory." Seeing Blair's enthusiasm wane even more, he sat back down. "What?"

"What?"

Rolling his eyes, Jim sighed. "Don't, Sandburg. Why are you backing off? Don't you want to help with the task force?"

"Sure," Blair started then bit his lip as he struggled to close his notebook and collect the material around him. He kept his eyes down as he worked. "I'd just prefer not to have direct contact with the team, okay? You can take the findings to the group."

"Riiight." Jim remembered the last time Blair had worked a serial killer case, the way he had literally burst into Simon's office with a new clue to the puzzle. Of course, no one knew at the time that the killer was actually in the office...

Of course.

Feeling like a man that needed to be knocked over the head with a two-by-four in order to get a clue, Jim - well - got a clue.

"Sandburg," Jim said in a softer tone. "Anything you can give will be fine. I'll be your spokesman, not a problem."

Blair blushed, keeping his eyes down as he straightened his books. "Thanks, Jim."

Blair looked up from his work. The clock hanging above the opposite desk told him it was almost ten in the morning. He leaned over and sipped the tepid orange juice with the help of a straw before getting ready to call the next number. Someone had found him a head set, making these phone interviews much easier considering his new status as `oven-mitt-boy.' Blair frowned at his hands as he remembered Brown's chuckles of pride when the new nickname was bestowed upon him.

That wasn't as tiresome as his earlier shower with rubber gloves. In fact the entire morning had been a walk on the surreal side. Jim had combed his wet hear, played nurse by changing the dressing on his hands and leg, dressed him and even cut up his pancakes. And the way he'd set up this little nest for Blair when they had arrived at the station could easily end up as a whole new chapter in his sentinel thesis.

Jim had ordered two detectives to move their stuff. He stole a chair from some captain's office - thankfully that captain was on vacation. He found a padded footstool somewhere. Blair rather liked the needlepoint cover on it and wondered if he could find a similar one for his room. He took half an hour arranging everything just so. Simon had not only watched indulgently, but stood by with files in hand. After Jim seemed happy with the setup, Simon moved in to explain what he wanted Blair to do that morning; which was make phone calls - lots and lots of phone calls.

Blair stretched his arms over his head and yawned. He deserved a break. Finding witnesses at home on a weekday was chancy and Blair felt as if he'd left a message on every voice mail in the city.

"Hey, Sandburg," Jim greeted as he entered the temporary office for the task force. He was followed by half a dozen men and women. "Ready for a breather?"

"Yeah, how'd the meeting go?"

"Good, your observations sparked serious interest," Jim said taking the crutches from their position by the wall. With a hand under Blair's right bicep, he gently levered the smaller man out of the chair to balance on his non-injured leg as he continued. "We're going to bring a consultant in, just like you suggested. Brown's calling the names you wrote down."

Blair accepted the crutches with a smile. "Alright! I hope Doctor Kaler is available. You'll like her, Jim."

"Ah huh," Jim looked up as a large man entered the room with Brown. "I want you to meet Bearchild."

A serious faced man wearing dark slacks and a burgundy pullover responded to Jim's waved invitation with a slight tilt of his head. He was as tall as Jim and fifty pounds heaver. Blair could see the start of a spare tire working above his belt, but the guy still looked solid. His dark straight hair was cut short and buzzed flat on top. Flecks of gray painted his temples.

"Ellison?" Bearchild's voice was surprisingly deep and gravely.

"Ethan, this is my roommate, Blair Sandburg," Jim introduced.

A large, square hand was offered. "Nice to meet you, Blair. Good work with that tunic connection."

"Thanks." Blair found the man's grasp gentle. He smiled up at the county cop. "Your department found the first victim, right?"

Bearchild nodded. "First week on October, then the 3rd victim the week during Halloween."

"We think the killer is dumping the bodies in different jurisdictions to delay our realizing we had a pattern developing," Brown added as he joined the group. "How's your morning going, Sandburg?"

"Okay, left more messages than talked to real people. So far no one's seen anything," Blair told them as they headed for the break room. Jim fell into step at his side, matching his stride with Blair's swing of his crutches, as they followed Brown and Bearchild into the hallway.

"Dan placed the last time of death within twelve hours from when the body was found," Jim said for Blair's benefit. "Could be less. I doubt we'll find a witness. That area isn't known as the high rent district. Folks wouldn't go out of their way to investigate strange noises in back alleys."

"At least you got potential witnesses," Bearchild told them. "We get so hard up in the county, we'd interview the opossums if we thought they'd show up in court."

Blair laughed. He was starting to like this guy.

Later that same day, the large room buzzed with activity when the door opened and Brown escorted a women into their midst.

"Okay, people!" Brown ordered in a fair imitation of Simon Banks. "We have our history expert! I'd like to introduce Doctor Mary Elizabeth Kaler." Brown turned a palm up and swung his arm out theatrically. "Doctor, this is my task force."

"Doctor Beth!" Blair exclaimed, popping up from his slouch. He yanked the headset off his ear. "You made it! Outstanding!"

Jim grinned; his partner looked like a kid happy to see a long lost relative. He cast a casual glance over his shoulder at the newcomer.

Hellooooooooooo.

She was about Brown's height with delicate features and a light complexion. Her hair seemed spun from pure gold. When she smiled at Blair, warm honey poured over Jim's entire body and he had to grab the corner of the desk they were sharing to keep from sliding out of his chair.

"Blair Jehoshaphat Sandburg, don't tell me you're the reason I got this invitation," she said with a twinkle in her eye and an impish smile.

Blair dropped his head down on the desk top with a bang. "No! No! Not another nickname, Doctor Beth! Pleeeeease, you don't know these guys."

Brown was already chortling with glee. "Jehoshaphat? You're holding out on us, Hairboy."

"It's not really my middle name, guys," Blair whined. "Honest!"

Jim tuned out the ribbing and rose. Moving forward without conscious effort, he offered his hand. "Welcome, Doctor Kaler. I'm Jim Ellison."

Her hand was warm, like a summer sunset. Jim could see his own face reflected in her brown eyes. Tiny starbursts of amber were scattered throughout both irises, causing Jim to admire the way the contrasting color gave her brown eyes depth. He could almost imagine falling...

"Jim!"

Blair's sharp tone caused Jim to rear back slightly, blinking like an idiot. The doctor looked up at him with concern as he quickly released her hand. He felt his face warm in a blush.

"Doctor Kaler was my first advisor at Rainier, Jim," Blair said, standing at his side.

Beth Kaler gave Jim a gentle smile. "So, you're the reason I never see my favorite Teaching Fellow anymore." She turned to Blair with a concerned frown. "I heard you got hurt, Blair. Go sit back down. I'm just getting a quick tour before I start filling out the mountain of forms they require of me." She turned to the group of cops. "I look forward to helping out any way that I can."

"She'll officially start tomorrow. Ready, Doc?" Brown offered an arm. "I'll escort you to the paperwork mountain."

"See you, Blair. Nice to meet you, Jim."

After she was gone, Jim snagged Blair's arm. It was time for an afternoon break anyway. The amount of information flowing in from several sources could sink a Washington State ferry. The task force had many hours of facts to wade through over the next few days.

"Let's take five, Chief," Jim said. "I'll buy the coffee."

"Coffee here is free, Jim," Blair reported with a snicker. "You can buy a soda."

"Whatever, come on."

Inside the break room, he fed the coins into the machine and waited for Blair to punch his button of choice. "Okay, Sandburg. Spill." The heavy `clunk' of the pop can echoed in the empty room. Jim leaned down and retrieved the orange Crush can, tapping it absentmindedly before pulling the tab open. He set it down on the nearest round table and started rummaging through drawers for a straw.

"Spill what?"

"Kaler, doofus. That's what," Jim explained. Finding a straw and tearing off the protective paper before dropping it into the open can, he reached into his pocket for more coins, eyeing the selection for himself. The red light was on under the root beer button, he'd have to find another.

"Oh, she's cool. You're going to really like her, Jim." Blair dragged the can closer to his seat and leaned down to take a drink.

"I'm already at that stage; now tell me the important stuff. What's she like? What's her favorite food? What does she do on her days off, that stuff." Jim stabbed the button for the Lipton Ice Tea with lemon.

Blair's eyes widened with realization. "Oh, man. No way, Jim. This is not going to happen."

"Why not?"

"Well, for one thing - she's married," Blair said.

"I didn't see a ring."

"Well, she is." Blair waved a hand back and forth as if he was waving off an incoming airplane. "Besides, man, she's like a second mother to me. She sort of watched out for me when I first came to Rainier. I like her, okay?"

Jim took a seat and ran a hand down his face. "Sandburg, I just want to ask her out, not pillage the village. Just find out what's up with the `no ring' situation, okay? Maybe she's available again and you haven't heard yet."

Blair frowned. "I don't know..."

"I do," Jim said happily. "Come on, Jehoshaphat, have a heart."

Blair rolled his eyes.

The following day, Doctor Kaler officially joined the task force. Blair picked an out-of-the-way seat as the group gathered in the conference room. Henry looked calm and competent at the large white board set up in the front of the room. Pictures of the victims had been enlarged and taped onto the board. All victims were smiling into the camera, very much alive when the photos were taken.

"Just a quick recap for Doctor Kaler," Brown said, bestowing a toothy smile at the woman sitting at Blair's side. "First victim is Jacob Morris. Seventy-two year old retired dockyard worker. Lived in a run down trailer court. His body was dumped at the county park near the North Fork of the Stillaguamish."

Bearchild nodded from his position at Brown's immediate left. "Our medical examiner thinks he was dumped as long as a week before he was found."

"Right, that puts the first killing at..." Brown checked the large calendar on the wall next to the whiteboard. "... roughly, September twenty-sixth, cause of death, strangulation. Victim two was Seth Tomlinson, twenty-three, a mechanic at Cascade Foreign Car and found behind the Black Angus Restaurant, October fifteenth. Same cause of death, died within twenty-four hours. Now our only female victim was number three, Nicole Aaron-Smith." Brown checked his notes. "Thirty-nine, a school teacher at Cascade Elementary, but found in a ravine off Highway Nine, out in the county again."

Everyone turned to Bearchild expectantly.

"I didn't work that case, but the reports say she was found the day before Halloween and was killed no more than forty-eight hours before. Same MO as the others," Bearchild told them.

"That brings us to the last victim," Brown said, taking the verbal ball back again. "Marcus Tartan, fifty-one, found behind the old train station on Union. Retired army sergeant, started selling real estate three years ago. Our M.E. says he was pretty fresh, killed within eight hours. Except for the fatal strangulation and the blows to the head, none of the victims were assaulted."

Brown walked over to another white board with pictures of clothing as well as diagrams enlarged from history books. "Thanks to Sandburg, we now know more about the clothing the killer dressed the victims in. I'm going to let the doc explain this part."

As Kaler stood and took a position in front of the board, Blair could help but sneak a peek at Jim's face. He suppressed a grin. Jim was so smitten. It simply cracked Blair up to see the way the older man reacted whenever he so much as looked her way. All the tension seemed to flow out of his face and his eyes lost focus.

Maybe this was a sentinel thing. Maybe he was reacting to her on a more basic level.

"Well, for starters, Blair, pay attention," Kaler said with a mischievous smile.

Blair grinned as the other occupants in the room snorted and chuckled. He mouthed the word `sorry' to her and sat up straight as she continued.

"You already know about the stripes and gamma marks on the tunics and cloaks." She pointed to a large picture of crude drawings showing men and women in different dress. "This is a montage of figures painted on the walls of the synagogue at Dura Europus in Syria 250AD. Our earliest paintings of both the Jews' and the Syrian dress. They shared this same type of clothing well into the third century AD."

"Why aren't more paintings found?" one of the female detectives, Sara Holbrook, asked.

Kaler crossed her arms, tilting her head as she spoke. "That's because the Jews believed the second commandment forbade the painting or sculpture of the human figure."

Half the task force drew blank faces; the others looked as if they were trying to remember. Kaler had to laugh before continuing. "No false idols, folks."

"You gotta be kidding me."

Kaler turned to the speaker, a male detective this time and shrugged. "I think the verse goes something like - you shall not make an idol in the form of anything in heaven or on earth. They translated it to mean no self portraits." She turned back to the drawings, "Anyway, eventually these restrictions were relaxed because we found these. These drawings show Jews wearing the current fashions of the eastern Roman Empire. Now since we've found similar bits of clothing in the caves at En Gedi left by Jews involved in the second revolt against Rome in 135 AD and similar fragments of cloth with notched stripes and gamma patterns were found at Masada showing that similar clothes were in use by 70 AD, you could speculate that the fashions lasted a while and were believe to be in effect before the time of Christ."

"So what's to say the killer isn't trying to dress the victim up as Syrians?" Blair asked.

"Two things actually," Kaler replied. "First, the En Gedi tunic on the first two victims seem traditionally made; two-pieced with two stripes down the front and back. According to the Talmud, the tunic was tied with a linen girdle or a hollow money belt. He even provided his victims with a rectangular cloak with a notched stripe that was worn over the tunic. They weren't the knee length type common with the Romans and Greeks, these were the old traditional costumes worn by the very religious Jewish men."

The room fell quiet as they pondered her theory.

"You said two things," Jim pointed out. "What's the second?"

Kaler tucked a golden strand of hair that had fallen out of her French braid back behind her ear. "Oh, I was thinking of the names. But I figured you all had already made that connection."

Blair looked at Jim in surprise. He wasn't aware of any other connection. Of course he didn't sit in on yesterday's meeting, so maybe Jim forgot to tell him. "What about the names?"

Jim shook his head.

Detective Brown leaned forward, along with all the other people in the room.

Beth Kaler shifted uncomfortably. "You mean... No one's noticed the names of the victim's?"

Simon stared at the white board. He'd been tied up in meetings and dropped in to check on the task forces progress before leaving for the day. Jim stood at his side, still feeling a little amazed with the latest nugget of information provided by their history professor.

"Run this by me one more time, Jim," Simon asked around his unlit cigar.

"Sure, Beth told us--"

Simon turned with eyebrow raised. "Beth?"

Jim shared a crooked grin. "Doctor Kaler told us each victim has a name from the bible. The original meaning of the name seems to match the person or the person's occupation."

"Do tell."

Jim didn't think Simon was having a very good day and he hurried to explain. "No, it makes sense. Look... Jacob means `that supplants, undermines, the heel.'"

"That's our wino, right?"

"Right, he's not the best example. But he was the first victim, so we figure the killer was still figuring his plan out. The next one is better; Seth - who puts or fixes."

Simon nodded. "The mechanic, that works."

"And Aaron means Teacher - so she's a match. The last one was our retired army guy," Jim pointed to his picture.

"Marcus? What's that mean?" Simon asked.

"No, not Marcus," Jim answered. "Tartan. It's an official title of a roman guard, the general."

Simon nodded his head several times and removed his cigar. "So the killer is fixating on the names, not the victim's nationality. None of our victim's appear to be Jewish. You guys may have figured out the pattern, only why's the killer using it?"

Jim shrugged. That was a good question. Motive might lead him to the killer and prevent anymore people from playing in his deadly drama. He rubbed his forehead, unable to provide the answer and knowing Simon didn't expect one. The room was empty. It was well past quitting time. He needed to collect his roommate and head for home.

"Sounds like Sandburg did the department a favor bringing this professor on board," Simon noted. "How's he doing anyway? Any problems working with us on this?"

Automatically extending his hearing, he heard the sound of Blair's voice along with Doctor Kaler. They were back down the hallway in the room being used for the main task force work area. "He's better. He even sat in on today's briefing."

"Good." Simon rolled his shoulders wearily. "I should be around more tomorrow, I can help a little with this. Brown's doing okay?"

"Yep." Jim followed Simon to the door, turning off the light and locking it behind them. "Keeping the team organized and on track. You'd be proud."

"Good, good." The captain looked down the hallway that let to the Major Crime bullpen. "I'm going to check my messages and hit the road. I'll catch up with you tomorrow."

"Night, Simon."

After Jim was alone, he guiltily extended his hearing back toward Blair, only to find Blair was now alone. Darn, they'd been chit-chatting and Jim was hoping to catch a useful tidbit of information, like if the woman was available. With a smile at his own infatuation, Jim went to retrieve his friend. What he felt for Kaler was nothing like that pheromone surge he'd felt over McCarthy. This was softer.

Blair was still sifting through tall stacks of computer printouts. The amount of information that passed through this office and that to come staggered the imagination. Jim had worked on a few task forces in his time. He knew they had a useful place in police work, allowing multiple agencies to join together, conserve resources and manpower. There was limited duplication of effort. Information was pored over, facts collected and organized, phone canvassing, door knocking, primary interviews and secondary interviews, until hopefully they had something solid. If nothing of use was discovered, then it was a matter of how long they could justify the task force's existence before the entire project was mothballed.

"Ready to hit the road?" Jim asked.

Left alone in the room, Blair looked up in surprise. "Already?"

Jim picked up their coats with a grin. Sandburg was a data processing machine. He'd work through the night if he could. "Come on, Robo-cop. Even public servants should be allowed a few hours rest." He helped Blair into his coat, noticing the condition of Blair's bandaged hands.

"You realize that this is like an excavation, Jim?" Blair accepted the crutches from Jim. Small fatigue lines were etched around his eyes, but the overall look was of a man enjoying his task. "We have all this nonessential data to sift through until we find a fact shard to match with another bit someone else uncovered. It's fascinating."

"Uh huh." Jim bent down to snag Blair's backpack from under the desk.

"You know, they could teach a course at Rainier on this," Blair said absentmindedly before breaking into a wide yawn. "Wow, I guess I am tired."

"We put in nearly ten hours, Chief. It's late." One more office to lock up and Jim walked at Blair's side, nodding to the nightshift cops who passed by. "So, you ask Kaler why she doesn't wear a ring?"

"Jimmm."

"Come on," Jim coaxed, hitting the button to call the elevator.

By the time they made it to the loft, Jim had Blair worn down - or worn out - whatever the case, Blair finally gave the answer.

"Okay, yeah, seems she and her husband are filing for divorce. She told me they haven't been together much over the last two years. He travels. Neither of them were surprised to see it end." Blair swung into the loft as he talked. His forehead wrinkled in pain each time he lifted the crutches.

"That's too bad," Jim said.

"Yeah, right, man. Like you really mean that."

Jim laughed. "Okay, I don't. Here, sit down. I'll make some sandwiches and you can take a pain pill."

"Okay." Blair lowered himself onto the first sofa and toed off his sneakers. He stretched out full length and rolled onto his back with a groan. "So what now? You gonna ask her out?"

Pulling out the last of the meatloaf and lettuce, Jim answered from the kitchen, "Okay with you?"

"And if I say `No'?"

Jim couldn't see Blair over the back of the sofa, but he could hear the teasing tone. "Don't worry, Junior. When we get married, I'll legally adopt you, okay? We'll all be one big happy family."

"Asshole," Blair muttered with a quiet laugh.

Jim felt the grin stretch his face as he picked off the brown lettuce leaves from the head. He lived to tease his roommate. It was simply too much fun and relatively cost free, not that Blair didn't dabble in his own Jim-mind-games from time to time. "You won't even have to call me dad. But I'm cracking down on your work performance around the loft, mister. I'll post a set of daily chores on the icebox."

"As if the loft rules weren't enough torture," Blair moaned. "On the lighter side, I could use a weekly allowance."

Jim laughed. Feeling generous, he brought the sandwiches into the living room, along with two cokes. A beer would go down sweeter, but he didn't want to give Blair a reason to skip the pain pill. Blair sat up with interest when the food appeared on the coffee table.

"Looks good, Jim." Blair reached for a sandwich. "Thanks."

"Welcome." It felt good to be sitting down. Jim looked through the windows at the darkness beyond as they ate. He could count on long work days now that he was on a task force, when was he going to find time to date?

"Jim? You know I'm just razzing you about Doctor Beth, right?" Blair said with a mouthful of meatloaf.

Jim nodded. "I know, I'm just thinking about the next few weeks. We're going to have a lot on our plate. I'll wait a while before asking her out."

Blair snickered. "Adds to the sexual tension in the work place."

Jim snorted. "No cookies for you, smart mouth. You can take a pain pill and I'll change your dressing before you sleep."

"Thanks." Blair was still grinning as he finished his meal.

Gathering up the supplies from the bathroom, Jim followed Blair into the small bedroom and helped him into his winter sleeping attire, sweatpants, t-shirt and thick socks. The bandage on his leg looked okay and Jim left it alone. That wound would take the longest to heal. Blair's left hand was swollen, the small black stitches stuck out like large ants marching across his palm.

"Ooow."

"Sorry," Jim soothed as he gently probed. "No infection that I can see. How's it feel?"

"Like I shook hands with a razor blade," Blair said sourly. "When do the stitches come out?"

"A few days." Jim rewrapped the hand and started to unwrap the right hand. "We'll make an appointment."

"Can't you take them out?"

"Yeah, but I'd rather a doctor check your healing progress." Jim examined the other hand while Blair sat silently on the futon, his back against the wall, his legs straight out and already under the blankets. "This hand looks pretty good. I think we can re-bandage you for more mobility tomorrow."

"Great, that's my dialing finger. I think I talked to all of Cascade and beyond today by phone," Blair said around another yawn.

"You're doing a good job, the department's damn lucky to get your help for free," Jim said as he opened the sterile gauze pads and carefully laid them in the open palm. He quickly wrapped it in more sterile strips and finished it off with some tape. "There, all done."

"Thanks." Blair started to scoot down into the bed.

"Wait, here's your pill." Jim waited until it was swallowed before taking the water glass back and setting it on the nearby desk. "Okay, all ready, Beav?"

"Yep. Night, Butthead," Blair said in a sweet voice as he settled into his futon.

"Wrong Beav, you jerk," Jim huffed as he leaned down and lightly swatted the back of Blair's head.

"Ow! Have some pity on the injured, man!"

"Yeah, right." Jim pulled the covers all the way up and covered his partner.

He could still hear the soft laughter as he turned off the light and closed the door behind him.

Four days since the creation of the task force, the first real break arrived.

"I think I've got something!" Detective Holbrook said, covering her hand over the phone she held in her hand.

Jim rose from his chair and quickly went to her side. Holbrook, a heavyset woman with almost as much muscle mass as Jim, pointed to a report on her desk. "I'm on hold. But see this? Our first victim used to do odd jobs for an apartment complex on Grayson Ave. Same place that Tomlinson lived with his girlfriend."

"Great!" Jim copied the address to his notebook. "Who are you talking to now?"

"The social worker that knew Morris," Holbrook said, her eyes sparkling from her discovery. "We should send someone out to the apartment complex again. The file says there's a manager on site."

Jim nodded. He checked his watch. "I'll go, tell H were I'm at. If you get anything more, call me on my cell, okay?"

"Sure, Jim."

He took a moment to clap her shoulder. "Nice work, Detective."

The social worker was back and Holbrook continued her conversation with a brilliant smile in response to Jim's praise. Jim turned to leave and found Blair standing by the door, ready to go.

"Road trip?" Blair guessed. He was walking with a single cane now, his right hand didn't require more than a large band-aid.

"Not for you, Hop-a-Long."

Blair scowled. "Why not? Who you going to take? Brown and Bearchild are with the medical examiner," Blair explained, lowering his voice as he continued. "You need someone, Jim. You shouldn't go without backup."

Jim's response died a quiet death on his lips. Maybe some fresh air would be good for his partner. He'd been working as hard, if not harder than the detectives on the payroll. "As long as you don't slow me down," he ordered gruffly.

Blair took the sarcasm in the spirit it was intended, "Heh, you wish you had my moves. Even with a cane, I'm able to keep up with you."

Jim snickered as he grabbed his coat. "Should have had the doctor check you over for a head injury."

The apartment complex sat next to a busy four-lane road. Jim found a parking spot and followed the signs pointing to the manager's office. Evidence of children was everywhere; candy wrappers, a single tennis shoe abandoned under a leafless bush, a child's bike helmet hung by a strap off a railing. Families were crammed three levels into a few square acres of cinderblock, concrete and asphalt.

As they reached the manager's door, Blair sighed quietly. "I hope there's a park or something around here."

"I'm glad I didn't have to grow up in a place like this," Jim admitted.

"It's not so bad, depends on the neighborhood," Blair replied softly.

A sign next to the door said `Open' and Jim turned the knob. Once an apartment unit, it had been turned into an efficient looking office with a fax machine, copier and water cooler. A long counter ran the length of the front room with a young woman sitting beyond, tapping away on a keyboard. Posters of happy children and content looking mothers and fathers lounging next to smoking BBQ's encouraged all the visitors to strive at being good neighbors. Each poster bore the name of the corporation that owned the apartments: Allied Complexes.

"May I help you?" the woman said, turning happily away from her keyboard.

"I'm Detective Ellison; this is my partner, Mr. Sandburg." Jim held his shield out. "Are you the manager?"

"Oh, no." She flashed a bright smile that reminded Jim of well paid dentists. "I just collect the rent and answer the phones. I'll get Mr. Nguyen for you."

In response to her phone call, a well dressed man with olive skin and black hair appeared from a rear office. He invited them back after telling his secretary to hold all his calls. The back office was clean but sparsely furnished with only one chair available for visitors. Either the man didn't plan on staying long on his climb up the corporate ladder - if such a thing existed in the world of apartment management - or he got a kick out of making his visitors decide who got the seat. While Nguyen had his back to them, Jim silently nudged Blair toward the chair. Blair sat.

"How may I help the Cascade Police Department today?" The man's English was perfect; his accent only slightly off, enough to make Jim suspect it was his second language.

Jim removed a photo from his inner coat pocket. "We're hoping you might recognize this man." He slid the picture across the glossy surface, devoid of any of the typical work clutter.

Nguyen looked at the photo a few seconds before shaking his head. "I do not recognize him."

"How long have you worked here?" Jim asked.

"I started in February, why?"

"We have reports this man did odd jobs and yard work for the apartments during the summer."

Nguyen frowned as if the idea were absurd. "No, that cannot be true. We have a company that does any maintenance and the little yard work needed."

"Can I have the name of your company?" Jim asked. "Maybe he worked for them."

Nguyen pulled a leather book from his side drawer. Flipping to a page, he took a silver pen from its holder and jotted the information on a yellow Post-it note and set it in the middle of the desk. Jim had to lean forward to take it.

"Thank you." Jim slipped the paper into his pocket with the photo. "I understand one of your tenants was found murdered last month."

"I have already been interviewed regarding that issue," Nguyen reported as if the subject were closed.

"The county and city have started up a task force. Your tenant is one of four victims found murdered within the last two months. We believe the same person or persons are responsible. I'm sure you'd like to see this person apprehended."

Nguyen blinked. Jim felt like he was appealing to a doorpost. He'd witnessed more emotion in a stalk of celery.

"How can Allied Complexes assist you?" Nguyen asked.

"We'd like a complete list of current and past tenants you've had over the previous six months," Jim said. He probably could have gotten by with just the last three months, but it didn't hurt to ask.

"Very well." Nguyen picked his pen and made some notes. "I'll have my company print up the names. You must understand we have many apartment units here. It will be a large list."

Jim offered his business card. "We appreciate any information on your tenants. If you call this number, I'll have it picked up."

Nguyen did not see them out. As they passed the secretary, Jim played a hunch. He paused and pulled out the photo again. "Excuse me, miss. Can you tell us if you've seen this man around?"

She took the photo and studied it carefully. "I'm not sure, it could be Jake. He did some work for a few of the tenants." She looked back at Nguyen's closed door. "It's against company policy, but sometimes the folks around here get tired of waiting for the regular repairmen to show."

"Do you remember who hired him?" Jim pressed.

Her smooth forehead wrinkled in thought. "He fixed a leak for Mary. I'm not sure who else."

"Mary? Which apartment does she live in?"

"Two-sixty-three," she answered, then dropped her voice to a whisper. "Why? What's going on? Did Jake do something wrong?"

Jim returned to photo, wondering how much information he should release. "No, we're trying to retrace his steps. He was murdered a few months ago."

Leaning forward eagerly, the secretary hunched her shoulders. The thrill of a chance for an inside scoop of gossip was obviously more appealing to her than being caught by her boss in some act of indiscretion. "Ohhhh, we had a tenant murdered last month. They found his body behind a restaurant."

Jim leaned against the counter top that separated them. "Actually, we're investigating that as well. Did you know the victim?"

She nodded, her eyes filled with genuine sympathy. "It's just so unfair, you know? Seth was going to get married in December. His fianc was devastated. She went back to Ohio after he died. They used to live in one-sixty-three."

"Did Jake know Seth?" Jim asked.

"I don't know, maybe." She sat up straight as the door to Nguyen's office opened and her boss walked out.

"Thanks again for your help, Miss," Jim said casually as he held the door open for Blair to proceed.

She nodded, her attention already focused on her keyboard.

Once outside, Blair shuddered. "Man, I'd hate to work for that cold fish. Hey, Jim, did you catch those apartment numbers? Jacob worked directly above Seth's apartment. That's quite a coincidence, don't you think?"

Jim shook his head. "I don't believe in coincidences, Sandburg. I think we're finally getting somewhere. Let's talk to Mary."

No one answered their knock.

"Well, it is the middle of the day, she's probably working," Blair commented. He leaned on his cane, trying not to let Jim know how much his leg was hurting him. Even if it meant being sore, it was worth the chance to get out of the office for a few hours.

"I think I hear a heartbeat." Jim cocked his head to one side. "I'm not sure, it may be next door."

Blair noted the doors were grouped in sets of two. One apartment must be a mirror image of the one adjacent to it. Before he could comment, the door next to the one Jim knocked on opened up.

"Oh, excuse me," the neighbor said. "I thought you were knocking on my door. I'm waiting for a UPS delivery. Are you two looking for Mary?" The man was tall with a hooked nose; reminding Blair of a professor he used to know. Looking in his early fifties, he blinked at them with interest. "She's not due home for another few hours."

"Actually, perhaps you could help us." Jim held out his badge again. "We're wondering if you ever hired a man by the name of Jake to do any repairs."

"No, can't say that I've needed repairs. I think the management is supposed to handle that. As least, that's what I was told when I moved in last month," Mary's neighbor stated.

"Your name, sir?" Jim asked politely.

"Hilton... Hilton Creighton." He looked at Blair and Jim with concern. "Is something wrong with Mary?"

"No," Jim assured him. "We just want to talk to her about Jake. Do you know where she works?"

"Sure, I can even get you the phone number. Hold on a moment." Hilton disappeared leaving the front door to his unit standing open.

Blair never could resist getting a chance to see how people lived. He leaned closer to the doorframe and peeked inside. The living room was crowded with knickknacks. They lined every available bookshelf and table top. Porcelain birds, figurines, ceramic villages, the room was a showplace of collectables.

Hilton returned with a small index card. "This is her work address and phone number. She runs a nail salon."

"Thank you, Mr. Creighton," Jim said as he accepted the card.

"No problem," Creighton said. "I didn't get your names."

"Jim Ellison, this is my partner Blair Sandburg." Jim looked surprised when the apartment dweller offered his hand to shake.

When he turned to formally shake Blair's hand, he paused, seeing the condition of Blair's hands. "Oh, my. That looks bad."

Blair quickly switched his cane to his left and grasped Creighton's offered hand. "It nothing, just one of those things. Thanks again for your help."

Back in Jim's truck, Blair sank into the bucket seat with pleasure. He hoped the nail salon was on the far end of town, he needed to rest his leg.

All too soon they arrived at the salon. Mary' shop was tucked between a piano store and a mortuary on an old street near the historical district of Cascade. The place was empty when they entered, except for a woman that Blair guessed was Mary.

She sat on a comfortable sofa near the window, a large sketch pad in her lap. Her fingers were dirty. As they watched, she used one of her cleanest finger tips to smudge a drawing she was working on. She looked up at them apologetically.

"Sorry, be right with you, gentlemen." She briskly closed her pad and set it off to the side with her pencils.

She stood, her head coming a few inches short of Blair's own height. She was pretty with dark short curls and a runner's body dressed in casual cottons. When Blair looked closely, he could see signs of her true age around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. She wasn't as young as she first appeared.

"I'll just wash my hands," she told them, heading for the back of her narrow shop. "I don't get many male clients. You both want a manicure?"

Feeling an enormous grin growing at the thought of Jim having his nails professionally worked on, Blair quickly covered his lower face with his bandaged hand.

Jim spared a moment to shoot him a `don't go there' look before speaking. "I'm Detective Ellison with Cascade PD. This is Blair Sandburg. We were hoping to ask you a few questions about a case we're investigating."

"Oh!" She hastily ripped off a paper towel and dried her hands as she returned to the front of her shop, walking past the empty chairs and small tables used for manicures. A long display case of nail polish adorned the wall showing colors similar to a peacock's plumage. "Certainly, how can I help?" She noticed the way Blair was leaning on his cane. "Wait, though. Why don't we sit down? I have some fresh coffee."

To Blair's surprise, Jim accepted both invitations. In minutes, he was enjoying the plush sofa, a padded footrest for his healing leg and accepting a hot cup of coffee.

"Thank you," Blair said with feeling as the first whiff of roasted coffee beans reached his nose.

"You're welcome." Mary turned to address Jim with a smile. She'd repositioned a Victorian-looking chair so she could face both men as they sat on her sofa. "What are you investigating?"

"I understand you hired a man over the summer to work on your plumbing? A Jacob Morris?" Jim asked.

She nodded. "Old Jake is very good at that sort of thing. Waiting for the management took forever and a day. Besides, Jake could use the money and he's very affordable."

Jim shared quick eye contact with Blair. The woman was using present tense. She didn't know he was dead.

"I'm sorry to tell you Jake is dead, ma'am," Jim informed her gently.

"What?" she breathed softly, leaning forward in shock. "How?"

Blair's eyes dropped to study the glossy surface of his coffee as it sloshed gently in his cup. No matter how long he worked with Jim, he didn't think he'd ever get used to this part of the job. Being the one to deliver horrible news to people should result in hazard pay. Blair felt like a part of his soul was ripped out each time he witnessed Jim doing it.

He concentrated on sipping his coffee as Jim explained the details surrounding Jacob Morris' death. Mary' reaction seemed genuine. She gripped the front of her light blue terrycloth pullover with both hands, unaware of the wrinkles she was forming.

"Oh, God," she whispered. "Just like Seth."

"Actually, we've had four murders now," Jim explained. He held out the photo copies of the victims for her to take. "Do you know the other two?"

She started to sort through the pictures. Her face paled. "Nicole!"

"You know her?" Jim asked leaning forward.

"S-she's a client."

Simon read the report, his large head bobbing in agreement as his eyes played back and forth over the typed lines. Jim waited patiently. It had been a productive day. Finding a solid connection between three of the four victims was a major accomplishment.

"She didn't know Tartan?" Simon asked.

"No," Jim said. "We're still digging though. Maybe something will come up. Turns out, Mary Seather is also an artist."

"Yeah," Blair added, sitting in the chair next to him. "She does great work. Portraits in charcoal, some acrylic. She showed us sketches of Nicole. She said she drew Morris and Seth with his fianc, too."

Simon's face became thoughtful. "Has her work been on display anywhere?"

Jim sighed. That had been his first question as well. "Unfortunately, yes. She said she was in an amateur exhibit at that gallery on Waterfront Drive, called `The Silverwood' in August. All three of our victim's portraits were displayed."

"Why `unfortunately', man?" Blair asked. "Her stuff is good."

Simon groaned and leaned back in his chair. "It means, Sandburg, that now we have a hell of a larger suspect pool to draw from. The killer could have visited the gallery. He may be using her drawings to pick his victims."

"Oh." Blair hadn't thought of that. "Jeez, it kind of makes you want to keep your picture from ever being on TV or in the newspaper. It's sick to think someone could randomly pick you out like that."

"No so random," Jim commented. "I still think Mary Seather is involved somehow, even if she isn't aware."

"I agree, I want her watched," Simon ordered.

"Already done, sir," Jim replied. "Brown has a team on her."

"Good." Simon rocked forward in his chair, setting the report down. "It's late, why don't you two call it a day? Good work, by the way."

Jim stood, feeling a hundred years old. "Thanks, we didn't find the lead though."

Simon offered a gentle smile. "I know, I'll be sure and tell Holbrook the same tomorrow."

The loft seemed like a neglected old friend when he walked in with Blair on his heels. Dust bunnies scurried under furniture put in play by the opening of the door. Even the air seemed to punish him by smelling stale.

It had been a long week, but it was over for him. Even task force members were allowed days off and he'd pulled a Saturday and Sunday rotation and this was Friday night. He had confidence in Brown's ability to keep the investigation going strong through the weekend. Jim would pick up as lead on Monday, giving Brown two days off.

Blair hung his jacket on the wall peg and gimped toward his room.

"Hey, what's your preference for dinner?" Jim called out to him.

"Not hungry, man. I'm going to crash," came the weary answer just before the French door closed.

Lunch had been sandwiches from the break room. They'd tasted days old and he remembered Blair hadn't even picked up the second half. It probably still sat on the paper towel back at the station.

He opened the door to his old ice box and studied its contents. Why hadn't he thought to grab takeout? Letting the door close on the meager offerings, Jim scrubbed his face. Even calling for pizza seemed too much work.

Screw this, Jim thought, heading for the stairs. He'd eat a big breakfast in the morning.

"We're not going in?" Blair sat at the kitchen table in mild disbelief, which quickly gave way to delight, then guilt. "What about the case? What about the new lead?"

Jim finished setting the table. He'd woke early, driven to the gym for a work out, hit the grocery store on the way back and still had time to fix a breakfast worthy of starving lumberjacks by the time Blair had emerged from his room sniffing the air like a harbor seal on the hunt for salmon.

"H has everything under control."

"But... You... I thought..."

Jim chuckled as he topped his pancakes with maple syrup and speared four thick slices of bacon. "Sandburg, we're working on a task force. That means we're a small cog in the large machine. We may be working this case for weeks, if not months. King County spent years on the Green River Killer case, and they're still working on it."

"Oh," Blair said, finally reaching for the offerings on the table. "So we pace ourselves. I get it. Nice breakfast, man. Planning a heart attack later today?"

"Wise ass."

The phone interrupted any further bickering about dietary differences. Blair was the closest, he answered on the second ring.

"Hello? Oh, hi, Doctor Beth. No, that's okay. You're not interrupting." Smirking at Jim's interest, Blair turned his back on the table.

Jim started to dial his hearing up, but stopped himself in time. Still, he wanted to know if the call was related to the task force. Then again, Blair would tell him if it was. The guy needed some privacy. Before he could make a decision whether or not to listen in, the phone was thrust toward him.

"She wants to talk to you, Jim." Blair didn't look happy.

Jim swallowed quickly, nearly choking. "Hello?"

"Hi, Jim. It's Beth." Her voice was carefree sounding and Jim put away any perceived notions of bad news.

"Hi, what's up?" Jim asked.

"Well, I heard you finally got a day off. Thought you might like to go to a football game this afternoon. Blair said you liked sports. The Huskies are playing Rainier and I happen to be in need of a date. Are you interested?"

"Absolutely!" Jim said. "But I thought that game was sold out weeks ago."

"It was. But I have two tickets. One of the perks of the job." She chuckled. "I wish I had a third for Blair."

"No problem, he had other plans anyway." Jim grinned widely as he lied. "I'll pick you up, what time should I be at your place?"

After copying the information and hanging up, Jim returned to the table still grinning. Blair's expression was priceless.

"Don't even tell me, man!"

"Okay, I won't." Jim dug into this food with gusto. The weekend suddenly became very full. He still wanted to clean the loft, now he needed to wash his truck and detail the inside before he picked up Beth. They had laundry to do as well. He looked up to see his roommate still staring at him. "What?"

"You guys have a date, don't you?"

"You said not to tell you," Jim pointed out. "It's just a football game, Chief, nothing too romantic."

"What! You get to go to today's game. I can't believe this." Blair pointed a finger at him. "She's been promising to take me to a game for years."

Jim leaned forward with an evil grin. "I'll try and remember every little detail, Junior. And don't stay up too late waiting for me tonight. You need your sleep." Laughing at Blair's rude gesture, Jim pointed to the table. "Now, are you going to help me eat this stuff or what?"

Blair sat on the sofa watching with mixed feelings as Jim shrugged into his coat. He didn't really harbor any ill will. Doctor Beth was high on his list of top favorite people. The idea of the two of them getting together wasn't that hard to wrap his brain around. If anyone needed a break, it was Jim.

"You're going to be in all night, right?" Jim asked, searching the loft as if a band of marauding cannibals were staging an attack.

"Sure, man." Blair tried for his best hang-dog look. "I'll just sit here and watch TV or something. Maybe catch a rerun of `Home Alone'." He may be okay with this date, but Blair still hated the fact Jim was getting to see the game and he wasn't. Besides, pulling his roommate's chain was such fun.

Pausing in his fussing with his coat collar, Jim gave him a puzzled look. "Say that again?"

"Just kidding, Jim." Blair waved a bandaged hand at the text books that surrounded him. "Go, enjoy, relax. I'm going to catch up on my classes so I don't look like a complete idiot on Monday."

Jim drew his keys out of the basket by the door. "Don't overdo it. I'll be in late, so don't chain the door."

"I won't, have fun. Tell Doctor Beth she owes me."

Blair waited until he was positive Jim had to be several blocks down the road before he pushed the books off his lap and headed for his room. He hunted down his sneakers and donned them quickly. In minutes he was in his Corvair. It started on the third try with only a minimum of fuss. Blair found if he drove slowly and didn't tail gate he could manage to shift and brake with his right leg.

The parking lot near Hargrove Hall was too close to the stadium. Blair parked in a remote area used by the maintenance staff and the auto shop students. The last thing he needed was to have Jim spot his car. Blair buttoned his coat against the brisk November weather and wrapped his neck in a knitted scarf. Hopefully his hunt for Lamont wouldn't take very long. He had called the treatment agency yesterday morning from the station and they promised to hold a bed for him today. Blair wasn't sure how many times he would be able to sweet talk a bed date for the man.

Luck was smiling; Blair found the man sleeping under a back exterior stairwell by the science building.

"Hey, Lamont?" Blair said gently, keeping away from the huddled form hiding in the shadows. "It's me, Blair."

Two red rimmed eyes peered out from a rat's nest hairdo. Lamont looked twice as bad as the last time Blair had seen him.

"Whaaa?"

"It's Blair Sandburg," Blair squatted down as low as his leg would allow. "Remember me? We talked about getting you into treatment. A nice bed, meals, doctors to help you."

"You a ghost?" the gravelly voice asked in fear. "You fell, I killed ya."

"Nah, I'm okay, man." Blair held up his bandaged hand. "Just some scratches. You want to get help, right?"

"Help? You still want to help me?"

"Sure, I'm sorry I didn't get back before now. I couldn't drive," Blair explained gently. It was like dealing with a feral animal, only instead of a can of tuna, all Blair had was a promise of medical care. "I'll take you right now, they're waiting for you."

Ten minutes later, they were on their way. Blair drove with both windows down to keep his eyes from watering so badly he couldn't see. Lamont hadn't gotten up close and personal with a bar of soap for several months and the result was fragrant.

"Sorry, Blair."

"It's okay, man. I understand," Blair told him. "After you get dried out, you'll feel so much better."

"Sorry I pushed you." The addict sounded weary with life.

"Oh, that." Blair looked at him. "What got you so spooked, anyway?"

"Saw death, he wasn't looking for me, but still... it's not good to see him, you know?" Lamont dug dirty fingers into his closed eyelids.

Hallucinations? Like an alcohol in D.T.'s? Blair didn't know much about meth addicts, but he guessed they had them. "You'll feel better after your treatment. Then maybe you can tell the doctors where your family lives. I'm sure they're worried about you."

"Can't go back like this. Can't, Blair." The big man seemed ready to cry. "Better to let death take me than go home like this."

"Hey, hey," Blair said turning into the parking lot for the treatment agency. "You're taking the right step, man. You're getting help. I promise to visit as soon as the doctors let me, okay?"

Lamont sniffed and nodded.

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to LKY

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