Wednesday

Captain Simon Banks looked up from his report at the light knock on his closed office door.

"Enter," he barked, annoyed at the interruption.

Detective Henri Brown opened the door. "Sir? Some nut's out here, asking for Ellison."

Simon sighed. He'd asked not to be disturbed and had even closed his blinds to limit the distractions. He eyed the unread reports in his `in box'; still so much to do. "Send him in, Brown."

All irritation evaporated as the visitor entered the office behind a grinning Detective Brown. "Buck! What are you doing in Cascade? H, you didn't say the nut was Buck Stevens," Simon said with a growl.

"Sorry, sir. Couldn't resist." Henri chuckled, obviously pleased with himself. He turned to Buck. "So, how's that roof hanging, Buck? Didn't blow off with the first storm, did it?"

"Nope." Buck slapped the shorter man's back. "Every shingle you nailed is still in place. If you ever get tired of being a cop, I'm sure the construction world is itching to get their hands on you."

Simon rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. I'm going to need my waders in a minute." He eyed his detective knowingly. "You finished with your VUCSA report yet?"

"Ah, nice to see you again, Buck. Maybe we can all go out later for a beer." Henri backed towards the door. "See ya!"

Buck chuckled after the man was gone. "VUCSA?"

Simon headed for his coffee maker, all thoughts of paperwork gone. A fresh brew was just the ticket while they caught up on old times, even though it had just been a month since he'd last seen the man. "Short for `violation of a uniformed controlled substance act.' In other words, drugs."

"Ah, leave it to the government to confound the problem with terminology." Buck wandered over to the wall behind Simon's desk and studied the framed trout poster that hung there.

"So, what's up? How's the arm? Sandburg didn't tell me you were coming to visit." Simon filled the cone shaped hopper with coffee grounds and closed it. Making sure the red light came on when he pushed the button he hunted down a clean mug.

"Arm's good." He leaned closer to the picture, reading the fine print. "This trip to the wet side wasn't planned. I'm making arrangements for a funeral - old Navy buddy," Buck said matter-of-factly. "Nice print, limited addition?"

"Yeah," Simon answered in surprise. "I'm sorry about your friend. How'd he die?"

Buck shrugged. "Actually, I'm not sure yet. He set it up that I be contacted if anything happened to him. Thought I'd take a few extra days and drop in to see Blair. He's not at Rainier and I'm not reaching him on his cell phone, so I figured I'd check with you." Buck wandered away from the print and dropped into a chair.

"Blair's with Jim. They drove over to the airport on a smuggling case." Simon poured a fresh cup of coffee and returned the carafe. "Here you go."

"Thanks.

"How's Blair doing? Any problems?"

Buck didn't have to elaborate; Simon knew exactly what he was referring to. Just before Christmas, Jim and Blair had become involved in a strange case involving a sixty year-old kidnapping. The kidnapper had died of old age, right in front of Blair. Unfortunately, some rather unscrupulous persons believed she had given Blair information as to the whereabouts of the child that was kidnapped. She hadn't. Only the bad guys ended up torturing Blair to learn that.

"He's better. We had a get-together last week - a fellow detective's birthday. Nothing fancy, just dinner downtown. It took some doing to get Blair there. But, once he did, he seemed to have a good time." Simon leaned against the corner of his desk as he spoke, watching the coffee drip.

"Jim told me over the phone he saw a counselor, but didn't go back."

Simon nodded. "Blair has some medical insurance through the university, I guess. But it doesn't cover that kind of stuff. I wanted to request Federal funding, since it was an open FBI case, but the kid wouldn't let me."

Buck sighed and scratched his cheek. "He give you that crap about being in therapy since diapers? Or the one about having a minor in psychology and knowing all the tricks of the trade."

Releasing a dry chuckle, Simon met the man's gaze. "Little of both."

"I don't like it. I've seen men in the military fall apart from less. Blair needs help."

"I agree, Buck, but he's proud. He doesn't have the money and he made it very clear he didn't want me getting involved." Simon pushed off from the desk and filled his own cup before returning to his chair.

"What about Jim? Can't he convince him?" Buck asked after a few minutes of silent coffee drinking.

"You ever have a big brother?" Simon asked with a small smile.

"No, I had a little brother."

"He listen to you much?"

Buck nodded wisely. "Good point."

"Tell you what, let's head out to the airport and meet up with them for lunch," Simon suggested, finishing his coffee.

"Call for back up and stay put!"

Blair watched as Jim left the truck to chase after the man they'd been searching for all morning. After making his appointed call and being assured that police units were on the way, he puzzled over what to do next.

The complex that surrounded the Cascade airport was huge. The far end held the commercial passenger terminals with the large jets and Boeing planes. Jim had parked on the opposite end, where the smaller air companies transported cargo or guided groups on fishing and hunting trips. Single-prop planes waited on grassy strips between asphalt lanes, anchored to the ground with chains.

Blair didn't really want to wait. He would rather keep an eye on his partner. You might say that Jim's order to stay put was actually more like `stay out of the way.' Therefore, Blair could follow, but stay back enough to keep Jim in view and, technically, still be following the basic intent of the order. With his mind made up, Blair left the truck.

The suspect Jim was chasing matched the description of a pilot suspected of smuggling uncut heroin. The police had been tipped off when a local butcher found several packets of white powder inside an Alaskan King Salmon dropped off by a local businessman to have smoked. The businessman had been questioned and released when their suspicion turned to the pilot that worked for the guide company. The police theorized the pilot had been smuggling drugs for some time and had somehow confused his shipments and given the fish filled with drugs to the businessman in error.

Even with the sun shining, the January weather was brisk. The cold air whipped Blair's hair into snarly tangles and stole each vapor cloud that puffed from his mouth. Reaching the end of the long hangar built with thin, ripple metal sheeting, Blair searched the open expanse beyond. He looked over the fields that held the runways. No one was in sight.

Where had Jim gone?

A small plane was landing, its engine chugging lazily. Sharp screeches of rubber touching the surface erupted as the plane bounced a few times before steadying to a grounded roll. Blair tracked it briefly before resuming his study of the area.

Fairly certain the cop had gone left; Blair ran down the taxiway that paralleled the runway. He jogged passed several hangars laid out side-by-side before reaching the far corner of the last metal building. If Jim wasn't visible, he'd make a loop down the length of the last hangar, then double back.

Blair cut close to the corner and had the briefest feeling of `oh, shit' before coming face to chest with the suspect. Both criminal and police observer went down in a tangle of arms and legs. Before Blair could separate enough to break his fall, his head took a painful bounce off the cold asphalt.

When the light show in his head dimmed and the pain dulled to an intense throb, Blair found himself standing. When did he get up? Jim stood ten feet away, his Sig out and pointed at some point just over Blair's left shoulder. Damn, it was hard to breathe. His neck felt as if it was trapped in a vise that was slowly being closed. He clawed at whatever was cutting off his airway as he tried to sort out the odd facts that managed to pierce his clouded mind.

Jim looked pissed.

Something was dragging him backwards.

Jim really looked pissed.

Whatever was around his neck was covered in leather.

Suddenly, like a thrown switch, everything fell into place. The suspect was using him as a shield.

God, this was getting old.

"Back off or I'll kill him!" the man threatened.

"Turn him loose right now and you get to live, Feuer," Jim promised.

"I'll gut him! I swear!" Feuer shouted.

A new fact became painfully clear. The pilot's other hand, the one not attached to the arm that circled his neck, was pushing the point of a very sharp object into Blair's coat, right above his belt buckle.

Blair desperately pulled on the arm, loosening the stranglehold enough to grab a lungful of cold air. "Hey, man," he managed to get out before he was completely lifted off the ground by the neck and shaken hard, the point of knife making a shallow cut into his skin.

"Shut up," Feuer ordered before readdressing Jim. "Listen, cop. We're both flying out of here. Stop me and he dies, right here."

The gun in Jim's hand never wavered.

Blair could see where this was going. No way. Not again.

Blair grabbed the wrist holding the knife that threatened to eviscerate him and pushed it out, away from his gut. "Jim! Shoot him!" he choked out before the vise around his neck squeezed to the point he couldn't move air at all.

The sharp crack of the gun sounded a split second before Blair was yanked backwards. The second trip to the ground didn't hurt as much, thanks to the soft landing the drug runner provided. Miraculously, Blair was able to keep a firm hold on the pilot's wrist.

Jim was beside them in seconds. The knife went flying with a clatter across the asphalt. The arm squeezing Blair's neck fell away. He felt a strong hand on his shoulder flip him off the pilot. Blair managed to catch himself before planting his nose in the hard surface. Pausing for a second, Blair welcomed the returned ability to breathe before crawling clear while Jim expertly cuffed his prisoner. The pilot moaned in pain. A small hole could be seen in the shoulder of his black leather bomber jacket.

Once the prisoner was secured, Jim turned to Blair. "I smelled blood," he muttered as he dropped to a knee and reached for Blair's middle.

"It's nothing," Blair said, unsuccessfully struggling to keep Jim from lifting his corduroy jacket and flannel shirts to expose his stomach. He could feel the sting and prayed he had spoken the truth. "Isn't it?" he asked, searching his friend's face for the truth.

Jim carefully probed with his right hand. "You've nicked your face worse with your razor." He pulled out a clean handkerchief and pressed it over the cut. "How's the neck?" he asked, glancing up to assess for himself.

Wincing a little from Jim's pressure on his stomach, Blair swallowed and nodded. "Okay."

"You called for backup, right?"

"Yeah."

"Good," Jim told him, his eyes narrowing in reproof. "So, you must have heard some of my instructions, right?"

Okay, so he deserved that. Blair looked away from Jim's scowl and saw a long, wicked-looking hunting knife lying nearby. Damn, that looked sharp enough to cut him in two.

"Jim!" a faint call sounded.

Back up? Already? Blair let his eyes close. Unused adrenaline flowed to lax muscles that didn't need it. Arms and legs began to shake.

"Simon! Over here!" Jim called.

Simon? How'd Simon get here so fast? Blair opened his eyes. Two men were jogging towards them. Simon brought Rafe? No, too old to be Rafe.

"We heard a shot!" Simon stated as they neared.

"Yeah, Feuer got cute and tried to take Sandburg hostage," Jim explained. "Buck?"

"What!" Blair lifted his head with a start, recognizing his childhood surrogate uncle for the first time. "Uncle Buck?" he squeaked in surprise.

Buck looked grim as he dropped down next to Blair, seeing the knife and the way Jim was holding the pressure bandage. "How bad?"

"Broke the skin, I think it's shallow, though," Jim reported. He glanced over his shoulder at the pilot. "Single shot through the shoulder. He'll need a medic, sir."

"Okay," Simon answered, pulling out his cell phone. "I'm on it."

Blair continued to stare at Buck. "What are you doing here?"

"Thought I'd drop by and visit," Buck said with a crooked smile. "I see you two continue to have fun wherever you go."

"This is nice work, Jim." Buck examined the fishing fly resting in the palm of his hand.

They had returned to the loft after the trip to the hospital. Buck looked over Jim's fly tying desk while Simon helped Jim put the final touches on dinner.

"Thanks, I tied a few for you, by the way." Jim carried a large platter of pork chops to the table. "I was going to mail them to you, since you lucky dogs get an earlier fishing season than we do. Your trip saved me the cost of postage."

"I thought we were going to drive them over in early April?" Simon protested as he finished tossing a green salad and added the bowl to the table, next to Jim's platter. "I want to try out the flies you tied for me."

"We still can, provided Sandburg leaves my feathers alone long enough for me to complete my fly box." Jim untied the flowered apron and lifted it from his neck. "Let's eat."

"Should I wake Blair?" Simon asked.

"No, let him sleep." Jim pulled out a chair from the table and took a seat. "He tends to get crabby after getting stitches."

"What's he do with your feathers?" Buck asked, taking the chair opposite the men and helping himself to the salad.

Jim tried to fake Sandburg's voice. "Just a little test, Jim. First we blindfold you, then you tell me which feather I'm touching to the back of your neck. Come on, it'll be fun."

Simon choked on his beer, sputtering softly before catching his breath. "You realize I'm getting some very twisted visual images, Jim."

Jim rolled his eyes. "You wouldn't believe some of his tests. He once had me drinking spoiled milk in the name of science." He grinned as he cut into his pork chop and lifted a large bite to his mouth. Sure, Jim could have added that Blair didn't intend for him to drink the bad milk, but this way the story was far more interesting.

"Why does he test you?" Buck asked.

Jim shrugged, chewing his food and swallowing before answering. "He uses the information in his dissertation. But it also teaches me to use my senses better, helps my control, keeps them fine tuned."

"And it works?" Buck said.

Jim nodded. "Sandburg does a lot of things that help. I just wish he'd listen to me when I tell him something."

"Well, Jim. In all fairness to the kid, he does listen. Most of the time," Simon insisted, spearing a tomato wedge with his fork.

"I told him I wanted him out of that apartment building, that time he went in to make contact with Gaines' grandmother. He wouldn't come out," Jim said.

"True, but he managed to organize all the neighbors into a very effective team," Simon countered.

"I told him not to go to `Club Doom'."

"He was fine. He made an important connection between the victims."

"Lash targeted him."

Simon made a face and sighed. "That happened because we let a killer waltz around the station like he owned it. Listen, I agree Sandburg's a little reckless, but he's an effective partner for you. I didn't think so at first, but I know different now."

"He nearly had his intestines dumped on the tarmac today, Simon," Jim told him. Visions of Feuer digging the tip of that hunting knife into his friend's coat would be haunting his dreams tonight.

Buck silently watched the exchange between the two men. "Blair was always doing things without regard to his personal safety. The summer he first stayed with me, I nearly had a heart attack when he jumped into the lake to pull out a drowning kid nearly twice his own size."

"Why does that not surprise me?" Simon asked. "What happened?"

Buck took a sip of beer before he answered. "I got there about the same time the other kid's father swam out. The kid was successfully taking Blair down to the bottom of the lake in his own panic. We had to dive to get to them."

"Wow." Jim leaned back, he knew from experience you didn't get near a drowning victim. Not if you could use something else to tow them back to shore. "I've seen enough pictures of him as a kid to know a strong wind would have knocked him over."

"Yep." Buck went to work on his own meal with knife and fork. "Simon says he's getting better from that adventure before Christmas. What do you think, Jim?"

"I think so," Jim admitted. "He takes it slow. Spends more time in the loft with me than he used to."

"That's not the Blair I know," Buck stated. "He needs to talk about it."

"He knows he can talk to me," Jim replied.

"You may have to pry," Buck said. "Get him to open up some."

Jim's answer was interrupted by quiet murmurs of distress coming from Blair's room. "Excuse me." Jim tossed his paper napkin on the table and stood. He slipped through the French doors into the darkness within in time to see Blair hit the floor, taking most of the impact to his shoulder before rolling over onto his back. His arms swung in the air. His eyes were open, his face filled with fear.

"Sandburg!" Jim whispered urgently, glad the younger man wasn't screaming this time. He caught Blair's wrists easily as he dropped to his knees on the floor. Blair must be back in that damn chair, being electrocuted. He hadn't had a nightmare in nearly a month. "You're home. You're safe. It's just a dream."

"Ohgodohgodohgod. Jim!" He clutched at Jim's upper arms, yanking the cloth of his shirt briefly before reversing direction and pushing away. He scrambled back, propelled on the smooth wooden floor by his feet, kicking out of the blankets that had followed him out of bed, until he was backed against the wall.

"Easy, easy. You just had a dream," Jim explained soothingly. He reached up to turn on his desk lamp.

"No! Leave it, man." Blair was shaking all over. He scrubbed his face while his wild gaze darted around the room. "J-just give me a s-sec."

"Sure. Whatever, Chief." Jim took a second to flip the bedding back up on the futon.

After a few gulps of air, Blair's shivers lessened and he roughly scrubbed his face with both hands as if trying to erase the dream.

"Another bad one?" Jim asked, the dinner conversation still fresh in his mind.

Blair's nod was more of a shudder. "Oh-shit-oh-yeah, mother of all bad ones. Feuer had a gun this time, not a knife. I thought it was a knife, man. When I grabbed his hand, the gun went off and shot you! I shot you!"

Surprised the dream was not about his torture last December, Jim moved in closer. "Calm down, Sandburg. Remember, it was just a dream."

Blair gave one last all over shake and pulled himself up to stand next to his futon. He searched the room with haunted eyes, as if he expected monsters to grow up out of the floor or walk through walls. "I know, Jim. Now I know. But... God, it was so real, you know? Not like some dreams where you know you're dreaming, only you can't stop what's going to happen, so you--" He cut himself off, looking at Jim in panic. "Uncle Buck!" he whispered urgently. "He's still here?"

When Jim nodded, Blair closed his eyes and groaned.

"Relax, I doubt they heard much, you didn't get very far before you took that swan dive. Which reminds me - how's your stitches?" Jim lifted the thermal shirt to check. For once, Blair held still. The three knots that formed a straight line above Blair's waist band looked okay. "Looks like you avoided a trip back to the hospital for a repair job," Jim said.

"Yeah," Blair answered with a shaky pat on Jim's arm as he eased himself down to sit on the edge of his futon. "That's been my plan all along, Jim. Did you see that nurse with the legs that went on to forever and the blond hair?"

"The one I heard telling another nurse she was meeting her fianc at the end of her shift? Yeah, I saw her, Romeo," Jim reported with a smile, aware they had both fallen back to joking with each other. "You hungry? We're having pork chops."

Blair made a face. "Nah, I'm going to take a shower. Maybe I'll have some cereal or something later."

"Okay." Jim opted not to push the issue, for now. "Be careful with those stitches in the shower. Nurse or no nurse, they hurt like hell when you rip one."

"Gotcha." Blair looked up at his roommate. "Thanks, Jim."

Back in the kitchen again, Jim returned to his meal. Simon and Buck had started a conversation about the Mariner's chances of getting a decent pitcher, but he could tell it was half-hearted.

"He's okay, just a nightmare," Jim offered without being asked.

"What about?" Simon asked quietly.

"Today," Jim responded softly. Blair was still moving about in his room, probably gathering up clothes and stuff for his shower. "At the airport."

Blair appeared at his doorway and crossed over to the bathroom with a wan smile and wave to the men at the table. He was dressed in a dark green, terrycloth robe that had seen better days. "Hey guys." Not waiting for any comments, he ducked into the bathroom and closed the door.

By silent agreement, they waited for the shower to start before continuing their conversation. Simon and Buck were each on their second pork chop and the meal was winding down. Four chops still sat on the serving platter. No matter, Jim thought, he could save them for sandwiches or something. Food never sat for very long around the loft, unless they got called out of town or something.

"Does he have many nightmares?" Buck asked, his attention on his plate as he worked his knife and fork to separate the last bit of meat from the bone.

Jim didn't normally talk about such matters. Blair's private life was his to share. But this was probably the only man on planet earth that Blair looked up to as a male parental figure. It seemed natural to talk about this with Buck. His friendship with the ex-seal had grown over the last year. Trial by fire, so to speak.

"Not really. Depends on the situation," Jim replied. "His first big nightmare was after Lash, we told you about that one. But, it only lasted a few days and stopped. Most cases don't seem to haunt him at all. The McVey case was different."

"I'd say. From what you told me, he went through hell in that chair," Simon muttered, pushing his plate away.

Jim had to agree. He shook his head. "I still have nightmares, just from finding him."

They fell silent, each man working on finishing their meal.

"So," Simon finally said with a long drawl. "How long are you in Cascade, Buck?"

The older man shrugged. "Well, tomorrow I'm picking up the casket. I'm going to need to talk to a funeral home and check out the cemeteries. Could take a few days."

Simon rubbed his hands. "You know...the sportsman show is this weekend. I say we get tickets and check it out. I'm looking for a size three fly rod for those upper lakes."

"Actually." Jim pointed his fork at his boss. "I could take a couple days off - since my case got wrapped up today - and help Buck with his arrangements."

Simon looked at his detective suspiciously. "You're not planning on hitting that show tomorrow, are you? Before I can get away? You wouldn't do that to me, would you?"

Jim chose to keep quiet, but exchanged a knowing look with Buck.

"I didn't expect to be back here so soon." Jim parked his truck and stomped down the emergency brake pedal with his foot. They were back at the airport. A few hundred feet away from where he'd arrested the suspect yesterday. Simon had approved Jim's request for time off. Blair was back at Rainier. Jim and Buck had the entire day to themselves.

"We were a little busy at the time or I would have swung in here," Buck said, climbing out of the passenger seat.

They headed toward a large metal hangar that housed `Olympic Transport and Freight, Inc.' A large white sign with red letters advertised the name of the business, telling prospective customers `no freight was too small or too large.' Inside the office, a long counter built from old plywood and a chipped countertop separated the public area from a grey, metal office desk complete with an ancient-looking computer. Beyond the desk, the building opened up to a larger hangar housing three small airplanes. The nearest plane was in the process of having its motor torn apart or put back together. It was hard to tell.

A pencil-thin man with hunched shoulders stood up from his seat in front of the desk as they entered. He wore fingerless gloves, a watch cap on his head and a thick sweater and quilted brown Carhartt's.

"Can I help you?" he asked, showing teeth stained from too much coffee.

"I'm Buck Stevens. I called this morning about a crate."

"Oh, sure." The man picked up an invoice from a stack on the desk. "I'll need some ID."

When Buck produced a driver's license for inspection, the man flipped up a section of the countertop. "Come on back. I just flew this in last night. It's back in the walk-in fridge."

Jim followed them to a far dark corner. There was only a few degrees difference between the refrigerated room and the interior of the hangar. Jim identified a multiple bouquet of aromas within. The company must fly for hunters and fishermen, he guessed as he made a point of ignoring the fishy and gamey odors drifting out of the many boxes. Hopefully, no heroin was stashed inside. A long pine crate the approximate shape of a coffin sat in the foreground.

"You guys got a truck or something?" the pilot asked. When Jim nodded, he continued. "I'll fire up my forklift and bring this out. You want to drive around to the far side? I'll have the doors open for you."

Thirty minutes later, Jim was driving away from the airport with a dead body in the bed of his truck. Buck had already contacted a mortuary. With luck, they could be walking into the fairgrounds for the sportsman's show in time for lunch.

"So, what's the story with this guy? How'd you end up having to take care of his arrangements?"

Buck was reading the documentation that had been shipped with the body. "We served together. He didn't have much in the way of family. We sort of struck a deal one night, I think we might have been sleep deprived or something." Buck snickered. "Anyway, damn if he didn't follow through with it. I got a call a week ago from his attorney, saying I was the executor of his estate. Part of the deal was to make the arrangements to bury him in Cascade."

"Was he from here?" Jim asked.

"Yeah, along with his parents and grandparents. The family name ended when he did. The letter from the attorney says he died from natural causes while on a trip to California. Heart attack."

"How old?"

"Only fifty-six." Buck grunted and flipped a page. "Guess he owns a boat or something at Pacific Point Marina. He's got it listed as his residence."

"I know it. They have a few houseboats there, maybe he lived on one," Jim said. "Are you going to have a service for him?"

Buck shook his head. "He left clear instructions, didn't want a fuss. I'm supposed to sell his stuff, clean out his bank account and use what I need to cover any expense. The rest is supposed to be divided up between some charities."

They rode together in silence. A heavy feeling settled over Jim, his thoughts turning to his own mortality. Who would handle his affairs when his turn came? His ex-wife? Brother? Odds were high his father would already be gone, but you never knew. Jim could die next week in a gun fight.

What about Blair?

Buck's heavy sigh caused Jim to turn in surprise. They exchanged a look and broke into guilty grins.

"Anyway, let's just take care of the funeral home today," Buck said decisively. "I've got the rest of the week to handle this stuff. Besides, we've got serious shopping to do this afternoon. I plan on bragging to Simon about the great bargains we're going to find."

At the mortuary, Jim waited by the bed of his truck while Buck went off to find an employee. He lowered the tailgate and eyed the box. What a graphic visual reminder. Up until a year ago, he hadn't really cared enough about what happened to his material possessions should he die.

Now he found himself caring.

Jim felt sorry for this stranger. It said something about Buck's character that he took the time out of his life to follow through with an old promise made under less than pleasant circumstances.

Jim fingered the rough wood thoughtfully. When you get down to it, all you really leave behind is what others remembered about you, at least for those without children. Only the physical body is left, and then only for a short time.

Looking back, Jim never figured out what made him do it. God knows, he'd smelled enough death to last a lifetime. But he was curious and he took a sniff, past the smell of the pitch within the wood, the polish of the casket and finally, the smell of what was actually inside the casket.

What the heck?

"Okay, Jim." Buck appeared at his elbow just then. "We need to drive around to the back."

"We've got a problem, Buck," Jim said slowly, with dread.

Buck's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"There isn't a body inside this crate."

Blair blinked, waiting for the punch line.

It didn't come. Jim and Buck didn't add to their incredible story.

"Right," Blair said with a smile. "Tell me another one, guys."

He really wasn't in the mood for games, anyway. His day at Rainier could be summed up in one word: exhausting. It didn't help matters any to know his best friend got to spend the same day goofing off with the one man he secretly wished shared his DNA.

Well, that wasn't entirely fair. Jim and Buck had spent the morning making arrangements for a funeral, which brought him full circle to the joke they were trying hard to pull on him. It wasn't going to work.

"I'm not buying this."

"It's true," Jim said with a slight shrug. "The only thing we found in that casket was sandbags."

Blair set his backpack down with a thud on the kitchen table. "That's sick, man. Where's the body?"

"No one seems to know." Buck ran a hand through hair peppered with grey. He was obviously angry at the situation. "I've called the hospital he was supposed to have died in; Mercy General in Redding, California. They didn't even know what I was talking about. They never had a patient there by the name of Paul Staab. I called the attorney that first contacted me. He's as mystified as I am."

"But, how can that be? I thought there were procedures. Who saw the body last?" Blair asked.

"There doesn't appear to be a body, Chief," Jim said simply. "It boils down to some unknown parties paying cash to fly up a box of sand from California."

"So..." Blair looked back at Buck. "Your friend isn't dead? He's alive?"

"Jim and I spent all day trying to find him. We went to his houseboat, asked around at the marina, searched through his stuff, we found squat," Buck said.

It was too bizarre. Blair couldn't even define the true problem, let alone try and figure out how to proceed. If this Paul Staab was just missing, then who set up the hoax of his death? If he was dead, why hide the body? None of it made any sense. He looked back at Jim, wondering if his friend had a clearer handle on the problem.

Jim leaned a shoulder against the support column in the middle of the loft, arms crossed over his chest. He tracked Buck with his eyes as the other man started pacing back and forth.

Blair sighed. Okay, he just needed to think about this for a second. "Fingerprints?"

"Casket was wiped clean," Jim said.

"Staab drive a car?"

"We found it in the marina's parking lot."

Okay, two strikes. "Just a houseboat? No other residence?" Blair asked.

"Not that we could find," Buck answered this time. "We're going back tomorrow to look some more. Maybe with Jim's senses, we'll find something."

Blair nodded. "I'll come with you. I only have one class. I'll borrow notes from a friend."

The ex-Seal looked over at Blair with disapproval. "You don't have to do that, runt."

Jim huffed. "If you want these sentinel abilities to be in top form, you'd better rethink that, Buck."

Blair blushed. Jim could say the nicest things sometimes.

"How'd you sleep, Blair?" Buck asked as they walked through the narrow parking lot of the marina.

"Great," Blair answered. "The sofa's nice, Uncle Buck. I don't mind sleeping on it."

Jim smiled to himself. It wasn't that nice. But still, for the price he'd originally paid, it had better be comfortable. It had taken both of them to convince Buck to check out of his motel and sleep at the loft last night. After they'd worked out the shower schedule, he barely noticed an extra roommate.

They reached the start of the pier that sheltered Staab's houseboat. A yellow plastic key opened the security gate to let them down the ramp to the water and the boats beyond. Buck had picked it up yesterday when they'd visited.

Power boats and sailboats rocked gently in the water. The accumulation of the tall masts reminded Jim of a stand of trees after a wildfire had swept through, leaving just the trunks of the pines. The wooden dock rocked as they walked, looking in need of repair or replacement. They took the second left, past the expensive pleasure boats to a section of pier that followed the edge of the marina.

Years ago, someone had sunk large cargo ships to form a bulkhead that protected the marina. It was effective, but unsightly. Shabby looking houseboats were tied up in front of the bulkhead, their sidings in constant need of repair from long exposure to the salty air.

In the distance, a group of seals were calling to each other. Jim picked up splashes that told him the large animals must have found breakfast in the form of a school of salmon. Olympic Point made up the north edge to the entrance of Passage Bay, a wide area of water south of Cascade filled with docks and waterways. A steady flow of marine traffic passed by; long barges pulled by tugs, large cargo ships, military ships, even a few cruise ships stopping over on their way to Alaska. It was considered a working waterway. Pleasure boats shared space with smelly fishing boats and tugs. Sailboats had to watch for floating logs called deadheads that had broken away from their containment areas.

Jim liked it. He was reminded of the days when large clipper ships first explored the coast and started moving goods and trade into the area.

"Which of these belonged to your friend?" Blair asked, following behind Buck and in front of Jim. The pier was too narrow to walk two abreast.

"The last one," Buck answered. He pulled out a key attached to a small plastic orange float.

The boathouse was single story with a flat roof accessible by ladder. It looked recently painted, a nice pale blue with darker blue trim. A lawn chair and small plastic side table sat on the roof, currently occupied by a pair of seagulls. As they neared the door, Jim's vision honed in on the doorknob.

"Buck, someone's been onboard since we were here." He reached out and caught Blair's coat, holding the younger man back as his right hand reached for his gun.

Buck instantly fell back, off to one side of the narrow pier for Jim to go first. "Are they still on board?"

Jim was already checking. His ears picked up only the rapid heart beat of the gulls and the gentle groaning of the boat moving in the water. "No, nothing living anyway. I'll go first."

"Works for me," Blair muttered. He tried to follow as Jim passed, but got pulled behind Buck and ended up last in line.

Jim ignored the soft protest from his roommate and quickly moved onto the deck of the houseboat. He could see the pick marks around the key hole; whoever had been before them was good, only a few new scratches marred the gold finish. He accepted the key from Buck and unlocked the door. Pushing it open with his foot, he surveyed the small sitting area. "It doesn't look trashed."

After quickly checking the kitchen, single bedroom, and tiny bathroom, Jim returned his gun to its holster. Buck and Blair stood by the door, entering only after Jim nodded.

"So... someone broke in and...what?" Blair pointed to an expensive looking CD player on a shelf above the small sofa. "It doesn't look like robbery was the motive."

"They must have slipped in by boat, maybe after dark," Buck said, his gaze wandering around the room. "Either they knew the exact location of what they wanted or they like to clean up after themselves."

The main sitting room was square. The wooden floor had a small area rug in front of the door to wipe your shoes on. A sofa about the size of a love seat sat to the right, under a wide window showing a view of the marina through narrow wooden blinds. A shallow shelf ran just below the ceiling, filled with books and the CD player. A much used leather recliner was in the far corner. This is where the owner of the houseboat must have spent much of his time. The leather was cracked and worn in the seat cushion and along the arms. More books were stuffed in shelves behind and alongside the chair. Books were stacked in crooked towers on the floor.

Other than the little nest built around the recliner, the rest of the house was clean and sparsely furnished. Surfaces had a light coat of dust on them, but the place held a smell of lemon cleaner and furniture polish. No houseplants that needed watering, no signs of a woman's touch, the place spoke of a bachelor who liked to come and go as he pleased. The entire living quarters could easily fit in the ground floor of the loft.

"So, do we call the police? Report the break in?" Blair asked, standing with curled fists resting on hips.

Buck shook his head. "What's the point? Paul's not here to tell us what's missing. What do you think, Jim?"

"I agree. I didn't notice any prints on the door. I say we look around, maybe we'll see something that might tell us what they were doing here," Jim suggested. "Buck and I will look for something out of place compared to yesterday. Sandburg, why don't you start in here with these books? They don't look disturbed."

Buck started searching in the small kitchen while Jim took the bedroom. The man's bedroom was in the far back of the houseboat. A small door opened up to a postage-sized back porch, beyond that, a nice view of the entrance to the marina. Jim took a second to watch a large sailboat enter the opening in the breakwater. The two people on board were bundled up like explorers heading to the arctic. It made sense. The breeze over the water was frigid. Turning away from the view, Jim sat on the edge of the twin bed and started pulling out drawers from an oak dresser.

After nearly an hour, Buck joined him.

"Anything?" Jim asked, looking up from his search under the bed.

"Nope. You?"

"Nope." Jim stood, dusting his knees with both hands. "And I don't see anything missing from yesterday."

Buck shook his head. "Me either."

"Hey, guys?" Blair called out. "You're not going to believe this!"

Jim followed Buck down the short hallway, past the door to the bathroom and back into the living room. Blair was sitting on his butt, surrounded by books. "What?"

"Uncle Buck?" Blair ignored Jim to ask a question. "What did you friend do for a living?"

"Retired from the shipyards. Why?"

Waving a hand at all the books surrounding him, Blair wagged his eyebrows at the two men standing over him. "Because I think he was a writer! Look, these are all arcs."

"I thought they were paperbacks," Jim commented.

"Advanced Reading Copy, Jim." Blair opened one of the soft covered books and handed it up. "Look. See the notes? He was making changes in them, editing it."

The book was more like a cheap, over-sized paperback with heavy paper for a cover. Jim thumbed a few pages, glancing at the notes. It did look like writer's comments, complete with questions penciled in the margins. Jim turned to the front. "Peter W. Stanton... I've read this guy's books. He's pretty good."

Buck took the book from him. "Paul Staab. Peter Stanton. Could be a pen name."

"Sure," Blair said, unfolding his legs to stand. Jim reached down, holding out a hand that the younger man used to pull himself up with ease. "Thanks, man. Lots of writers use an alias. That way they can keep out of the public eye. So, Jim, he's a good writer?"

Jim nodded. "I think so. I've read most all his books. It fits, actually. The stories are action-adventure stuff. I got the feeling who ever wrote it used some personal experiences to draw from. The author has a flair for making it real."

Buck snorted, his head down as he read. "I'd say, this chapter is very similar to a mission we had off the coast of Cuba. I think you're right, Blair."

"That's so cool!" Blair started, then stopped, his face dropping the wide smile. "But, we still don't know what happened to him. Why would someone fake his death?"

"He may be dead for all we know," Jim said turning to look at the room. "How far did you get in here, Sandburg?"

Blair shrugged. "I think I got all of it. He didn't have much in the way of worldly possessions. But, man! He has an awesome collection of first editions! Some are signed!"

"You know, we haven't found any letters from his publisher, if he is this Stanton guy," Jim said. "Buck, did his attorney have any information about a safe deposit box?"

Buck shook his head. "No, just the copy of the will and a letter to the marina office to get me the extra keys to this place and his car."

"Okay, we're missing something." Jim frowned. Where did the man keep his personal papers? If he was a writer, he basically had two lives. They hadn't found anything to lead a person to the writing part of his life, except these rough drafts. There should be letters and contracts somewhere. Was this what the unknown persons that broke in here last night were looking for? Did they find them and take them away?

"Does a houseboat have a hull?" Blair asked. "Maybe he's got a hidden compartment somewhere."

"Good idea," Jim said.

They found the trap door under the leather recliner. It opened up to one of the side pontoons that kept the building on top of the water. Jim had to lie on his stomach to reach down into the large metal pipe. A large waterproof box was waiting for them inside. He set it down on the floor while Buck closed the trap door and the chair was returned to its position.

"Okay, let's see what we have here." Jim opened the box. He gently pushed Blair back out of the way. "Let's let Buck do the honors, eager beaver."

"Sure, Wally," Blair quipped, gracing Jim with a mischievous smile.

Buck accepted the handful of letter sized envelopes from Jim. "Yeah, these have return addresses from a publishing company. I wonder if these are what those guys were searching for last night."

Jim dug into the bottom of the box, pulling out a manila file folder and opening it. "The only thing left is this. Looks like some medical reports from the VA hospital." Jim handed the file over.

Buck scanned the papers. "They're just patient's copies. Dated just before New Year. Looks like normal check ups and stuff."

"Why keep them in the box?" Blair asked.

"It's got his social security number on them." Jim pointed to the top of the form. "It's a good idea to keep that secure."

Buck handed the file back, turning to study the letters from the publisher again. "You know, I wonder if Paul touched a nerve with one of his stories." He looked up at Jim. "We had a few top secret missions, if he wrote a scene that was a little too real, he could have made a few enemies."

Jim didn't like the direction this conversation was heading. "Government?"

"For starters," Buck answered.

"Oh, wow," Blair said softly. "Secret spy stuff?"

"Oh, gross!" Blair closed the book in his hands and tossed it onto the coffee table.

"What?" Jim was stretched out on the other sofa, one arm curled under his head, the other holding a book a few inches from his nose.

"Leeches, man. Yuck!" Blair stood, using both hands to pull his hair back from his face. His skin was crawling with imaginary blood sucking bugs clinging to his legs. He stomped both feet. "They freak me out. I'm getting a beer... anybody?"

"I'll take one," Buck said from his position in the chair. He laid his book face down on his knee. "What about leeches?"

"Oh, the story had the hero wading through a muddy swamp. He gets to the other side and feels them on his legs, uses his knife to remove them." Blair shuddered en route to the kitchen. Opening the door to the fridge, he grabbed two longneck brown bottles. It was no surprise to Blair that Jim wasn't having one. The cop usually waited until after dinner. It was only two in the afternoon.

"It's not so bad if you get them off right away," Buck commented as he accepted the beer. "Thanks. The thing you don't want to do is let them sink their mouth into -"

"No, no! No more!" Blair waved his empty hand in the air as he backed away. "I'm telling you, I seriously can't deal, okay? Bugs, snakes, even spiders - no problem. But. No. Leeches."

Jim watched silently from his position on the sofa, his own paperback resting face down on his chest, wearing a look that predicted teasing in Blair's future.

Beautiful, yet another arrow in the sentinel's quiver of weapons, Blair thought. He should call Carolyn and get some serious dirt on the man. Taking a long pull from his drink, Blair dropped back down on the sofa with a sigh. "I'm not finding anything. `Course I'm not sure I'd know a potential motive if I'd read it. What about you guys?"

"I recognize a few missions that we did together, but he was real careful to keep any confidential information out." Buck rubbed his forehead. "I could use a break, though. When's Simon picking us up?"

Jim swung his long legs over the side and sat up, rooting under the coffee table for his shoes. "Anytime now."

"I feel guilty going to a sportsman show when your friend is missing," Blair informed the two men.

Buck shrugged. "There's nothing much we can do right now, Blair. We've gone through his home, his car, looked through these books, his own attorney is stumped. We don't even know if he's in trouble. Maybe he's behind this ruse because he wants to start a new life somewhere."

"Still, I think I'll just hang out here. Do some more reading." Blair avoided looking at either man as he spoke. He picked up the book he'd set aside, sipping his beer as he tried to find the page he'd stopped on.

"I'm going to use the john," Buck announced, leaving Jim and Blair alone.

"Sandburg."

Blair looked up, hoping to keep any emotion off his face. Somehow over the last year, the cop had become too damn good at reading his mind, to a level not even Naomi had accomplished. The only other person that was close to pulling it off just went into their bathroom.

Jim finished donning his shoes and moved to sit on the couch next to Blair. "Come with us."

"Gonna pass, man," Blair said softly.

Jim gently grasped Blair's right hand by the wrist and removed the beer bottle he'd been holding, setting it on the coffee table.

"Coaster, Jim," Blair said. He could care less about the loft rules at that particular moment, but he might sideline a discussion he had a feeling was coming his way.

Without breaking stride, Jim moved the bottle over to set on the TV guide, then turned Blair's hand palm up and opened the younger man's fingers until Blair's hand was flat, his face solemn and determined looking.

He tapped Blair's palm. "How's your hand?"

"Jim, you know it's fine. All healed, remember? You had me changing the bandages twice a day."

Jim released the hand, his head rocking up and down in a gentle nod. Reaching out, he tapped Blair's flannel covered chest, right over his heart. "When are you going to let the rest heal?"

"You promised..." Blair whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. He turned to make sure the door to the bathroom was closed. "You said you wouldn't push, man."

Both hands rose in mock surrender. Jim leaned back, his expression pure innocence. The man was good, very good and Blair felt the once sturdy ground under his argument begin to shift.

"I'm not pushing. But I don't see you getting over it, Chief."

"I went to Lockwood's birthday party."

"True, it's a start. Now take another step, come to the show with us. It will be fun."

Part of Blair wanted to go, the part that could sometimes manage to forget about those hours strapped to that chair, feet in the cold water, the blindfold around his head. It was the part that convinced him Rainier was safe. The university was his place. No one could say he wasn't on the road to recovery. If they tried, he'd just point out that he went to work each day - and he still backed up Jim when he needed him.

Everything was back to normal.

Except.

Except when he wasn't at Rainier, when he wasn't at the station working with Jim, he longed to be here in the loft. The place where he could turn his back on shadowy corners without fear.

God, he was pathetic. Jim was right.

"I guess I could wander around the fair grounds for a few hours," Blair muttered.

"So no luck with those books, huh?" Simon asked as he accelerated his sedan up the freeway onramp.

Buck sat in the back next to Blair. "We managed to skim over most of them. We didn't find anything."

"Is it possible it's a story he hasn't published?" Simon asked. "Did you guys find anything he was working on?"

Blair sat up straight. "You know, one of those books on his shelf was an instruction book for Microsoft's Word program. Did you guys find a computer?"

Jim shook his head, turning sideways in his seat. "No, it wasn't in his bedroom. In fact, I didn't find anything to suggest he even owned one."

"Maybe it's a laptop, like mine. You can keep everything you need in a briefcase and carry it with you," Blair said. "Did you see anything like that yesterday when you were there? Maybe it was out of sight and that's what was stolen last night."

Buck looked doubtful. "We looked the place over pretty good yesterday. We would have seen a computer case, even those mini ones like you carry, Blair."

"I agree," Jim added. "I think we would have spotted it."

"Well, he has to write his books on something. I can't believe he does it by hand, though some writers still do," Blair muttered.

"Simon, any luck calling that publisher?" Buck asked.

"He's vacationing, somewhere in Europe according to his secretary. He's not due back for a few weeks. She doesn't even know how to reach him," Simon reported.

"That's convenient," Buck said dourly.

They arrived at a large field being used as a parking lot for the show. Even though it was early, the lot was a sea of pickup trucks and SUVs with a few sport cars mixed in for variety. After finding parking, they made the long trek towards the main gate. Admission paid and through the turnstile, they were inside.

Jim monitored Blair's heart rate. His friend was nervous, but doing a decent job of hiding it. They stood for a moment off to the side from the flow of people, mostly men. The fairgrounds were large. If you didn't know your way around, it was easy to become lost.

Simon stood, unlit cigar in mouth as he studied a flyer advertising the events and locations of the different exhibits. Long barns were lined up side-by-side, a constant flow of people moved in and out. Tent trailers, campers and small trailers were parked along the wide paved walkways, luring prospective buyers. The smell of smoked meats and Seattle's Best Fudge drifted in the cold air.

"What do you guys say to checking out the fishing barn first? They're having a demonstration right now on fly casting," Simon said, reading from the paper in his hand.

Jim exchanged a look with Buck. He could see his own doubt reflected in the older man's eyes. Blair was holding his own out here in the open, was it too soon to go into a crowded building?

"You and Buck go on," Jim suggested. "I want to check out the Ford trucks. See if they've got this year's models. We'll catch up."

"Great, I get first shot at the good stuff," Simon gloated as he rolled up the paper and stuck it into his coat pocket.

Blair stayed at Jim's side as the other two men walked off.

The Fords were in the back of the fairgrounds, under large blue tarps. A middle-aged salesman spotted them as they arrived and fell on Jim like a starved barracuda. Two months ago Blair would have bounced on his toes with a twinkle in his eye, instead, he stood at Jim's side, looking pale and withdrawn, his gaze busily flitting from stranger to stranger.

"Hello! Are you interested in taking one of these beauties home? Great for hunting," the salesman said eagerly.

Jim shook his head. "Just looking right now. Thanks anyway."

Disappointed, but still smiling, the man nodded as he offered a card. "I'm Larry. We're in Puyallup. Look around, climb inside. If you have any questions, just ask."

Left alone, Jim headed toward a red Expedition model parked off by itself. He looked over the sticker taped to the inside of the window.

"You really thinking about a new vehicle?" Blair asked.

"Nah, I just like to look," Jim told him. "How you doing?"

Pointing a finger up at Jim's nose, Blair blustered. "See, I knew you were just..." He waved a hand in the air.

"Sue me, Chief," Jim said calmly. "It doesn't hurt to take a second to adjust. We'll catch up with Buck and Simon when you're ready."

Blair snorted, jamming both hands in his back jean pockets. "Yeah, right. How are we going to find them in this crowd?"

Jim chuckled as he opened the driver's door and climbed in. This really was a nice vehicle. He ran an appreciative hand over the leather covered steering wheel. "Even if I wasn't a sentinel, Sandburg, we could always fall back on using cell phones."

"Oh," Blair answered, flashing a shy grin as he stood in the open doorway. "Yeah, true."

After Jim effectively drooled over the vehicle and pictured himself sitting in a blue model, he sighed and climbed out. There was nothing wrong with the truck he had now.

Yet.

"Come on, man. You are to cars what Imelda was to shoes." Blair yanked him by the arm with a grin, pulling him away from the Expedition and `Larry the Barracuda'. "Let's find the guys."

They threaded their way through the crowds. Blair did look better; he was holding his own and walking boldly, even taking the lead. Jim was proud. Once inside the barn, though, he fell back with a nervous glance at the pressing crowd.

"You mind?" He pointed out to the mass. It was worse than outside. The place was packed with exhibitors selling outdoor equipment, their booths stretching down the full length of the barn in multiple rows. Shoppers wandered down the aisles looking over everything from waders to fly reels.

"Stay close, partner," Jim teased, stepping out. "I'm going in."

"Got cha back, Hoss," Blair responded. "Hey, we can even make this a test. I'll time how long it takes you to find--"

"Done." Jim pointed at a roped off area ahead where Buck stood alone with a fly rod in hand.

"What's he doing?" Blair asked.

"Casting," Jim answered. He spotted Simon off to the side wearing a bemused expression and forged a path to join him. "What's up, Simon?"

Simon removed his still unlit cigar from his mouth to answer. "We get here. Buck gets recognized by one of the experts that's supposed to be doing a demo. Next thing I know, he gets pulled into the casting pit to show off his cathedral cast."

"His what?" Blair asked, turning his body sideways to press in close.

"Cathedral cast," Simon said. "Watch."

Buck flicked the fly rod out in front, causing a smooth roll down the line. A tanned man with red hair was standing off to one side with a microphone, explaining each of Buck's actions to the gathering crowd. Jim had to admit, he would be hard pressed to go on display like this, yet Buck looked totally at ease. The red-haired man explained that the cast was perfect for times you found yourself fishing with a brushy bank at your back and were afraid you'd snag a bush or tree limb.

Buck lifted his rod tip as if starting a normal cast, but ended it early, the tip stopping at the twelve o'clock position. He paused a second, then brought the tip forward again. The bright red fluff of yarn tied to the end of the fly line never went beyond Buck's head. Once it got directly overhead, the line flicked it back in a lazy loop to land in front again.

A smattering of applause broke out from the observers.

"And that, ladies and gentlemen, is a cathedral cast," the red-headed man said. "We're lucky Buck Stevens happened by. Don't let him fool you; even though he makes it look effortless, you need to practice this cast to perfect it." He accepted the fly rod from Buck. "The guide world lost a real natural when you retired, Buck."

"Uncle Buck, you used to be a fishing guide?" Blair asked after Buck joined them on the sidelines.

"It put the food on the table for a few years," Buck admitted, draping an arm around Blair's shoulders. "Come on, I'm smelling BBQ."

Jim and Simon trailed behind.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Simon asked.

Jim nodded, making his eyes squint like Clint Eastwood as he looked at his boss and slipping into his Bonanza accent. "Uh huh. We got us a free fishing guide. We need to rent a boat."

"Exactly," Simon exclaimed, rubbing his large hands together happily.

Buck turned to grace them both with a wicked smile.

The sportsman show didn't offer the wide selection of foods typically found during the time of the county fair, but there were a few choices. Blair talked Simon into trying the Thai food stand, while Jim waited in line with Buck for BBQ chicken. They found an empty table in a less crowded part of the group of picnic tables and sat down to eat.

"Where did you guide, Buck?" Simon asked as he twirled his plastic fork in the mound of soft noodles.

"I was licensed for a while in Montana, Idaho, as well as Washington," he replied. "I worked for a friend that owned a guide service. You've met him, Jim; he opened that campground in northern Idaho."

"Sure, he's the guy we helped out. Blair and I built that porch and stairs for him," Jim said, frowning briefly at his food. The chicken was good, but the BBQ was a little too sweet for his taste. He used his fork to scrape most of it off. "So, Buck, you can show us all the hot spots?"

"What do you want to catch?" Buck asked.

"Steelhead," Simon said without hesitation.

"Oh, yeah." Jim nodded in agreement. "Sweet."

"Can we keep one?" Blair asked. "I love smoked steelhead, man."

Buck chuckled. "Okay, okay. I get the picture," he said, wiping his hands on a napkin before picking up his cornbread. "We'll need to find a couple of drift boats. Maybe float one of the rivers on the Olympic Peninsula. We should pick a weekend."

"When?" Simon's face lit up in pleasure.

"Whenever," Buck told him. "They have runs all year."

"How about spring break?" Jim asked, glancing over at Blair.

"We could do that," Buck said. "Send me the dates and I'll get us set up. We can rent a cabin out in Forks and share the cost."

Simon set his fork down and rubbed his hands together as he grinned at his eating companions. "Our own fishing guide. I think I've died and gone to heaven."

They finished their meal and tossed the disposable plates, napkins and cups in a nearby garbage can. By agreement, they headed back towards the vendor barns. Jim wanted to look over the fly tying equipment and Simon was still comparison shopping for a new fly rod. Jim kept a discreet eye on Blair as they reentered the crowded building. But Blair seemed okay, so Jim relaxed while he looked over the different booths.

The barn offered a smorgasbord of toys for the outdoorsman; folding boats, crab pots, fishing poles, hunting coats, high powered binoculars, and archery equipment all crowded together in long rows, plus anything remotely related to hunting and fishing from artwork to jewelry. Visa cards and cash could be seen exchanging hands everywhere.

The crowd prevented them from walking more than two abreast and in some places they formed a single line to snake through a particularly popular booth. At one point Jim found himself in the lead as they passed between booths selling saltwater fishing equipment and hunting gear along with a variety of self-defense equipment.

Both booths were popular and filled beyond capacity. The spillover crowded the aisle. Just as Jim passed between an elderly man holding a salmon pole and a young woman pushing a stroller, he heard the familiar sound of a tazer being activated. The loud, snapping sound of electricity was close enough for the small hairs on Jim's neck to stand out.

Annoyed that some idiot would be so stupid as to fire a tazer within a crowded room, he started to search for the culprit. A soft gasp from directly behind startled him.

"Blair!" Buck called out in alarm.

Jim turned to see Blair pulling out of Buck's grasp, eyes wide, face bloodless, and hands out as if to ward off the devil himself. He bounced off a heavyset man and fell into a tall stand of fishing poles on a turnstile. The stand fell with a loud crash onto a table holding fishing reels. People were yelling, a woman screamed. The crowd shifted and surged as they responded to the unperceived threat in their midst. The situation turned ugly as several of the vendors started yelling in outrage. Jim pushed forward with a shoulder, moving toward where he'd last seen Blair fall out of his sight. Simon was busy helping a young woman desperately trying to keep her young son from being trampled while maintaining a stroller that looked ready to be knocked over.

Buck's head suddenly appeared. Jim could see he had Blair in his grasp. The younger man still looked lost in his day terror and fought to break free. Seeing Jim over the tops of the strangers around them, Buck raised his voice over the screaming melee.

"I'll taking him outside!"

Jim nodded. "Go, we'll find you."

It took some doing and the efforts of the off duty county police hired by the show and a few other level-headed men before the crowd calmed down. It was a common phenomenon, usually seen at large concerts or when a people became trapped in an emergency, like a fire, but it had the potential to seriously harm and even kill. Simon joined Jim in time to hear the man owning the booth with the tazer talk to the police officers.

"What the hell happened?" Simon asked in a low voice.

Jim pointed at the short man with the red face. "This guy sells tazers, someone activated it and Blair heard."

"Damn." Simon's forehead wrinkled with displeasure. "In this crowd? What was he thinking? Someone could have been hit."

"That's what the deputies are telling him now," Jim added. "Listen, I've got to find Sandburg. Buck took him outside, he looked ready to bolt. Can you handle this?"

Simon looked around at the mess a few short moments had created. Several fishing poles lay snapped in pieces on the ground, clothing was scattered about, damaged by muddy shoes and boots. "Yeah, I'm on it. Go check on the kid."

Jim pushed through the surrounding crowd that had stayed to watch the cops deal with the fallout. Outside the building, he ignored the folks standing about, excitedly talking to their friends about the fiasco. Buck and Blair were nowhere to be seen. Jim closed his eyes and concentrated on his hearing, searching, filtering out those voices he didn't want and searching for the one he did.

He found a familiar voice.

"Stop it, Blair."

Jim opened his eyes and broke into a fast trot towards an empty covered arena. He slipped through the metal bars that circled the sawdust riding area and took a short cut through the middle, continuing to listen.

"I just..." Blair voice was rushed.

"Stay put. Running isn't helping any."

Jim spotted them as he left the riding arena. Both men were several hundred feet away, standing between empty barns used to house livestock during the fair. Buck held Blair by his upper arms and was backing him towards a bench. He firmly pushed the smaller man down. Neither had seen him yet and Jim held back, suddenly reluctant to intrude. After all, Buck seemed to have Blair under control at the moment.

"Talk to me, runt," Buck said, squatting down in front of Blair.

Even from this distance, Jim could see Blair was miserable. "God, Uncle Buck. I'm such a screw up."

"That wasn't your fault," Buck told him.

Blair shook his head. "Simon's going to pull my ride-a-long."

"Bullshit," Buck said calmly. "You know better than that."

Blair hunched forward on the bench and Buck caught a shoulder and roughly pushed him back. Jim's fingers tightened into a fist, but he stayed put.

"What's really going on inside that head of yours? And don't give me any crap about what someone else might do," Buck ordered.

"But it's true," Blair started, then stopped when Buck's fingers tightened on his shoulder.

"Blair. I know Simon and Jim are both good friends. I've seen too much to believe different. Now stop this nonsense and tell me the real problem."

"Y-yes, sir." With his head still ducked low, Blair gripped the edge of the bench with both hands. "I'm still... ah, nervous."

"About?" Buck asked.

He shrugged and released one hand to push back his hair being blown across his face. "Rainier's okay, and the station, too - if Jim's there - but anywhere away from the loft and I get..."

"Scared."

"Yeah."

Buck sighed and moved to take a seat next to his `nephew.' His voice took on gentler tones as he spoke, "Look at it this way, mentally, you're ready to move past that night Snipes had you in the chair, but your body needs more time."

"Time? It's been a month." The anger in Blair's voice was clear enough to carry to where Jim stood waiting and watching.

"So? So, you need more than four weeks. Big deal. It's not something you can just will away, Blair. You, of all people, should know that. Why aren't you seeing someone, anyway?"

Blair wiggled a little on the bench, as if trying to find a softer part in the wood. "I went to a doctor when we got back."

"Just once?"

Jim watched Blair nod his head once.

"You know one time barely gives the doctor a chance to know you. Why didn't you go back?"

Another shrug. It was weird watching Blair being so nonverbal, not natural at all. In fact, Blair hadn't done one of his marathon lectures in a long time now. How had Jim not noticed this shift in character?

"Blair, I'm waiting for an answer," Buck said.

"I don't have the money."

"Isn't there ways around that? I understand the justice system has resources available for these types of situations."

"I guess."

"So why aren't you letting Simon and Jim help you?"

Buck was not going to let Blair dodge the question and Jim was glad. He'd been wondering the same himself. Simon had made enquiries and even provided the proper forms. Blair had been adamant; he'd flatly refused to return to the counselor.

"Blair?"

Blair's shoulders sagged as the tension left them; he leaned back against the bench and scrubbed his face with both hands. "Uncle Buck, those findings become official, the defense can subpoena them. Or the Fed's can use them in the prosecution. You know what the first question that guy asked was? Guess."

"I don't have a clue, son," Buck said. "Just tell me."

"He asked me, `How do you feel about your mother?' Can you believe that? I'm too freaked out to leave the loft except for school or the police station, and he wants me to talk about Naomi. Like some guy dressed in a suit is going to understand my mother. He's going to label me as a bastard son of a drugged out hippie and that gets splashed all over the trial. Simon and Jim aren't going to want anything to do with me."

"They've met Naomi."

"Yeah, and she was her charming self. She freaked out about me working with Jim, but she settled down." Blair drew his knees up to his chest, his feet on the edge of the bench seat. He circled his legs with both arms and rested his forehead on his knees. "I've seen shrinks like that before. He would have had a field day with Naomi, getting into my childhood, making assumptions, conclusions. I just... no, no more. I'm not going to risk it. I've got to get over this on my own."

God, so that was it. Jim leaned against the fence. Blair's brain must be scrambled to worry about that sort of shit. No wonder he'd been dead set against seeing a doctor about his torture. Snipes' trial was months away. From what he knew about the case, the Federal prosecutor had lined up so many charges in a row, the defense needed a shopping cart at the arraignment to carry the complaints away.

Jim knew the prosecutor was hoping to roll the hired gunman, get him to turn over the identities of those men that called the shots. Newel Adams, the man that had hired Snipes and ordered Blair's torture was dead, but he had associates that the Feds would love to get their hands on.

Sounds of someone approaching caused Jim to turn. Simon was heading his way. He held a finger up to his lips and slipped through the fence to meet him in the middle of the arena.

"How's Sandburg?" Simon asked.

"He's okay, he's talking to Buck," Jim answered. He nodded his head back at the building Simon had just left. "What sort of damage are we looking at?"

Eyeing the `no smoking' signs posted nearby, Simon patted his chest unhappily. "Are you kidding? When I got finished with my enraged Police Captain act, the tazer owner couldn't apologize fast enough. He's apparently got insurance to help cover the damaged fishing tackle. We're in the clear."

"God, Simon," Jim said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "You are one handy guy to have around."

"Don't you forget it, either." Simon preened under the compliment. "So - if it's okay with you - I'm thinking I've had enough of the sportsman show this year. I'm going to mail-order my fly rod. I say we gather up our fellow cohorts of disaster and leave."

Blair was having a horrible, terrible, very bad day; just like Alexander from a book he remembered reading when he was little.

They were back in the loft. It was late. Simon had gone home an hour ago and Buck was going through the box of letters from the houseboat. Jim had started laundry. The TV was on, tuned to a perfectly groomed man and woman taking turns reading local news stories.

"I'm going for a walk," Blair announced to the room at large.

That brought Jim down the stairs from where he'd been folding whites. "I'll join you."

A less tired man might ask his best friend not to come, but Blair wasn't that man. He felt exhausted and out of sorts, too tired to think and too antsy to rest. He shrugged into his coat and headed out the door with a nod to Buck. Jim had to jog to catch up. Once out on the street, Jim zipped up his jacket and tucked his hands into its deep pockets.

They walked toward the water in silence, which Blair appreciated. He knew Jim was worried about him. The episode at the sportsman show had demonstrated to the entire world he was a nutcase. Hell, there was no denying it now. He'd been so careful not to lose it. It just took a simple sound to shatter weeks of effort.

Surprisingly, it had helped when he'd talked to Uncle Buck today. Blair hadn't wanted to, but he'd learned long ago you didn't disobey the man. Maybe what was true with burdens was true with fears, once shared they became half the size.

The walk led them down by the marina, the streetlights lighting the way and keeping the criminal elements at bay. Other folks wandered down the boardwalk, enjoying the cool evening of no rainfall.

Blair snuck a glance up at Jim, wishing he had the courage to tell the man what he'd said to Buck. Jim must think he was nuts. Of course, he probably realized how nuts Blair was the first week he'd moved into the loft. How many discussions had the sentinel overheard? Blair couldn't help talking to himself. It just seemed like the thing to do when working through a problem.

Wait a second, what's to say Jim hadn't listened in at the sportsman show?

Blair looked up at Jim again.

"You heard," Blair said.

Jim's face remained the same, but he met Blair's gaze and nodded.

"Crap."

"Sorry," Jim said.

"It's okay." Blair crossed his arms over his chest and turned toward the wooden railing. It ran the length of the boardwalk to keep folks from falling down to the rock jetty below. He leaned his elbows on the top railing and studied the water lapping gently at the rocks, catching the light from the streetlamps and reflecting it back. It looked as if God had removed the salt water and poured black ink into the ocean.

Jim was too tall to get his elbows on the railing, instead he kept his arms straight, palm down on the rough wood. "No, it's not okay. But it will be."

"I'm not going back to that doctor, Jim."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

Jim shrugged, gracing Blair with a quirky smile. "Okay, no doctors."

"Uh... I expected you to argue with me."

"Nope, I'd like to ask you something, though."

"What?"

Jim released the railing with one hand and turned to face Blair. "What were you thinking just now?"

Blair didn't expect that question. He actually didn't expect Jim to ask any question at all. Jim was more of a `see problem, fix problem' kind of guy, not a `let's talk about the problem' guy at all.

"Thinking?"

"Yeah, we just spent fifteen minutes walking. What was on your mind?"

"I don't know," Blair answered. It sounded lame, even to his own ears. He looked out at the lights of a passing ship. "Stuff."

"What stuff?"

"Today, what happened, that stuff."

"Okay, next question."

"You get two questions?"

"Yes, I do," Jim told him firmly, tempered with an indulgent look. "Next question. What are you feeling?"

"Feeling?" Blair pushed away from the railing and turned to face Jim head on, legs spread in a firm stand. "Why are you asking me this stuff? You going over to the dark side and becoming a shrink?"

"Well, if you don't want to talk with a professional, why can't you talk to me?"

Blair wanted to get angry, but he couldn't. Jim was really reaching out, being very un-Jim. Blair was frankly too amazed to get pissed. He shrugged and turned to look out over the dark water again. "Well, before I stepped into the twilight zone here, I guess I was feeling..."

"First thing that comes to mind. Spit it out."

"Empty. But in a good way, I think." Blair lifted his chin. Why did it feel good to be empty? What was missing? He gave it some thought. "Ever since I went to see that doctor and he asked about Naomi," Blair started. "I knew I had to be careful. I guess that's why I didn't want to go anywhere unless I had to. I figured if I kept it together until the trial, I wouldn't screw it up, give the defense anything to use to discredit my testimony. Then today, I lost it. It felt like a big spring was coiling up inside me and that thing with the tazer let it out."

"Tension."

"Yeah."

"What if the spring's still inside? Waiting for you to start coiling it up again?"

Blair made a face. "Thanks, man. I didn't want to go there."

Jim chuckled. "Listen, Sandburg. I think you're blowing this out of proportion. You've been through some pretty shitty stuff, so I'm not surprised. Your testimony is important to the Fed's case, but you won't be the only person with an eyewitness account, remember? Buck and I were there when they took you. We have the doctor's testimony of your injuries. The Feds found plenty in that garage. Yeah, you're still the star witness, but any episode like today's isn't going to hurt the case."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. If you want, we can talk to the Federal prosecutor tomorrow and he can tell you."

"Tomorrow's Saturday."

"So?" Jim said. "When he finds out it's you, I'm betting he'll give up a few hours of his personal life."

Blair had to chuckle. "So, you're saying I'm a star?"

"Great, I suppose I'm going to have to go find a Hollywood star to put on your bedroom door." He slung a long arm around Blair's shoulder and turned him toward home.

That empty feeling was starting to fade. Uncle Buck was right, no big shocker there, he did have good friends. Even if he was a few sandwiches shy of a full picnic at the moment, Jim wasn't kicking him out the door. He didn't act like someone too ashamed to have him around, even after breaking up an entire display of fishing equipment. Which reminded him.

"Jim, how much damage did I cause today?"

"Don't know, Simon took care of it. The guy selling the tazer had insurance, so it's not our problem."

"Cool."

The walk back to the loft was over before he knew it. Blair's feet felt lighter somehow. He yawned. The idea of sleep actually appealed to him.

"What?" Blair asked when his partner stiffened at his side.

Jim pointed towards the parking lot. "Buck's Land Cruiser is gone."

And it turned out, so was Buck.

They quickly searched the loft for a note, but found none.

"I'm telling you, man. This isn't like Uncle Buck," Blair said for the fourth time as Jim searched between the cushions, for what, Blair had no idea. "I used to get into serious trouble as a kid if I left without telling him. First time I ever got grounded, man. He just wouldn't do this. Something's wrong, Jim."

Jim stood, his eyes narrowing as he swept his gaze over his home.

"God," Blair exclaimed, smacking the post next to him. "Why doesn't he carry a cell phone? Everyone carries one now! He's so damn stubborn sometimes."

Jim was moving now, still silent. He picked up the cordless and dialed. "Simon? Buck is gone and so is that box of papers we found in the houseboat."

Blair's heart stuttered. His chest chilled him from the inside as he rushed over to check. Yes. It was true; the metal box that Buck had been going through was gone. Buck had set it next to the coffee table. He dropped onto the sofa, knees wobbly.

Jim was still talking to Simon. "Blair says he wouldn't just leave and I agree... yeah, on his Land Cruiser. Ah, light blue, seventy-six. Five, oh, eight, Henry, Ida, Lincoln. Yeah, Washington. Thanks, sir. I appreciate this."

Jim hung up.

"We're going to go looking for him, right?" Blair asked, making an effort to stand again.

But Jim shook his head. "Simon's ordering an APB, we'll have to wait. Put your cell on charge, in case he calls."

"We can't just stand around here doing nothing, Jim." Blair glanced over at the door, wondering if he could reach it before Jim stopped him.

"Blair, it won't do any good driving around the city. We don't have a clue where to look," Jim said, his voice far too pacifying for Blair's liking. "I agree something's wrong, even if he had left a note, I doubt I'd believe what it would say."

That got Blair's attention. "Why? What did you find? Something with your senses? What?"

"Just a smell," Jim said, waving his hand in the air. "It's one of those cheap brands of cigarettes that always give me headaches."

Blair took a deep breath, but didn't smell it. Oh, shit! Someone had come in while he'd been playing the brain-damaged victim walking the streets of the city. He wanted to scream. He made do with kicking the kitchen chair. "Damn it! God! Damn! It!"

"Sandburg." Jim was as his side immediately. "Keep it together."

Blair shrugged the hand from his shoulder. He didn't deserve Jim's concern. "If anything happens to Buck..." Shit, he couldn't even finish his own threat.

Saturday

The call arrived a few minutes after three in the morning. Even though Jim was out of the chair and moving the second the phone sounded, Blair beat him. His roommate snatched up the handset and turned sideways, left arm straight like a quarterback with the ball, keeping Jim back.

"Hello! Oh, Simon... yeah, he's here - but..." Blue eyes grew wide in alarm. "Why? Nonono, tell me. Damn it, Simon!"

It took a half lap around the kitchen table and a brief show of power, but Jim managed to wrestle the instrument away.

"Simon?" Jim asked, keeping an eye out for a last minute counterstrike to recapture the phone. He hoped no one was watching them at that moment. The blinds were open. He knew from experience it was easy to see in from the buildings across the street. Two men running around, fighting over the phone, what a sight they had made. Never a dull moment in the Ellison loft.

"Jim, get a pen and paper," Simon ordered wearily.

"Okay, hold on a sec." He made writing motions in the air with his free hand, sending Blair scurrying to retrieve a pen. A few seconds later, Jim tucked the phone against his shoulder and prepared to write. "Go ahead, Simon."

"I-Five southbound, take the Smokey Point off ramp. Head west, at the first fork, stay left. The road goes all the way to the coast. Follow it south and you'll see the emergency vehicles. I'm on my way there now. I'll meet you there."

"What are we looking at here, sir?"

Jim could hear the man take a deep breath and hope sank. "It sounds pretty bad, Jim. State Patrol got the call of an accident. They called me when they ran the plates and found our APB."

"How bad?"

"Bad enough, I'll know more when I get there."

Since neither of them had gone to bed, all they had to grab was their coats from the hall hooks and lock up. Jim fished his gun out of the drawer. Neither man spoke until they were in the truck, racing for the freeway. Blair had followed wordlessly, uncharacteristically silent. Jim knew it wouldn't be for very long.

"Jim?"

"An accident, Chief. Simon will meet us there."

"Oh, man," Blair moaned softly. He hugged himself tightly and fell quiet again.

Jim kept his speed at no more than eight miles an hour over the limit, not enough to risk being pulled over by even a gung-ho state trooper. He knew the coastline they were heading toward. A friend of Carolyn's lived nearby and the two enjoyed sea kayaking together. Jim's job had been to pick them up on days they didn't want to double back to their starting point.

"Shouldn't we be going to the nearest hospital? Why waste our time at the accident scene?" Blair blurted out, voice unsteady with traces of doubt.

"I'm sure Simon's on scene by now," Jim said. "He would have called us."

Around a curve, the horizon ahead came alive with flashing red and yellow lights. The road crested over a low hill, blocking the source of the lights. Soon the accident became visible. Several police cars, both county and state, were parked alongside the road. A yellow fire truck dominated the scene, blocking the north-bound lane. A ghostly column of steam rose from the remains of a burnt vehicle crumpled against a telephone pole.

Jim parked behind Simon's car. He caught the sharp chemical tang of burnt plastic and the foul smell of charred meat. Jim slammed down his sense of smell. Blair wordlessly scrambled to release his belt and wrenched open the door.

"Wait, Sandburg," Jim said, opening his own door and climbing out.

Blair wasn't listening; he rushed towards the smoldering vehicle - only to be caught by the arm as he tried to get by Simon Banks.

"Hold it, Sandburg," Simon ordered roughly.

"Lemmego!"

Jim hurried to help, knowing Blair's tricks. Before he could get around his truck, Blair went limp and Simon's grasp relaxed.

"No! Hold him, Simon," Jim called out, breaking into a sprint to reach them.

But it was too late. Simon doubled over with a grunt after having an elbow sunk deep into his gut and Blair was off and running again. Jim poured on the speed. Memories of burnt bodies flashed through his mind. Hair and skin totally gone, gruesomely exposed muscle patterns, the ends of the arms and legs missing, the rib cage visible. It was beyond horrible, there was no way in hell he was going to let Blair remember Buck that way.

Blair screamed in outrage as his hair and coat were snagged from behind. Troopers and firemen turned in shock at the sudden outburst. Jim ignored them. He had his hands full at the moment.

God, Blair's little display of anger back at Saint Sebastian over Brother Marcus' fake death was mild compared to this. Blair fought like a rabid dog, complete with snarls. Jim couldn't tell where the punches ended and the kicks started. This was a case of closer being better and Jim hugged his friend tightly, stealing some of the power from Blair's attack. Hopefully, Jim wouldn't be sporting teeth marks.

"Blair, stop," Jim ordered calmly over Blair's curses. "Calm down... oomph. Shit, Sandburg!" That one was going to leave a bruise.

Uniforms headed their way. Before they could get too close, Simon intercepted, leaving Jim free to concentrate on containing Blair. He managed to pin both Blair's arms. They were standing by the rear of the fire engine, near the back platform the firemen stood on to reach the hose beds above. Jim fell backwards to land with a solid thud on his butt, yanking Blair along. The brief fall confused the younger man, allowing Jim to quickly pin Blair's legs between his knees and hold him still. Blair was caught sideways in a human `Jim' trap with arms around his upper body and Jim's legs encircling his own.

Blair gave one last tremendous attempt to break free, causing neck tendons to stand out from the effort. "Jim, let me GO!"

"Sandburg, calm down," Jim ordered. "I mean it, right now."

"You have no right! I need to know," Blair shouted, churning in Jim's hold.

"I'm not letting go until you settle down."

Blair sucked in a lungful of air causing Jim to adjust his mental controls, expecting another sonic blast of cursing. Blair could turn the air blue with the best of them when he set his mind to it. But, to Jim's surprise, it didn't happen. Blair suddenly and unexpectedly relaxed.

"Listen to me," Jim whispered, feeling Blair shudder in his arms. Blair's hair was tickling his nose and Jim took a second to fight the urge to sneeze. "You don't want to see this. I'm sorry. I'm just not going to allow it."

A single, violent sob wracked the smaller body, nearly causing Jim to lose his hold. Blair wasn't giving up, but the fight was waning. Using his head as a weapon, Blair moved it sideways, each arc ending with a painful thud against Jim's chest. Jim tightened his hold with his right arm and used his left to catch the mess of long hair and hold Blair's head still.

Jim hated this. They'd often joke about who was stronger, just clowning around. Even though Jim knew he had the superior strength, Blair was no wimp. Having to use force on his partner left a bad taste in his mouth. Jim closed his eye's and waited as Blair's entire body vibrated with emotion. He could sense Simon standing off to one side, guarding their privacy, such as it was. Finally, Blair became still.

"Jim," Blair whispered softly. One syllable, yet it spoke volumes.

"I know, partner," Jim answered quietly. "I'll go. Promise me you'll stay here with Simon. I'll check this out."

Taking the slight affirmative nod as his word, Jim unwrapped his arms and freed him. Blair tried to stand but faltered. He sank down on the tailboard and hugged himself tightly, head tilted down, looking miserable.

"Simon, watch him?" Jim stood up slowly. "I'll be right back." He squeezed Blair's shoulder briefly and moved to the side. Simon slipped into his place, taking a seat on the wide bumper.

"We'll be here, Jim," Simon told him, his eyes sending a silent message.

This was going to be bad.

Jim approached the destroyed vehicle with dread. He already knew the person inside had been badly burned. He'd smelled it getting out of the Ford. The ruined vehicle was crumpled, but he recognized the Toyota Land Cruiser easily. The rear bumper was relatively unscathed and he could see the license plate was Buck's. The body of the car was burned down to the bare metal. All the upholstery and padding was gone. The only things left of the seats were metal frames and springs. Buck had changed to a soft, vinyl roof after the incident last December when they'd been forced off the road next to Banks Lake. That had burned away, giving Jim a clear look at the remains in the driver's seat.

A tear fell from his eye, surprising him. He swiped at it angrily as he forced himself to study the body. The height was about right, although the way fire caused a body to bend and contort, it was hard to be sure. There was no way to make a simple ID by looking at the face, so Jim didn't try. He glanced down at the chest; the driver had definitely been a male. It was going to take dental records to be sure this was Buck.

A glint of something shiny on the metal floor, directly under the body caught his eye. Jim moved closer to look. Melted silver, enough silver from the cast of a belt buckle, like the one Blair had given Buck last Christmas.

Shit.

He returned to the rear of the fire truck. Blair hadn't moved. Jim exchanged a miserable look with Simon before he laid a hand on the bowed head.

"I'm sorry, Blair," Jim said.

"No," Blair whispered.

"We'll need dental records to be sure, but I think it's likely that Buck was driving."

Blair rose, knocking Jim's hand away with a wide sweep of his arm. "No!"

"Sandburg," Simon started then stepped back when Blair turned to glare at him, his face contorted in fury.

"No! No! NO!" Blair repeated until he was screaming.

Jim flinched. Blair's pain was so real Jim felt it pierce his own heart, like a red hot iron rod from a blacksmith's fire. "Chief, please." Jim knew better to try and touch.

Blair was not accepting any comfort. With a look toward the remains of the Toyota, he stumbled a few steps back, into the street, his eyelashes heavy with moisture.

When Jim moved to follow, Blair held out both hands to keep him back. "N-no, just give me... let me... I gotta get out of here."

Jim understood. Hell, part of him wanted the same thing, and he'd only known Buck mere months compared to Blair's years. But still, Jim didn't like the idea of Blair going off alone. The moon was full and bright, the place was mostly deserted. He quickly cast out his hearing, not picking up anything but the soft sound of the ocean waves, which gave him an idea.

"There's a trail a few yards down. It goes to the beach. I'll come get you when we're done here, okay?" Jim bent down to see Blair's face, making sure he understood. Blair seemed to be following the conversation. "Just stay on the beach. No one will bother you."

With a hasty nod, Blair stumbled across the road. He found the wide trail and disappeared into the trees.

"You sure that was a good idea, Jim?" Simon asked. He pulled out a cigar and bit off the end, spitting the small bit of tobacco into the gravel near their feet. He sounded calm and professional, but Jim noticed his hands were shaking as he reached for his lighter.

"Yeah, I'm sure. He needs time." Jim dropped his head forward and pressed his thumb and forefinger into his closed eyelids for a moment before sighing. "Shit, Simon, what a mess."

"Yeah." Simon paused to puff deeply on his cigar before continuing. "The troopers didn't find any skid marks. Buck must have been flying when he hit that pole."

Jim turned away to avoid the bright flame. "I'm going to look around."

"For what?"

"That box of papers is missing. It didn't look like it was in the Toyota," Jim said. "Buck didn't leave the loft willingly, sir. I'm sure of that. I'm going to find the persons responsible for this."

"You're telling me he was murdered?"

"You just said there were no skid marks," Jim pointed out. "You know him, Simon. Buck didn't drink and drive. This isn't a suicide. Of course he was murdered."

"Easy, Ellison." Simon removed his freshly lit cigar from his mouth, jabbing the smoldering end in the air as he spoke. "Just remember, this is a state highway. We're out of our jurisdiction and we've got squat in the way of proof."

"Then I'll find it."

Blair tripped over something, a root or a rock. It didn't matter.

Nothing mattered.

Why couldn't this be a nightmare? Something he could wake up from.

The surrounding darkness pulled back and Blair found himself hearing water, no, waves. He was on the beach. The moon reflected off the wet sand around him.

He stumbled forward. Cold water splashed over his tennis shoes, soaking his socks and toes. Whoa, too far. He backpedaled. God, it was hard to navigate when your vision was all blurry. His heel caught a mini boulder sticking up from the sand and he fell backward onto the sand. Great, now his jeans were wet. So, he thought dourly, he didn't care. It hurt too much to care about the condition of his stupid clothes. With a defiant act, he flopped on his back in the sand.

Something was wrong with his chest, though. He wondered what it was. It was almost as if the oxygen had bled out of the air around him, starving his lungs. Someone finally used one aerosol can too many and punched a hole through the ozone. That must be it. That was why his chest was burning. A sudden snort broke from his lungs and he clamped a sandy hand over his nose.

Too close, back off.

Blair rolled over onto his side, oblivious to the wetness that attacked his light jacket and started in on his outer shirt. Sand dug into his scalp and coated his cheek. He wanted to laugh. He was lying on the beach, gasping for air like a fish out of water.

That was so backwards, man. He was a mammal, not a fish.

Although, being a fish sounded pretty good to him right now. Hadn't Naomi told him once, when he was little, that fish didn't have feelings? So it didn't hurt the fish when the hook pierced them?

God, what a delicious thought; to have no feelings.

Blair moaned, curling into a fetal position as he worked to suck the remaining oxygen out of the atmosphere around him. He wished he were a fish. He wished he'd listened more to Naomi. She'd been the wise one all along. She'd warned him about getting too close. How many boyfriends had he been introduced to? She'd always take him aside, even when he was too little to understand, and tell him not to get used to having this one around.

And when she'd come back after he'd stayed with Buck that first summer. Oh, man. She'd really had a heart-to-heart with him. But for the first time, he'd gone ahead anyway and let himself get close. Buck wasn't her boyfriend. Hell, he didn't have to be nice to Blair just to get close to Naomi. Buck was his friend. Not Naomi's friend. Not another one of her conquests. Man, they all loved Naomi. She didn't even have to try and the guys would fall all over themselves just to stand next to her.

But not Buck.

Buck had enjoyed being with Blair. He'd taken the time to talk. He'd tried to teach him to fish. That was a laugh. He'd driven him to the library in Moses Lake once a week. Taught him to do an oil change on the old GMC truck he used to own.

A caustic sob burned his throat.

No, no, no. Blair fought for control, pushing the pain back before it tore out his heart.

Lying perfectly still, he closed his eyes and listened to the waves. Being a fish sure sounded good right now and Blair wondered if the tide was going out or coming in.

"Damn it, Blair," Jim muttered, jogging toward the still form curled on the beach. Dawn was still an hour away, but he had no difficulty finding his partner. He had followed the heartbeat from the trail and easily spotted him once he'd left the scrubby trees behind.

Blair didn't move when Jim laid a hand on his forehead, finding the skin cool to the touch. Maybe Simon had been correct, Jim thought, second guessing his decision to send Blair down here. He gently hauled Blair up to a sitting position by one arm. "Come on, Sandburg, time to go home."

Blair remained silent as he was manhandled to his feet, moving like a zombie back to the truck. His shiny eyes open, emotionless and dark. His clothes were wet and he reeked of rancid seaweed. Simon was waiting patiently by his car as they emerged back onto the two-lane road. The fire truck was long gone. A single trooper remained behind to supervise the removal of the wreck.

"He okay?" Simon asked as Jim neared with his partner in tow.

Jim nodded curtly. "We're going to catch a few hours of sleep. I'll be in this afternoon. Thanks for going to bat on this one, Simon."

The captain answered with an identical nod, his eyes flicking over to take in Blair's condition. "No problem. It won't be the first time we've had a joint investigation with State Patrol. I'll toss together some notes in a file and assign a case number to it. Right now, we'll go with a simple breaking and entering at your loft, until we get positive ID."

"Good idea," Jim said, opening the door and guiding Blair into the passenger seat, making sure Blair's seatbelt was secure before closing the door. "Let's keep the Feds out as long as possible. The troopers know we're looking at a homicide, right?"

Simon tilted his head. "They agreed. That brick you found in the bushes was obviously used to hold the gas pedal down. They'll send the remains to Dan. Maybe his department will have something for you by the time you get in this afternoon."

"Catch you this afternoon," Jim promised. "Thanks again."

Once back on the road, Jim waited for the motor to warm up before turning up the heat. Blair showed no interest in the warm air pouring from the vents. He sat, tilted against the passenger door, as if sitting straight wasn't an option. The silence stayed with them the entire trip back to the loft where Jim had to guide him out of the cab and up to their home.

"Okay, let's get some sleep," Jim suggested gently.

Up until now, Blair had walked trance-like at Jim's side. But once through the French doors, he stiffened. Jim saw the problem immediately. All of Buck's stuff was set out with military precision on the side table, a duffle bag waited on the chair. Jim pivoted Blair quickly, taking him back out into the loft.

"I think we'll switch beds tonight, Chief."

Upstairs in his own room, he turned the comforter down. "Go ahead and strip. I've got some sweats you can sleep in."

As Blair dutifully started peeling off the wet clothes, Jim located an older set of sweats that had shrunk a little from multiple washings in hot water. He could have gone into Blair's room to find something of his own to sleep in, but Jim was too tired. Blair would be fine in Jim's.

"See how these fit." Jim draped the sweats on the bed.

Blair had managed to peel off his shirts. His arms were white and waxen looking, he wasn't shivering.

Crap. Jim recognized the early stages of hyperthermia. Looks like he would be making an extra trip up and down the stairs after all. "I'll be right back."

Quickly locating an electric blanket in the utility closet downstairs, Jim climbed back up the stairs two at a time. Blair stood like a wind up toy with a dead spring, still in boxers, blankly contemplating the floor.

Okay, first things first. Jim tossed the blanket on the bed and snatched up the sweatpants. "Climb in, Sandburg."

It was too weird; having Blair respond to direct instructions like this. Jim took the sweatshirt next and pulled it over Blair's head, noticing the condition of his hair. Another trip down the stairs and back and Jim toweled the hair as dry as possible, then draped it over a pillow. He tossed the comforter off the bed, letting it settle to the floor for a moment and snapped out the blanket. It floated down to the bed. The blanket was left over from his married days. Carolyn had complained of the cold in winter and he'd bought it to appease her.

Jim lifted up a corner and took Blair's arm. "In you go."

After Blair was settled between the sheets, Jim returned the comforter, plugged in the blanket, and dialed the control to five. He would check Blair later and see if he was okay. Jim gathered the wet, sandy clothes into his arms. He'd need to clean his room up after this, noticing the seaweed smell had followed his partner home. Clean up and air out.

Blair's eyes were opened, unfocused, staring dully at the ceiling. Jim doubted he even knew he was home. "Go to sleep, Blair."

After tossing the clothes into the dirty hamper in the bathroom he returned to Blair's bedroom. If he was going to have any chance at sleep, he needed to remake the bed with the fine cotton sheets he preferred to the cheaper ones on Blair's bed. Jim looked again at Buck's belongings. Damn, he was going to miss the man. Returning the personal items back to the duffle bag, Jim tucked it away in the closet for now. They could deal with it later. He helped himself to a clean set of his sheets and quickly remade the futon. The sheets were too large, but he tucked the excess under the mattress. The futon was hard and lumpy compared to his bed upstairs. How could Blair stand sleeping on it? Of course, at the time it was only going to be a few days. Maybe it was time to look into a new bed.

God, he was rambling. Jim sighed and dragged a hand down his face. He was exhausted. His watch told him it was nearly six. If he was lucky, he'd get five hours of sleep in before going into the station.

After double checking the locks on the door, he climbed the stairs one last time. Blair's eyes were closed now, thank God, his face relaxed in sleep. Jim took a second to study his friend, not looking forward to the next few days. Buck had been like family to Blair. He wondered if he should try and locate Naomi.

Nah, let Blair make that choice.

Jim headed down the stairs and climbed into the narrow bed. Dialing down his sense of touch to compensate for the mattress, he immediately fell into an exhausted sleep.

Simon studied the two men in his office, noting the contrast in motion. Blair sat huddled in a chair. Jim paced the floor behind him. It was after two on Saturday afternoon. Simon was supposed to be cleaning out his garage and making a trip to the dump today, not sitting at his desk in his office, breaking terrible news to his friends.

"State Patrol managed to get their hands on Buck's dental and medical records. They drove them over to Dan's office this morning," Simon told them, feeling guilty for some stupid reason; hating the position he was in. "Dan says it's a match without a doubt. It was Buck we found in the car last night."

He glanced at the official report on his desk, but not before seeing Blair swallow hard, eyes downcast. The kid had looked like warmed over crap when he'd followed Jim into the bullpen an hour ago. Frankly, Simon was surprised Blair had appeared at all today. Blair's eyes were bloodshot; his face had several patches of stubble from a haphazard shaving attempt. He'd collapsed into an extra chair behind Jim's desk and kept to himself until Simon had summoned both men into his office.

"Damn," Jim muttered, walking over to the window and peering out.

Simon flipped the folder closed. "WSP is willing to let us investigate this as a murder. They confirmed the brick had been used on the gas pedal. They found brick dust on the floorboards."

"Was he d-dead... when he..." Blair was unable to finish the sentence.

"We don't have all the information on that, Blair," Simon explained. "I'll let you know as soon as we do, okay?"

Blair nodded. He looked smaller somehow, as if his body had somehow shriveled in its skin. Jim turned from the window and looked down with concern before returning to view the cityscape.

"I think we should have another talk with the pilot that flew the empty casket up to Cascade, sir," Jim said. "I'm sure Buck's death is connected to this business of the missing writer."

"I doubt he'd be out at the airport on Saturday," Simon answered. "I've got a friend that flies a small plane out of that airport. He told me they have a list of all the home phone numbers of the pilots, some sort of association thing. I'm sure I can get the number from him." In fact, Simon had used that same friend to fly him out to Eastern Washington back when an unscrupulous businessman had Buck's home at Dry Falls burned down. It had been the first time he'd met Buck Stevens.

A few minutes later, they were on their way. Simon offered to drive his car. Jim's truck had a small bench seat behind the front seats, but you had to be a midget to sit back there. No sense in Blair being uncomfortable. It was weird to see the overnight change in Blair. He was subdued. After all the times Simon had prayed for a control dial to turn the hyperactive student down to a dull roar, he found himself longing for the `normal Blair.'

The pilot lived on the edge of town by the railroad tracks. Construction was underway for a new transit that would carry commuters from Cascade to Seattle via light rail. The train, called the Sounder, was already running between Seattle and Tacoma. It seemed to making a difference so the powers in charge were building the second phase. The address led them to a small neighborhood being uprooted by the construction. They found the house after backtracking over several blocked off streets.

Simon parked his car on the street, in front of a neat grassy yard. The weather was brisk but sunny. A chilly wind caused him to flick up his coat collar and bury both hands into his warm pockets. He followed Jim and Blair to the front door of a modest rambler. In response to Jim's knock on the door, they found themselves looking at a pair of boys about ten years old, identical in every appearance except one boy had a pair of battered-looking glasses on his freckled nose.

"Hello, I'm Detective Jim Ellison. We're here -"

"DAD!" the boy with the glasses yelled excitedly, causing Jim to jerk unexpectedly. The boy turned on his heels to race back into the house. "The cops are HERE!"

Simon watched as Blair placed a hand between the Jim's shoulder blades and heard him murmur something about dials. Before Simon could inquire, a tall man appeared to invite them in.

Jim tried again. "Mr. Milford? We're sorry to interrupt your day off. We need to ask you a few more questions about that..." Jim glanced down at the twins. "...cargo we picked up last week."

"Sure, sure. Come on in." The man waited until Simon was in before closing the door. "Can I get you anything? We have sodas, ice tea, coffee."

"No, thank you." Simon held up a hand to wave off the offer.

"Okay, if you're sure. Is it okay if we talk out back? I'm working on a model plane for the boys. I've got glue drying." He headed down a hallway, expecting them to follow. "Boys, go finish your room. Your mom's going to check when she walks through the door and I don't want to see what she does to you if it's not to her standards." He turned and winked at the men following him.

Simon could see that Mrs. Milford's standards must be high, judging by the pristine condition of their home. The living room was tidy and dust free, the hallway just vacuumed, the kitchen they passed through on their way to a large back deck virtually gleamed from a recent cleaning. Simon could smell the pine cleaner in the air. They exited the house through a sliding glass door. The back porch had a sloping roof of green transparent panels that threw a green tint on the deck furniture and a wooden potting table used by gardeners. Pieces of a large model plane had been laid out on a picnic table.

"I get the job of assembly. The boys get to paint it." Milford waved a hand at the assortment of comfortable looking deck chairs. "Take a seat anywhere."

"Nice plane," Simon said seeing the expensive remote control box.

"The twins were born on January third," Milford explained. "My wife's folks live in Florida. They always send a combination Christmas - birthday present. We got it last week. I figure we'll get a month worth of chores done without complaint over this little beauty." He took a seat on the bench and picked up the long wing. "So, what more do you need to know?"

Jim took a seat on the other side of the table. Simon waited, seeing Blair settle down in a rocker before he picked a large bent willow chair with plush pillows.

"We need more information about the person who hired you to fly that coffin up," Jim explained, leaning forward, both elbows on the table.

Milford dabbed a glue covered toothpick on a spot of the plane body. "Like I said to that guy that came out a few days ago, he just said he worked for an attorney. Said the guy didn't have family and a friend was driving over the mountains to pick it up."

"What did he look like?" Jim asked.

Milford pursed his lips in thought. "In his fifties, kind of short, big around the middle. White guy, no facial hair, kinda bald on top. Dressed real nice. Had a wad of cash on him. I liked that part." Eyes twinkled then seemed to take in the somber attitude of his guests before he gently cleared his throat and returning to his task.

"Did he show you any ID?"

"No, I think he said his name was Jonathan Smith or something like that." Milford looked abash for a second. "Damn, fake name, huh."

"Probably," Jim admitted. "He was alone?" When Milford nodded, Jim continued. "What was he driving?"

Milford straightened. "Oh, now that I remember clearly. A bright red Ford Mustang convertible. Sixty-eight. Real sweet ride."

"Did you get a plate number?" Simon asked, hope building.

"No, sorry." Milford frowned at the plane. "I do remember the rear bumper was damaged and there was a funny looking sticker on the windshield. I remember thinking it was a shame to have to put a parking sticker on a vehicle that nice."

"Parking? What type?" Jim asked.

Milford shrugged. "It was blue, with white numbers. I don't remember much, just a squiggly design in one corner." He pointed at his eyes. "I wear glasses whenever I need to see things faraway. I wasn't wearing them at the time, just when I'm flying or driving. Sorry."

They didn't get much more after that and Simon silently agreed with Jim's decision to end the interview. Blair walked mutely between them on the way back to the car. Once there, Jim stopped the younger man before he got in.

"Sandburg, how about letting Simon drop you off back at the loft?" he asked so softly, Simon almost didn't hear the suggestion.

Blair nodded without looking up. He slid into the back seat without a word. After Simon swung by the eight hundred block of Prospect Street and they watched Blair walk away, Simon spoke.

"That parking sticker might pan out. I'll have Henri look into it for us." Simon pulled away from the curb. "Sandburg going to be okay?"

"I hope so," Jim said pinching the bridge of his nose. "I wanted him to stay in the loft today, but he insisted on coming down. He doesn't eat, doesn't talk, won't call Naomi, won't let me call Naomi." Jim ended his mild tirade with a sigh. "God, I can't believe Buck is gone, Simon."

"I know. I get so mad thinking about it, I want to punch someone," Simon admitted darkly. He changed the subject. "Why leave Blair at the loft?"

Jim shifted in the seat, one hand running up and down the shoulder strap that crossed his chest. "I want to take another look at Buck's body. Knowing Sandburg, he'd insist on accompanying me."

Simon had to agree. "Yeah, good point. What are you hoping to find?"

"I don't have a clue."

The loft was dark and gloomy when Blair entered. Jim had closed the blinds to block out the winter sun so they could sleep. The effect matched his mood and he purposely left the lights off. Shrugging out of his coat, he hung it up and stood for a moment looking over the loft.

Couch or his room?

He really didn't care. Either or neither.

Pulling out a chair from the table, he took a seat. He crossed his arms on the table top and rested his forehead on them. Sleep called to him like a mythical siren. His body answered but his mind wouldn't consider it. He wished he could just sleep until the pain went away. He'd never experienced this type of pain before. It blossomed in his chest and radiated out in every direction taking no prisoners. His head was killing him, his stomach churned, all his joints ached. It felt like a flu without the fever. His mind was being held captive. Every thought he had ended with Buck. He just wanted to turn it off.

With a roll of his head, Blair looked toward the kitchen, to the cupboard that hardly ever got opened. When Jim did open it, it was for special occasions. They kept the beer in the refrigerator, but Blair knew Jim kept the hard stuff in that cupboard.

If he couldn't get rid of the pain, maybe he could dull it a little.

The sun had long since fallen into Puget Sound by the time Jim unlocked his door and entered the dark loft. He'd tried calling Blair from the station, but got the answering machine. Blair must be sleeping. Jim closed and locked the door. He reviewed the afternoon. He had hoped to make some type of progress by the end of the day.

He'd failed.

The bullpen hadn't seen that much activity on a Saturday in a long time. Simon, Henri and Joel had come in on their day off to help with the investigation of Buck's murder. Not that they had learned anything. The sticker on the Mustang hadn't produced any leads. It seemed that blue was a favorite color in parking stickers, from community colleges to the shipyards. Jim had gone down to the basement and taken another look at Buck's charred remains. The task had been gruesome, yet he was sure he had overlooked something. It whispered like a faraway breeze, but he couldn't grasp it. Finally, Simon had sent everyone home. No one said anything about coming back to work Sunday morning. Jim was willing to bet his paycheck they'd all be back tomorrow.

Too weary to bother with truning on the lights, Jim longed for sleep. He knew better. First he needed to eat. He shrugged off his coat, hanging it on the wall with his left hand while his right drew his gun and slipped it into a drawer. Crossing to the refrigerator, his foot hit a cupboard door left ajar. He automatically toed it closed, wondering why his roommate had needed to get into that particular cabinet. All he kept in that small space was the...

Jim instantly dialed up his senses, the loft became like midday. He picked up the sluggish heartbeat from the living room and his nose wrinkled with displeasure. Damn, he'd left his sense of smell cranked down after he had viewed Buck's body.

Jim detoured, skirting around the sofa, into the main part of the living room. Blair sat, slouched like a wilted scarecrow on the couch, eyes at half mast. An empty tequila bottle rested between his knees.

"Blair?"

"Hey, man," Blair muttered, tilting his head back and squinting up.

Eyeing the bottle, Jim tried to remember how much had been inside. He knew it hadn't been full, thank God, or Blair would likely be dead right now. Damn, he'd never even seen Blair drink more than two beers in one sitting before.

"What up?" Jim asked, taking a seat next to his friend. The cushion sank under his weight, throwing Blair's balance off. Jim caught him before he had a lapful of roommate. "How much did you drink?"

"Dunno, whatever was left... pay ya back, man," Blair said wearily, his long hair draping over Jim's arm. "Me `n the worm been talking."

"That's just an urban myth, Junior. There's no worm in Mexican Tequila." Jim pushed Blair upright until he seemed to find his balance. He saved the bottle from falling to the floor and set it on the coffee table. Blair seemed to be cognizant of his surroundings. That was a good sign.

"Oh." Blair raised a shaky hand and pushed hair out of his eyes. "You sure? Thought I saw him. We had a chat, man."

"Yeah?"

Blair nodded once, letting his chin rest on his chest. "Yeeeaahh, we `cided we wanna be a fish."

"You and the worm want to be a fish?"

"Uh huh. He says," Blair pointed to the coffee table where the bottle sat, "He says he wants to move up the food chain."

"I see," Jim responded softly. "Well, you'd make an interesting guppy."

"Fish are lucky." Blair's eyes were closed now. "Can't feel it."

"What?"

"...Pain..." Blair finally whispered after a long pause.

"Ah, Chief." Jim lifted his arm to circle Blair's shoulders, trying to pull him close.

"No!" Blair flung out his hand, shaking off Jim's comfort. He lunged off the sofa and tripped over the coffee table, knocking the bottle off to land with a crash on the floor. Blair rolled onto his back, less then an inch from the broken shards of glass.

"Shit!" Jim shoved the coffee table to one side and carefully knelt beside Blair, not liking the sound his partner's head made as it bounced off the hardwood floor.

"No," Blair cried, trying to squirm away. "Can't do this, too much pain."

"Sandburg! Stay still!" Taking a firm hold, Jim pinned Blair to the floor with a hand and flicked the larger bits of glass clear, out of reach. A quick check of Blair's head showed no injuries.

"Naomi's right... warned me. Detach with love, man," Blair babbled. His words were running together to the point Jim had to work to understand half of it.

"Do you want me to call Naomi?" Jim asked.

Rocking his head to and fro, listless hair flinging out in all directions, Blair moaned. "Nonononono... he was my friend, not hers, not Naomi's."

"Okay, let's take this conversation off the floor." Jim shifted his grip, took two handfuls of flannel shirt and pulled Blair to a sitting position. "I think it's time you got poured into bed."

He hoisted Blair to stand on wobbly legs, giving him a second to get steady. His face was pale and Jim wondered if he was going to be sick.

"You need the bathroom, Sandburg?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

He guided Blair away from the glass, toward his room. The younger man continued to mumble under his breath, cursing everything from cows to garden rakes. By the time Jim got him into his room and sitting on his futon, the realization came. In his own incoherent, drunk, rambling way, Blair was going over his childhood with Buck. The anger in Blair's voice was a surprise to Jim. Blair loved Buck. Where was this coming from?

"Put a sock in it, Sandburg. It's the tequila talking." Jim pulled off Blair's sneakers. "I'd tell you things will look better in the morning, but in your case..." He eyed the rest of Blair's clothes, judging the likelihood of Blair's comfort. He should shed the jeans and maybe the outer shirt. Jim pulled the blankets down. Blair started to list again and Jim caught him and quickly removed the shirt. It was faster to pull it over the top of his head than fool with the buttons. The jeans would be harder. "Lay down."

Blair fell over sideways on the bed, his head just managing to catch the edge of his pillow. Jim started on the belt, pulling the leather through the loops. Jeans off, Jim lifted Blair's legs onto the bed. Blair lay listless, his eyes closed.

"Last call, Poncho. Do you need to take a piss?" Jim rested a hand on Blair's stomach, tempted to haul him to the toilet. Blair might take offense, though. Well, if he woke in a wet bed, it would be his own doing.

Blair shook his head. Lines of distress were starting to appear around his eyes and mouth. Jim felt fine tremors vibrating up into his hand. With a sigh, Jim snagged the blankets and pulled them up and over, all the way up to Blair's chin. Shaky hands appeared from under the bedding to dig into red eyes. The salty smell of tears filled the room.

Helpless and weary, Jim took a seat on the edge of the futon and waited. Blair's sobs sounded harsh and raw. A prickling feeling rose behind Jim's eyes. Part of him wanted to let go and join Blair in a good cry. He swallowed hard and waited for Blair to settle down.

"I'm sorry, Sandburg. I'm so sorry." Jim squeezed the nearest shoulder, wishing he could do something more for his friend, but he didn't have a clue what to say.

"I never... I never said goodbye, Jim," Blair said brokenly, rolling away toward the wall.

Jim's hand fell to the futon. He hesitated to reach out again. Blair was not accepting any comfort. What was he talking about? Then Jim remembered. The day they'd returned from the sportsman show and Blair had been too antsy to sit still. He had walked out the door with just a passing nod to Buck. His last moment spent with the man. Damn.

"Sandburg, you had no way of knowing what would happen. Buck knew you just needed some space. It's not like you stormed off because you were mad," Jim insisted.

"He's gone," Blair said with a hitch. "He said he'd never..."

Jim sighed. Reasoning with a drunk was like trying to push a wet string. Logic would not get through that tequila soaked brain. Keeping any further comment to himself, Jim readjusted the twisted blankets and waited. Within a few minutes, Blair's breathing settled and he was asleep. Jim stood and added another blanket before leaving the room, just in case.

After sweeping up the glass, he fixed a quick sandwich and sat down to eat. He skipped his normal beer and washed down his meal with bottled water, eating out of habit - not hunger. Years of training told him to give the body fuel, even when it didn't appeal. Right now, with Buck gone and Blair's feelings so raw, food was the furthest thing from his mind.

Blair's last comment stuck. Buck had said he'd never leave. Obviously the two had a friendship beyond Naomi's short relationship with Buck's brother. Jim tried to imagine Blair's childhood. The kid was all upbeat and lighthearted when he had explained about the trips to the World Series. He'd painted a rosy picture, but Jim had his doubts. Hell, he'd gotten plenty of crap about being the rich kid when he'd been growing up, things never appeared as they seemed.

Blair's younger life must have come with a revolving door for male role models. As much as Jim had fought with his own old man, he'd learned the value of hard work from him. He'd learned how to stick with a job until it was done. The army had finished his education by teaching him honor and loyalty, as well as what it meant to serve his country.

Blair had similar traits. He was turning into the best partner Jim had ever had. So, who taught him these things? Naomi? No, it had to be Buck. God, the man must have had his hands full. Blair was already twelve when they'd first met. Judging by some of the comments he'd heard, that first summer must have been equivalent to World War Three.

Now Buck was gone.

Jim rubbed his forehead and crumpled up the paper towel he been using as a plate for his sandwich. Enough of this. He needed to get some sleep and get back to the station.

One thing Jim knew for sure, Blair was not spending anymore time alone with hard liquor in the loft.

Sunday

"Oh...God..."

Jim woke. He could hear Blair stumbling toward the bathroom. Through the skylight above, Jim could see the sun was starting to reach out, painting broad strokes of light blue across the sky. He rolled out of bed. By the time Blair had finished with his shower, Jim had coffee on and bread in the toaster.

Even after his shower, Blair looked like twelve miles of bad road. He sat down at the table wearing mismatched sweats that didn't look good enough for a Goodwill bin. At least they were clean.

"Morning," Jim whispered, setting down a cup of hot coffee in front of him.

Blair winced in pain. "Thanks, Jim," he answered carefully. A hand plagued with faint tremors reached for the mug.

Jim pushed a small stack of dry toast within reach. "How do you feel?"

"Stupid."

"Yeah, I'm going to agree with you there."

Blair made a face at the meal but picked up the top piece of warm bread. "What time did you get home?"

"About ten. You were still up, remember?"

"Na huh." Blair blinked a few times, his face showing some trepidation. "I didn't... say anything, did I?"

Jim helped himself to some toast and worked on spreading a thin layer of butter and strawberry jam over the surface. Any other morning and he might indulge in a little teasing. "Nope, nothing I understood anyway. So, are you going to be up for a trip to the station today? Simon managed to run down that editor. He's in Germany. Hopefully we'll get a phone interview today."

Blair nodded, then checked his movement with a hand to his forehead. "Yeah, I'm good."

"You'll be better with a lot of water and some aspirin." Jim pointed to the bottle of pills on the table. "Got to hand it to you, Chief. I never could tolerate tequila much. That bottle was left over from my divorce. The guys at the station bought it for me. I'm surprised you even got up this morning."

Blair shrugged, then winced again. "It's not too bad. I don't drink much hard stuff anymore. Last time I woke up in a Ohio candy factory dressed in a Scottish kilt."

"You're kidding."

Blair smile was more like a painful grimace. "That part wasn't so weird, when we had started drinking, my buddy and I had just hopped a boxcar pulling out of Denver heading west."

Jim snorted; relieved to see some of Blair's quirky personality returning, even though it was evident Blair was forcing it. "What? No tattoo?"

A corner of Blair's mouth rose. "Me... with needles? Even drunk, I hate needles. I'm still having nightmares over the three stitches in my stomach," he said with a hint of disgust.

Jim froze. Like a connection suddenly surging with power, he realized what he'd been missing. "That's it!"

Blair winced, a hand flying to cover the ear closest to Jim.

"Sorry, Sandburg," Jim said quickly. He checked his watch as he jumped up and ran for the cordless. Dialing the number for the station he tried to remember the name of the technician that worked the night shift down at the morgue. He couldn't.

"Cascade Police, this is Dan."

"Dan?" Jim could hardly believe his luck. "This is Jim, I need a favor."

"Hey Jim, I'm not actually working, I just stopped by to..."

"It's important, Dan," Jim insisted. He ignored Blair and headed up the stairs to his room. "It's about the Buck Stevens case."

"Oh, okay. What do you need?"

A few minutes later, Jim was dressed. Dan had promised to wait for them to arrive before leaving. Now all he had to do was get Blair ready for the road. To Jim's surprise, Blair was already working on it.

"What's happening? What did you remember?" Blair asked as he came out of his room dressed in jeans and a sweater. He wore clean socks and carried his tennis shoes, sitting down on a kitchen chair to put them on.

"I need to have Dan check something. We should know by the time we get there," Jim promised. He didn't dare tell Blair his theory now. Not until he knew for sure, and he needed an expert to tell him he was right. "Come on."

They made good time getting to the station, not even the church goers were on the road yet. Blair managed to look normal, not like a man that had been three sheets to the wind a mere seven hours ago. They headed down the hallway towards Dan's domain. Once inside the front office, Blair's pace slowed.

"Stay out here, Sandburg. I'll go back and see Dan," Jim said. But the door to the back exam rooms opened and the head Medical Examiner himself appeared.

"There you are," Dan said, all business. "Tell me again?"

Jim pointed to his own arm. "Just below the elbow."

"You're sure it was that arm?" Dan asked, then cut off any answer with a wave of his hand. "Doesn't matter. I looked at both arms just in case."

"And?" Jim asked, holding his breath.

Dan shook his head. "I did slices through the muscle. The man I have on my table wasn't shot through the arm. I found no evidence of a healing wound, no scar tissue at all."

Blair gasped, his hand reaching out to steady himself on a nearby desk. "Ohmygod."

Jim released his breath. It wasn't Buck. Buck didn't die in that car fire.

"But... they said..." Blair started, sounding lost. He leaned forward, a flicker of panic flashed over his face. He bolted for a side door.

Jim and Dan watched the smaller man stumble into the bathroom and close the door. Obvious sounds of retching came from within.

"He okay?" Dan asked, genuinely puzzled. "Normally he waits until he's seen the body before he does that."

"Sandburg became one with the tequila worm last night," Jim said, his mind still on the mystery of the burnt body. "Listen, Dan. I need a favor. Keep this under your hat for now." Seeing the look of doubt on the other man's face, he hurried to explain. "I'm going to talk with Simon. I just think a couple days without this getting out will help. It may make the difference between catching whoever's responsible or not."

"What about your friend?" Dan asked. "The one that was supposed to have been the driver? If he didn't die, where is he?"

Jim really wished he knew the answer to that question.

Blair sank gratefully into the chair in Simon's office. His gut still ached. His head had declared war on the rest of his body. His tongue felt twice as large as normal, as if someone had come in during the night and installed wall to wall carpeting in his mouth - deep shag. None of that really mattered, though. Blair was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact the body in the morgue was not Buck's.

Simon sat behind his desk. He'd arrived a few minutes ago in a dressed down version of his normal work attire; expensively tailored black corduroy pants with a fine wool sweater. Jim had pounced on him with the news the minute he'd walked through the door to the bullpen. Now they were having a counsel of war, of sorts. Trying to figure out which direction to take.

"What doesn't make sense," Simon said, "is how the hospital could have screwed up so badly, Jim."

Jim paused in his pacing and turned to Simon, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What if it wasn't a mistake?"

"What?"

"You said it yourself, Simon. This is a huge screw up. What if they did it on purpose? Which hospital gave us those records?" Jim asked.

Simon pulled a manila folder out from under a stack of papers and reports and flipped it open. "Patriot Lake VA hospital."

Jim rubbed his forehead in thought. "Where did we just see that name?"

Blair remembered. "In that box on the houseboat, Jim. Remember? It was locked up with those letters from the editor."

"Right!" Jim resumed his pacing, eyes unfocused as he spoke. "Okay, okay. Buck comes to town to bury a friend, Paul Staab, only the casket is empty. We have an unknown man that hired a pilot to fly an empty casket up from California. Next, we go to Staab's houseboat, we find it's been searched. Only we're the ones to find the box hidden in one of the flotation compartments. The box they were looking for, because the next day, Buck and the box are taken from the loft." Jim stood still for a moment, one hand going to the back of his neck as he contemplated the carpet. "We thought they wanted the letters, but what if it was the medical reports they were after?"

"Why?" Simon asked.

"They falsified one report, the one on Buck. What if the reports in the box were also false?" Blair said.

Simon shook his head. "No, not false or Staab would have realized it. What if those were real and the hospital had to get them back?"

"Right! Good point, Sir." Jim held a finger up in the air as he paced. "Okay then. We have the original missing body, Staab. And the medical reports threatened to expose... whatever it is someone is trying to hide. Now we have a body and we're told it's Buck, but we know it isn't. So, is it Staab we have downstairs?"

"Jim," Simon leaned forward. "That sticker on the Mustang? What if the squiggly line was actually a caduceus."

"A whatsa?" Blair asked. Maybe his mind was still affected by the tequila, because he was having a devil of a time keeping up.

Jim smiled widely. "Perfect! We need to check out the VA hospital and see what the parking stickers they issue look like." Jim rubbed his hands together. Seeing Blair's baffled look, he explained. "A caduceus. Two winged snakes wrapped around a staff."

Ah, sure. Blair had seen those before. "So, someone is taking bodies, and pretending people are dead." An awful thought came to Blair's mind. "What if someone's doing that `Coma' thing? You know, the movie about organ harvesting?" That familiar churning sensation was starting up again in Blair's gut. He knew he didn't have anything left to hurl, but he wasn't sure his body knew that.

"Don't jump to conclusions too early, Sandburg," Simon warned. "No organs were missing from the body in the Toyota. We still have a long way to go before we get the big picture."

"But at least now we know where to search," Jim added with a look of a hunter on a fresh scent.

By lunch they knew all there was to know about Patriot Lake VA hospital. Blair had printed up all he could find off the internet, but most of the information had come from Dan Wolfe. Simon had ordered Dan's favorite BBQ as a `thank you' for giving up his Sunday morning and treated them all to lunch. Blair managed to eat some of the beans and a square of cornbread. The effects of his drinking binge were slowly starting to fade and he was beginning to feel human again. Now, Dan had gone home to his family and the three of them were sorting through the information obtained. Simon had an early afternoon appointment with his son. Jim had insisted he keep it, saying Daryl needed all the time with his father he could get.

"So, the VA hospital is a multi-service facility," Simon noted as he browsed over their accumulated papers. Faxes, printouts and handwritten notes littered the conference table in his office. "Every thing from dental work to mental illness."

Jim picked up a paper. "Looks like they dabble in research as well. This study on cancer seems to be getting a lot of attention. They even receive federal funding."

"You know," Blair said. "Some studies are linking the chemicals the military used in war with disease. Maybe they found a link with cancer."

"Maybe." Jim tossed the paper back on the table. "I say it's time for a field trip, Simon. We know the parking sticker is a match. We need a good cover story, though. I don't want them to know that we're on to the body switch."

"You're military." Simon pointed a finger at Jim. "Why don't we give you a few symptoms?"

"Actually, I visited them when my senses first came online," Jim admitted. "They didn't have a clue what was wrong with me."

Blair rolled his eyes. "Jim, I keep telling you, nothing is wrong with you. You have a gift."

"My point," Jim said with a wry smile at Blair as he cut him off, "is that we can stay with the same story. Maybe I can ask for a few more tests or something."

"Okay, but I'm not willing to send you in alone," Simon said, looking at Blair with expectation. "Sandburg?"

Suddenly Blair found himself the focus of their attention. An icy fist tried to squeeze his chest until he felt his heart pushing against the back of his throat. What if he lost it again? Like he had at the sportsman show? Yet, there was an off chance that they'd learn something about Buck.

God, he hated living with this stupid fear. He wanted his life back.

"I'm in," Blair said, surprised the words had sounded steady and strong as they came out of his mouth. It was a good thing he was sitting down, less chance of anyone hearing his knees knock.

"You sure you're ready for this?" Jim asked as he set the parking brake.

"Jim, give it a rest, man. I'm fine," Blair answered.

Jim knew better, but kept it to himself as he surveyed the area. The place looked as he'd remembered; back when he thought his world was coming apart at its seams. The hospital was large, with three floors and two wings that angled out from the main building. From the air, the building would look like an open box, missing one side. Within the protection of the building, the grounds were lush and cared for with trees and grass. Paved walkways allowed patients to be pushed along in their wheelchairs for a taste of fresh air, although no one currently braved the cold January temperature.

"Okay then, let's do it." Jim opened the door, pausing to look at Blair before stepping out. "Remember, you're my step-brother. You had to bring me here because I don't trust myself to drive anymore."

"It would have been more convincing if you'd actually let me drive, Jim," Blair said glumly as he opened his passenger door.

"No one is watching us, Sandburg," Jim told him. "Besides, I'm just pretending to be crazy, remember?"

They used the emergency entrance. Jim put on a pair of dark sunglasses and let Blair lead him by the arm to the nurse behind the check-in counter. After accessing a computer and confirming Jim was in the system, she instructed them to take a seat in the waiting room. Blair led Jim over to a row of plastic chairs. The tattered magazines on the end tables offered little in the way of distraction to the occupants in the room. Jim looked at his fellow patients-to-be. An elderly couple, obviously husband and wife, were sitting together. She held his hand while reading her paperback. He sat with his head against the wall, his eyes closed, face relaxed. Neither looked upset or worried, and Jim wondered what brought them here on a Sunday. Another man about Jim's age was wrapped in several layers of polar fleece, coughing into a handkerchief. He was easy to figure out. The red nose and flushed face made Jim think of the flu.

Blair squirmed in his seat, eyes darting from stranger to stranger.

"Why don't you give me a few symptoms?" Jim suggested quietly, "Just so I don't sound like an idiot when I see the doctor."

"Ah, okay," Blair whispered back. "Well... you're going to use the light sensitivity thing. You could say your hearing is off. But, don't use touch, you don't have any rashes and I don't want them to start testing you for allergies."

"Okay." Jim folded his arms and settled back. If he knew Blair, he was in for a lecture.

"You could use taste, but keep it minor. I think your best bet is to stay with vision and hearing. The problem with conventional medicine is the western doctors are so ready to prescribe drugs." Blair's hands began to dance in the air as he spoke.

Sure enough, Blair eased into his favorite monologue. Jim had heard it all before, but he made encouraging comments and nodded his head at the right times. Blair kept his voice quit. His heart rate slowed. He crossed his ankles comfortably, no longer shifting in the seat. He talked until a pretty nurse appeared and called Jim's name.

When Jim stood, Blair started to follow but was halted by the nurse's frown. "I'm sorry, sir. You'll need to wait out here."

Uh oh, Jim hadn't thought of that. He turned to view Blair's reaction. The kid was calm. He graced Jim with a slight smile and took a seat. "I'll wait for you, bro."

"Be back." Jim followed the nurse into an exam room. Hopefully this wouldn't take too long. The exam room was tiny. A graphic poster of an enlarged lung blackened by a lifetime of smoking decorated the wall. A rack filled with more tattered magazines provided reading options. Jim noticed these issues were even older than the ones in the lobby. He made a mental note to save his back issues of fishing magazines and send them down.

The nurse invited Jim to take a seat on the edge of the exam table. After she asked the typical questions and took his blood pressure, pulse, and temperature, she sat at a stool in front of small desk with a computer and flat screen monitor. Jim zoomed in on her fingers as she typed her password. After she brought up his file, she entered the date, reason for visit and the findings from the vitals taken.

"Okay, Mr. Ellison. Just a few minutes and the doctor will be with you." She logged off and left.

No sooner was the door closed, than Jim was off the table and in front of the computer. He kept one ear tuned into the activities outside the door as he retyped the password the nurse had just entered: Hawaii4me. Obviously the nurse liked the tropics. He typed in Paul Staab and waited. A record appeared and Jim scanned the information. Staab had been in last month for a check-up. The doctor that had seen him made a note about weight gain and increased blood pressure. The patient had been given a few pamphlets on dietary changes and that was all, nothing else. Jim typed Buck Stevens.

Nothing.

It dawned on Jim that Buck's first name was probably a nickname. Crap, his last name was too common to enter alone. He retyped Staab's name and reread the information. One line caught his eye, a code of some type.

DOD.

Next to it someone had entered a date, Tuesday last week. Jim pondered the meaning of the code. Date of Discharge? No, Staab had left the military behind years ago. Then it came to him, Date of Death. The hospital had Staab listed as deceased. Jim read the name of the attending physician; Durkin.

A noise from the hallway warned him he was about to have a visitor. Someone had lifted his chart out of the wall pocket next to the door. Quickly he signed off the computer and hopped back up on the bed. A young doctor with short red hair and freckles entered the small exam room.

"Hello, Mr. Ellison. Before you ask, yes, I'm a real doctor." The man flashed a grin that brought a chuckle from Jim. "So, what brings you to see us today?"

I am calm.

Blair had managed to cross his legs and still sit comfortably in the plastic chair. He didn't give a rip about the strange looks he was getting from the other occupants in the waiting room. You'd think they had never seen a hippie meditate before. Blair grinned to himself. He was feeling pretty good, considering. Maybe it was the soothing activity of nurses clicking away on computers and phones ringing, but he felt safe. Someone had actually paid attention to the studies of human behavior because they'd painted the waiting room walls a pale salmon color. The lights weren't harsh. It was nice, even with the audience.

"Hey, mister? You okay?"

Blair opened his eyes.

A plump girl about six-years-old was standing before him, both arms on her hips and looking at him with some concern. Someone had French-braided her blond hair in two long tails that hung behind her shoulders.

"I'm fine, sweetheart," Blair said, happy to realize he was telling the truth. "Just waiting for my brother."

"Oh, my dad's here for his rad'ation." Her frown deepened. She pointed to her head. "He's got bad cancer here."

"I'm sorry," Blair told her. "It's nice that you keep him company."

She nodded, her expression much too mature for a child her age. "Mom and I come every time. The doctors at this `spital are very smart. They're his best chance."

Blair wondered if she even understood the meaning of her words or whether she just parroting her mother's hopes. Before he could think of something else to say, a short woman in a knee-length down coat that accentuated her plump figure called the child over. Blair watched the woman give the child a quick admonishment about talking to strangers as they walked away.

The clock on the wall above the payphone told Blair thirty minutes had passed since Jim left. He wondered how long the fake visit would take.

"Hello, Doctor Durkin," a woman's voice greeted happily.

A man entered the room from outside. He wore a brown leather jacket, the kind a WWII fighter pilot would favor. He even had a white silk scarf around his neck. His cheeks and nose were red as if wind burned. He gave the nurse who had greeted him a broad smile. "Hello, Nance. Great day for a drive, interested?" He waggled his eyebrows causing the woman behind the counter to laugh.

"Doctor, you must be nuts to think I'm riding around in that pony with you. I can tell by the icicles on your nose you had the top down again," she teased.

"My dear," the doctor said in mock indignation. "You must learn to live life to its fullest. Only wimps wait for warm weather to enjoy a convertible."

"Did you find that bumper yet?" she asked, handing him a patient chart.

"Picking it up this week," he told her as he passed her station. "Thank you kindly."

Blair got the feeling the two of them had similar conversations frequently. He smiled at the man's words, reminded of his mother. She would have drawn to him instantly; didn't matter that he was a little overweight and balding.

Wait a minute. Blair scrambled to uncross his legs and stand. The man that had paid cash to fly the empty coffin to Cascade was a short, plump, bald guy. Didn't folks call the Ford Mustang a pony? And this guy needed a new bumper.

"Jim, man, if you can hear me. I'm following a Doctor Durkin," Blair muttered under his breath.

The doctor headed for a far off bank of elevators. Blair hurried to catch up. Since the guy didn't know him from Adam, he'd ride the same car up to whatever floor he was going to. Blair arrived just in time, slipping in as the doors closed. He avoided looking directly at the doctor and stood next to a gray haired man with a janitor's cart. Instead of going up, the elevator arrow was pointing down. Blair looked at the panel by the door as it closed on them. A lit button marked `B' announced their destination. Seconds later, he followed the janitor and the doctor as they exited. A brightly lit corridor gave him two options. Blair purposefully turned the opposite direction as the others. He swallowed hard as he realized he was following the signs pointing toward `morgue'. Great, just what he needed. Another chance to see dead bodies.

Once out of sight from the doctor and janitor, Blair doubled back. The corridor Durkin had taken didn't branch off. As long as the man hadn't passed through any of the closed doors on either side, Blair had a chance of finding him again. Just as he reached a turn in the corridor, he spotted Durkin's backside going through a pair of swinging doors at the end of the corridor.

"Okay, which department did you go into?" Blair muttered, trapping his lower lip between his teeth. He hadn't passed any signs that told him he was in a restricted area, if he got stopped, Blair could always say he was looking for a bathroom or something.

A door opened behind him. Blair spun around, startled by the sound.

Yeah, calm as a cucumber, a virtual James Bond in the making.

The janitor appeared, dragging his cart behind. A plastic bag hung inside the frame, filled nearly to the top with white and blue smocks. Through the open door, Blair caught sight of clean smocks hanging on a rack. An idea formed and Blair smiled. He hadn't pretended to be a hospital employee since that fateful day he'd first met James Ellison.

A few minutes later, dressed in light blue hospital garb, Blair entered the swinging doors. He carried a handful of white towels he'd found in the room on a shelf. A large sign on the swinging door told him he was entering the cancer research department, all visitors are required to check in at the nurse's station. A long counter on his left with computer monitors and stacks of papers looked like a nurse's station, only no one was standing behind it.

All the better for looking around, Blair decided.

Once past the counter, the corridor forked. Sounds of people talking drifted down from his left, so Blair turned right. The key to snooping was to look bored. No one doubted a person's right to be somewhere if that person looked like they'd rather be somewhere else. Blair attempted to capture the expression of a particular student from his class he had been forced to fail last semester.

Past an empty break room and a small room with a utility sink, doors appeared on either side of the corridor with white index cards slid into tracks on the wall. Each card held a last name and first initial. The doors were all opened, each room was dark. No TV lights flickered within. Since he was in the basement, he knew there wouldn't be windows. Were the room's empty? No, each room had a name on the card, so what was going on? Could the entire ward be asleep? Unlikely, not in the middle of the afternoon.

Blair picked a door at random and peeked in. A small frail-looking man lay in the hospital bed. His cheek bones stuck out on each side of his face as if he'd been starved. He looked dead. But the machine next to him blinked and drew lines of light that mimicked the electrical impulses of a working heart. Blair moved to the next room. The occupant within was a decade younger looking and had more meat on his bones, but he too was sound asleep.

Asleep, or in some sort of coma?

Blair remembered the hospital was doing research on cancer. Maybe these patients were in the final stages of their illness. It made sense, they wouldn't need windows or TV's if they never woke up. He moved to the next bedroom and peeked in. This room didn't have any ECG monitors, only an IV on a pole that was hooked up to the patient.

With a stifled shriek, Blair tossed the towels he held into a far corner and rushed into the room.

"Uncle Buck!" he whispered as he reached out to touch the man in the bed, afraid he was a mirage. No, he was really there, skin warm to the touch.

Buck was a picture of health compared to the other two men he'd seen. But he was sound asleep. Urgently shaking Buck's shoulder, Blair tried to wake him, without luck. Blair laid two fingers alongside Buck's neck, brushing the short stubble growing, and found a strong pulse. He breathed a sigh of relief, wanting to simultaneously cry with relief and scream in outrage.

Jim! He needed to find Jim and get him down here.

"Hang in there, Uncle Buck," he whispered, his voice breaking with emotion. "The Calvary has arrived, man." He took a second to gently stroke Buck's furry cheek before turning for the door, his objective simple. He was too numb to think clearly. He could barely believe his own luck.

Find Jim.

Tell Jim.

Hurrying out into the hallway, he forced himself not to break into a mad run for the double doors. He passed the nurse's station. His mind registered the new addition of a thin black woman behind the counter. She did a classic double take as he passed.

"Who are you?" she asked suspiciously.

"Ah... I'm the new guy. I brought some towels," Blair explained lamely as he hurried by.

She frowned and Blair realized he'd been as convincing as a fox in the hen house. When she leaned over, her fingers reaching for something under the counter, he knew he was in trouble.

To hell with looking bored, it was time to run like the wind.

They caught him halfway to the elevator. There were two of them and they filled out their guard uniforms like models on a muscle-building poster. Blair dived for the limited space between the wall and the one guard's broad shoulder. A second later, he had a very up-close and personal view of the wall. Off white, semi gloss, he decided as the guards smashed him, face first, into the sheetrock. No pale salmon for the basement.

"Hey!" Blair tried for an indignant tone, wincing when it came out sounding more like a scared ten-year-old.

The taller guard with a shaved flattop haircut that looked sharp enough to slice a tomato leaned in close. "Hey, yourself. Where do you think you're running off to? And while we're having this little chat, where's your ID?"

It dawned on Blair he wasn't going to pull of the `looking for the bathroom' gig. Not after he dressed the part of the hospital employee. "I think better when I'm not being shoved through the wall, man."

They jerked him back to hang between them. Each guard had his arm in vise-like holds, one clamped around his wrist, the other just above his elbow. They propelled him back toward the double doors. Not a good sign.

"Shouldn't we be going to your security office?" Blair asked.

"Shut up," Flattop warned.

NOT a good sign.

"Uh, I don't think so," Blair muttered before quickly drawing in a huge breath. But, before he could call out, a large hand released his upper arm and clamped over his mouth. Blair was twisted awkwardly to the side, his head pinned against a meaty shoulder. They picked up the pace and hustled him through the swinging doors.

Durkin was waiting for him on the other side. He stood with both arms crossed over his chest, a deep disapproving scowl marring his face as he glared at Blair. The leather coat and scarf were gone, replaced with a white smock. "What the hell is this? Who are you?"

Actually, Blair was happy for the question. He hoped the mountain of muscle that was holding his mouth and nose hostage would release them long enough to answer and, while he had the chance, breathe again. The hand lifted and Blair sucked in air.

"Listen, man. You can't do this. I didn't do anything wrong." Blair had more to say, but the hand came back after a nod from the doctor and he was dragged down the hallway toward the break room.

Blair tried to send an urgent plea for help to the nurse with his eyes. She ignored him, her attention already returned to something on her computer screen. It was incredible. Here he was, practically being kidnapped in plain sight, and she didn't even bat an eye. What the heck was going on?

Inside the break room, Durkin closed the door and pointed at Blair. "Find his wallet. I need to know who we have."

Flattop let the other guard take both Blair's wrists in vise-like holds. He kept his left hand over Blair's mouth and started patting him down with his right. Blair's back was smashed against Flattop's chest as they held him. His wallet was removed from his back jeans' pocket and tossed onto a small, round table. Durkin picked it up and pulled out Blair's driver's license.

"Blair Sandburg." Cold eyes snapped up to pin Blair angrily. Durkin slammed the wallet back down on the table. He approached Blair and snatched a handful of hair, pulling roughly. "How did you find us?"

The hand over Blair's mouth lifted a few inches. Blair had a scant second to choose which way to play; stupid or bluffing. Either way, he wasn't sure if it would make a difference. Well, stupid is as stupid does.

"What are you talking about, dude? I was just delivering -"

The hand was back. Blair rolled his eyes. God, what was the point of the questions if they wouldn't let him complete an answer? He grimaced in pain when Durkin jerked hard before releasing his hair. Maybe he should have tried bluffing. He could always go with the tried and true `you'll never get away with this' dialog. Bad guys always get a kick out of that one.

Durkin ran a hand over his balding head. "Okay, get a hold of Haden and Tully. Ellison must be somewhere close by. I want him."

The nurse appeared, the same one that had hit the panic button. She carried a large hypodermic in her right hand.

Shitshitshitshitshit!

Memories of being chloroformed in Eastern Washington rose unwelcomingly in his mind. Not again. This can't be happening again, it just wasn't fair. Blair kicked out hard, clipping Flattop's shin with the heel of his sneaker. Flattop responded by transferring his grip lower, pinning his captive's arms to his sides and allowing the other guard to grab Blair's knees. They slammed him down onto the tiled floor, knocking the breath from his lungs. Blair couldn't scream. He couldn't move. All he could do was watch and feel the needle as Durkin plunged it into his upper left arm.

"Well, Mr. Ellison. We could schedule some tests, maybe a MRI, but frankly, I can't find anything wrong." The doctor scratched his neck absentmindedly as he studied his chart. "You might consider talking to a therapist. I see you're a police officer. Stress can have very strange effects on the human body."

Yada, yada, yada.

Jim had to work to keep from smiling. Blair had literally saved his life when he'd walked into that exam room in a stolen doctor's smock. Going through this fake visit brought back all those fears he had back when he'd been clueless about his sentinel ability. He tuned out the young doctor as he buttoned his shirt and reached for his jacket.

"Thanks, doc. I'll think about what you said," Jim lied happily. He wanted to meet up with Blair and call Simon. The fact the hospital had Staab already listed as deceased caused him to wonder. It was unlikely Staab's attorney called to report his death; he never received a death certificate. Still, they needed to make sure.

Back in the waiting room, Jim saw Blair's chair was now empty. He headed for the door marked `Men.' The exam had ended up lasting almost an hour, most of which he'd been force to dial down his hearing from having `Doctor Doogie' talk to him while sticking that scope with the light in his ears.

"Sandburg?"

The two-stall bathroom was empty. Jim returned to the waiting room. Maybe Blair went out to the truck to wait. Perhaps being in the hospital was too much to handle for him, although he'd seemed okay when Jim left him.

"Excuse me? Are you Jim Ellison?" a pretty nurse asked. She had dark skin and fine facial features. Her black hair was braided in long cornrows that extended down her back and were adorned with white beads. "Your friend sent me to find you."

"Is Blair okay?" Jim asked, quickly crossing the waiting room to join her.

"He's not feeling well, if you'll follow me. I'll take him to you."

Jim got to the elevators when he realized she had said `friend' not `brother'. It could be Blair's panic attack caused him to forget their cover or it could be...

Too late he became aware of the men in guard uniforms. They stepped out of a doorway as he passed, moving fast. Jim felt the end of a gun barrel pressed into his back. The other man relieved him of his weapon.

"Keep moving," one of the guards said.

The elevator door was opened, held in place by the nurse. She hit the button for the basement after they got in.

"What do you want?" Jim asked. "Where's Sandburg?"

"We're just following orders," the man holding the gun said. The other guard quickly patted Jim down and removed his keys and cell phone.

Jim read the name tags on his captors' uniforms; Hayden and Tully. It always helped to know the names of the folks pointing guns at you. The fact these people knew his name and knew he carried a gun hidden under his coat told him they must also know he's a cop. People that kidnap cops in hospitals should be considered either stupid or dangerous. Either way, it didn't look good and he opted to wait and gather more information before he made his move. At the top of the information list was the current location of his partner.

Once on the basement level, they pushed him out of the elevator and down a hallway, through a double door, past a nurse's station and into a room with a coffee pot, refrigerator, sofa and a round table with two chairs. On the floor between the table and refrigerator lay one anthropology teaching fellow. Two other guards, similar in appearance and build to Hayden and Tully stood next to him. Blair was on his back, his eyes glazed over and dull, but they were open.

No one stopped him as he knelt down and checked a pulse on Blair's neck. He found it slow, but steady. Blair looked drugged.

"Jimmm... I found him," Blair said in a slurred voice. His head lolled to one side, a hand rose to weakly clasp his arm.

"What did you guys give him?" Jim demanded, looking up at the guards towering over Blair. One of them reeked of cheap cigarettes. He'd found the person responsible for kidnapping Buck from the loft.

"Nothing lethal. Yet," a new voice answered from the doorway. "Just something to relax him."

Jim pivoted on his knee to view the newcomer. The guy was dressed like a doctor and he matched the general description of the man who'd hired the pilot. The name tag on his smock said `Durkin'. "What's going on here? Blair's not a patient. You have no right to medicate him."

"Oh, please, Detective Ellison." Durkin stood with his hands tucked into the roomy pockets of his smock. "We are way past believing your act of innocence." He waved a hand in the air, indicating those in the room. "We all know who you are, who Mr. Sandburg is. We know you're investigating the disappearance of Paul Staab. What we don't know is what led you to my research."

Jim kept his attention on the doctor while he gently uncurled Blair's fingers from his sleeve. If he needed to make a move, he didn't want to be slowed down. "Then you don't know crap, Doc. It's Sunday. I'm off duty. I'm here because the sunlight is giving me headaches."

Durkin made it clear he wasn't buying Jim's story. He nodded to the four guards. "Put them in with the new guy. Keep a guard on the door at all times."

One guard, the one that had taken Jim's gun, hesitated. "So far, no one's been hurt. I didn't sign on for this."

"You're in too deep now, Hayden," the doctor said. "Just shut up and do what I say."

After the doctor left, one of the security guards with a crew cut moved to haul Blair off the floor.

"Don't touch him," Jim growled. Amazingly enough, the guard backed off and Jim managed to get Blair to his feet by taking a limp arm and slinging it around his neck. He supported Blair out of the room and down a hallway, then was directed into a room that already held a patient. Once inside, the door behind them closed. Jim compensated effortlessly for the lack of light and carefully eased Blair into a padded chair next to a hospital bed.

"Jimm, can't seeee," Blair whined plaintively.

"Hold on, Chief. I'm looking for the switch." It was located by the door and Jim thumbed it up before turning to search the room, hoping for a phone but doubting they'd be that lucky. His gaze lit on the man in the bed.

They'd found Buck Stevens.

Blair's neck was sore. Something was wrong with it. For some strange reason, his neck refused to hold his head up. Maybe he broke it. A broken neck was serious, wasn't it? Jim would know. He'd ask, but every time he tried to get Jim's attention, he got shushed.

Blair hated being shushed.

"Jimmm." Blair tried to move from the chair he'd been dumped into.

Jim caught him before he fell all the way to the floor.

"Sandburg, I told you to sit still."

"My neck..." Damn, why was it so hard to talk? He had a brief moment of weightlessness before feeling a soft mattress under his back.

Jim was making him go to bed? He didn't want to sleep; he wanted Jim to tell him what was going on. Blair's thoughts were fuzzy, but images were starting to return to him. They were in the basement of a hospital. Something very important happened. What was it?

"Just lay here for a second. I think the drug they gave you is starting to wear off."

"Whaa..." Blair turned his head. His neck liked it better on the bed. Whoa, he wasn't alone. "Buck!"

That was what he'd forgotten, the important thing. Uncle Buck was alive. Blair had been on his way to find Jim. Jim would know what do to. Only he got caught. Leather coat and silk scarf.

"Doctor ... icicle nose," Blair murmured.

Jim looked startled. "Okay, maybe it's not wearing off after all."

Blair aimed for and caught Jim's sleeve. "Jim, the doctor. Ah, D-Durkin. He's..."

Freeing his sleeve, Jim returned Blair's hand to his chest and patted it. "I know. I've been listening to the good doctor while we've been locked up in here. He's not too happy with us right now."

Blair rolled his head back to look at his bed mate. "How's..."

"I think he's okay. His vitals are within normal range. I pulled the IV, so hopefully he'll wake up soon," Jim said. "Now be a good little drugged police observer and lay quietly so I can continue to eavesdrop." The bed was crowded, but Jim sat on the edge anyway, keeping one hand on Blair's knee while he tilted his head and listened.

Blair watched Jim do his thing, hating being useless. He remembered the needle and the way the doctor had jammed it into his arm -which reminded him, his arm was hurting too. Blair wondered dully what he'd been given. He felt funny, like his brain was trying to run through waist deep water. If he just waited long enough, the thoughts would come. But the waiting made Blair frustrated; he wasn't used to thinking this slowly.

"Try and sleep, Chief. It will wear off faster." Jim's hand patted Blair's knee.

Blair snorted. That was ridiculous. They were in deep trouble. Blair couldn't possibly sleep. They needed to think up a way out of this mess. On the plus side, Uncle Buck was alive. Blair smiled. That particular nightmare was over. But why had this Dr. Durkin guy kidnapped him? And why fake Buck's death?

The next thing Blair knew, he was waking up. Blair opened his eyes to a dimly lit room. Someone next to him was moving, making the bed jiggle. He recognized the back of Uncle Buck's head, sporting a major case of bed-head. Jim was standing close by, talking to Buck.

"Wait a second. Let's get that out," Jim said quietly. "I need to find the syringe."

"Damn embarrassing," Buck muttered, looking down at his attire. He wore a hospital gown that opened in the back.

"What's happening?" Blair asked, struggling to get up. He could move better, still a little slow, but better.

"Just stay put a second, Sandburg," Jim told him. "And keep it down; we have a guard outside the door."

Sneaking a look over Buck's shoulder, he realized Jim was removing Buck's catheter. He averted his gaze. Buck was right, that would be embarrassing. He looked around the room as he carefully swung both feet to the floor. Once he was sitting upright, his head cleared. The room they were in was small. The door to the hallway was closed. A strange pile of stuff had been collected and left in a chair by the bed; clear tubing, shiny metal piping, and some sort of electrical cord.

"We have at least six unfriendlies," Jim reported to Buck, finished with the catheter removal. "I've searched the room. We don't have much to fight back with, but they've already made their first mistake by giving both of you time to work the drugs out of your system. I have a feeling we're not dealing with hardened criminals."

Blair glanced back at the chair. Those must be the weapons Jim had come up with. "How long have we been here?"

"About three hours," Jim answered. "How do you feel?"

"Better." Blair slowly stood. Strength seemed okay but balance was not up to par. He reached out to grab the rail at the foot of the bed to steady himself. "How's Uncle Buck?"

Buck grunted. "Confused. Last thing I remember was three guys standing in the hallway at your place."

Jim was rooting through a closet; he pulled out a white plastic bag with a drawstring closure on top. "I think these are the clothes you were wearing when they grabbed you. While you get dressed, I'll explain."

By the time Buck had finished dressing Jim had quickly brought him up to date, then shared what he'd overheard during the time Blair had slept.

"Durkin spoke on the phone to someone. Near as I can figure, he's in danger of losing his grant on his cancer research. Keeps saying he only needs two to three weeks at the most before his findings are complete," Jim told them as he moved the pillows from the head of the bed and laid them under the blankets. When he finished, it looked as if a body was still in the bed.

"Why kidnap Uncle Buck?" Blair asked. He lifted his hand from the railing, swayed, and grabbed hold again.

"I'm not sure." Jim surveyed the room, his eyes narrowing. "First we get away from the rent-a-cops, then we'll ask him."

Buck finished with his boots. He looked in the plastic sack. "What about my belt?"

Jim's gaze met Blair's across the room, a wry smile showing on the cop's otherwise serous face. "Bad news there, I'm afraid, Buck."

"It got burned up along with your Land Cruiser," Blair said, swallowing hard. "We thought you were dead."

Buck looked startled, then angry. "Okay, now I'm pissed."

It was another forty-five minutes before the guards came back. Blair sat in the chair. Jim stood at the end of the hospital bed. The lights were off. Blair held a metal pipe in his right hand, hidden under his thigh. The plan was simple; wait for an opening, try not to knock out either of the good guys while using his pipe-weapon. Some weapon, Blair thought to himself, it was actually part of the IV pole Jim had dismantled.

Someone was turning the doorknob. A swarm of wasps ricocheted around in Blair's stomach as his fingers tightened around the pole. Light flooded the room as the door opened to reveal three hospital guards.

"Don't try anything," the first guard ordered in a `no nonsense will be tolerated' tone.

Blair tensed, waiting for the fight to break out. It was incredible to think all of this was going on in a VA hospital. Obviously Durkin had this wing under his control, but no way could he have the entire building in his pocket. If a fight did break out, surely someone would hear and investigate.

The guards pushed a wheelchair into the room. "Put the hippie in the chair."

Jim seemed to consider the request for a moment before complying. He took the handle of the chair and rolled it next to Blair.

"Jim?" Blair whispered as softly as he knew how. This was not the game plan and it worried him.

"Easy," Jim told him, using his own body to block the guard's view of them. With Jim's help, Blair slid out of the padded chair and into the wheelchair without dropping the pipe. "Jump when I tell you to."

Only one guard entered the room. Two others stood out in the hallway. Durkin was nowhere to be seen. The chair began to move forwards, propelled by Jim as they passed the single guard. Blair's face was level with the man's hands, and more importantly, what the man carried in his hand.

A tazer.

Before Blair's brain could react, Jim's quiet order to jump came with added incentive; the back of the chair lifted to dump him onto the shiny tile of the hospital corridor. Blair's body responded to the order without hesitation, which was good, because Blair was still thinking about the tazer. The empty wheelchair became a low flying missile, crashing into the first guard while Jim launched himself at the second guard, the largest of the three. The guard standing inside the room found an oxygen tube circling his neck tightly as Buck materialized from the darkness behind him.

Jim's weapons were merely his hands, but they served him well. Still, his opponent was strong and they were locked in hand to hand combat. For whatever reason, none of the guards pulled their guns, no doubt, following Durkin's orders. A gunshot would definitely bring people into the wing to investigate. The guard hit by the wheelchair was getting back to his feet, another tazer in hand.

Jim still had his hands full, but he saw the movement. "Get him, Blair!"

A remnant of the sedative still lingered in Blair's blood. The waxed floor purposefully thwarted his attempts to rise. Blair made it to his knees, the pipe still in hand when the guard successfully untangled himself from the wheelchair. Just the sight of him coming, tazer in hand, turned Blair's mind to mush.

No, not again. The painful memory of electrical current bouncing around inside his body caused all strength to leach away as if sucked into the hard floor under his knees. A loud metal clanging sound caused Jim to look over as he grappled with his guard. The pipe had fallen from Blair's lax fingers. For just an instant, Jim and Blair's gaze locked.

Blair had seen many expressions on the sentinel's face during their time together; from the unrestrained joy of fly-fishing to the anger in seeing a murder victim for the first time, and everything between. But just then, Blair recognized a new emotion in Jim's face.

Disappointment.

The tazer pressed into Blair's shoulder, bringing the sharp, hair-raising, fire of electricity. Blair's body convulsed once before flopping onto the tile.

"Both of you, back off or I'll kill him," Blair's attacker said.

The after affects of the shock scurried around Blair's nervous system briefly before evaporating. Blair lay in stunned disbelief. He'd expected so much more. Sure, it had hurt for a few seconds, but nothing like what he'd experienced in that chair. Maybe tazers had settings. Maybe this guy had his set on low. Whatever the cause, Blair made a realization. If he were to compare the night he'd spent in that chair by the Columbia River with a measly tazer in the shoulder, he'd definitely take the tazer.

The pipe, Blair could feel it pressing against his hip bone, inches away from his fingers. Taking a steadying breath, Blair spoke softly, his cheek pressing into the cold floor. "Don't, Jim."

The guard stood close enough to reach out and touch. Aiming for the man's nearest knee, Blair rolled to the side, snatched up the pipe and swung hard. Weeks of fear guided his aim. Endless hours of sleep loss gave him strength. The guard dropped like an overpaid football player, the tazer skittering across the floor to hit the far wall. Blair didn't waste any time. Eyeing the holstered gun, he launched himself forward and fumbled for the weapon. Once he had it, he completed several full body rolls to get clear of a possible counterattack.

It wasn't an issue.

The guard writhed on the floor, his face pale, eyes scrunched shut, panting rapidly through an open mouth.

Blair almost felt guilty.

With a final pile-driven blow to his opponent's jaw, Jim finished his fight and claimed the weapon from the second guard's holster. Blair turned. Buck was just easing his unconscious guard down to the floor, the tubing still around his neck. The two older men quickly tied the guards up while Blair held the gun.

"Phone," Jim ordered.

The nurse's station was empty again. Blair wondered if Durkin purposefully kept the staffing short as he located the phone and dialed nine for an outside line. He looked to Jim for instructions.

"Simon's cell phone," Jim told him.

Blair made the call. Simon answered on the first ring.

"Simon? It's -"

"Where the hell are you? Where's Jim? You two realize you missed your deadline for checking in?"

Simon's voice was so loud, Blair had to pull the handset away from his ear. Jim and Buck were still on watch, making sure no other guards could sneak up on them. Incredibly enough, no one had appeared to investigate the disturbance the fight had caused. Personally, Blair almost preferred a guard to Simon's wrath. He held the phone out. "Jim? He wants to talk to you, man."

"I can't believe Simon was already at the hospital when we called," Blair said for the third time since Jim had spoken to the captain.

"Well, we missed our check in time and he knew where we'd gone. It's a no-brainer, Sandburg." Jim tossed back the last of his coffee and leaned over to drop the Styrofoam cup into a nearby waste can. It tasted like mud, so why did he keep pouring himself more?

They were back in the break room where Jim had first seen Blair on the floor, injected with the sedative. Blair sat, knees drawn in to his chest, on the end of the sofa. Buck lay in a boneless sprawl over the rest of the sofa's sagging cushions, dozing and looking exhausted. No doubt in Jim's mind as to the reason. The man had been medicated for almost two solid days, then woke up in time to take out one of the bad guys. In fact both Buck and Blair looked tuckered out, they needed to get home.

It was nearly midnight. Feds, military police, local police and even the Veteran's administration had swooped down on them. Simon was somewhere around, once again being useful as only a man with his rank could be. As victims, Jim, Blair, and Buck had been sequestered away. Doctors had already checked them over. Jim figured they could look forward to one more interview before they'd be cut loose.

He pushed away from the wall he'd been leaning against and started to pace.

"At least the guards will be okay," Blair said, breaking the silence again. He had both arms wrapped around his shins. Sideways on the sofa, he was leaning against the back cushions, his head tucked forward, forehead resting on his knees. He looked like he was trying to fold himself into a tiny package, small and unobtrusive.

Jim snorted. "We had plenty of cause to use whatever force was necessary. The plan was to use our bodies for research. I don't mind being an organ donor, but I'd rather wait until I was finished using them."

Any reply was cut off by the arrival of Simon and two military police; one wearing the rank of a full bird colonel. "Buck? Could you join us for a moment?" Simon asked. Seeing the look on Jim's face, he sighed. "Okay, Jim. You can come."

"And me, Simon," Blair demanded, unfolding from his huddle and moving to stand next to Jim.

The place was alive with doctors and nurses going from room to room. Their destination was one of the rooms at the end of the hallway. Identical to the room Buck had been in, a man lay in the bed. He looked about sixty-five with thick dark hair that curled around his ears and neck.

Buck took one look and grinned. "Paul Staab. Is he okay?"

"He's fine, they've removed the IV. We realized something was off when we read his chart. They have him listed as a Hispanic male about a hundred pounds lighter," Simon told them.

"Why was Durkin switching bodies? Where are the original patients?" Jim asked.

Simon glanced at the colonel, looking like a man about to be stopped from answering. The colonel, a short man with closely shaven red hair and a ruddy complexion waved his hand in a `go ahead' motion. With a slight nod of acknowledgement, he continued. "We now know the ID of the man burned in the Land Cruiser. He was the patient that Buck had replaced. There are a total of sixteen patients on this wing, all under Durkin's care and part of his cancer research. So far only two patients are fake." Simon pointed to Buck and then to the man in the bed. "Could be more, we're still checking."

The colonel spoke up. "This information, gentlemen, is not to be repeated. Until we know what the current situation is, you are instructed not to repeat anything."

Visibly stiffening, Buck scowled. "All of this is fine and dandy, but what about Durkin? Did you catch him?"

"No, we have APB's out on his Mustang and his home is under surveillance," Simon answered, rubbing his forehead. "That's all we can do right now."

"He's on the run, Simon," Jim said. "Get a warrant and search his house, interview his family, friends, co-workers before he's out of the country."

"The military will handle the apprehension of Captain Durkin," the colonel warned. "I appreciate your help, Captain Banks. You can take your men home, we'll be in touch."

One thing about the United States Military, Jim thought, they knew how to plant their foot into your behind and shove you out the door when they were through with you. Simon didn't look too surprised with the abrupt dismissal either.

Buck shook his head. "I'll wait. Paul's been missing for weeks. He'll be confused when he wakes up. I'm staying."

"I'll wait with you," Blair offered.

"No." Buck draped an arm around Blair's shoulder and drew him close to his side. "I want you to go home with Jim. I'll be by tomorrow, I promise."

Jim waited for the fireworks. They never came.

"You sure?" Blair asked obediently.

"I am. I'm proud of you, kid," Buck whispered for only Blair's ears - well, okay - and Jim's. "You pulled it together when it counted."

Jim couldn't see Blair's face, but the set of his shoulders and the way he hung his head told the story. Blair wasn't in agreement at all. He folded his arms protectively over his chest, tucking both hands into his armpits. Jim could almost visualize the rain cloud of doubt forming over his friend's head.

Buck was no stranger to reading the younger man either. "Runt, I know what's going through your head," he continued softly. "And you stop it right now. We'll talk when I get back to Cascade. Okay?"

Blair nodded, eyes still fixed on the floor tiles at his feet, yellowed with old wax. Buck gently slapped Blair's arms open and enveloped him into a hug which Blair returned fervently. Buck caught Jim's eye with a clear message. `Watch him.'

Jim nodded, message received and understood. Jim would make sure he stayed close.

"Here, Buck." Jim reached into his pocket and drew out a ring of keys, talking as he worked one key off. "We'll catch a ride home with Simon. You can take the Ford. And don't speed. We never did find your wallet with your driver's license."

Buck got back to the loft before sunrise. Jim let him in, not waiting for the man to knock on the door. Taking one look at the other man's face, Jim knew something was wrong.

"What happened?" Jim asked.

Buck shook his head. "Paul has a cancerous brain tumor."

"What?" Jim said, surprised.

Buck dropped down onto a sofa, looking expectantly at the lower bedroom. "He still asleep?"

"Yeah, coffee?" Jim finished tying the sash to his robe. He'd managed to get in four hours of sleep. Blair didn't have any classes until the afternoon. Jim planned on sleeping in late, treating Blair to a late breakfast, then heading down to the station.

Buck appeared to think about the offer, then nodded while continuing their previous conversation. "The doctors think they can cut it out. He's got a good chance of survival."

"Did he remember much when he woke?" Jim asked as he ran the tap water and began filling the coffee carafe.

"Who remember what?" Blair asked from his doorway. He stood, blinking sleepily, the right leg of his sweat pants rucked up around his calf.

"Staab," Jim answered for Buck. "You getting up?"

"Yeah," Blair answered around a huge yawn. He shuffled out into the living room. Taking the afghan from the back of the sofa, he wrapped it around his shoulders and curled into a corner. "Hey, Uncle Buck."

"Morning, sorry I woke you," Buck said.

"It's okay," Blair answered, fingers raking his hair into place absentmindedly. "So, how's your writer friend?"

Buck repeated the information about the tumor, then went on to answer Jim's original question. "He said the last thing he remembered was taking his laptop into a shop for a memory upgrade. He had no clue how he ended up in the hospital."

"So, that's where the computer went," Blair mumbled. "Did they find Durkin yet?"

"I don't think so," Buck said.

Jim finished with the coffee preparations and moved on to making breakfast. "Those medical reports we found in Staab's boathouse were fairly recent. I remember he had a blood work up and everything looked normal. Maybe that's why Durkin wanted those reports."

Buck slowly rubbed his eyes. "Well, according to the doctors, those tumors should have been there in December. Maybe they didn't affect the cell count. I don't know that much about cancer."

"When I was listening to Durkin on the phone," Jim said, breaking eggs into a large blue bowl, "while you both were drugged, I got the impression he was working on a cure. He'd make a comment about knowing why the tumor starts and being close to finding an effective way to kill it without surgery."

Blair's eyes widened. "Wow, if he pulls that off, he'd be famous."

Buck looked thoughtful for a moment. "I did a little eavesdropping myself last night, waiting for Paul to wake. Durkin's grant was in trouble. His patients were dying and the government was talking about pulling the plug. They think one of the patients that died was used to fake my death. They burned up his body in my car."

"So... Durkin finds another vet to replace the patient that dies. Neither you nor Staab have family." Jim glanced back at Blair and amended. "Technically, that is. Durkin probably thought no one would have missed you. So, he fakes Staab's death, contacts his attorney and enters the date of death into the VA hospital. I bet he was even in the process of signing the death certificate, only he found out we'd opened the casket."

"Why didn't he just say Staab was cremated?" Blair wondered. "Like he tried with Uncle Buck?"

"No," Buck said, shaking his head. "Paul had a thing about fire. Made it perfectly clear he never wanted to be cremated. I would have realized something was fishy right away." Buck looked back at Jim. "One problem with your theory, Jim. The patient that Paul was supposed to have replaced had the exact same brain tumor that Paul has. How in the world would Durkin have known that? Especially when his medical records show nothing was wrong last month?"

With raised eyebrows, Jim answered, "What if Durkin found a way of causing the brain tumor?"

"Oh, man, that's sick," Blair said. "He purposefully gives a healthy man a tumor? How? Operating?" Blair looked to Buck. "Did Paul have any indication he was operated on?"

Buck shook his head. "No, not that the doctors told me anyway."

Jim held up one finger. "He could be injecting something that grows it, or into an IV."

"God, I can't believe a doctor would do that, even in the name of research. That's treating people like lab rats or something." Blair shuddered, drawing the wool afghan higher on his shoulders. "He seemed like such a normal guy, too. I remember thinking Naomi would..." With a start, Blair cut himself off and jumped to his feet. "I think I know how we can find him!"

"How much trouble are we going to be in?" Blair asked.

Jim shrugged, not taking his eyes off the building down the street. "No time to call the Feds. The man said the bumper was getting picked up first thing this morning. We're lucky we happened to call the right auto shop in time."

Blair knew better. Jim didn't want to involve the Army or the Feds because he wanted to take down Durkin personally. Part of Blair felt the same way. It was unbelievable. If what they guessed about Durkin's research was true, Uncle Buck would have been given a brain tumor. Blair couldn't suppress a shudder.

"What?" Jim asked from his driver's position.

"Nothing." Blair turned away. They were parked in a small parking lot in front of a florist shop. The front window was full of out of season flowers, colors that belonged in the tropics, not in Cascade during the winter. It was an old part of Cascade. A remodeled Safeway store, complete with a bowed roof, had been turned into a Goodwill Thrift store. Still, the neighborhood was clean and pleasant enough.

"Sandburg," Jim growled gently.

Blair's looked back at his friend, not used to this new aspect of their relationship. Where did this `Jim, the-talk-to-me-guy' come from? He usually got that from Uncle Buck. Ah, of course. Buck must have had a little heart to heart. "I'm just thinking about Durkin. Doctor's are supposed to heal, not harm."

Jim's attention returned to the building they were watching, a single story cinder block building. The front lot was filled with old Ford Mustangs for sale, a specialty of this particular auto repair garage. "Every profession has their share of creeps, Chief. You can't trust a person just because they went through medical school. Look at the experiments that occurred in various prisoner of war camps throughout history."

"Cripes, Jim. I know that. I study human behavior, remember?"

Jim pursed his lips in a frown and turned away.

Okay, okay, Blair knew he was getting crabby. If he wanted to continue this `open dialogue' stuff with Jim in the future, Blair was going to have to learn not to slap him down whenever Blair felt threatened. In the past, Buck always called him on it. Buck was a master at pulling stuff out of him, stuff that not even his mother got. Was that what having a father was like?

"Sorry, Jim. I'm being an ass this morning."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not. I'm just freaked out, man. First Uncle Buck is dead, thank God he isn't. Now he's back and I'm wondering if he's going to have a brain tumor or something."

"That's why he's back at the hospital today, having that cat scan," Jim explained. "Besides, he was only there for two days, hopefully Durkin didn't have a chance to start on him yet."

Blair knew this, but it still worried him. "I just wish they'd find Durkin's research notes. I don't trust the records they found in the hospital."

"Well, we'll just have to bring the good doctor in for them, won't we?" Jim said with a wicked smile.

Blair nodded, not able to catch Jim's normally infectious grin.

"Sandburg, can I ask you a question?"

Ah oh. This didn't sound good.

"What?"

"When you were in tequila-land, you said something about a fish," Jim said slowly.

"You told me I didn't--"

Jim waved a hand. "I lied. You babbled like a drunk." He snorted a short laugh. "Hell, you babble when you're sober, of course you're going to talk when you're drunk."

Blair huffed. He did not babble. He talked, conversed, interacted with enthusiasm. "Your problem, Ellison, is you think communication is limited to facial tics."

Jim laughed outright.

Damn, it was hard to stay mad at the man when he laughed like that. Blair melted a little. Actually, he sort of remembered Jim coming home and... and... hell, Jim took care of him.

With a sigh, Blair studied the traffic passing on the four-lane road in front of them. He knew his explanation was going to sound stupid once he said it out loud. Frankly, it was stupid even thinking about it. "Naomi told me once, when I was little, that fish couldn't feel pain. And, man, was I wishing I was a fish."

"Haven't you ever lost anyone close before?" Jim asked quietly, all trace of the previous humor gone.

Blair shook his head, afraid to look over at his partner. This was not the conversation he ever imagined having. It felt funny, not improper, but very strange. "I just have Naomi and Buck."

The cab grew silent and Blair fought not to fidget as he wondered if Jim would laugh at him. Well, not laugh; Jim wasn't like that. But Blair didn't want pity either. Blair's life was his and he didn't mind the fact he moved around a lot. When he was little, he thought all kids changed addresses like he and Naomi had. New season, new town. Sometimes several towns in the same season. It hadn't been until he was twelve and she'd moved him out to Dry Falls to live with Eugene Stevens that he'd rebelled.

"You know, I stayed in Cascade all my childhood," Jim said, no hint of pity in his tone. "I was never close to my dad. Sally, our housekeeper, was nice, but still... I didn't have many people I felt close to either."

"Really? How can you stay in one place and not have close friends?" Blair asked with true wonder.

Jim smiled. "Hell, the amount of friends a person lets under his radar depends upon that person's choices. It has nothing to do with addresses." Jim straightened, his eyes focused on the building down the block, becoming business-like. "Here we go."

"Durkin?" Blair asked, whipping his head around to try and spot the fugitive doctor.

"No, that nurse, the one that came to get me after you'd been taken." Jim pointed.

A slight figure, wrapped in a bulky coat stepped out of a white truck. At this distance, Blair would have to trust Jim's word and sentinel vision, because he couldn't make out anything except it was a woman. She headed for the office and disappeared inside. A few moments later, a man walked out of one of the open bay doors used to service cars. He carried a long object wrapped in brown paper and gently placed it in the bed of her truck.

Jim started the Ford and pulled out to follow as the white truck drove off. "Looks like Durkin knew enough to keep out of sight. He must love that Mustang to hang around long enough to pick this up."

"Unless she's keeping an eye on his car for him," Blair said.

"We'll see."

They drove southeast, leaving the city limits of Cascade behind. The countryside changed from residential neighborhoods to farmlands with dairy cows grazing from piles of alfalfa tossed over fence lines by their owners. Jim stayed back as the road traffic became reduced to an occasional car or truck coming towards them. Just about the time Blair thought they were going to end up in a new county, she pulled off onto a dirt road.

Jim drove by.

"Let's look for a place to hide the truck, we'll double back on foot," Jim explained.

Twenty minutes later Blair knelt in the wet grass at Jim's side. They had a good view of a dilapidated farm house. The outbuildings around it stood in various stages of decay. Only the main barn had a roof left. Most of the walls were tilted out of plumb. Blair wondered how long the farm had been abandoned, and why wasn't it up for sale? He knew better than to ask. Jim had all of his attention on the yellow Ryder truck parked behind the main house, hidden from view to those driving by. It was big enough to park a Ford Mustang within. So far, no one was in sight. The white truck they'd followed was parked next to the Ryder.

"Two heartbeats inside the house," Jim reported. "Sounds like they're packing."

Sure enough, a few minutes later, two figures carrying boxes walked across the sagging back covered porch. Blair could see the woman's face and recognized her as the same nurse that had pushed that panic button on him yesterday. He also recognized the leather jacket and white scarf being worn by the portly male walking next to her.

They'd found Durkin.

Jim forced the cell phone into Blair's hand, his silent message clear as he mouthed one word: Simon. Jim pointed back towards the field they'd just crossed to arrive at their observation point. Reluctantly, Blair headed out and paused once he'd become hidden within the tall dry stalks of corn. He shouldn't be overheard out here.

One look at the small display window on Jim's phone and he knew there was a problem. "Oh, crap." He raised his head and looked back over his shoulder, hoping Jim was listening. "No signal, Jim. No signal. Don't make the arrest yet, man."

By the time he got back to where he'd last seen Jim, the cop was gone. He was standing in the open, gun drawn and pointed toward the doctor and nurse. Blair breathed a sigh of relief. Well, okay, then. Jim made the arrest. Maybe there was a phone working inside the house. Worse comes to worse, they could duct tape them and drive them back to Cascade in the Ryder truck. Both the prisoners had their hands up and looked passive enough. Blair stepped through the barb wire fence that lined the open yard.

A movement behind one of the outbuildings caught his eye.

"Jim! WATCH OUT!" Blair screamed too late.

The missing fourth security guard, the one with the flat top fired his gun exactly at the same time Blair called out. Jim turned, caught the bullet somewhere in his chest and dropped.

"Nonononono," Blair whispered in terror. He could have sworn the ground shook as Jim crashed to the earth, like an earthquake threatening to knock him off his feet. But it was only Blair's weak knees.

Oh, God. Jim wasn't moving. Blair's eyes locked on the still form and he lurched forward like a drunk.

Jim lay on his side in the dirt, his gun arm folded awkwardly under his body. The fall had knocked the Jags cap from his head. It rested upside down by his shoulder. Jim's cheek was pressed into the ground, his lashes looked wrong. No it wasn't the eyelashes, it was Jim's face. It was too pale, too white.

Blair skidded to a halt by Jim's side, landing hard on his knees. Questions ricocheted around his skull. Where was Jim shot? How bad? No blood on his coat, but it takes time to soak through, doesn't it? Shit! Too many things to check out - Breathing. That's first. No, wait. `A' was first. What the hell did that stand for? Oh, airway, right. Well, shit, that's breathing, isn't it? God, who made up these stupid things anyway?

Part of Blair's mind recognized he was close to a panic attack. No way, not now. Ghosting a hand over Jim's nose and mouth, Blair shook with relief as he felt air moving in and out. He checked a pulse below the jaw line. Yes! It's there and it feels strong. Okay, find the wound, direct pressure.

A stinging blow across his face sent Blair sideways into the dirt.

"I said, stand up!" the guard shouted at him.

Blair looked up in surprise, remembering he had an audience to deal with, his hand automatically checking his own face. No blood. The reality of the situation crashed down around him. Durkin looked down at him angrily, like Blair had been caught red-handed stealing from his wine cellar. He was holding Jim's gun in his hand. The nurse looked nervous as she scanned the yard.

Doctor and nurse...

"Please!" Blair begged, scrambling back up onto his knees. "Help him!"

Durkin squatted down on his haunches, pinning Blair with a crafty look. "How did you find me?"

Blair tried not to gulp his air. He couldn't afford a panic attack. Jim was hurt. "The bumper, we knew you ordered it for your car. Please, man. I don't give a shit about arresting you anymore. Just help Jim, you're a doctor."

Durkin chuckled as he stood, ignoring Blair's pleas as he looked at the guard. "They just got lucky, or this place would be crawling with MPs."

"Are you sure?" the nurse asked, still glancing around her. "What if they're on the way?"

"How, dear? There's no cell phone coverage out here." The doctor nodded to the guard. "Take them both into the barn and kill them. We need to get moving."

"Pick him up." The guard pointed his gun at Jim.

Blair couldn't help but gape in surprise. Like he'd help carry out their executions. It was obvious appealing to these people was not an option. He was going to need a plan. They didn't have much time. More than likely, he'd only have one chance to save Jim. First he needed to get the gun from the guard. Blair tried to look weak and harmless "Excuse me? Are you serious, man? I can't lift him." He'd never tried, but with enough motivation, Blair was sure he could carry Jim.

The guard smirked at Blair, but he holstered his gun. A tazer appeared in its place. He held it up threateningly. "I'll take one side, don't try anything."

Blair looked at the tazer. Somehow, it lacked the previous terror. He had more important things to worry about at the moment.

With the guard on one arm and Blair on the other, they got Jim off the ground, head dangling from a lax neck. Blair's stomach sank at the sight. They dragged him towards the barn and into the dark, empty interior. Blair grunted as the guard released his hold on Jim and the full weight fell to Blair to support. It was time to make his move and Blair eased Jim gently to the dirt floor. The guard stood back, tucking his tazer away. If Blair was going to overpower this guy, he needed to get on it. Judging the distance, Blair tensed his leg muscles to jump...

...And nearly yelped in surprise when the Jim's left hand briefly squeezed his arm. Blair looked down at Jim's supposedly unconscious form. Eyes still closed, mouth open, Jim looked dead to the world. He'd been faking it? The squeeze was a warning. But for what? Not to jump the guy? They didn't have time for anything else. Jim's hand was out of the guard's view and he felt it pushing.

Okay, Jim wanted him to get away from him. Why?

Ah, a distraction. Blair could do that. He eased off to one side. "Listen, guy, you don't want to do this," Blair said. Maybe a little more begging would be in order. "Please, don't. Durkin's having you do the dirty work. He knows he won't be facing murder charges. Jim's a cop. Cop killers get hunted down."

"Shut up," the guard ordered, his hand reaching for the holster. "I'm not going to face any charges. Durkin takes good care of me."

"But have you ever killed anyone before?" Blair pressed. "When the shit hits the fan, Durkin's gonna step aside and point his finger at you."

It might have been the shadows, but Blair could have sworn the guard was beginning to give Blair's words consideration. He would never know for sure, because Jim picked that instant to move. The guard hadn't expected it and his reaction was too slow. Blair jumped as the sharp report of a gun blasted his eardrums. Instinctively, both hands flew to cover his ears.

The guard fell backwards, his hand resting on the butt of his holstered gun.

Jim was still on his side, eyes open but face lined in pain. The hand holding the small .38 shook. Jim's pant leg was pushed up to reveal the ankle holster Blair had forgotten he wore.

Jim looked at Blair. "Backup?" he hissed through clenched teeth.

Blair shook his head. "No cell signal, Jim."

With a groan, Jim closed his eyes, his body sagging.

"Jim!" Blair whispered as he scrambled back to the cop's side. Hands found sticky blood under his coat, low on his left ribcage. Jim didn't respond to Blair's touch. He had passed out again.

"Hurry up, Wes!" Durkin shouted from outside. "We've got to get going."

The voice was drawing close. Durkin was coming inside. He still had Jim's other gun, the big one, with lots of bullets. With one look at his friend lying next to him, Blair moved. He didn't hesitate. When Durkin's silhouette appeared, framed in the open barn doorway with the mid morning sun behind him, Blair had Jim's backup gun in hand. No warning this time. Blair couldn't risk having the tables turned on him, couldn't risk failure. He needed to get Jim to the hospital.

Blair aimed and fired.

Durkin fell.

"Blair?"

Blair looked up from watching Jim sleep. Buck was standing in the doorway.

"How'd you find us?" Blair asked quietly, not bothering to stand. He was too tired. He felt like he'd just gone through three hours of surgery and was loaded with sedatives instead of Jim.

Buck entered the room and laid a hand on Blair's shoulder. "Simon brought me. He's parking his car."

The day was almost gone. It had taken time to flag down a passing motorist while making sure Nurse Ratchet hadn't pulled anything funny. Sure, Blair had possession of the guns and all, but she turned into one mean lady when she realized Durkin had been shot. Blair wasn't sure if he was her meal ticket or her lover. Maybe he was both, whatever the case, Blair hadn't cared. Besides, Durkin was only shot in the upper leg. Of course, the kicker had been Blair had been aiming for the chest. Still, she was plenty mad to find out she wouldn't be leaving town after all.

Once help arrived, the ambulance transported Jim to the nearest hospital; Good Samaritan, in the town of Monroe. Blair sat in a tiny, private waiting room, alone and freaked. A kind nurse had spent time with him. She had explained the doctors were very adept in dealing with trauma, due to the high number of motor vehicle accidents on the narrow two lane highway that went through town and the fall hunting accidents. They had expertly repaired the damage to Jim's spleen and ribs. When the guard had fired his gun, Jim had turned and the path of the bullet had changed, taking a `side swiping' route. Still causing internal injuries and leaving shattered ribs, but not as deadly had it gone in straight. The doctors had also worked on Durkin, although Blair hadn't bothered to check on his outcome.

"How are you doing?" Buck asked, bringing Blair's thoughts back to the present.

"Jim's going to be okay. He'll need to stay down for a while," Blair said, repeating what the surgeon had said to him earlier. "Bed rest makes him crabby, but he's alive. He's going to be okay."

Buck snagged an extra chair with his foot and slid it next to Blair's. With a sigh he sat down. "I know, I talked to the nurse outside, son. I was asking about you. How are you?"

"Nothing's wrong with me, Uncle Buck. But I'm glad you're here to help deal with the military cops," Blair admitted. "Hey, what about you? How was that cat scan?"

"I'm fine. No tumors. I need to have some follow ups just to make sure."

"That's great," Blair said, his eyes drawn back to the bed to watch Jim sleep.

"I understand you had to shoot Durkin," Buck said gently.

"Yeah," Blair said carefully. The simple motion of Jim's chest as he breathed seemed too fascinating to turn away from. "No choice, Uncle Buck. Jim was hurt."

Blair knew where Buck was heading. And, sure, he'd have to deal with the reality of firing a gun at another human, even if that person was ordering two murders as calmly as requesting a Wonderburger meal super-sized. But, deep down, Blair was at peace. Sometime during his wild rollercoaster ride as Jim's unofficial partner he had crossed a line. He had no idea when, maybe early on, the very moment he recognized Jim's zone in front of that garbage truck. But the result was the same, he had crossed over. He was no longer just a grad student studying a present day sentinel; he'd jumped on board, become part of the team.

Burton never went into great detail on the job description of the sentinel's partner, but Blair had a gut feeling he knew the most important part. Keep the sentinel safe. Take out anyone and anything that threatened the sentinel. Any other action on Blair's part just felt wrong, like burning text books or refusing to consider new studies, just wrong.

Blair looked over at Buck, a smile forming in spite of his tiredness. "I'd do it again in a second, Uncle Buck. In a second."

Buck searched Blair's face. Seeing something that must have pleased him, he returned the smile and gave the younger man a brief one-armed hug. "You did good, Blair."

Tuesday

Parched and fuzzy, Jim woke. Normally alert and aware of his surrounding instantly, it felt weird to have his brain play catch up to his eyes. But he did manage to recognize the curls on the edge of his mattress.

"Sand..." Ouch, his throat hurt. Felt like someone had shoved a lead pipe down into his lungs.

The curls lifted to reveal an exhausted looking face, an angry looking bruise decorated the left cheek. Blair smiled happily as he briefly rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Hey, man. How are you feeling?" Blair asked as he shifted in his chair.

"Thirsty," Jim croaked with a hoarse voice. Seconds later, cool ice chips were spooned into his mouth. Relief trickled down his throat. "Thanks."

"Welcome."

The last waking moments replayed in Jim's mind, like a horror movie.

Durkin.

"It's okay, man. You're in a hospital in Monroe. The doctors patched you up and left all parts in place. We even got the bad guys," Blair whispered. "But Simon's been by and he is like totally pissed."

Jim accomplished a gusty raspberry sound. "What else is new?"

Blair shared a conspiring smirk with him.

"You okay?" Jim asked, looking at the bruise. He remembered Blair with him in that barn, the way he was getting ready to jump that guard, weaponless, about to commit a sure act of suicide.

"Sure, now I am. I got to tell you, though, you had me worried." Blair's eyes darkened with memories.

"I can't believe I didn't hear the third person," Jim admitted.

"Yeah, well, guess what?" Blair said firmly. "We have loads of time to run tests while you heal."

"Blair, I'm injured here," Jim protested weakly. "You can't be planning tests this soon."

"Watch me, man."

With a start, Jim recognized an element he hadn't seen in his partner for over a month. The stubborn set of Blair's jaw, dark with a five o'clock shadow, the steady gaze from those blue eyes, the way his wide forehead wrinkled with concentrated determination - it all added up to one thing.

Blair was back again.

"Home," Jim muttered happily as he surveyed his loft from his comfortable position on the sofa. Within an arm's reach he had the latest issues of Field and Stream, Fly Fishing Journal and Northwest Fishing Holes, thanks to his co-workers from the bullpen. He had some sort of strange concoction of cranberry and Sprite on ice, compliments of Blair. The local cable channel had a James Bond marathon in progress, the remote was in his hand and he had Buck to thank for the bag of peanut M & M's stashed away under his pillows.

Life was good, except for one little nagging problem.

"Sandburg?" Jim tossed the afghan off his lower body and began the laborious job of getting his legs over the edge of the sofa.

"What?" Blair looked up from his laptop. He had been working on school stuff all morning, trying to catch up on his missed classes this week.

"Got to go."

"Be right there."

Together they moved across the loft. They were in sight of the bathroom when Jim heard familiar steps in the hallway. The mighty hunters had returned. "Buck and Simon are back."

"Cool, I'm starving," Blair said from under one of Jim's arms as he supported the older man. "I gave Buck the key."

They entered as Jim and Blair reached the bathroom's doorframe. "Any luck?" Jim asked.

Simon held a long, green canvas hollow tube up with one hand. "Less than two hundred and it casts like a dream. Liquid silk."

Buck followed carrying a shopping bag. "He got a discount. Shopkeeper got fed up with his drooling over all the stock."

"I did not drool," Simon retorted. "Much."

"That good, huh? Maybe I'll get Blair to drive me down there in a few days," Jim said. "Keep the kid out of the food, I'll be right back."

Blair slipped out once Jim got a hand on the sink. With a final pat, Jim was left alone to take care of business. He knew he should have just let Blair talk him into leaving a urinal by the sofa, but he didn't think he could deal with the smell. His dials were all screwed up from the pain medication he was taking. Even though he kept quiet about the problem, Blair knew. He seemed to be reading Jim's mind lately, bringing him things before he asked for them. He was throwing himself into playing nurse with gusto that was almost embarrassing.

Yet, Jim wasn't complaining. He could get used to this.

"You mugs aren't into my BBQ yet, are you?" he asked as he opened the door. Blair stood ready to support him back to the sofa. A small wooden TV tray was set up and ready for him. The aroma of pork spareribs was intoxicating.

When Simon and Buck announced they were taking a drive down to the town of Auburn to check out a new discount fishing store, he gave them money to pick up ribs from a place called Longhorns off of Highway 18. He'd found it on stake-out, the one he'd been on when he'd been tracking down the switchman.

"Lord, he's grouchy," Simon muttered. "Remind me to keep him from being shot in the future."

Blair stiffened, shooting Simon's back a scowl as they worked their way towards the sofa. "Easy, Kato. Down boy," he whispered.

"Stupid ass cop humor," Blair muttered under his breath. "Not funny."

Oblivious to their conversation, Simon continued to unwrap his new toy while Buck started dividing the ribs onto four plates. Containers of beans and coleslaw were spooned out onto the plates.

Simon held the nine-foot fly rod out for inspection. "Well, how does she look?"

"Beautiful," Jim said with admiration. He sank down gently into the cushions, one arm splinting his ribs carefully. "Let me see." As he took the rod, he whistled softly. "Nice, less than two hundred? I think I should pick one up."

"Well, I may go back with you. I saw a size eight that would be perfect for our steelhead trip in April," Simon said, his eyes bright with anticipation. "I already approved our vacation, Jim."

"Sweet." Jim handed the rod back. They had the dates of Blair's spring break circled on the calendars both at home and in Simon's office. The only thing left to decide was which river to pick. Jim wanted the Hoh. Simon wanted Sol Duc. Blair said either was fine. Buck was the deciding factor, but he was keeping his choice to himself for right now. As the official guide, it was really his decision anyway. The wild rivers on the Olympic Peninsula could go in and out of shape within 24 hours, a term meaning the river was too high or too muddy. Hopefully both rivers would be okay.

Jim had a sudden thought. Maybe he should work on finding out Buck's real name. If it was bad, he wasn't above a little blackmail to swing the guide's vote his way. "Those steelies on the Hoh don't stand a chance," Jim predicted with a smug grin.

Simon's response was derailed by the ringing of his cell phone. "Banks... yeah? What!" He turned his back to the group, plugging his other ear. "Say that again. That's ridiculous! It was a clean shot to the leg. Didn't even break the femur!"

Blair stiffened, the hand holding Jim's plate pausing mid-reach for the TV tray. All occupants in the loft went into a freeze frame as they listened to the one sided conversation. Simon grunted a few more times before ended the conversation with a jab of a button. For the briefest of seconds, he hesitated before turning to face the men watching him.

"Bad news," Simon announced slowly.

Blair licked his lower lip before catching it between his teeth.

Leaning forward with a grunt, Jim took the plate from Blair's hand. Just in case, BBQ sauce was a bear to get out of upholstery. "What?" Jim asked.

"That was my FBI contact. Durkin died from complications three hours ago," Simon reported grimly.

"What type of complications?" Buck demanded, moving to stand close to Blair. "We were told his condition was stable."

Simon shrugged. "A blood clot broke free and traveled to his lung. Massive pulmonary embolism. He died on the operating table at Madigan."

Jim nodded. He'd heard of that happening. Madigan had a good reputation, but even a level one trauma hospital would be hard pressed to save someone from a large blood clot once it got to the lungs. He looked at his roommate. Blair stood, every muscle still, both eyes closed, head bowed slightly as if in prayer. Maybe he was. Buck stood close, not touching.

"S'cuse me," Blair said quietly, slipping out from the circle of men to go his room, door closing like a whisper behind him.

Jim felt physically sick. Lunch no longer smelled good. Simon's new fly rod had lost its appeal. Even the homey comfort of his loft leached away, turning instead into a space surrounded by brick, glass and ugly looking pipes.

"Shit," Simon muttered as he dropped into the chair with slumped shoulders. He set his new fishing toy down on the floor, not quite out of the way from foot traffic.

Buck took a step toward Blair's door.

"Buck," Jim said, suddenly realizing what he needed to do, what he had to do. Not Buck, not Simon, hell, not even Naomi if she'd been there. This was his job, as clear as the Ranger's Creed or his oath as a police officer. Maybe it was a combination of both or maybe it was this new sentinel thing Blair was always talking about. Some sort of duty to the `tribe' or whatever he called it.

Buck turned, his eyes meeting Jim, filled with unspoken grief, a parent's grief.

"Help me up. I need to be the one to talk to him," Jim told him firmly.

Buck changed course and moved to his side, lifting him with a surprising ease. "You sure?"

"Absolutely," Jim said starting his `old man' shuffle that he'd been reduced to during his healing process.

Jim opened the door after a light knock and found Blair leaning against the window frame. Damn, he was hoping for the bed. Jim closed the door and judged the distance to the window. Did he have enough left to make it over there? Something told him falling on his face wasn't a good way to start this.

"Sandburg?" Jim said softly and waved a hand toward the futon.

Blair turned to face him, eyelashes matted, damming back heavy tears. Blair's pain was so visible, like an open wound, causing Jim to instinctively check the air for the scent of blood. Blair's chest moved as if both lungs were being tormented by each filling and hitching release of air.

"God, Blair. Please don't do this to yourself," Jim whispered weakly, his hand reaching for the back of a wooden chair next to Blair's small desk.

So much for being the strong one.

Blair instantly moved to prop him up. At least one set of legs still worked, Jim thought as he let himself be guided to the futon. When Blair lowered him down and tried to move away, Jim grabbed an arm and held him back.

Damn, that hurt.

"Jim... let me go," Blair whispered, eyes downcast.

"No," Jim told him, knowing he was barely holding on. Hell, a toddler could pull free without breaking into a sweat. He half expected Blair to twist away, but he didn't. Instead, Blair let Jim draw him close until the younger man was at his side, kneeling on the futon. Jim slowly scooted back until his back rested against the wall, tugging Blair along. "No, Chief. You and me, right here, right now. No one else. If this partnership is going to work, you're going to have to let me under your radar."

Blair remained still, eyes clenched shut, back rounded and hands fisted. "I thought," he muttered brokenly. "I thought I could k-kill to protect without... feeling like this." Shoulders shaking, Adams apple bobbing, the tears finally pushing through the lashes, he curled up in a tight ball as Jim guided him down to lie by his side. Blair's upper back and neck pressed against the side of Jim's left thigh. Jim spent a few moments stroking long hair back from his roommate's face then fingered a wavy strand absentmindedly.

"I know," Jim said softly. He wished he had the proper words that Blair needed to hear. Everything sounded so cheap and superficial. "Been here, done this, too. You don't even get a damn t-shirt for this one. But, you don't have to hurt alone." Experience told him Blair wouldn't be listening to anything right now, anyway. Just keeping him close was all Jim could offer. Hell, it was more than Jim ever received.

Blair's sobs didn't last very long. What they lacked in quantity, however, they made up for in strength. Jim was very glad when they ended. He picked up one of Blair's strange looking throw pillows with his free hand and shoved it behind the small of his back. Something told him this was going to take a while. This sort of situation always made him feel uncomfortable. Even his ex-wife had made it clear Jim's strong suit was not dispensing emotional support. Jim continued to twirl the wavy strand of hair between his fingers, searching his emotions.

Nope, he didn't have the least bit of uneasiness happening. Go figure.

"Jim?"

"Yeah?"

"Just want you to know," Blair said softly, almost having the residual hitches under control. He sounded half asleep. "Even knowing Durkin died, I wouldn't have done anything different."

"I know, partner," Jim said with a sad, but proud smile. "I know."

Somewhere on an Army Base...

Durkin leaned back comfortably. All in all, he had to admit, he'd landed on his feet again. He smiled at the metaphor, glancing down at the bandages on his thigh. The leg didn't feel too bad, although he could have done a much better job. The scar would be a reminder in the future to be more careful.

He contemplated his new life, wondering which dark government agency would be signing his paychecks now. So far, they seemed to know what they were doing. They'd arranged his death, set him up with a state-of-the-art research lab and let him keep his Mustang. He'd miss that lovely nurse, but, oh well.

He'd bide his time for now.

First, he needed to heal.

Then, he'd be a good doctor and toss the government spooks a few small bones to give the new bosses a reason to trust him.

And finally, he would settle the score with a certain cop and his shadow.

Yep, one more trip to Cascade, Washington before taking his precious pony to mainland China. The Chinese will welcome him with open arms when he'd finished here.

End

Author's notes - yes, you guessed it. The fishing trip will be a bit more than the guys planned for. You'd think by now, they just would know better than to plan vacations together. (G)

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