"Son of a... ouch!"

Jim Ellison looked up in concern, quickening his pace to his front door, keys ready. He had known Blair was home. He'd heard his roommate moving around as he walked up the stairs. It was well past the time for all grad students to be off campus, Jim expected to find Blair elbows deep in grading papers with delicious dinner smells wafting from the oven. The fall term was upon them and Blair's days ran long.

Jim fitted the key into the lock and gave it a sharp turn, pushing the door open with his other hand.

Barefoot, Blair stood on tiptoes. He was dressed in jeans and a gray thermal pullover. His left hand held a fly fishing rod, the right scrabbling over his head, down his own back. Face scrunched in pain, he danced in place and muttered quiet obscenities.

"Sandburg?" Jim closed the door. The light from the setting sun glinted off a forty dollar yellow fly line, which angled up to the ceiling where it had caught a pipe brace, then returned downward to end up somewhere behind his roommate's back.

Lifting his chin and showing obvious relief, Blair greeted the older man with exuberance, "Jim! Thank God, man. Get it out. It's stuck and I can't reach it and it hurts and I tried letting out slack, only the line's caught and I can't -"

Jim dropped his keys on the side table, moving quickly to Blair's side. "I get the picture."

"Don't cut it, man. I used your last leader."

"Hold still."

Blair shut up, but holding still seemed impossible. Jim could see the fly hook embedded just below a shoulder blade, sunk deep into the fabric of the shirt and, more than likely, skin. The tension on the line pulled the hook upward. No wonder Blair was tiptoeing. Jim's tackle box lay open on the floor. Snatching up his fishing pliers, he bent down and wrapped one arm around Blair's hips, hugging him close before straightening.

The pitch in Blair's voice lifted along with his feet off the floor. "Jiiim?"

"You're in luck, Sandburg. This is a catch and release loft." Jim eyed the small pinch of feather tied to the metal hook, now inches away from his nose. "Huh, one of my better flies. I don't want to lose it."

Blair grasped Jim's forearm to steady himself, snorting with indignation, but relaxing now that the hook wasn't tugging on his skin.

Most fly hooks had a small barb on the end. Jim remembered taking the time to bend them flat when he'd bought them. He gave it an experimental tug.

Blair shrieked.

This barb must not have gone down all the way. It was going to hurt coming out. Jim waited for the colorful cursing to subside. They needed to get this show on the road, before Jim's arm started cramping. Blair may be shorter than Jim, but he was solid. "Okay, Sandburg. Take a deep breath and count to five."

"Oh, god," Blair groaned, but he followed orders and inhaled. "One... two... thr-SHIT!"

Jim examined the fly, now completely free, as he lowered his friend to the floor. "The fly looks okay."

Blair's bare foot stomped the floor. He reached over his own shoulder and gathered a handful of cloth, pulling the Henley up off his back to bunch around his neck and hooked his chin over one shoulder. "Three, four, five, damn it! You sure you used to be a medic?"

Snickering, Jim tossed the tool back in his box and spared his enraged roommate a cool glance before lookup up at the ceiling. "What are you doing in my tackle box anyway, Mr. G. Loomis? Where's yours?" He took the rod from Blair's hand.

"Needed a new leader. Mine had wind knots," Blair answered grumpily. "How much blood? Feels like a damn crater back there."

Tugging the fly line and finding it securely snarled overhead, Jim sighed and pulled out enough slack from the reel to lean the rod against the sofa. At least this was Blair's outfit, not his. He turned to his friend and caught an arm, ending all the fruitless efforts for self-examination. "Hold still and let me look."

"I don't want blood all over me, Jim."

The damage was slight, a tiny puncture seeping a few droplets of blood. "It's nothing."

"You sure?" Blair's neck was craned around again, trying to look but unable. "I feel filleted, dude. Ripped open."

"Well, since you're dying, can I have your guitar?" Jim quipped. He carefully plucked the suspended fly from the air and carried it over to the staircase to his bedroom. Knowing Blair, he'd forget it was there and walk into it again. Jim looped the line over the railing before going for the first aid box. He noticed for the first time the oven was off. No dinner. With a small tube of Neosporin and the prescribed Band-Aid in hand, he returned to his roommate who still had his shirt lifted off his back, looking cranky. "Where's dinner?"

"Dunno," Blair shot back. "It's your night to cook."

"Is not. Turn around." Removing the cap from the tube, he squirted a bead of gel on the injury before ripping the paper off the bandage strip. "It's your night. I picked up a pizza last night."

"Yeah, but I ordered it and paid for it, remember?" Blair dropped his shirt and smoothed back his hair from his face. "Last night was my night to provide meat for the table. You were just the delivery boy."

"That ought to count for something," Jim reasoned, replacing the plastic cap on the tube of medication. "If I transported the goods, I provided the meal."

"But, I paid."

Jim smirked. "You didn't tip me."

"You were late, the pizza was cold."

"Nice try, Sandburg." Jim tossed the medicine tube on the table. "But I say yesterday's a wash, so it's still your turn. And what's up with fly casting in the loft?"

Any ingenious reply Blair might have come up with was cut off by the phone's ring. Jim was almost disappointed. He picked up the cordless. "Ellison."

Head wounds were never a pretty sight, especially when a gun was involved.

Jim parked his truck behind the police car and set the emergency break with his foot, taking a second to zip up his jacket against the cool September night. With Blair following, he entered the small, single story rambler through the side door leading to the carport. A uniformed cop guarded the doorway, holding a small clipboard. Jim held out his ID, just in case the man didn't recognize him.

"Ellison, Major Crime."

"Thank you, Detective." The cop turned to Blair's ID, taking a long moment before scribbling a note in the crime scene log. "They're in the back bedroom, last door on the left."

"Thanks." Jim led the way. All the lights in the house appeared lit, chasing shadows and bringing the victim's poverty into sharp relief, soiled and stained sofa and chair, brown shag carpet spotted with pet stains and ripped along what should have been an invisible seam. The walls need painting and someone had kicked the baseboards in the hallway, leaving toe-sized holes. The air was thick with old fried garlic and mold. As Jim made the last turn and entered the small bedroom, the stench of death made him rear backwards into Blair.

"Ooafph."

"Sorry, Chief," Jim muttered, raising a cupped hand to shield his nose.

"Ellison, your turn on rotation, eh?" A tall man with a shiny, bald head raised his hand.

Jim nodded, recognizing him as Detective Chris Corbin from Homicide. He mentally adjusted his sense of smell. "Chris, happy to assist. What can I do?"

The body was an adult male, white, about mid thirties. He lay sideways over a queen-size bed, his brain matter and blood soaking into a K-Mart designer comforter that matched the curtains. The blue floral print was garish and cheap, perfect for what they had seen so far. Blair made a low gurgling sound, telling Jim he'd gotten his first full view of what a bullet could do to a skull.

"My partner's got the victim's wife. He's taking her downtown. Looks cut and dried. Domestic dispute got a little out of control. I just need to interview the neighbors. Could you finish inside the house?" Chris glanced down at his pocket-sized notebook in hand. "I've categorized everything in the bedroom."

Jim nodded, happy to know he'd be out of this room. The smell was still getting to him; a sweet stench of rotten meat. "How long ago did this happen? Smells like days."

Chris looked up in surprise. "What smell?"

"Jim?" Blair was instantly at his side, attentive, ignoring the corpse. "You okay, man?"

Nodding, Jim waved a hand back toward the hallway. "I'm fine, let's get started."

They passed the forensic team in the hall, two women and a man dressed in white jumpsuits, faces grim. Blair waited until they reached the back kitchen before speaking again. "What's up? You smelled something back there? I mean, sure, I smelled blood..." He shuddered, eyes squeezed shut for a second. "... but that's normal for you, right? What else did you pick up?"

"A stench," Jim said tightly. "I can't believe you didn't smell it. Like the body had been left for days in a hothouse."

"Ughh." Blair made a face. "I'm glad I can't smell that. You must have your sense of smell cranked up to twenty." He looked around the kitchen. "So, where do we start?"

"Might as well start here." Jim pulled his own small notebook out and found a pen in his jacket. "You got your gloves?"

Blair was already snapping the thin latex gloves on. "Never leave home without them."

With a wry smile, Jim scanned the cluttered kitchen. Dirty dishes filled the sink. Pots with dried tomato sauce clinging to the sides had been left on the stove. The counter top held empty espresso cups, an opened bottle of catsup and piles of junk mail. No wonder Corbin asked them to handle inventory.

"If we know the wife killed him, why do we need to go through all this junk?" Blair asked.

"Because, Sandburg, cops that do a half assed job end up on national news holding just a glove and looking very stupid," Jim replied. "Let's get started."

Blair entered the bullpen to find Jim at his desk, fingers tapping his keyboard, blue eyes fixed on the computer screen. The last two days had been quiet for Major Crime. Jim had told him over the phone that nothing significant had occurred since the domestic violence shooting and that was all but wrapped up with the wife awaiting her mental evaluation. Blair glanced around the room. Henri and Rafe were absent. Simon's office was dark. He waved to Rhonda before dropping his backpack on the floor next to Jim's desk.

"Took some doing but I got that fly line unstuck," Blair announced by way of greeting.

"I was thinking we could use it to hang Christmas lights." Jim didn't look up from his work. "Thought you had afternoon classes?"

"Professor didn't show, canceled." Blair rolled the extra office chair closer to Jim's desk. Spotting an open file, he recognized the name on the tab; the gunshot victim. "I thought this case was over and done." Blair picked up the file, lifting the top page to read the autopsy report underneath. "Ewww, they found fly larva inside his chest? How sick is that?"

"Not too uncommon. Dan was pissed off, though. Some of those eggs hatched in his lab." Jim grabbed his computer mouse. The boxes on his computer screen closed down one by one. "Fits with my thinking the body had been dead for more than a few hours."

"Is that what Dan says?"

"Nah, his findings match Corbin's interview with the neighbors. The shot was heard about half an hour before the first unit arrived." Jim finished shutting down his computer. "Dan has no idea how the flies ended up inside the body."

Blair turned to the preliminary interview of the wife. "She claims the victim dared her to shoot?"

"That's her story," Jim answered, leaning back in his chair and turning toward Blair. "No signs of a struggle. The wife is a hundred pounds lighter. I've heard of weirder murders."

"Were they drunk or something?" Blair asked. How could a man let his wife stick a gun barrel into his mouth and calmly wait for her to pull the trigger?

"Blood draw showed no alcohol or drugs in the deceased or the suspect." Jim stood, lifting his jacket off his chair. "You ready to have some real fun? The subpoena for the bank records on the Lakeside case came in this afternoon. I just need to sign off on the inventory we did and drop that file off with Homicide."

Blair stood, reading the file in his hands. "I still don't get how an argument over where to spend Thanksgiving dinner ends up with one spouse dead and the other in jail." He sighed, closing the file and handing it to Jim before picking up his backpack.

"That's wedded bliss for you, Sandburg," Jim said as they walked out of the bullpen, heading for the elevators.

"You and Carolyn must have been a riot around this time of year," Blair teased. "Both of you guys had guns in the house." He ducked Jim's slow roundhouse swing.

"Speaking of violence in the home," Jim said a few minutes later, picking up the thread of conversation again. They were in the police parking garage now, the file returned to Corbin. He turned to Blair, one hand on his truck's door handle. "What were you doing the other day? Maybe I should add fly casting to the list of things off limits while inside the loft."

Blair felt his face warm. He'd never intended to actually do more than practice his nail knot. Jim had given him a special tool just for that purpose. The knot was used to join the end of the fly line to the beginning of the leader. "Well, see... there's this TA at Rainier that wants me to show her how to fly fish. I sort of told her I'm..." he let his voice trail off as he walked around to the passenger side of the truck.

Unfortunately, Jim was proficient in Blair-mumble. He waited until both doors were open before speaking. "You told her you're a fishing guide? You gotta be kidding me."

"Hey, did I not catch that enormous trout that time with you and Simon? Remember? You turned it loose."

Jim unlocked the F150 and climbed in. Blair's door closed a fraction of a second after his, tapping Jim's ear drums with air pressure. Jim twisted the key in the ignition. "Chief, do the two words `beginners' and `luck' mean anything to you?"

"Do the numbers thirty-six, twenty-four and thirty-six mean anything to you?" Blair answered with a smirk as he drew the seatbelt across his chest and snapped it into the buckle.

That gave the cop reason to pause. He turned to Blair with a shrewd look. "She have a sister?"

"I could see if her mom's available," Blair deadpanned.

Extending his right arm along the top of Blair's seat, Jim twisted to look before backing up. "You do that, Junior. Then we'll have a nice double wedding, buy a big house in the suburbs, all live happily ever after and you can call me `Dad'."

Blair laughed with delight, not even caring when Jim lightly smacked the back of his head before dropping his arm and driving out of the garage. Before he could top Jim's `Dad' joke, the police radio, which Jim left on a low volume whenever he was on duty, switched from normal chatter to three shrill tones. Blair stiffened, knowing from experience those sounds indicated something serious in progress. The last time he'd heard it had been the night they'd been coming back from the basketball game, the night Lash murdered Susan Frasier.

Jim reached across to turn up the volume just as the dispatcher spoke.

"All units in the area of Broadmore and Pike for ten-thirty with weapons, multiple parties..."

The Ford leaped forward like a thoroughbred at the starting gate. Blair blindly searched for something to hold, deciding on the door handle and the dash. "What's a ten-thirty?"

"Street fight," Jim answered grimly. "We're five blocks away. Hold on."

They arrived at the intersection at the same time a marked patrol unit screeched to a stop coming from the opposite direction. A furniture store with large, yellow Fall Sale signs over the door had a broken window. Wind blew litter down the sidewalks. Shards of glass covered the sidewalk as well as a plush settee with matching chair on display. The other street corners housed an espresso shop, a law firm and a telephone exchange. Several bystanders were standing in clusters of three or more, staring with wide eyes at three men fighting.

Jim leapt from his truck just as the two patrol officers opened their doors. "Stay!" he shouted before running toward the cops.

Blair had no intention of getting out, in fact, he made sure both the doors were securely locked. Unable to look away from the fight for more than a few seconds, he made sure Jim and the two cops were forming a plan before attempting to move in. Blair could see Jim and the other cops in a huddle behind a Ryder rental truck parked in a loading zone. He looked back at the fight in time to see a long object being swung like a bat. It was a bat and the end of it missed one of the men's head but took out the driver's side window of a parked Honda.

"Ohhh, hope he's insured," Blair muttered.

With Jim's window open a few inches, Blair could hear the fight in all its glory. Judging by the clothing, it appeared to be gang related. Blue and red bandanas had been tied on various arms and upper legs to indicate who was on whose team. A part of Blair's brain puzzled at the cultural similarities between urban gangs and primitive warring tribes. Even as those thoughts formed, the bat found a target in the form of a blue bandana's knee. The crack was solid enough to chip mortar from the brick buildings around them.

"Oh my god..." Blair clenched his fists in shock, sickened by the open act of violence of one man upon another.

Blue Bandana was down, writhing in pain. The bat was being lifted for another blow.

"Stop! Police!" Jim's voice stilled the swing. He stood fifteen feet from the fight, his gun in hand. The two uniform officers moved into place, completing a semi-circle around the fighting men. Blair noted that none of the police officers stood in a way to catch another officer in crossfire.

The two men left standing froze, then the man with the bat made his move. A hanging flower basket made a handy piata. The bat hit hard, breaking the three chains that supported it and sending potting soil and marigolds in a spraying arc that rained down on Jim and one of the uniforms. The second officer shouted `gun' just as the man on the sidewalk rolled to his side and lifted his hand.

Blair held his breath.

The gang member with the bat was running. The third member had actually followed Jim's original order and was standing still, both hands up in the air. With dirt in his hair and on his shoulders, Jim quickly swiped his own eyes, standing too close to the downed gunman for Blair's liking. And now the gun was pointing toward one of the uniformed cops. Jim's foot lashed out like a cobra. He scored a direct hit, sending the gun skittering across the sidewalk. Both uniformed cops moved forward, flipping the downed man on his stomach and cuffing his wrists behind his back.

Blair sagged in his seat with relief just as the glass inches from his ear shattered into thousands of small square cubes.

"HE DARED ME!" the bat welding gang member screamed.

Blair's screamed without thinking. "JIMMM!"

The bat swung again, but Blair threw himself sideways, head and shoulders landing in the driver's seat. Unable to get further away because of the seatbelt around his hips, Blair instinctively covered his head as the wooden bat dented the window frame of the door, the bat's tip smacking his seat's headrest. The seatbelt buckle dug into Blair's back. Reaching with his left hand, he managed to hit the button and free the wide nylon strap. Blair raised his left hip, releasing the belt which sprang back and snared the bat as the gang member attempted to pull it out.

"Somebody!" Blair yelled again. "HELP!"

Blair lifted both knees to his chest. The attacker's face and shoulders filled the open window frame. Directing all his energy, fear and instinct for survival into his legs, Blair kicked out, making solid contact with the gang member's upper chest. The winning score went to the sneakers as the thug fell back, dropping the bat which bounced off Blair's chest.

Jim's shouts to stay down came from beside the truck. A sharp pain seared the back of Blair's right leg, just below the inside of his knee. Hissing, he curled both legs back into the truck cab. Fingers found a sticky rent in his jeans.

"Sandburg!" Jim stuck his head through the damaged window frame, looking concerned. "You okay?"

With his right leg throbbing, Blair pushed the baseball bat off, letting it fall to the floorboards. "Yeah, I'm safe on first, man."

Jim's spotted the edge of broken glass sticking out of the door frame. "Whose blood?"

"Three guesses," Blair answered, lifting his blood covered hand to show his friend.

Jim was in the doctor's lounge, head down over the sink, washing the last of the dirt from his eyes when Simon found him.

"Jim, how can you take a simple task of serving a subpoena and still manage to end up in the hospital?" Simon asked, one corner of his mouth curling upwards.

"Sandburg and I responded to that gang fight on Broadmore," Jim answered as he reached for a paper towel. Experience had taught him the towels in the doctor's lounge were softer and much more sentinel friendly than the sandpaper they stocked in the public restroom. "Blair cut his leg. He's getting stitches."

"Damn." The half smirk vanished. "What part of being an observer doesn't he understand?"

Holding up a weary hand, Jim finishing blotting his face dry, wadded up the towel and dropped it into the trash bin. "I told him to stay put." Jim walked toward the hallway, Simon at his side. "And he did. He did everything perfectly, only one of the suspects targeted my truck, with Sandburg inside."

"One of these days, we've got to find that bull's eye tattooed on that kid's body and have it removed," Simon murmured as they entered Blair's treatment room.

Blair lay face down wearing boxers and a flannel shirt. One white sock was stained red; the other had a hole in the heel. Jim made a note to toss both when they got back to the loft that night. A heavyset woman with a deep set of permanent scowl wrinkles on her face sat balanced on a metal stool as she knotted the last suture. Blair's white complexion and clenched eyes caused Jim to frown.

"You back already?" the doctor demanded. "Didn't I say I'd have a nurse come fetch you when I was done?"

"This is Captain Simon Banks with the Cascade Police," Jim answered levelly, fudging the truth. "He's here to interview my civilian observer."

With a scowl, the doctor gave a final tug and snip on the nylon threaded through Blair's skin. "Well, I'm finished anyway." She brushed pass them. "The nurse will be in with instructions."

"And they say the medical field is heartless," Simon whispered after the woman's back disappeared out the room.

Jim couldn't help but lay a hand on Blair's tense shoulder. "She's gone, Chief. How's the leg?"

Opening his eyes, Blair pushed off the exam table with shaky arms, rolling to one hip. He grimaced, catching his lower lip between his teeth. "Get me out of here, Jim. That woman is worse than the creep with the bat."

"I noticed." Jim helped his friend stand. "She did use Novocain, right?"

"Yeah, but someone ought to check the expiration date. Where're my pants? Oh, hi, Simon."

"Sit." Jim guided him to the vacated stool, not liking the way the color leached from his partner's face. "We'll find them."

"No tendon damage?" Simon asked as Jim pulled the jeans out of a plastic bag the nurse had thoughtfully provided them. "Maybe we should wait for those instructions."

"Nah, I'm fine. The doctor already checked," Blair explained as Jim helped him thread his good leg through the jeans. "Don't even need crutches."

A petite nurse with thick glasses entered the room. "Mr. Sandburg, here are you post-care instructions. You need to make an appointment with your regular doctor in ten days. Those stitches should be ready to come out by then." She folded several sheets in half, handing them to Blair. "There's a prescription in there for pain medication if you need it. Stay off the leg tonight and take it easy for a week. Any questions?"

Finally wearing his jeans again, Blair gave the nurse a bright smile. "Thanks, I think I've got everything."

"You're welcome," she answered. "I'm just glad you got Doctor Benson. She's fantastic with stitches."

The nurse left and Blair frowned down at his right leg. "She should be, all that practice making Frankenstein monsters."

Thank God Blair knew how to duck.

"What do you want? Chicken wrap or natural burrito?"

"Huh?" Blair straightened, sniffing softly as he blinked at the surroundings.

"For dinner... what do you want? My treat." Jim waved toward the approaching menu board as the truck crept forward.

"Wrap, I guess." He yawned. "I just want to sleep."

"Better shower first, get that stench off you." Jim rolled down his window, ignoring the indignant sputtering and placed the order into the small microphone built into the post next to the menu.

Blair still looked mildly affronted as he pulled forward to the window to pay. "What stench?"

Handing the kid in the first window a twenty, Jim accepted the change and pulled forward to the second window for their food. He'd been forced to keep his sense of smell down since the fight. "I think one of the suspects rolled in the garbage or something. I could smell it everywhere, even on the guy that attacked you. Some of it must have transferred to your clothing or something. You stink."

"Gee, Jim. Thanks for the warm and cuddly feelings. I'm getting all teary eyed," Blair snipped back, crossing his arms over his chest.

Jim sighed. Accepting the two bags of food and setting them down carefully behind the seat. "You wanted to find a sentinel, Junior. Now you're living with one, welcome to my world."

It hurt to lie on his back. Blair rolled over on his side and stared at the alarm clock by his bed. Almost three in the morning and he was still wide awake. He'd been so tired driving home. What was with the sudden sleep deprivation? He had an insane thought to go wake up Jim and blame him. Two showers. Blair had apparently not gotten all the stink off with the first one. So Blair had hit the shower again, paying more attention to his hair this time. He'd received a sentinel passing grade in the form of a grunt and casual nod, which was Jim-speak for `thank you'.

God, he needed sleep. It was late.

This was Jim's fault.

A small voice in his head whispered, `Go wake up Jim. I dare you.'

Blair snickered. That's a new one. All the teasing they enjoyed, he'd never purposely kept Jim awake just because he couldn't sleep. It would be kind of funny.

`I double dare you.'

Blair pinched his pillow and pulled the blanket up to his neck. Nah, Jim needed his sleep. His job was dangerous enough without having to deal with insomniac roommates. He rolled over again, facing the wall. A warm breeze brushed his face. Faint light cast an elongated square on the wall above his futon. Blair frowned, wondering why he'd never noticed it before. Was the digital clock on the microwave that strong? Nah, it had to be the lights from the harbor coming in through the living room windows. Yeah, a dark shape moved from left to right on the wall, a shadow. So the light was from a passing ship or something.

Closing his eyes, Blair mentally alphabetized all the cultures before the nineteenth century and fell asleep.

"Hey, Ellison, dispatch just sent a unit to your address for a jumper," Rafe said as he walked into the bull pen.

It was mid morning and Jim had just returned with a box of copied bank records. He was looking at a day's worth of reading, even with Blair's help. He slapped the file down on his desk in alarm. "What? A suicide?"

"Or soon to be," Rafe answered as he sat down at his own desk. "Last I heard it was just threats to jump."

A fledgling fear took root and Jim picked up the phone, dialing the number by heart. The fourth ring was answered.

"Blair Sandburg."

Jim released a lung full of relieved breath. "Hey, Chief."

"Hi, Jim. What's up?"

"Nothing, just wondering if you were coming down later. I've got those records on the Lakeside case." Jim rubbed his forehead, ignoring the amused look from Rafe.

"Jim, I told you this morning. I've got classes and a late lecture. You're on your own today, Kojak." The smile was audible in the teasing tone. Then Blair sounded serious. "You're okay, right? No problems with your senses?"

"I'm fine." Jim felt guilty, knowing Blair would cancel nearly any class or meeting to come down to the station if Jim offered half a reason. "And just for the record, Kojak was bald."

"All in good time, my friend," Blair returned without a shred of remorse, snickering.

"You're gonna pay for that one, Beav." Jim hung up, unable to shake the smile from his face.

Even knowing Blair was safe, Jim's mind refused to return to work, thoughts on the jumper. This emergency was striking too close to home for his tastes, literally. Simon was in a meeting, so Jim told Rhonda he'd be out of the building, reachable by cell phone or pager if anyone was looking for him and headed for Prospect Street. Police cars had the block in front of the building blocked. A sizeable crowd stood in the park down the road. Jim parked in front of a fire hydrant and jogged up to stand next to Collette, who greeted him with a sad smile.

"What's happening?" Jim asked.

"You know that new family that moved in last month? Two-oh-seven? Their teenage son is on the roof. Says he's going to jump." The boutique owner shivered, hugging herself. "I hear the police chaplain's trying to talk to him."

"I'll go see if I can help." Jim left her, moving beyond the police barricade without a problem once he showed his badge. A sergeant stood just inside the main floor entry, listening intently to the small lapel microphone attached to the portable radio hooked on his belt. He turned with a frown as Jim opened the door.

"Ellison?"

"I live here," Jim explained, recognizing the sergeant but not remembering the name. "Can I help? I might know the kid, skinny with dark hair?"

"Yeah, sounds like him. He's on the rooftop. One of my female officers is up there with our chaplain. So far no one's getting close enough to grab him. Medics are standing by, just in case."

The radio squawked and a woman's voice came over, whispering urgently. "Sarg! I think he's going over!"

Jim extended his hearing, instantly picking up the sound of the chaplain trying to talk reason to the teenager. Jim could hear a low, gravelly voice in the background, like static on a cheap radio. The words made no sense to him. Jim had to be mixed up, picking up something from a TV in an apartment. Yet the kid seemed to be answering the voice.

"Shut up! I'll do it. I will!"

"Dare you... I dare you. Dare you to jump. I dare you."

"I will!"

Then the startled cry of the chaplain and the shout over the radio told Jim the teenager had jumped, even before the sickening sound of the body hitting the alley behind the building. Jim ran for the roof. There was a fourth person up there and he planned on finding the sick son of a bitch.

The building had one way up to the roof from the third floor, but two internal stairways that linked the floors together. If he ran fast enough, he should arrive in time to catch the fourth person coming down. Jim took the stairs two and three at a time, keeping his hearing focused above. The chaplain was doing his best to comfort the female cop, who was taking the kid's act of suicide personally. Even the chaplain's voice sounded choked up.

As he puffed up to the third floor landing, he was certain no one had descended down the narrow ladder from the roof. Unless this joker could fly, Jim was looking forward to slapping his cuffs on him. Let the DA's office find the official name for the crime. The trap door was open, blue sky with blotches of white clouds visible from below. Jim could see his own front door at the other end of the hallway. He climbed the rungs quickly, picking up faint whiffs of that same stench that had been on his roommate last night. What was going on? Why was he smelling that everywhere he went?

The flat rooftop was a torch-down covering with embedded gravel. Two figures stood close to the edge, shoulders slumped as they looked over the four foot parapet wall to the alley below. Jim ignored them, casting out his senses. Wind lifted his shirt collar to flutter like a butterfly's wing against his neck. A group of ring neck pigeons clustered on the telephone feed to the building, in a long row. Other than the two police personnel and the birds, no other heartbeats met his ears.

"Where'd the other guy go?" Jim asked, still looking around the roof in confusion.

The Chaplain was an old timer with the department and knew Jim from past incidents. "Detective Ellison? The young man jumped."

"I know." Jim hurried to their side, looking over the wall to see fire and police units tending to the youth. From their lack of actions, Jim knew even without using his extraordinary hearing that the boy had died. "There was another man up here talking to him. Where'd he go?"

Wiping the dampness from her cheeks, the officer stood erect again, as if eager for something constructive to do. "Another man? We didn't see him. The kid was acting strange, talking to himself."

The chaplain backed up her version of the story. "That's right. I've seen similar incidents, like dual personalities."

The words were almost past Jim's lips before he realized how he'd sound. It wasn't a case of the same person talking to himself. The voice had been too distinctly different, yet to say he heard this fourth man's chanting orders to jump from three floors down wouldn't be believed. Jim had no desire trying to explain away his comment to the inquest board. "I must have misunderstood." Jim visually swept the roof and the alley below. Maybe the boy had a radio or a tape player.

"Did they find the boy's parents yet?" the chaplain asked. "I should speak with them."

Jim and the officer helped the older man off the roof then followed. On the stairs, the officer had a moment to speak with Jim in confidence. "I tried... I thought I had him talked off that damn wall." Her eyes filled with tears again. "Something in his f-face though... he just jumped."

Jim took a moment to drape an arm around her shoulders, pausing on the last landing before they reached the lobby. The action seemed to surprise her and Jim realized some of Blair Sandburg was starting to rub off on him. "This is part of our job that civilians don't see. I'm sorry."

Ducking her head for a moment, she took a deep breath. A hint of steel-like determination crossed her face. "I'd better get back to my partner. He was in the alley. He's still a rookie."

Blair found Jim sitting in the dark loft. The TV was off. No music played on the stereo.

Just Jim sitting on the sofa, staring out over the dark city.

No, that wasn't all. Blair closed the door softly, picking up the heavy oppression within. Jim seemed to be the focal point for the ominous atmosphere. A single light over the stove gave enough light to keep Blair from walking into furniture or walls. Slipping his backpack off and hanging his light jacket next to Jim's on the rack of hooks by the door, Blair moved to stand at the foot of the sofa.

"Jim?"

"Yeah?"

"What's wrong?" Blair turned on a nearby lamp and sat down.

Jim's profile was somewhere between profoundly sad and deeply contemplative. A strange light of doubt seemed to shine from sky-blue eyes. Jim rocked his jaw from side to side before speaking. "A kid jumped from our roof today."

Blair's heart missed a beat. "W-what? Here?" He pointed down at the floor, then reversed to the ceiling. "From our roof? Today?"

Jim stood, his muscular arms folded over his broad chest as he brooded, his gaze still fixed on the distant harbor. "A teenager, only kid of the new couple that moved in below us. Apparently he had a history of depression, seeing a therapist. He was only fifteen."

"Was?" Blair stayed put, feeling guilty and not sure why. Okay, maybe he did know why. Blair was at Rainier, giving tests, having office hours and generally enjoying academia while Jim was dealing with suicidal teenagers. "He died?"

"Thirty plus feet to asphalt usually does that to a body, Sandburg," Jim commented frankly without incrimination or meanness.

"Oh, God. That new family that moved here from Utah last month? The guy's in computer sales, right?" Blair pushed his hair back, remembering seeing them a few times and hearing gossip from the elderly man that lived on the second floor, who always chatted in the elevator. "Why?"

"I don't know. His folks thought he was getting better. Liked his new school and joined the soccer team." Jim dropped his arms, stuffing his hands into his rear jean pockets. "There's more. I smelled that... smell again. The same one from the gang fight. It was on the ladder to the roof and on the rooftop and on the kid."

"Yeah?"

"When I asked the coroner," Jim continued, looking almost haunted as he met Blair's gaze the first time. "He said `what smell?'"

"He did?" Blair leaned back on the sofa, thoughtfully. "Did anyone smell it?"

Jim shook his head.

Pinching his lower lip between thumb and forefinger, Blair stood and paced the rug between the sofa and far brick wall. He kept his eyes down. "You smelled something at the shooting, remember? I didn't smell it, but you did. Then again with the gang fight... any other time?"

Jim shook his head again, continuing to silently track Blair around the room.

"Okay, okay. So this is sentinel related. Do you smell it now?" When Jim shook his head, Blair went to the balcony door and opened it. The cool evening air drifted in. Blair smelled salt water and a whiff of BBQ from somewhere down the street. "How about now?"

Lifting his chin, Jim closed his eyes and took a tentative breath in. "Maybe..." He moved closer then out into the balcony. "Yeah, it's still out here."

"Let's go look." Blair headed for the door.

Outside in the dark alley, Blair stood at Jim's side, not feeling the cold night air. Jim pointed. "He landed here. The smell is really strong, even now."

"Do you see anything to explain the smell?" Blair peered into the darkened corners, wishing he'd thought ahead and grabbed a flashlight. He watched Jim's face, on the lookout for possible zones. Enough lights from the windows of the apartments above gave Blair the ability to see the taller man clearly.

Jim studied the asphalt at his feet, grimacing with distaste. "A swarm of black flies are crawling over the spot where the body hit. They weren't there before."

Now Blair could hear the buzzing, although unable to see the swarm Jim spoke of. His stomach twisted. "You think part of the body..."

Something moved at the end of the alley, a shadow. Blair clutched Jim's arm. "What's that?" He pointed.

The shape broke into a run, disappearing around the corner of the building. Jim was off like a hunting dog with a fresh scent. A heartbeat later, Blair followed, or tried to. Three steps into his run, his right leg reminded him of its injury. He hobbled a few more steps then stopped in frustration. Jim was at the corner of the building, then gone.

"Damn," Blair muttered. Before he could decide whether to follow or cut back through the building and come out the front entrance, Jim was jogging back. "What happened?"

Jim answered as he drew near. "The guy got away in a car." Dropping to one knee, he caught Blair's right knee to hold his leg still while running a hand down the back calf as if Blair were a lame horse. "You tried to run, didn't you?"

"Tried is the key word, man," Blair stated, rolling his eyes. "It's fine."

"We'll take a look at it back in the loft," Jim said, standing and taking Blair's elbow to steer him towards the rear entrance to the building.

"What about the guy that was watching us?"

"I got the license plate," Jim answered. "I'll find him."

"I don't get why he ran off."

"When I find him, I'll ask him."

Blair locked his Corvair and slid the box off the hood before crossing the street. Jim's truck was missing. Blair balanced the box filled with papers to grade on his hip. He'd surprise Jim with a home cooked meal. Seemed all they did anymore was grab takeout or had something unhealthy delivered. His mind began a vague inventory of the freezer's contents. He never noticed the man standing under the awning further down the sidewalk.

"Excuse me."

Blair nearly dropped the box. He could have sworn the sidewalk had been empty. "Oh! I didn't see you there."

"Forgive me," the man said quickly. "Do you live here?"

He was old, maybe in his early sixties. To Blair, that seemed a lifetime away, at least. His hair was long and unkempt, as if he had more important things to do than see a barber on a regular basis. His skin had an unhealthy tint and hung on his tall frame. Teeth yellowed by too much coffee or cigarettes or both, did little to make the guy look friendly when he smiled. His brown eyes looked weary, although they teemed with intelligence. His stagnant gaze probed like a surgeon's blade.

Pity and caution warred. Blair chewed on one side of his lower lip. "Yeah," he drawled. "But look, fella. I'm a college student. I can give you a couple bucks, that's about it." Blair shifted the box to his left hip and reached into his pocket for a key. He was tired. His leg hurt and he wanted to sit down.

"I'm not looking for a handout," the man said. "A kid jumped off this building yesterday. I wondered if you knew him." The man's voice was rough and low. His clothes were worn thin at the stress points and edges from frequent use.

Pity lost. "I wasn't here when it happened," Blair said, dismissing the guy as a reporter.

"I'm looking for information, it's important. I don't want to see what happened to that kid happen to anyone else." The man edged closer.

Alarm bells rang in Blair's head. Something about the height and build of this guy was familiar. "Were you in the alley last night?" Blair didn't wait for the answer; he saw it in the man's face. "Why did you run?"

"That was you? With the cop?" The stranger took a step back.

"How'd you know Jim's a cop?"

With a look of alarm, the man turned away, quickening his step to cross the street when Blair tried calling him back. In seconds the stranger cut between two buildings and was out of sight. Blair considered following, but didn't. His leg was sore.

When Jim came in an hour later, dinner was ready and Blair told of the strange encounter as they ate.

"He threatened you?" Jim blurted out. "Why didn't you call it in? Why didn't you call me immediately?"

The fork loaded with pasta, mushrooms and sun-dried tomatoes paused en route to Blair's mouth. "He didn't threaten me, Jim. Where'd you get that idea?"

"He said he didn't want to see it happen again," Jim reminded him.

"Right, and I'm sure he doesn't." Blair resumed eating, talking carefully with his mouth full. "That's not a threat. You weren't there, I was. He seemed really concerned."

"Yeah, for a convicted killer."

Pasta spewed across the table. "What!"

Jim calmly used his wadded napkin to clean the larger pasta chunks from the tabletop. "I ran that out-of-state plate, Columbo, it came back to Clinton Brooksdale. He served seven years for manslaughter in Michigan."

"Holy shit! I talked to a murderer?" Blair reached for his beer with a shaky hand. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Jim rubbed his forehead. "I'm thinking you're at Rainier. How am I to know you're socializing with the man? I planned on briefing you tonight. So, he was waiting for you? And he knew I was a cop?"

Blair finished his drink and pushed his plate away, not feeling hungry anymore. "I don't know if he was waiting for me. He could have been waiting for any of the tenants to arrive home. It was about five, maybe a little after. But, yeah. He knew you were a cop. Maybe he was there when... what was the kid's name?"

"Stewart Torillini."

"Maybe he was there when Stewart jumped," Blair finished.

Jim's eyes grew hard. "No one else saw him, but I could hear a fourth person on the roof. He was taunting the kid, daring him to jump. If it turns out to be this Brooksdale joker, I want him."

"God, that's sick." Blair stood, picking up his plate. "There's only one way up there. None of the fire escape ladders go that far. How'd the guy get down without you seeing him?" Blair regretted the question upon seeing the look of guilt appear on Jim's face.

"I don't know."

Hurrying to change the subject, or just dilute his previous comment, Blair pressed on. "If this is like the smell thing, maybe there's more to it."

"What do you mean?" Jim picked up his empty plate, bringing it to the sink and turning on the tap.

What did he mean? Blair wasn't sure. "First the domestic shooting, then the gang fight and now the suicide."

Jim added dish soap to the running tap, building a blanket of foam over the surface as water filled the sink. "And I smelled that stench in all three cases."

"Another element is consistent too, man." Blair found a Tupperware container and started scooping leftover pasta. There was enough for one lunch each. "Remember the report? She said her husband dared her to shoot him."

"And I heard the fourth person daring the kid to jump," Jim cut in. He turned to Blair. "What about the gang fight?"

"When Babe Ruth took a swing at your truck, he was screaming that someone dared him."

"To what? Fight?"

Blair shrugged. "Couldn't tell ya, man. I was too busy trying to dodge a bat at the time to ask him to clarify."

Jim's cell rang. He pulled out of the hot water, drying his hands on a dishtowel as he crossed the loft to grab the device from its charger. Blair slipped into Jim's place and took over the dish washing. Jim's call was short, lasting long enough for the man to jot some notes down on the back of a junk mail envelope and thank the caller for the fast turn around.

"Who was that?"

Back at the sink, Jim started drying. "Police detective from Lancing, Michigan. I sent a request for any information on Brooksdale's case. He'll email the report to me."

Blair rinsed the last dish and set it in the adjacent sink for Jim to dry, his thoughts on the strange man outside the loft. Sure, he'd seemed... off, but a killer? Blair had met killers before, working with Jim brought more than a few close encounters of the criminal mind, but Brooksdale didn't seem the type. Scary, yeah, no doubt; but Blair hadn't picked up any dangerous vibes.

Jim nudged him with an elbow. "You okay? Or you gonna stand with your hands in dishwater all night?"

"So, Jim, can I borrow your fly rod and reel?"

Jim frowned. "What's wrong with yours?"

"Nothing."

Morning traffic was heavy and Jim was hard pressed figuring out why. Normally on Friday the commute to work was a breeze. Jim hit the brakes to avoid hitting a Jetta that pulled cut them off. Damn, they were going to be late, thanks to Blair's extra five minutes getting ready and another eight minutes in the drive through espresso. Even the weather had turned against him. They'd woken to dark clouds and wet streets. Sentinel vision could pick out red and yellow leaves on the distant foothills outside of Cascade. Fall was knocking on their door.

Signaling to turn, Jim looked over at his passenger. "If nothing's wrong with your stuff, why do you need mine?"

"I don't," Blair said with a smile. "Brenda does."

"Oh, no, you don't, Sandburg. You're not using my stuff to teach your latest obsession to fish." Jim gripped the wheel firmly. He was not letting Blair talk him into this. A man's fishing tackle was not loaned out to strangers. "Absolutely not."

"Ah huh," Blair answered easily. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah, I get it." Blair crossed his arms. "Hands off."

"Right."

"Right."

Jim felt his fishing equipment would be safer if the subject got changed. "So, you've got the morning off?"

"Yep, how's the Lakeside case going? Don't tell me we've got hours of wading through bank records," Blair beat a rhythmic tattoo on the door handle. Plastic still covered the truck's window, doing little to keep the cooler temperatures out.

Jim turned up the heater. "I found what I needed. I sent in a request for some phone records. Should be in later today. This morning I thought I'd follow up on that Michigan email."

"And Simon's okayed this?" Blair asked, one eyebrow lifted. "None of those cases belonged to Major Crime, right?"

"It's unofficial. I'm just looking into it."

"Ah huh."

Blair looked a mite too smug for Jim's taste.

They found the bullpen quiet. Simon was in a meeting and the other detectives were out in the field. Rhonda held down the fort with her normal subtle strength, answering phone calls and taking messages. Blair made a beeline for Rhonda's desk, catching up on station gossip. Jim powered up his computer and open his email. The Michigan cop came through. A juicy attachment took a few seconds to download. Jim let the computer scan it for a virus before copying it to the hard drive, then sending it to the printer.

A few minutes later, Blair was at his side again. "What's it say?"

Jim passed over the first page as he continued to read. Brooksdale and his wife had been well off. A combination of old money and owners of a successful boat manufacturing business had tossed them up toward the top of the Forbes list of names to watch. But all was not well in their home. Tales of marital fights and temporary separations precluded a final showdown that resulted in a boating accident that left Mrs. Brooksdale dead and Mr. Brooksdale facing charges of manslaughter and operating a boat while under the influence, their drug of choice being cocaine.

Brooksdale pleaded guilty to all charges, saving his money on attorney fees, only to lose it all in civil suits of wrongful death by his deceased wife's family. He'd paid them off as well, allowing the cases to be settled out of court. After serving seven years of his nine year sentence, he had been released for good behavior. Faithful like clockwork in checking in with his parole officer, the ex-convict apparently started a new business.

"He runs kiddie rides?" Blair asked, his tone incredulous.

"Looks like," Jim answered. "Question is; where?"

"The Western Washington State fair is next week. Maybe he's there." Blair finished reading the last page of the police report and set it down. He removed his glasses and leaned back in the chair. "That's in Puyallup; only a two hour drive."

"I'll call and see if he's one of the venues down there." Jim picked up the phone and pulled out the bottom desk drawer. A well used, dog-eared pile of phone books lay tucked within. He found the one he wanted and pulled it out. The fairgrounds in Puyallup had a business phone listed and Jim called. Brooksdale's business `Instant Fun Rides' was not on their list that year.

"Who else uses those traveling carnivals?" Blair pondered. "A school maybe?|"

Jim slapped the Cascade phonebook down and thumbed the blue pages. "Let's try this the easy way."

"Who you calling?"

"City licensing."

Blair nodded approvingly. "Of course; see, Jim? This is why you're the detective and I'm just the lowly observer."

As Jim punched the numbers, he shook his head. "Right, Sandburg. Observe and learn -"

"Cascade City Hall," a woman announced briskly.

"Hello," Jim said. "I'm Detective Ellison with Cascade PD. I need a search, please, to see if you sold an amusement permit recently?"

"Just a moment, I'll transfer you to licensing."

"Thank you."

But the plan didn't pan out. No permit or license had been issued to Brooksdale or any person operating a carnival within the last six months.

"Now what?" Blair asked.

Jim turned back to his computer. He had a bookmark saved for a site that listed all the city government's links, a very handy directory that he'd used time and time again. Pulling a scratch pad close and grabbing the computer mouse, he copied down a dozen phone numbers. There was a time not too long ago that he'd be flipping pages in those phone books. Now most of the information he wanted was as close as the Internet.

"Okay, Chief. You use Brown's spare desk and call these numbers. I'll check the rest. Maybe he's in a nearby town."

Fifteen minutes later they had the information. The small town of Arlington was having an air show at the small air field. Antique planes, daring stunt pilots, and a carnival opened every day for the next five days at three in the afternoon. Blair copied all the information down and hung up with a smile. Jim stood over his shoulder.

"That's thirty miles from here," Jim said. "Come on."

Before they could leave, Simon Banks walked through the door with a scowl on his face. "Ellison, Sandburg."

"Hey, Simon," Blair greeted with an upbeat wave. "What's up?"

"My blood pressure." Simon paused at Rhonda's desk, accepting his `while you were out' slips and grumbling. "Department head meetings are worse than root canals. If I wanted to waste valuable time listening to grown men and women whine, I would have stayed in marriage counseling." He crumpled up one of the pink slips. "Thanks, Rhonda. I already talked to Wolf. He's pissed off about a second body being infested with fly larva, but it wasn't our case."

That grabbed Jim's attention. "What? Another body come in with flies inside?"

"I can't believe I'm hearing this conversation," Blair groused, pulling a face.

"Yeah," Simon answered, turning for his office. "The man had to fumigate the other day, then a suicide case brought in another batch that hatched." He turned back and shot Jim a look. "I hear you were on scene, that the jumper was a kid from your apartment building."

"Yeah." Jim nodded. "We didn't know him that well, but saw him around."

"A shame," Simon pondered sadly, some of his foul mood slipping away. "When kids get so caught up in problems, they feel they need to kill themselves..."

Jim nodded, remembering the teenager who jumped off the cliff while high on Golden. When Simon disappeared into his office, Jim leaned over Rhonda's desk, speaking quietly. "I'm available. Just have me paged if something comes up. Sandburg and I are checking out a few leads."

"You got it, Jim," she answered, her earphones already back in place as her fingers flew over her keyboard.

The roads were still wet from the previous rain shower, but the overhead clouds looked like they wanted to break up. Jim kept his speed under the limit while Blair chatted. His current infatuation, Brenda, appeared oblivious to the Sandburg Charm. Jim knew enough about his partner to know that trait alone would cause the kid to take interest. She'd either hate him, date him or become a good friend by the time Blair was finished.

The Arlington Air Show was an annual event. Using the historic air strip south of the small farming community as its base of operations, attendees traveled from all over the state and a few out of state, to take part in the festivities. The dirt parking lot held a couple dozen cars and trucks. Jim parked near the colorful Ferris wheel being constructed and searched the grounds for the man matching Blair's description. He scanned the parking lot and found the Michigan license plate he'd seen two nights before. It belonged to a black SUV Trooper, years overdue for a trip to the car wash. He took Blair's arm and guided his partner so they walked by the vehicle.

"This the car you saw before?" Blair asked when Jim peered through the back window.

"Yep." Jim could see boxes of pamphlets advertising the man's business. An old time illustration of a carnival showed a rosy cheeked kid eating a cloud of cotton candy. The caption `Instant fun, Instant Rides, Memories that last Forever' scrolled below with an empty space beneath to allow the dates and locations to be hand stamped later. Empty cigarette cartons, pop bottles and a scattering of tools and greasy rags cluttered the back. The vehicle was locked up, window rolled up tightly against the earlier rainfall. "Let's find this guy and have a chat."

The total number of rides added up to half a dozen, with ancient looking semi trucks parked in the grassy field for transport. Rough looking characters that lacked the personal hygiene and wardrobe to work for the country clubs Jim used to visit with his father while growing up, worked setting up the rides. Thick ropes of electrical cables snaked through the shorn grass from boxy generators the size of truck beds to the rides. Other than a dwarfed version of a Ferris Wheel, the show had a merry-go-round, spin the cup and saucer, a contraption, named `Orbit', that twirled around sending the riders out and up in tiny spaceships through the use of centrifugal force. Another ride called the `Zipper' spun folks upside down while climbing up and over a vertical column.

Blair paused in front of the last ride, his brow wrinkled in thought. "What's this one do?"

A woman sporting a crew cut and forearms almost as large as Jim's appeared from behind a stack of sturdy looking steel poles. "It's not set up yet, sugar. When it is, it'll shoot ya to the sun."

Spotting a coil of heavy duty bungee cords on a large spool, Jim got the idea. "Human sling shots?"

She laughed, showing crooked teeth and a bad bridge. "Close enough, handsome. You two looking for a ride?"

Ignoring Blair's choking sounds, Jim pulled out his ID. "I'm looking for the owner, Brooksdale. He around?"

Like a pulled electrical cord, all signs of hospitality stopped. She glared at Jim, hostile and ready to tests her strength against him. Jim would rather fight a rabid dog with his bare hands. The woman looked like trouble.

"We're legal."

"Not saying you aren't. Where's Brooksdale?" It was time for posturing and Jim stood tall, keeping his arms loose like a fighter waiting for the first move.

Her green eyes narrowed with doubt. She jerked her chin toward the merry-go-round. "Office." Then she promptly dismissed them by turning away.

Hidden behind the ride she'd indicated, Jim could now see a medium-sized camping trailer. Compared to the rest of the museum-like equipment, this trailer was new. Blair offered a short thanks to the woman, but was ignored. Jim gently pushed the younger man toward the office. They'd be getting no more chit chat from anyone working here. Brooksdale probably hired all his freshly paroled prison buddies to work for him, no doubt a real convenience for the parole officers; one stop shopping.

Light rain started to fall as they crossed the grass to the office. Just as they reached the protection of the awning, the door opened and a gaunt looking man stepped down.

"Brooksdale?" Jim asked, drawing Blair back, out of range.

Brooksdale's eyes widened a fraction; otherwise he showed no sign of having been found out. He glanced at Blair then back to Jim. "Yeah?"

"Jim Ellison, Cascade Police." Still balanced on his toes, unwilling to trust this man not to run, Jim reached for his ID and flicked it open. "This is my roommate, Blair Sandburg. You spoke to him yesterday outside our home."

Jim sized up the carnival owner. His skin was too pale, face too hard; eyes too dead to any pleasure life had to offer him. Tall and thin, he looked somewhere in the high sixties, but Jim knew the Michigan police report placed him in his mid fifties. Large ears trapped greasy, brown strands of hair back from his face. "Nothing happened. I asked a question and left."

"The suicide," Jim said. "What do you know about that? You implied other incidents might happen. What did you mean?"

Brooksdale tensed and Jim knew the man was considering bolting. It was fight or flight time. He used his elbow to nudge Blair further behind him. His partner had moved in too close during the conversation. But to Jim's surprise, Brooksdale relaxed. He opened the door and turned. "Come in."

The trailer was a combination office and home. Neat and tidy, the small space didn't seem to match the worn out appearance of the man that lived there. A stench of old cigarette smoke clung to the walls and mini-blinds, making Jim's nose twitch. A foldout table held a small hanging file system that looked like payroll records and supply inventories. A fabric curtain secluded the back of the trailer from view. The man waved at a pair of fold out metal chairs that looked like he might use for interviewing the part time employees a place like this would need to operate.

Brooksdale dropped into an upholstered rocking chair. He waited for his two visitors to settle in before speaking. "If you're cops, then you know about my criminal record."

"I do." Jim offered no more information. He was here to ask questions and get answers, not the other way around.

"I served my time. That life is gone, dead like my wife." Brooksdale spoke with flat deliverance, dissolute and accepting.

Blair leaned forward. "Why were you asking about the boy that jumped?"

A spark of interest, of a driving passion emerged. Brooksdale's heart rate quickened. "You've had more in Cascade, right? At least one other death? A shooting?"

"Mr. Brooksdale, where were you when Stewart Torillini jumped from that roof?" Jim asked before Blair could respond.

The spark flickered, but refused to die. "I was here, interviewing about twenty local men and women. I need ticket sellers and personnel to run this place when we open tonight. You can check it out. I have the list." He leaned forward and picked up a paper from a plastic in-box on a window ledge behind the table. A small tabletop copy machine sat in the corner, the green light lit. He lifted the lid and laid the paper down on the glass. In a few seconds Jim was holding a copy. The names included addresses and phone numbers, instant alibi.

"I'm required to check in by phone once a week with my PO. You can talk to him if you want. I'm clean. I provide good, honest work for other cons that are recommended to me. My business is an open book. You can take a look anytime. I've nothing to hide." Brooksdale seemed almost disappointed as he spoke, as if Jim had somehow let him down.

With a sigh and a feeling he'd regret asking, Jim asked the question he knew Blair was dying to blurt out. "You know about the domestic violence homicide. You talk like the two cases are related. You hint that more deaths are going to happen. What aren't you telling us?"

But the carnival owner shook his head. "You wouldn't believe me."

"I could tell from the other night you care, that you don't want others to be hurt, to die," Blair jumped in. "Don't judge a cop by his bluster, man. Jim is very open. Tell us what's going on, please."

Jim was still pondering his partner's crack about cop bluster as Brooksdale seemed to weigh his options. The list in Jim's hand appeared real; more than likely this guy wasn't the person he'd heard on the roof of his building. Perhaps the chaplain had been right all along, perhaps Stewart had two personalities. But then how did Brooksdale figure in? Cop instinct told Jim this guy was somehow involved.

"You've read how my wife died, right?" Brooksdale pinned Jim with his steady gaze. He continued without confirmation. "The boating accident was attributed to drugs and alcohol, but the real reason for her death was never reported."

"If you're about to tell us you aren't responsible then why plead guilty and settle the civil suit out of court?" Jim asked.

"Because if I spend the rest of my life in a mental institute, how am I going to find the demon that killed my wife and took my life from me?" Brooksdale said calmly.

"Demon?" Blair echoed, confused.

"What do you know about spirits?" Brooksdale asked.

"Spirits," Jim said with sinking clarity. This guy was overdue for the mental ward. "What type of spirits?"

"Evil, destructive... the stuff folks tell their kids to scare them." Brooksdale crossed one leg over the other, as if to say, `See? I'm perfectly normal.' A nervous finger tic, the only telling sign the man was wound too tight. "I didn't believe it at first either. But I've seen it, hell, it's been inside me. This demon feeds on our fears and terror."

"Which demon is it?" Blair asked breathlessly, his entire body language a dry sponge slurping up the crap this nutcase was spewing.

Brooksdale turned to Blair, seeing an instant convert in his insanity. "I've traced this demon as far back as South Africa, but I'm not convinced that it originated there. It travels too easily in too many unaware hosts. When it finds a host with the proper insecurities it can convince that poor sod to commit actions they'd never normally consider doing. It goes so far as to dare them. And always manages to shift or relocate to a new host before his victim is destroyed. All I've ever seen is a shadow. It has no physical form that I can find. "

"I've heard similar stories in many cultures about -" Blair started, breathlessly.

"No!" Jim stood, cutting off all talk, refusing to sit and listen to anymore. "I'm not investigating the boogieman here. I have three incidents with a slim to no connections. Your actions the other night gave me cause to come and check you out. That's all. We're finished." Jim held up a palm to stop the reproach poised on Blair's lips. "Come on, Sandburg. We're out of here."

"You'll have more than three before this devil is finished with Cascade, Detective Ellison," Brooksdale said, rising to his feet.

"Jim, I really think -"

"I'll be calling these people," Jim stated, indicating the list in hand. "And talking to your PO. If you even jaywalk in my city I'll have you back in lockup before you can blink. You picking up what I'm laying down?"

"You're loud and clear," the carnival owner responded with resigned strength. "I hope for your sake my hunt takes me out of this area soon."

Jim nudged his friend ahead as he climbed down the metal steps to the grass. The rain had taken a brief recess, allowing them to walk back to the parking lot without becoming soaked. The silence between the two men was viscous, like dirty sludge from his truck's engine. Jim waited until they got the seatbelts buckled; staring absently at the carnival rides before them through the windshield, before plunging in.

"Sandburg, give me a break here."

"You didn't even listen. Man, you are such a..." Blair threw up his hands in frustration. "Cop! How closed minded can you be? Huh? You're a sentinel, damn it."

"What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

Blair pivoted in his seat, stabbing the space between them with his finger. "In some cultures, Jim, in earlier times, you'd have been burned at the stake for practicing witchcraft! You realize that? Killed because others, who didn't have the intelligence to stay open minded, would arbitrarily hang a label on what they refused to understand." Blair took a deep breath, shoulders sagging. "Shit, man. I'm disappointed in you."

Unfamiliar twinges of doubt caused Jim to keep from responding in anger. Yeah, he knew he pushed away things he didn't wish to ponder. He was perfectly aware he liked his life orderly. This was the way he was. But this demon business was too far out there for him. "Think this through, Blair. If this is a demon, and if this thing can jump around from person to person, then who brought it home to our building?"

Blair's color evaporated from his face like moisture from the Sahara in August. Eyes impossibly wide with horror, he froze for a second before gasping like an oxygen starved astronaut. "Oh... my... God."

"Chief?"

"It was me," Blair whispered. He tightly closed his eyes, face twisted.

With Jim's words still drifting through his thoughts like October's ground fog, Blair drove the dark country roads. The headlights of his Corvair lit up the wet, tall evergreens on each side of the asphalt, standing in a silent gauntlet. No other cars approached or followed. Blair liked that. It was fitting.

The demon had used him to get away from the street fight.

Used him to find that kid.

A kid.

A sign approached the headlight's range. Arlington was fifteen miles east if he took the next left turn. Jim would have a stroke. He was pretty sure his roommate was already pissed off. When they had arrived back at the loft earlier, Blair had walked over to his car and driven off without a word to his friend.

It had been rude. Blair knew that. But he had to be alone.

Checking the low gas gauge, he figured he had enough to get to the air show and talk to Brooksdale again.

Half an hour later, Blair wandered the grassy grounds, meandering between the brightly lit up, garish rides. Packs of teenagers laughed as they called to each other, drinking from large cups, eating greasy snacks that turned Blair's stomach. A few families were still out, although they looked as if they were getting ready to head back to the parking lot. The size of the carnival wasn't that large, nothing like the stuff Blair had seen at state fairs, but it seemed to attract a good-sized group.

"Mr. Sandburg?"

Blair turned, seeing Brooksdale standing by a booth selling tickets. "Hey." Blair looked around, suddenly wondering if this had been a good idea. The place was thick with people. "Can we talk?"

The ex-con silently led the way to his trailer, closing the door and cutting off a significant amount of noise as he waved a hand toward a chair. The curtain was pulled back and Blair could see the rest of the home. A clean kitchenette, no personal mementos or decorations, a pair of worn slippers rested on the floor next to a twin-sized bed. A door off to the side must open to a postage-size bathroom.

"What are you doing here?" Brooksdale asked, standing a second before sinking down into his chair. "Where's Ellison?"

"Home, I guess." Blair tilted his head, a half smirk escaping.

"So... he doesn't know you're here?"

"No." Blair straightened. "I had some questions of my own."

"I see." Brooksdale paused, like a man caught in a dilemma.

A bit of indignation rose. "Hey, listen, man. I'm not a kid. Jim's not my keeper. I'm a scientist and, if it's okay, I'd like to ask you more questions about this demon. I think it used me to get into our building."

Brooksdale looked startled, leaning forward to study Blair like a bug pinned to a board. "Followed you? Did you see it? Did it speak to you?"

Now that Blair had an attentive audience, a believing listener, he found the words stuck in his throat. Painfully, he told the man what had happened. Brooksdale didn't interrupt or give the impression of disgust. Blair was thankful when he had finished. He felt drained and oddly emotional.

Brooksdale seemed to understand. "Let me explain how the demon works. It taunts, it teases, it feeds on our darker emotions; fear, hate, lust, pride... you name it. The demon needs it to survive, to grow stronger. It takes a lot of energy for it to jump from body to body. You obviously don't let any dark emotion control your life, kid. Or you'd have been taken over, instead of it just tagging along. It can only do that for so long."

Blair rubbed his head. "I can't believe it was in my room. It freaks me out."

"Yeah, I know. I've done a lot of searching and evil has a definite shape. Demons are as real as you and me." Brooksdale stood, going over to a low, handmade bookshelf filled with battered hardbacks. He selected one and set it on the tiny table, taking a seat at Blair's side. "Demons are believed to interfere in one of two ways with their victims. They can cause an obsession, this one likes to dare them into destructive acts. The second is actual possession in which the devil physically takes over the human body."

The book looked old, pages yellow and brittle like burnt egg shells, ready to crumble. Brooksdale turned to a page filed with hand sketched drawings. Hideous creatures that walked on jointed legs and wings sharp with horns sprouting from their scaly backs. Their victims lay like fallen leaves at their feet, mangled and torn. Blair felt a shudder traverse his spine. "Puts a whole new meaning to the term `dare devil'," he muttered.

"No kidding. It literally feeds on our bodies, like the parasites it leaves behind," Brooksdale explained, closing and returning the book.

Blair caught a few more titles on the shelves; noting the titles on the spines; `New rules set to purge Satan: first update to exorcism ritual since 1614'; `Handbook about Demon Possession for Human Service Workers'; `Possession, multiple-personality disorder'. He shook his head. "So, how do we fight this thing?" He waved a hand toward the books, "Any of that stuff help?"

With a wry smile, Brooksdale shrugged. "Spending several years in prison gave me time to think. Some of this helps. But no... that stuff isn't what I was looking for. Basically, I realized if I was going to destroy this demon, I needed help, needed to learn control. The battle isn't mine. I'm just a tool."

Jim woke with the same migraine that he'd gone to sleep with. How did the old joke go? If you wake up with a headache, get rid of her? `And I'm not even married anymore,' he mused silently as he downed aspirin with a swallow of black coffee. It was early, predawn yet Jim's body refused to sleep anymore. The headache had started when he'd gone back to work after dropping Blair off at Rainier yesterday. The theory of a demon who jumped from host to host should have been easy to disprove, or so he had thought. But it turned out the woman who had originally shot her husband was booked into Cascade's city jail the same time one of the gang members was bailed out by his girlfriend. Allegedly, the imaginary demon had then jumped into Blair after the street fight and then slipped through the loft's floor into the teenager during the night.

Bullshit. Jim refused to believe it.

He eyed Blair's closed doors with regret. Why had he blurted that stupid comment yesterday? His friend had immediately taken the words to heart and now blamed himself for their neighbor's death. After delivering a bowl of fresh fruit to the couple last night, Blair had returned to the loft, told Jim about the floor plan below - apparently the teenager's room was directly below his roommate's - and left without divulging his plans. Jim was still awake when he'd returned at five after one in the morning. Jim had then fallen asleep to the sounds of pages being turned in the room underneath his.

It didn't take a Blair-interpreter to know Jim was still in deep shit with the younger man.

Outside the row of windows, hints of color streaked the cloudless sky. The day promised a parting taste of summer with warm temperatures and mild winds. Earlier in the week, when Blair had been speaking to him, they had made plans to hike up to the North Cascades for some fly fishing; enjoy a final trip together before the fishing season closed in the rivers. Now Jim wasn't even sure Blair would still be his roommate by the end of the weekend.

"Hey." Blair emerged from his room. Dark circles under his bloodshot eyes and rumpled clothes, told of a night without sleep.

"You're up early," Jim said. "You okay?"

One shoulder lifted a fraction. "Yeah, I'm fine." He collapsed into a kitchen chair, one elbow braced on the table top, his fingers raking into his mussed hair until his palm supported his weary head.

Jim poured a second cup of coffee and placed it like a peace offering before his roommate.

Blair looked at it for a second, then offered a faint smile before snagging it with his free hand. He blew across the dark liquid's surface and took a sip. With an approving grunt, he closed his eyes and took another.

Jim felt his gut unclench. They were okay again. Blair would offer some convoluted theory on how sentinels must be hardwired to trust their senses first and supernatural hocus pocus second. Then he'd go on about how he should have known and how he'd reacted all wrong, thereby taking the responsibility...

No. Jim wasn't going to let that happen this time.

"Sandburg, about yesterday. I probably should have let Brooksdale finish. And I probably shouldn't have dragged you out of his trailer." Jim sat down, pulled a face. "God, Chief, I never should have implied you were responsible for any of these deaths."

Eyes opening fully in surprise, Blair straightened in his chair. "Wow, man," he whispered softly. "Just when I think I've gotten Jim Ellison pegged."

Jim feigned intimidation. "Careful, junior."

Blair grinned, an effect that did wonders to his appearance, gone was the half-dead look of a man without sleep. Now he was just a man with little sleep. "While we're confessing..." Blair wrapped both hands around his coffee mug and gave the beverage his full attention. "I went back to Arlington last night and talked to Brooksdale." He looked up at Jim, expectantly.

"Not funny, Sandburg," Jim growled.

"Not joking, Ellison." Blair leaned forward. "The guy made a lot of sense. Did you know the Navaho have a belief that a man, a good man, can become filled with a dark wind? Like an evil spirit, it possesses, making him do things and think things that he normally wouldn't do. And in South Africa? The Zar Baads; they're winds too. An individual said to be afflicted by one makes possessed gestures and speaks in languages known only to the tribe's shamans. That's just two cultures, Jim, there are dozens and dozens. All this folklore is out there, some of it must be based on a seed of fact."

The migraine graduated up to brain aneurysm level, pounding away at Jim's skull, beating him into submission. "You went back, alone, and interviewed a convicted murderer... alone."

Briefly rolling his eyes, Blair sighed. "He served his time."

"Alone," Jim echoed. "Without me."

Blair hunched over his coffee, eyes focused on the table top. "I needed to be alone, to think about stuff. I didn't intend to go there at first. The car just started out that way."

What good would it do to yell? Jim remembered having a similar discussion with his friend after finding out he'd gone back to Club Doom during the Lash case. Blair did what Blair did. He simply did not seem to possess the ability to keep his own personal safety high on his list of priorities. It only strengthened his own vow to keep Blair safe.

"What did he say?" Jim asked, capitulating.

"He talked about how his wife died," Blair said. "It was so sad, man. They had a bunch of guests on this big boat and everyone was doing cocaine. They got into a big fight about stuff, I guess she was going to divorce him and all their friends knew it." Blair paused, cocking his head to the side. "I don't get how people can have all that money and stuff, and still hate their life, ya know?"

"Money brings problems all its own, Sandburg," Jim commented, his mind remembering his own childhood and fights he overheard his parents having. "The report said he pushed her overboard and didn't order the boat to stop and go back."

Blair gently rotated his ceramic mug on the table top, eyes still down. "He said she dared him to jump, then tried to push him in but fell in herself." Blair looked up at Jim. "He said the demon leapt into him then. He could sense its evil and it convinced him to leave her behind."

"Blair," Jim said softly, leaning forward. "They were high on drugs. It was nothing more than that. There is no demon or devil."

"But I felt it too, Jim," Blair explained. "I even saw its shadow. It dared me to sneak up to your bedroom."

"And do what?" Jim asked in mild shock.

"Just wake you up." A smile appeared and Blair scratched his nose.

Jim found himself smiling as well. "Ooh, scary."

That produced a chuckle. "My point is this. Brooksdale says he believed this thing thrives on hosts that are troubled, insecure and unhappy. I am apparently none of the above." Blair sobered. "That's probably when it went below. Brooksdale said it can travel up to fifty feet to get a new host."

"See?" Jim slapped the table. "Where does he get this stuff, Sandburg? It's ridiculous!"

"There's one way to find out, Jim. Let's figure out who the demon took next."

Blair knew this was not how Jim planned on spending his day off. They parked in the underground garage used by the employees of Cascade police department. Without the regular, non-commissioned support staff that worked weekdays, available parking was plentiful. They found the patrol division manned with the duty sergeant who checked the duty schedule upon Jim asking if the female officer he'd met on his roof was on duty.

"Yes," the sergeant answered. "Officer Lorena Baker is patrolling the east side today."

Jim pursed his lips. "Could you contact her? Ask her to meet us at Tully's Coffee shop on Mountainridge and Seneca in twenty?"

"Sure, this about a case you're working on?" The man reached for his phone.

"I'm not sure yet, could be," Jim answered.

When they arrived at the coffee shop, Blair's first impression of Officer Baker was favorable. She was tall and wiry with an easy smile and sun-burned cheeks. She and her partner, a shorter man with graying temples, had a corner table, both sitting with a view of the front door. Jim led the way, pulling out the wooden chair and taking a seat when invited. Blair followed suit, aware of the double take both officers gave him.

"Detective, what's up?" Baker asked, stirring a yellow package of artificial sweetener into her cup of tea.

"This is Blair Sandburg," Jim said quickly.

"Nice to meet you," she nodded, then introduced her partner. "Pete Yale."

To Blair's surprise, Officer Yale extended his hand to him in greeting, his handshake firm. "You're the guy that Kincaid snatched, right? In the helicopter?"

"Yeah," Blair answered, glancing at Jim. "My first day, actually."

"I hear you brought the bastard back with a flare gun." Yale looked at Jim. "And you were hanging off the skid. Too bad that nutcase didn't fall to his death. His men killed my partner."

Blair remembered that incident in the parking garage where Jim had smelled blood. If only he hadn't dismissed it as a minor cut, things might have turned out differently. His face burned with shame. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah." Yale's knuckles whitened on his coffee mug.

"Where's your rookie partner today?" Jim asked Baker.

"Guess that suicide call was too much for him," she answered, forehead creased with concern. "The chaplain's been out to see him a couple of times. He's had to take some personal time to deal. His first jumper."

"What about you. Any problems?" Jim pressed.

She seemed surprised at the question. "No," she drawled. "It's sad and all, but life goes on."

Jim nodded in agreement.

"Is that why you called for the meet?" she asked Jim. "Is there more than what we're seeing?"

"Blair talked to the family," Jim answered smoothly. "They just wanted to thank us, for trying to stop him, I guess. We promised to pass the word on personally."

All in all, Blair was impressed with Jim's answer. Baker's smile was sad, but genuine. "Thanks."

Later, when they were back in the truck, Blair couldn't help but think about all the fallout that police officers must have to deal with, responding to calls that went bad or when, no matter what they did, tragedy occurred. How do they manage to keep it together? No wonder their divorce rates were high. Jim and Carolyn never had a chance.

"We're really going to check on her rookie partner?" Blair asked, seeing Jim wasn't heading back to the loft.

"We might as well," Jim answered. "Sounds like he's having a hard time."

Was Jim suspecting the demon or just worried about a fellow officer? Either way, Blair was glad. Remembering how Baker had perked up after Jim's comment, brought a smile to his face. It was true; the family had told Blair that they appreciated all that the police tried to do for their son. And he had told that to Jim. The police chaplain had stayed with them for most of that day, explaining police procedures and what they could expect.

Before he knew it, they were parked in front of the address Officer Baker had given them. Her new partner, Officer Bob Kelly, lived with his girlfriend in a modest, single-story rambler in a new housing development. Green lawns and pristine sidewalks formed a grid work of rectangles down each side of the street. The houses were stamped from the same contractor's blue prints, just reversed in mirror images to break up the mundaneness. Small trees, still supported on each side by stakes, promised a future of shady places to sit and watch life drive by.

Jim rang the doorbell just as a woman's scream shattered the Saturday morning tranquility. The hairs on the back of Blair's neck stood straight. Jim's hand flashed, his gun suddenly appearing as he pushed Blair off center from the door's direct view. Jim ducked to the other side while his left hand reached out to try the knob. The door was locked.

"Cascade police!" Jim yelled as the scream ended.

Pressed up against the house's siding, hemmed in on one side by a picture window and the other by the doorway, Blair did his best to keep his knees from knocking together.

The sharp report of a single gunshot from within the house sounded the same instant the window to Blair's left side shattered. Without thinking, Blair slid down the wall, his butt hitting the heels of his sneakers, the stitches in his right calf pulling painfully. He pressed back against the siding, looked up at Jim for direction: stay or run for the truck?

Reaching into his jacket, Jim pulled out his cell phone, caught Blair's eye and tossed it to him. Blair caught it with both hands. Jim pointed to the truck, but mouthed the word `wait'. By the tilt of the sentinel's head, Blair knew he was listening to whatever was happening inside. A few seconds later, he nodded.

"Go, Chief. Call for back up."

Blair pushed off, sprinting for the truck. He hated leaving Jim behind, but knew trained backup was the best way to protect his friend right now. Hopefully, Jim wasn't going to try anything until they showed up. The slip of paper Baker had written her partner's address down on was still on the dash. Blair made the call, telling the dispatcher their location, that Jim needed help, that a gunshot had already been fired from within and that a woman had screamed.

The dispatcher promised to send all available units. Blair stayed on the line, watching Jim standing alone next to the front door. A heavyset man from the house next door ventured outside, looking toward Kelly's house. Jim saw him and waved his arm in a wide arc. Blair made the same gesture and the neighbor caught the clues and disappeared back inside his own home.

When Blair looked back, Jim was moving toward the corner of the house, crouching under the windows. "No, Jim," Blair muttered. He wanted the cop where he could watch him, where he could be certain he was okay.

Reaching the corner of the house, Jim spared a second to look back at his truck. He made another hand gesture before slipping around the side and out of sight.

"Great," Blair whispered. "I've just been told to sit and stay. Woof."

Two heartbeats inside the house.

Jim edged along the house's side. A fence was in the process of being constructed to hem in the back yard. Thankfully, it hadn't reached the house so Jim was able to slip around the corner to where a concrete patio held a beat up set of lawn furniture. A sliding glass door was open a few inches and he knew he had a way into the house.

A woman's sobs made for an eerie backdrop to a low conversation between Kelly and another man, the voice deep and guttural. Jim paused, his mind working to remember where he'd heard that voice before. He had it. On the roof, this was the same man that had dared the kid to jump. Jim smiled, feeling like a hunter about to catch his prey. He slipped into a breakfast nook and followed the sounds past a yellow and black kitchen and down a hallway toward a master bedroom. The stench of rotten meat hit, nearly causing his eyes to tear. He cranked his dial for smell down.

The sounds were louder now.

"I dare you... kill her."

"No."

"She's worthless, she's cheating on you."

The woman cried heartbrokenly.

Jim held his gun ready, debating the options of bursting into the room or announcing his presence.

He heard the familiar click of a gun hammer being drawn back and made his choice. Using his foot, he crashed the door open. It bounced hard off the wall. Jim moved fast, dropping low and entering with gun drawn and pointed. His brain took in the scene in a split second.

The woman, a young brunette, hunkered nude in a corner, pressed up against a high dresser. Officer Kelly was dressed in just his boxers. His face was red as if from exertion. He held his service gun in a quaking hand. The barrel was pointed at the woman but as Jim entered, it swung. Jim had expected that, but he hadn't expected the gun to swing up and point at Kelly's own mouth.

"No!" Jim shouted, watching the tip of the gun disappear past Kelly's lips.

A dark shadow morphed from Kelly, like a rat from a sinking ship.

As Jim watched, trying to understand the data his eyes sent to his brain, the shadow wavered and moved away from Kelly just as the trigger was pulled all the way back.

Jim never heard the gun go off. He struggled to define the shadow. He cranked his vision dial up and promptly fell into a zone.

The second sound of gunfire nearly catapulted Blair out of the truck and back into the house. Yeah, he didn't have a gun and he wasn't a cop, but Jim was inside without back up and he was not going to sit around doing nothing. But the timely arrival of two police cars kept the observer from running back down the driveway. Still it was harrowing to watch and wonder while the two officers advanced on the house. Guns drawn; they took up positions on each side of the front door. More police cars screeched to a stop in the sleepy, unassuming new neighborhood and Blair absentmindedly wondered what the neighbors must be thinking. It appeared Cascade's entire police force had arrived, shattering their quiet Saturday morning.

Movement caught Blair's eye. Jim emerged, standing in the front doorway, one arm around what appeared to be a hysterical young woman. Blair couldn't hear what was being said, but Jim spoke to the officers, who then went inside the house. Jim led the barefoot woman dressed in a robe down the concrete walkway to the asphalt driveway and toward the first police car.

"Jim!" Blair called out, terminating the phone call with the dispatcher and jogging over to his friend.

Opening the rear door and gently setting the sobbing woman inside, Jim acknowledged the younger man with a jerk of his chin toward the woman. "Take care of her, Sandburg."

"What happened?" Blair whispered as he slipped in close.

Jim patted his shoulder, looking exhausted. "Kelly killed himself," he whispered back. "I'll be inside."

Blair crouched down, ignoring the sharp pain that caused in his leg. Looking a few years younger than him, the woman hid her face in her hands. "Hey, my name's Blair. Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?"

She shook her head, making a supreme effort to calm down. "N-no. Bob didn't h-hurt me." She shuddered, lifting her tear ravaged face. "He's been depressed before, but nothing like... He wasn't himself. H-he was possessed, I swear!"

"I believe you," Blair assured her, placing a hand on her forearm. He stood, leaning over and spotting a box of tissues in the front seat. "Hold on a sec." Taking the box, he moved back to her side and held it out. She took several and scrubbed her eyes angrily.

"I don't get it. What the hell happened?" She pounded the back of the seat with her fist. "Goddamn it! We were supposed to get married next month." She broke into fresh sobs that shook her frame.

Blair rocked back on his heels. Anger was not so unusual during times like this, but he remembered what Brooksdale had told him. This demon needed an out and he would have taken it before the officer had killed himself. The woman before him now had it. Did she know?

The place was thick with blue uniforms now. Two officers appeared at Blair's side. He gladly gave up his spot, watching from the edge of the driveway, keeping one eye out for Jim's reappearance. Picking up his cell phone, he pulled out his wallet and found the slip of paper with Brooksdale's cell phone number.

The man had been chasing this demon for years. Hopefully the guy had a plan on how to get rid of it forever.

But before the carnie owner could arrive, the woman was being bundled up to be transported away. A female police officer had arrived. Clothes had been retrieved from inside the house. The woman was allowed to change clothes in the garage with the woman cop to assist her. Now she was being taken away to someplace unknown.

Blair chewed his lower lip, his gaze searching the road in both directions. Where was Brooksdale?

She was being gently tucked away into the back seat of the sergeant's car now. Blair jogged over to where Jim stood with other uniformed police officers. "Jim!" He bobbed his head to acknowledge his interruption. "Sorry, sorry. Jim? Can I talk to you, man? It's important." He tugged the taller man away from the cops. "You gotta do something. They're taking her away."

"What are you talking about?" With Blair pointing, Jim looked over to Kelly's now ex-fianc as she tucked her jean-clad legs into the car.

"You've got to keep her here a few more minutes." Blair leaned forward, his mouth close to Jim's earlobe. "The demon, Jim. The demon's got to be inside her. It's getting away."

No one did exasperation as well as James Ellison. Taking Blair by the arm, he towed the observer further away from the others, as if afraid Blair's excited utterances would be overheard. "Sandburg, get a grip. There is no demon. We've just got a stressed-out cop that made a really bad choice."

"Jim, you've got -"

"Listen to me," Jim whispered harshly, hand slicing the air between them with finality. "Drop this, okay? Even if I did believe you - and I don't - how the hell would I explain it to anyone? Do you want to see me standing in the unemployment line?"

The car with the woman inside was pulling away from the curb. Blair ground his teeth with frustration, but he kept quiet. Jim nodded once and patted his arm before releasing him.

Blair dropped into the sofa, exhausted and nursing a headache. He let his head fall back against the cushions and closed his eyes, his brain barely acknowledging the sounds of Jim locking their front door. The meticulous details recorded, photographed and sketched in a crime scene investigation never ceased to amaze Blair. Maybe it was because a police officer had died. Blair sadly recalled the events after Jim's friend, Danny, had been gunned down right in front of them. What a nightmare that day had been. Not that today was much better.

"How did Brooksdale get there?" Jim asked from the kitchen.

Blair heard glass bottles clinking and knew a cool beer was about to be delivered. Exactly what the doctor ordered. "I called him," Blair answered. "That's why I wanted you to hold her there longer, Jim." Blair frowned, remembering having to explain to the ex-con that the demon was gone. Brooksdale had seemed confident he could find her.

"Why?" Jim entered the sitting area and dropped into the chair. He took a long drink from the lone beer in his hand.

Staring resentfully at Jim's beer, Blair pushed off the cushions to help himself. "To catch the demon."

"You still harping on that subject, Sandburg?"

Blair stopped, turning in disbelief. "Earth to Jim. Newsflash, man, why else would a guy, starting a new career, off himself? Kelly was getting married. He had a new house. Everything was falling into place for him. Of course the demon made him do it. What's it going to take to get you to believe?"

Jim dragged a palm down his face. "You realize how stupid that sounds, right?"

Blair leaned on the open refrigerator door. They were out of beer, no wonder Jim hadn't offered him one. In fact, they were low on quite a few groceries. Blair snagged a bottled water and closed the door. Thankfully they'd hit a drive through on the way home. Fixing a creative dinner based on what they had on hand was unthinkable at the moment. In fact, it looked doubtful they had enough for breakfast.

"I'm too tired to argue with you, Jim," Blair said wearily, turning for his room. He had schoolwork to finish. "See you in the morning."

The stack of books still waited, unread, on the edge of his desk. Monday was Labor Day and he wondered if he'd have time to wade through all the work he'd foolishly told himself he could handle this term. Riding with Jim was going to involve more than just burning the candle at both ends. He grabbed a text book off the top and settled in to read for a few hours. Out in the loft, he could hear Jim moving about. As the minutes stretched into hours, Blair's body grew stiff... and cold.

"Jeeze, what's with the heat?" He pushed his book aside and closed his notebook. Opening his door brought cold, brisk night air rushing into his room. "Jim? Give me a break, I'm freezing." He could see the solid silhouette of his roommate on the balcony, at the same time noticing the balcony door standing wide open. "No wonder."

On his way to close the door, his cell phone rang. Blair detoured to snap it up from the charger. "This is Blair."

"Hello, Blair? This is Brooksdale."

"Hey, how'd it-"

A numbing pain exploded up Blair's right wrist. The cell phone was wrenched away and thrown to the hardwood floor where a heavy heel smashed it into a splintered mess of plastic and wires. Incredulously enough, the foot was attached to the leg of Jim Ellison.

"JIM!" Blair shouted, cradling his injured arm to his chest.

Jim struck again. A stinging slap to Blair's face was quickly followed by a solid fist sunk deeply into his gut that folded him in half.

Blair dropped to his knees like a truck-load of granite.

Air was unattainable.

Blair had forgotten how to inflate his lungs.

All logic left the room. A brutal kick sent Blair rolling on his side, then he was dragged along the floor by one arm toward the center column next to the kitchen table and dropped. His cheek smacked the floor while his lungs still labored to pull in oxygen. Talking was impossible, unthinkable. Icy panic hit.

Blair just wanted to breathe.

Abruptly, like a gear shift slammed into low, everything worked again. Blair sucked air and traces of dirt off the floor, the rush of wind loud in his own ears. Blair felt Jim's close proximity as his injured wrist was caught and twisted.

"Auugghhhh." Blair kicked out with one leg, too stunned yet to put up any real fight. "Shit! Stop it, man!"

Arm twisted backwards, Blair was forced to sit upright; a fistful of his shirt, a convenient handle. His non-injured hand was grabbed. Before he could suck in another pain-filled lungful of air, he was cuffed, arms behind him, circling the column. Then Jim squatted on his heels in front of his prisoner, a broad grin plastered across his face.

"I dare you to scream," Jim challenged.

For a second time in a few seconds, all the air collapsed from Blair's lungs, only this time it had nothing to do with being punched. Blair's mind focused on the interrupted phone call. He knew what the ex-con had wanted to say. The demon hadn't jumped into the rookie's girlfriend.

It was in Jim.

"Wha...you..." Blair's mind couldn't lock down a single thought and for once his mouth wouldn't engage.

Jim laughed. "If I'd known this would shut you up, I would have done it months ago, Chief."

A slow burn started low in Blair's toes, rising up and filling his entire body, boiling into anger. "Unlock these cuffs, Jim."

"Ohhh," Jim responded, mocking fear with raised hands. "He's making demands now!" Icy blue eyes narrowed. "Or what, tough guy?"

Blair considered his options. He needed help. Jim needed help. This demon left nothing but dead bodies in his wake and Blair wasn't volunteering to be next. More importantly, he didn't want Jim hurt or killed. Brooksdale would know what to do, but would he realize Jim had terminated the call? As far as the man knew, it could have been just a lost signal.

Wait a minute; did the demon have Jim's memories? He must, he called him `Chief' and that was a nickname only Jim used. On the other hand -

Another slap broke Blair's concentration and nearly a tooth. Jim was hitting him with an open palm, but hard. Blair's eyes filled with involuntary tears as his cheek continued to sting.

"I'm not boring you, am I?" Jim asked, eyes hard and smile false.

"What do you want, Jim?" Blair asked. There was no reason to show all his cards yet. "If this is some new macho cop game, I don't want to play. If you wanted me to move out, just tell me. I'm like so gone."

Jim tilted his head as if in thought. Then his eyes narrowed. "Nice try, kid." Up until now it had been Jim talking. Now the demon spoke, his voice deep and gravelly. "But I know you know that I'm not Jim. And you're still too young to know what you are, aren't you? Perfect. It's truly my lucky day."

Blair's skin crawled, the effect was that creepy. Jerking his head back when Jim neared, Blair smacked it on the post. Jim was so close now he half expected to be kissed. God, it was too much. Blair twisted his face away and shuddered as Jim's tongue obscenely lapped his cheek.

Jim smacked his lips and grinned. "What to do with you?" the demon muttered softly to itself.

Every joint hurt, even his jaw.

Blair watched the morning sunbeams creep inch by inch across the wall as it slanted in from the skylight above Jim's bed. He was still cuffed to the post with a kitchen washrag crammed into his mouth and tied in place with a strip of torn T-shirt the demon had stolen from his bedroom. The night had been long and freezingly cold, thanks to the open door to the balcony. Apparently demons liked cold temperatures.

A creaking bedspring overhead warned the helpless man that round two was coming.

Blair tucked his knees in closely to his chest. He wasn't ashamed to admit he was terrified. The possibilities were endless and all of them led to more pain. At least his wrist had stopped throbbing, or maybe both his arms had gone to sleep.

Footsteps on the stairs, Blair closed his eyes and waited.

"Sandburg?"

God, that sounded like the old Jim. Had the demon left?

"What the hell!"

Jim was at his side, kneeling as fingers pulled on the knotted cloth. Blair turned to get a good look. Yeah, this was Jim and he looked pissed. Jim grimaced when he lost his patience with the knot and pulled the gag down, taking a few strands of Blair's hair along for the ride. Blair didn't care, the washrag was out.

A groan escaped as his tortured jaw tried to close.

Jim was cursing the handcuffs. "Who did this? Damn it! I never heard a thing. What's happening? Where's the damn key?"

"Jhhim," Blair slurred. Movement meant pain, but the situation was too critical. "Get phone. Call... Brooksdale."

"Why? What happened?" Jim paused, cupping Blair's face with his hands. "Who was here? What do you know?"

That last question bounced around in Blair's brain, setting off four-alarm fire bells. He had no evidence to believe Jim would not recall the demon's actions. In fact, Brooksdale had told of just the opposite. The ex-con had a clear memory of being possessed. The truth felt all too much like one of Jim's face slaps. Jim should know exactly what happened. The demon wanted information from him. This was probably the only reason Blair was still alive.

`Nice try, demon scum,' Blair thought. `Almost had me.'

"Brooksdale will know what to do. Maybe where it's gone next," Blair answered out loud.

Jim studied him, like a puzzle that needed solving. "Where what's gone next?"

Okay, okay. Time to act like a guy that's cold and sore and tired of being cuffed to a post all night. Actually, not too hard of a part to play. "Jim! Man, uncuff me, okay? I'm seriously in pain here and I gotta pee." He held his breath, would the demon buy it?

Standing slowly, Jim walked over to the table and returned. Blair's injured wrist was released first. It felt thick and stiff and moving his arm was torture. He got a good look at the damage. Oh yeah, his wrist was swollen. A red wring marked it where the cuff had restricted its swelling. Standing up involved a lot of grunting and pushing, but he managed it. Jim watched from a few feet away, face a blank slate of emotion, further proof to Blair he was still dealing with the demon.

Pointing to the bathroom, Blair shuffled along like an old man. "Pee first, talk later. Be right out."

Closing the door brought some sense of safety. Blair locked it and leaned against the sink a minute to get his body to stop shaking. The mirror had some pathetic looking guy with a white face, bruised cheek and wild looking hair staring back at him. Blair ignored the sight and lifted the lid while fumbling to open his jeans. After taking care of his bladder, he washed up and took inventory.

He could move his fingers, so he was looking at only a bad strain or was that a sprain? The difference eluded him. His stomach muscles were tender and it hurt to twist. Splashing water on his face, he took a few minutes to brush his teeth and awkwardly comb his hair back into a ponytail. Then, with nothing left to do, he looked at the door.

He so did not want to go back out there.

"Sandburg?" Jim's voice called.

Blair steeled himself and opened the door.

Jim stood by the column, still wearing his robe and watching Blair like a hawk watched a field mouse. Self-consciously rubbing his wrist, Blair licked his lips, eyes darting to the cordless phone. Should he risk a call? Who? Simon or Brooksdale?

"So talk," Jim ordered, crossing his arms over his chest.

With his hair spiky and stubble on his face, Blair almost believed he was dealing with just Jim Ellison. If only. "Okay, don't freak or anything, but you were possessed last night and knocked me around. Then cuffed me to the post." When Blair moved for the cordless, Jim subtly blocked him with his body. Blair detoured toward the balcony. He was freezing and that door needed to be shut.

"Possessed by what? You went and talked to Brooksdale alone. What did he tell you?" Jim asked.

Blair didn't want to talk about that. He closed the door, rubbing his arms briskly. "Let's call Simon."

"No."

"Jim, we need help." Blair made another move toward the phone and found Jim in the way again.

"What did he tell you?" Jim repeated. A knowing look accompanied by a ghost of a smile spelled danger, the pretending was about to end.

Blair ran for the loft's door. Had the chain been unlatched, he would have stood a chance, instead Jim hit him hard from behind and Blair was smashed face first into the door with Jim pressed against his back. A hand clapped over his mouth, cutting off any call for help.

"You're pretty smart, kid," Jim whispered. "How'd you know? Huh? Did Brooksdale tell you I can't jump out of a new body within twenty-four hours?"

Blair tried elbowing Jim in the stomach but the bigger man was too close. Blair couldn't budge. Jim's breath was hot on the side of his face. He listened to the demon talk. If he couldn't escape, he could at least learn whatever he could.

"Not that I want to leave this one. I like it too much. I haven't had a warrior like this in decades. And he's such a baby with his talents. It was easy to take him. He freezes up on the littlest of things." Jim leaned down, whispering into Blair's ear.

Blair suppressed a moan. Jim had fallen into a zone, giving the demon a chance to fully possess him. Was Jim still in a zone? Did he even know what was happening? He cursed himself for not working harder on Jim's senses, on making him more resistant. If they survived, Blair would never let Jim talk him out of a test, ever.

"This is what we're going to do," the demon said with Jim's voice. "You're going to stop trying to run away. You're not yelling for help. Or I'll kill you now and your Jim will have to live with the fact he murdered his best friend. Understand?"

Blair nodded. Jim's hands shifted to take handfuls of Blair's collar and yank him away from the door, spinning him around. Blair raised his hands, ready to block another blow but found himself hurled gracelessly toward the sofa. When he stumbled against the wooden box against its back, Jim backhanded him, effectively cartwheeling him over to land in a sprawl on the rug. Two large fists lifted him up and tossed him back on the sofa.

Face numb from the stinging slaps, Blair wiped a trickle of blood from his lip and watched Jim move away from the sofa to the center of the room. "What are you?"

Standing proudly, the demon struck a pose, fists on his hips and spine straight. "I am."

"Right." Blair snorted. He was fed up with being shoved around. The demon was arrogant and Blair intended to find a way to use that fact against it. "What do you want?"

That produced a short burst of laugher from the demon. "I never get to have these conversations much anymore. Humans usually get all tongue tied around me." He pointed at Blair. "You're different. I'm going to keep you around for a while. You help the warrior, don't you? With his ability? Is that why he's so inexperienced with them? You're not very good."

This was become annoying. Blair felt his pride become trodden. "Look, dude. We just met, okay? Jim's senses just came on -"

Crap, what was he doing? Blair snapped his jaw shut and glared at his roommate, who was grinning broadly.

Before either of them could say another word, the phone rang. Blair pivoted, leaping one handedly over the back of the sofa to snatch up the phone before the demon could stop him. One thing learned, Blair decided as fingers entangled his long hair, threatening to rip his scalp from his head, being possessed by a demon didn't seem to slow Jim down very much. Blair's cry of outrage and pain was cut short. Jim made it look so easy, one hand in his hair, the other gripping his throat and squeezing. Blair was bent backward as Jim's face loomed over his. The smile was pure evil and Blair closed his eyes.

The phone continued to ring.

"I'm happy with just the two of us right now, don't spoil it for me," Jim ordered.

The answering phone kicked in and a woman's voice spoke after the canned speech from Jim announced to leave a message. "Hi, Blair. This is Brenda. Call me, okay?"

Breathing was becoming a chore. Both of his hands on Jim's arm weren't breaking the punishing hold. If Blair could speak, he'd remind the demon of his plan to keep him alive. Just as dark spots appeared along the edges of his vision, Jim released his throat and raised a fist high. Blair had just enough time to wheeze a cough and strangle out a limp protest before it struck.

Unconsciousness flirted with Blair's mind as the pain exploded across his face, leaving a numbness in its place. He landed hard on the floor between the sofa and coffee table. Jim's slippered feet walked by and then blackness descended.

We have a dust bunny.

It occurred to Blair that he'd never seen a dust bunny in the loft. He wondered about it. There were so many wonders pressed into his brain that his skull threatened to explode; like, for instance, how it was possible to see this bunny because they normally live on the floor, so that must mean he was face down on the rug, which would explain why it hurt. Noses didn't like being pressed into hardwood floors much, even with a rug. He wondered about his nose and how it became smashed into the floor.

The floor was shaking, like when he'd gone to see Jurassic Park in the theaters and the seats shook when the dinosaurs walked. Blair wanted to giggle. He was worried about a stupid dust bunny when a dinosaur was trekking through the loft.

"We need to come to an understanding, Sandburg," Jim's voice boomed somewhere in the air above.

The sound of something heavy being moved sounded at the same time that the pressure on Blair's shoulders and the back of his legs disappeared. Ah, I'm back on the floor, between the coffee table and the sofa. The dust bunny is under the sofa. Go figure.

Bits and pieces of that morning came to mind, mostly out of order. Blair sorted through the visions and rearranged them in chronological order. By the time Jim lifted him roughly by a handful of shirt and jean waistband and tossed him on the sofa Blair had a pretty good memory of how it came that he was on the floor.

The demon was in Jim.

They were in deep shit.

Blinking to clear his vision without much success, Blair was surprised at how good Jim looked for someone with a devil living inside his head. Jim had showered, dressed and looked ready to face the world. Blair on the other hand, was certain he didn't look so good. His left eye felt hot and thick. He couldn't get his vision to focus and he suspected he had a concussion. Time was moving too slow to be real. For instance, how long had it been since Jim had knocked him around the living room?

"...you listening to me?" Jim demanded.

Oops, Blair tried to pay attention.

Jim rolled his eyes. "Okay, I'll make a note not to punch the help. You humans are too fragile."

Super duper, a demon with a wit. Lucky me, Blair thought. "Whaztha deal?"

"Well, I'm willing to stop hurting you if you promise not to try getting away or calling for help," Jim said reasonably. "You'll notice it's basically the same deal as before, only you stop collecting bruises."

Blair gave that some serious thought. On the surface that sounded pretty good. He liked the part about him not being hurt anymore. But he was pretty sure Naomi would not approve of her son making deals with the devil. He snickered. How many times had he heard that expression? Now it seemed so damn real.

Jim's sigh and look of exasperation was so Jim-like that Blair wanted to cry. He wanted Jim back. He'd do anything to get Jim back. Anything.

"Okay, man," Blair said. "I agree. But I get to ask questions."

"You do?" Jim asked with wonder. "Why?"

"'Cos, I'm an athro... anthropologist and we ask questions. `Ss what we do." Blair raised a hand to tenderly probe his face. He had to be sporting the mother of all black eyes. "'Sides, you said you liked to talk."

Jim walked away without a word, returning a minute later with a bottle of water. "Here."

"Thanks." Blair stifled the urge to giggle. As the pain fiercely checked in, he was becoming clearer minded. The water tasted wet and cool and he realized how much he'd been longing for it. He drank half the bottle, head back and eyes closed in bliss. Maybe he should ask for some aspirin.

The demon was sitting on the coffee table, knees close to Blair's. "What questions?"

"Ah, where are you from?" Blair asked, blurting out the first thing to sprout up.

Demon-Jim leaned forward. "Same place your line is from. I didn't evolve from apes, I was created like you. Although why He bothered with you all is beyond me. You people are boring. I'm hard pressed for ways to amuse myself the last few centuries."

Blair remembered a comment the demon had made a few hits ago. "You called Jim a warrior?"

Jim preened. "Yeesss, it's been a long time. I'd thought they were all gone. Feels wonderful to take a warrior again."

So help him, Blair couldn't not ask. "You've been in others? When? Which culture?"

Jim laughed, seemingly delighted. "You really are interested. You're one of the most interesting humans I've ever met. You know what I am and you still ask questions, amazing."

Blair felt shame. Jim was possessed with a devil and he was asking stupid questions. A smaller voice told Blair it was okay, that asking questions was learning more about this evil. Knowledge was power. He had to learn everything he could to save Jim.

Jim was still talking. "Nearly every continent had a warrior, although they had different names. I liked the man in Africa the best. A mighty hunter, but he had issues. Didn't like eating his own tribe members."

Blair's gut dropped to his toes. Nausea checked in right on schedule and he swallowed repeatedly to fight it off. The action caused Jim to smile wider, his eyes actually twinkling as if remembering some pleasant memory. Blair closed his eyes and told himself to toughen up. He forced the next question. "Why do you... occupy our race if you don't like us?"

"Hey," Jim answered with a shrug. "We all have our crosses to bear." Loud laughter followed and Jim slapped Blair's knee before standing up. "I'm hungry, let's eat. Then we need to make a house call."

Eat? Blair was afraid to ask what this thing was hungry for. They had an elderly man that lived next door. He prayed the demon wasn't going to try for him. Promises or not, he wasn't going to sit idly by while people were killed and -

Jim lightly smacked his head. "I'm craving a sandwich, Mr. Anthropologist. Think you can make us a couple of those? Beef would be fine."

Struggling to his feet and swaying as he urged his legs to work, Blair wished the demon would stop nailing Jim's personality quirks so perfectly. It hurt as much as the punches and slaps. Out the windows, he could see the sun was still high in the sky. So he'd only been unconscious for a few hours. That had to be a good sign. Blair went through the motions of making roast beef sandwiches; opening the refrigerator and cupboard doors while Jim sat at the table, still talking.

"Now Vlad... he knew how to party. I wasn't fond of the living conditions, electricity and indoor plumbing hadn't been invented yet. The fourteen hundreds were rough, nothing like today. Other than those inconveniences, Vlad and I had a good time. He even gave me a few ideas. I'd never have thought of those stakes. He loved the title `Vlad the Impaler'." Jim laughed. "You would have loved all the stories that the Europeans printed about us, Blair. Romania called us a patriot. I just remember we had a blast."

Trapped in the nightmare, Blair considered tossing the wilted lettuce and serving the sandwich without. While listening with one ear to Jim's rambling, an idea formed. He snuck a peek over his shoulder, his good eye seeing Jim seated comfortably, one arm slung over the back of his chair, sipping a soda as he stared out the windows. Blair pulled off two large leaves of lettuce and ran them under the tap water. Blocking his action with his body, he pumped a tiny amount of hand soap and smeared the clear liquid over the lettuce, then ran it quickly under the water again. Jim's nose might not catch it because they used scentless soap. Hopefully his taste buds would be so confused with all the ingredients, it wouldn't be noticed until his stomach acids got a hold of it. Blair knew enough about Jim's body to know the reaction wouldn't be pleasant. As he finished the sandwich, including several slivers of red bell peppers that Jim liked, other ideas formed in Blair's mind. He could think of a dozen ways to attack the demon through Jim's sentinel abilities.

Hopefully Jim would forgive him.

"Here you go." Blair set the sandwich down on the table, adding a generous serving of corn chips.

"Where's yours?" Jim-demon asked as he reached for the food.

"I'm not hungry," Blair said truthfully, going through the motions of cleaning the counter. One hand drifted to the carefully sealed, glass bottle of dried sage they keep for cooking.

"What happened to that eye?" Simon Banks exclaimed, dressed in casual black corduroy pants and a collarless shirt with a knitted vest.

Blair shot a look at his roommate, unsure what if anything he should say. Jim had bundled him into the Ford and driven straight to the police station without explaining his reason. It wasn't the first Sunday Blair had been in the bullpen, but he couldn't ever remember the place so deserted before, with just a few people walking around. He certainly never expected they would run into Simon.

"Typical Sandburg luck, sir," Jim said breezily. "I warned him the floor was wet but he still slipped and fell face first into the fridge."

Simon rolled his eyes. "Sandburg, were you born with two left feet?"

"Not fair, Simon," Jim said before Blair could speak. "He's just not used to living in a place where floors get mopped."

Blair gritted his teeth, seething inside as he leaned wearily against Henri's empty desk. Only half the demon's handy work was visible. Long sleeves hid the damage to Blair's wrist. Simon didn't seem to notice the way Blair walked or the slight bruising on his jaw from the slaps. The high collar hid more bruising, long and finger shaped.

"So what brings you two in on a Sunday?" Jim asked.

"Picking up a report," Simon answered. "Big meeting Tuesday morning and I plan on having Major Crime's figures memorized. What about you two?"

"Just checking my emails." Jim parked in his desk chair. "Then we're going to catch a show."

"Ah, well then," Simon muttered, heading for the door. "Enjoy and I'll see you Tuesday."

Blair hoped so.

Alone in the bullpen, Blair pulled his chair next to the demon and sat. "What email?" He stared the way Jim's fingers flew over the keys and glanced up in awe at the screen. "Holy Jehosephate! Where'd you learn that?"

Jim turned, face ugly. "Watch your mouth!" he snarled.

Blair reared back, mentally adding another tidbit of information about the demon. "Sorry, man. It's just that Jim isn't so... computer-lit."

Demon-Jim turned back to his keyboard. "I've got many skills. One of the perks. Now shut up and let me work."

Blair wisely kept quiet, watching. Jim was all over the police department's database, jumping from department to department with complete ease and using tricks that every hacker Blair ever met would give his soul to learn. Blair cringed at the expression. He really needed to re-think the whole human vs. demon relationship. Now Jim was in Dan Wolfe's world, reviewing the coroner's personal notes on all the deaths relating to the demon's activities. The autopsy hadn't been completed yet on Officer Kelly. Jim grunted and moved on to Jim's personal emails. He snorted in contempt at the ongoing investigations and finally shut down the computer altogether.

The phone on the desk rang, startling Blair. He froze and waited to see what the demon would do. Completely out of character, it answered.

"Ellison." A slow smile spread over Jim's face as he listened.

Blair felt a twinge of dread. This had to be a bad sign.

"I agree. No, he's here with me. We'll come to you. When?" Jim glanced at Blair, the smile still in place. "Good. That works. See you then." He replaced the handset.

Catching his lower lip between his teeth, Blair refused to ask. The demon didn't make him wait to long.

"Seems Brooksdale's been looking for you. He's worried."

Hope soared. Blair couldn't believe it. "We're going to meet him?"

"Yep." Jim started to stand up but paused halfway. His face creased with pain and he hunched in a bent over position, one hand on his desk.

"You okay?" Blair asked carefully keeping his interest light.

"Need a toilet." Steadying himself before moving toward the door, Jim jerked his chin. "Come on."

"I'll wait here." Blair gripped the edges of his rolling office chair.

"No." Jim pulled Blair out of his chair with a handful of hair.

"Alright, already," Blair yelped. "Not the hair, man."

Jim turned Blair loose before reaching the hall, making it clear he expected the younger man to follow. Blair dutifully followed into the men's bathroom, relieved to find it empty. When the demon disappeared into the first stall, Blair silently slipped back into the hallway. He tiptoed back to the bullpen and picked up the phone on Jim's desk, hands shaking as he dialed Simon's number by heart.

"Banks."

Blair clutched the handset and cupped a palm around his mouth. "Simon," he whispered.

"Hello?"

God, Simon couldn't hear him. Blair could hear jazz music playing in the background. Blair had no idea the captain cranked his car radio up so loudly. "Simon, it's Blair," he said, raising his voice slightly.

"You're going to have to speak up," Simon said, like a man who didn't know who he was talking to.

Blair felt like screaming. "Simon!"

The background noise faded. "Hello?"

"It's Blair. Can you hear me?"

"Sandburg?" Simon replied in confusion.

"Yeah, listen, man. Jim needs help," Blair whispered, keeping his eyes on the door. A dark shadow appeared on the cloudy glass, but moved on.

"What did you say?" Simon asked. "Speak up, Sandburg. I don't have time for your games today."

"Jim needs help. He's not himself," Blair said urgently. "He's got a demon inside him. He hit me. I didn't fall."

Incredulously, Simon's voice faded then came back strong. "...just passed through a tunnel. Didn't get that. Say again."

Blair gritted his teeth. The shadow was back and he waited a half second for it to pass.

It didn't.

Jim flew through the doorway, face dark with anger and rage. Blair shot out of his seat with a yell. "Simon!" There was no need to whisper. Blair screamed the name. "Help!"

It was unclear how much Simon had heard. Jim had the phone cord ripped from the wall. He easily deflected the chair Blair shoved toward him as he advanced, lightening fast, toward the younger man. Blair reached for the coat rack, pulling it down to bounce harmlessly off Jim's forearm. Jim was unstoppable. Before he could scramble free, the back of Blair's collar was caught in a steel-hard grasp that choked him.

Jim shook him like a dog with a rat then kidney punched him with cruel accuracy. "What was the deal, Jew-boy? No calling for help, remember?" Jim spat out in a quiet voice that spoke of painful death in the very near future.

Blair tried swinging his good arm at Jim's face. Jim blocked him easily; moving into Blair's personal space and shoving him face first into the wall. Gasping for air, his arm twisted high behind his back, Blair waited for the bone to snap in two. The full weight of Jim's body smashed him into the wall.

"I'm beginning to wonder if you're worth keeping alive," Jim said casually, his lips inches from Blair's ear.

"I'm sorry," Blair gasped out. "I swear, man. I w-won't try it again."

Jim cranked Blair's arm up an inch higher, bringing another cry of pain from the younger man.

"Your promise is proving worthless."

The phone rang on Henri's empty desk.

Blair knew the line was shared by all the detectives. Maybe Simon was calling back. Jim must have thought the same. He lifted Blair from the wall, released his arm and towed him sideways by the scruff of his neck as he picked up the phone.

"Major Crime... hi, Simon." Jim's eyes narrowed, glaring at Blair. "Oh yeah, he called to ask if you wanted to catch that movie with us later. Yeah, I know. I told him you were busy, but you know how he is... yeah." Jim chuckled. "Right, gotcha, boss. See you Tuesday." Jim returned the phone.

Blair swallowed hard, wondering if he'd be alive on Tuesday. Jim's gaze burned through him. Never had he felt so frightened inside the police station. The demon was worse than Kincaid and Lash rolled into one. His side throbbed from the punch, breathing proved nearly impossible with his collar tight around his neck and his face ached from being slammed into the wall.

"That was strike two, Chief," Jim said ominously. "Third time and you're out. Understand?"

Blair nodded.

Jim shoved him toward the bullpen doorway. "I'll kill anyone you even look at for help."

Blair kept his gaze on the floor as they walked to the elevator and rode down to the parking garage.

The drive to Arlington passed without further incident. Blair realized this wasn't going to end well and he worried about Brooksdale's safety. The demon hadn't lived this long by being stupid. He must have a reason to meet with the one person that had been hunting him for the last five years. How do you kill a demon? Could it even happen? Brooksdale seemed to think it could, but Blair wasn't so sure. So far all he'd managed to accomplish was soaping a sandwich and sneaking a small pocket-stash of sage.

Jim turned the key to the off position and the engine fell silent. They sat and listened to the ticking of the cooling engine. Over the tops of the parked cars, the carnival rides spun and twirled. People walked to their cars, laughing from a fun-filled time. Others were just arriving, locking the doors and heading for the entrance gate. Jim sat like a statue behind the wheel. Blair was scared to breathe. He could almost smell the evil in the truck.

It was thinking.

Jim finally turned to study Blair, rubbing his forehead and frowning. Blair's heart skipped a beat.

"I'm thinking I can't trust you."

"No trying to get away or calling for help." Blair whispered, raising his left hand, solemnly holding up three fingers in the air. "I learned my lesson."

"Riight."

Damn it, Blair wished it would stop stealing Jim's lines.

Jim allowed Blair to follow; skirting most of the crowds by walking behind the airplane hangars with their doors open, showing fancy planes that gleamed in the sunlight. A long row of wooden bleachers waited to seat the crowds. Apparently no actual show was scheduled at the moment. Biplanes and fixed wing planes anchored by chains to the shorn field sat scattered about with interested participants getting a close look. Younger couples with children rode Brooksdale's rides. Food stands sold burgers, onion rings and drinks. The beer garden commanded a large audience, with long lines of adults waiting to get in.

Blair walked obediently in Jim's wake, terrified for these people who didn't know what had joined their ranks. They wove between children and old folks alike until they reached the office that Brooksdale called home. Brooksdale stood next to his trailer, a warrior in his own right and for the first time all day, Blair no longer felt alone.

"Hello, old friend," Brooksdale said, speaking directly to Jim.

Blair felt alone again.

Jim tilted his head questioningly. "You knew?" the deep voice of the demon asked.

A hopeless feeling of failure washed over Blair. This was not going the way he had hoped. Brooksdale appeared happy to see the demon, like a man who had won the gold metal.

"When I caught up with the girlfriend, I realized you had taken Ellison." Brooksdale looked at Blair for the first time, surprise apparent. "I see the kid's still with you, and alive. Are you getting soft?"

Jim crossed his arms. "Today seems to be my lucky day, two humans worthy of my attention. Could this human race be growing some backbone?"

"Come in." Brooksdale opened the door to his small trailer.

Blair's feet had other ideas. The last thing he wanted was to be in small quarters with these two. Brooksdale was a wolf in sheep's clothing. But before he could think about running, Jim caught his arm and pushed him ahead, ending Blair's rebellion before it took root. They crowded into the trailer. The curtain was drawn. Blair's hand found its way into the pocket with the dry sage. He crushed the herb between nervous fingers.

Jim sneezed several times as he sat. "I seem to be getting a cold. Stomach acting up, too. This body is frailer than it looks."

"Tea?" Brooksdale suggested like an old woman entertaining bridge friends. "I've got some herbal stuff, good for stomach problems."

Jim waved a hand. "Forget it. Let's talk about why you're happy to see me. I'm intrigued. I checked up on you, you spent a few hard years in prison. Manslaughter, wasn't it?"

"You should know." Brooksdale sat smoothly, a man totally at ease.

"She hated her life," Jim explained casually with a shrug. He leaned back in the folding chair and tossed a friendly arm over Blair's shoulders. "You weren't much of a catch at the time either."

"Well, I'm different now." Brooksdale crossed an ankle over a knee and picked at a loose thread in his pant's hem. "Why not leave that body and come to me? I've got more to offer."

Blair's breath caught is his throat. Was he hearing correctly? Brooksdale was offering up himself? Blair did the math, enough time had passed.

"I don't see much." Jim looked around the small trailer with a sneer. The arm around Blair's shoulder squeezed and Blair's skin crawled. "I have a lot here, too much to give up."

"Looks are deceiving. I travel all over the country. I finish my probation in less than three months. I own this carnival and three others that are managed for me. I don't show it, but I'm a rich man again." Brooksdale drew a pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket. He tapped it against a knuckle, drawing one out slowly. "I know how to enjoy vices. You're in a cop's body. You'll never have the freedom to taste the pleasures you're used to."

Jim shifted in his seat as a deep growling sound emitted from his bowel. "Well, I'd have to admit. This body is troublesome." He glared at Blair. "This sentinel's training is a bit lax. But I still think I'm better off where I am. I've got my roommate here to help me."

Brooksdale chortled. "I dare you."

Jim stiffened. "Excuse me?"

"I double dare you to take me," Brooksdale challenged. He pulled out a lighter and flicked it open. The high flame threw long shadows across his face, bringing his cheekbone into sharp relief. He looked dangerous - evil even. "You're afraid you can't control me, aren't you?"

The arm around Blair's shoulder was lifted. Jim stood, a low growl vibrating from the back of his throat. "You dare to challenge me? I was here when the mountains were formed, when your kind was nothing but dirt under my feet."

Brooksdale stood, steady and sure. "Yet here we are, me daring you."

Blair was certain Jim was about to rip the man's head off his shoulders. Paralyzed with fear, he could do nothing to warn the older man of his pending danger. Splitting his attention between the two sudden rivals, he didn't notice the change right away. But when he did, he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

Jim's profile grew blurry and dark. Like a peel falling away from rotten fruit, a dark shadow pulsed and moved, lifting away from Jim's body, swirling into a mass that buzzed revoltingly. Air swirled in the close confines of the trailer. A putrid stench attacked Blair's nose and he covered it with one hand as an involuntary gag hunched his shoulders. The mass moved across the short space and covered Brooksdale like a shroud of death.

"No!" Blair cried out without thinking.

Brooksdale's chest puffed out and the dark evil soaked into his clothes and skin.

Jim sagged into the chair with a groan and would have fallen to the floor had Blair not caught him. "Jim!"

"Ahhh," the demon-Brooksdale chortled happily. "See? Am I not the master?"

This was not looking good for the human side. Blair pushed Jim back, his chair scraping the flooring noisily. Jim's eyes were closed and his breath too shallow. His skin was pale and damp, like a man having a heart attack. Blair laid two fingers across his neck. The pulse was faint and rapid. "Jim, open your eyes." Blair kept the carnie owner in sight as he fretted over his partner.

Brooksdale shuddered and dropped back into the chair, face twisting in pain. Blair instantly moved to shield his semi-comatose friend with his own body. Groaning, arms reaching and hands clutching air, Brooksdale fought an invisible battle. Blair wondered if he had enough strength to sling Jim over his shoulder and run for the truck. Scared, Blair turned his back on the demon and urgently shook Jim's shoulders. "Open your eyes, Jim. Now!"

Blue rheumy eyes looked back. "'Airr..."

"Yes!" Demon-Brooksdale shouted, standing triumphantly.

Blair sized up their situation. They needed to escape, but no way was Jim in condition to run. Frantically looking for a weapon, Blair snatched up a battered book, turned back to the demon and raised it high over his head. Stance rock solid, he was ready to protect Jim at any cost.

"Good choice, kid," Brooksdale said, gesturing to the book. "Thanks for your help. I'll take it from here."

Blair glanced up at the book. He held a King James's version of the Holy Bible. "Brooksdale? That you?"

"Right now it is." Brooksdale picked up a set of keys on the table. "It's been a long chase, but I'm not at the finish line yet." He opened the door.

"Wait!" Blair called out uncertainly. Should he let the demon get away? For that matter, could he do anything to stop him?

"No time. I've got to do this alone. Take care of your partner." Brooksdale disappeared through the doorway, leaving it open to allow the carnival noise to filter into the trailer.

Blair moved forward and watched the carnie owner run across the field toward several parked planes. He reached a blue biplane and began unhooking the chains from the wings.

"Blair?"

"Jim!" Blair turned to find his friend standing, bracing himself with a hand on the wall, looking as durable as a wet Kleenex. "You okay? You -" Blair was shoved aside as Jim half stumbled, half fell down the steps and dropped to his knees in the grass. The older man's back bowed as he vomited. Blair followed; his haste causing him to spill down the steps. Dropping to his friend's side, Blair promptly reeled backwards to fall on his butt when the smell hit his sinuses.

Within the disgusting pile of half-dissolved sandwich and old bits of unidentified globs, flies thrashed about, hopelessly glued to the thick slime.

Blair gagged, turning to throw up himself but producing only burning clouds of bile. Sounds of Jim's retching caused Blair's own stomach muscles to clench twice more. The trailer and surrounding stands protected them from wandering fair goers and carnival workers. Blair crawled back to Jim's side and snaked an arm around the shuddering torso, trying his best to support the man as he threw up.

Finally, Jim dropped wearily to an elbow, nearly prone in the grass. Flies were breaking free of the vomit and rising slowly into the air. Blair hauled Jim's body back. The sight of those flies creeped him out like nothing else he'd ever seen. He didn't want Jim anywhere near them.

"S-sand...burg..."

"I'm here," Blair answered between grunts. The fact that Jim allowed himself to be dragged across the grass said wonders for the man's health. Jim was sick.

"Where's..." Jim drew a sleeve over his mouth, smearing a trail of slime over his ash colored face; dull blue eyes searched the immediate area.

"Hold on," Blair ordered after managing to prop Jim up against the trailer's tire. He flew back up the trailer's steps, snatched a kitchen towel from a wall rack and threw back the hanging curtain. Wetting the cloth in the small sink, Blair rushed back to wipe Jim's face. The older man looked like one the Dan Wolf's customers, ready for a stainless steel freezer drawer. "Here, man. Just rest a second."

Weakly protesting the treatment, Jim pushed Blair away. Blair managed to keep the bigger man in place, ignoring the pain in his own wrist. Finally, Jim gave up, a frown advertising his displeasure. "Brooksdale, Sandburg. Where is he?"

Blair turned to check. The airplane was free of its chains and the carnie owner was doing something with the front, by the wings. Blair had no idea what it was. "He's there, Jim. I think he's in control. You know? Not the demon."

Jim's whole body shook. "Impossible." He groaned and gently captured Blair's hands. Misery haunted his gaze. "Blair..."

"Jim," Blair whispered, ignoring the vomit breath and leaning close enough to touch foreheads. "Don't, okay? Just don't. I know you tried to fight it." Words caught sideways in Blair's windpipe. "I'm just glad you're back. I was getting lonely."

Jim swallowed hard, looking like he wanted to say more, but he straightened instead, looking over Blair's shoulder. "I gotta stop him."

"No," Blair yelped as he tried in vain to keep Jim down. His wrist did not like the way Jim was twisting it. "Stay put. Let Brooksdale go," Blair pleaded.

But Jim had an agenda and wasn't about to be swayed. The sentinel found his way to his feet. "Stay put. Call for backup." The cell phone was pushed into Blair's good hand. Jim leaned away from his friend and trotted drunkenly toward the distant plane.

Jim poured on the speed, determined to bring the man in. He wanted that demon, knowing it would be stuck in Brooksdale's body long enough to get him into solitary lockup. Jim had no idea how he would managed to convince the authorities to isolate Brooksdale. One thing for sure, after sharing a body and mind with it, Jim knew of its history, of the atrocities it had committed. The demon had to be stopped. Nothing else would be acceptable. First he needed to catch the man, and worry about the rest later.

Jim's plans met a fierce obstacle however, in the form of one teaching fellow. One minute Jim was running, next he was face down in the field with a heavy weight on his back.

"Chief! Get off!" Jim bellowed.

"Jim," Blair yelled back, effectively penning him down. "Listen to me, damn it. You gotta let him go!"

Summing up all his reserve, Jim tossed his friend off his back with a twist. Blair landed awkwardly and released a painful yelp. But the kid was determined. Before Jim could rise to his hands and knees, Blair scrambled back and latched on to his left bicep. Jim took his eyes off the taxiing biplane to see a white-faced Blair radiating something close to panic. Jim turned back to see the distant plane. Brooksdale was picking up speed; going into the wind to gather enough lift to overcome the plane's weight. If he was lucky Jim could still catch it. Blair's single handed hold was easy to break out of and he rose to a knee while pulling his Sig from its shoulder holster. He had an arrest to make.

"No!" Blair lunged forward, catching Jim under the chin with his bent forearm and bowling the cop over onto his back. Blair climbed on top, straddling his stomach, his left hand had Jim's gun hand captured and pressed into the stubby grass. "Stop thinking with your badge and listen to me! Brooksdale is going to take care of the demon. He has to go alone, you can't risk it."

"Blair," Jim shouted back. "It can't jump back to me."

"I'm not willing to risk that," Blair pronounced hotly. "What's your plan? It goes through floors and walls. It will get out in a jail. Listen to me. Brooksdale's in charge."

Jim's head was clearing, strength returning. Reaching Blair's neck with his left hand, Jim grabbed a handful of collar and downed his partner, firmly, yet gently. Blair's face was damp with sweat, making him look sickly. More and more of the last twenty-four hours became crystal clear and he remembered what had happened to Blair's right wrist. He had to be careful. "Don't try stopping me, Sandburg. I've got to stop this thing, you have no idea -"

"Too late," Blair interrupted, looking over Jim's shoulder as he struggled to free himself from Jim's hold.

Jim turned.

The old plane was halfway into its takeoff, gathering speed. It was obvious Brooksdale didn't have clearance as a smaller plane was forced to taxi into the grass to avoid being hit. Climbing to his feet, Jim watched the wheels lift off the runway and Brooksdale was out of his reach.

"Damn it!" Jim cursed. He spun on his heel, grabbing Blair as he looped back towards the parking lot. "Come on!" Holstering his gun first, Jim checked for his truck keys, finding them in his pocket. Blair did his best to keep up, even though Jim could tell his partner's strength was fading fast. They slalomed between old men and ladies with strollers, causing more than one annoyed glance. Jim ignored them all, finally reaching his destination. He wanted to keep his attention on the plane. He needed to get some air support started. "Can you drive, Sandburg?"

One look at Blair's face killed that idea.

"Never mind, get in." Jim unlocked the door and hustled his winded friend into the passenger seat. The plane had started a steep turn toward the west, climbing in altitude as it straightened. Jim ran around to the driver's door. He jumped in, slammed the door and jammed the key into the ignition. The truck started without protest. Jim ducked low, getting a fix on the plane. It was still heading west.

"Jim..."

"Not now." Jim managed not to hit another car or pedestrian as he exited the dirt parking lot. He picked up speed on the highway and tried to remember how the roads in this area were laid out. "Get the map out, Sandburg. I need a direct route toward the coast. And where's the cell phone?"

A hand fumbled to open the glove box as ordered. "Ummm." Blair looked over his shoulder. "I think I dropped it back in the field," Blair admitted as he pulled out a road map. "Sorry."

"I'll use the police radio," Jim muttered and reached for the microphone. He had several tactical and state operation channels that were monitored. He should be able to hail a state patrol dispatcher. "Find that road."

"Right." Blair bent over the map to squint over the small blue and black lines on the folded paper.

It just took a few minutes to reach the dispatcher, relay the information and send a message to Simon in Cascade. It was not as if Jim lied when he said a killer was attempting to escape in an airplane. Jim kept checking the sky as he followed Blair's clipped instructions. Activating the blue light on the dash, the traffic stayed out of his way. Jim had no problem keeping Brooksdale in sight. The old plane's airspeed was slow and even though he was faster than the truck, a responding radar unit airplane was on the way to intercept.

"He's over the water now," Jim told the dispatcher thirty minutes after leaving the air show. Blair had done a good job finding adequate roads. Soon they would be reaching the coast themselves. Jim wondered about the possibilities of getting a boat. There were plenty of places on the islands that a plane could land. "Chief, find us a marina."

"Jim..." Blair ran a hand down his face with a sigh. "Would you listen to me?"

"Later, find us a place we can get a boat." Jim slapped the steering wheel, wishing for the hundredth time Blair hadn't stopped him from reaching the plane. He was going to have a long heart-to-heart with his friend. Sure, the last couple of days had been...

A living Hell.

Jim pushed the thoughts from his mind. Later; he'd deal with all of that later. First he had a killer to catch. A green street sign flew by. They had another ten miles to the coast. Looking up, Jim puzzled over Brooksdale's direction. The plane angled north. "He's heading for Canada?"

The miniature plane-shaped silhouette in the sky turned nova and Jim slammed on the breaks in shock, sending the Ford into a four-wheel drift that left them skewed over both lanes. Sentinel vision could easily see the broken sections of wings, still burning, fall away from the fractured body of the plane. Sections of sheet metal, piping and glass began their slow fall toward the earth. Black lines of smoke marked the passage of the largest parts of the plane, still moving forward, caught in momentum as if the dead plane hadn't realized its life was over. Then Jim saw what he knew he'd see, Brooksdale's body, missing many important elements, falling with the debris.

"He did it," Blair whispered in a small, young voice.

A grenade, Jim thought in shock. Brooksdale must have had a hand grenade inside the plane all along. "He did have control."

"Yeah," Blair whispered in awe. "He's been conditioning himself for this moment since he got out of prison."

"He told you that?" Jim looked over at his friend, not liking what he saw. Blair had passed the line of exhaustion.

The police radio chattered. The radar plane apparently had seen the explosion. For a minute Jim felt panic. Could the demon manage to jump into a rescuing body? How far could it travel?

"It's over," Blair whispered, letting his head fall back against the seat.

"You sure?"

"Yeah," Blair answered. "Brooksdale said it had to jump before the host died. Ah, Jim? We're blocking the road, man."

The engine was dead. Jim turned the key, tossing a quick wave at the approaching station wagon before pulling out of the way. The reality of the scene back at the air show hit him. If he had reached that plane, if Blair hadn't stopped him, he'd be freefalling to earth right now.

Jim monitored the coroner's team progress as they carried Brooksdale's body up from the coast guard boat. Blair stood silently at his side. It was dusk and the retrieval operation was nearly over. A light rain started to fall. There were so many agencies present in the small sleepy marina south of Cascade that Jim felt he was at a convention. Federal, state and local officers swarmed the parking lot and boat ramp, filling out reports, clicking pictures and talking on cell phones. From the grim looks on the Coasties' faces, Jim knew the body recovery had been messy. As each rescue person had passed, Jim had reached out with all his sentinel ability to scan for the demon's presence. Now the final crew carried Brooksdale's remains and still there was no demon. Jim felt a stab of sympathy for the old carnie owner, mixed with grim admiration.

Jim would have done the same thing. Only, Jim had lacked the dead man's control.

"You still here?" a state patrol Captain asked Jim, walking up to the group.

Jim tossed the last of the cold coffee down his throat. "Yeah, I owed it to the guy to be here when they brought him out."

The captain grunted, crossing beefy arms over his smoky blue uniform. "Hear he was a wife killer."

"Yeah." Jim ignored the low, muttered objections from Blair.

"One less trial to sit through," the captain said without remorse.

"He'd already served his time for that," Jim said flatly, eyes following the progress of loading the black rubber body bag into the dark van.

The rear doors slammed shut, sounding like both barrels from a shotgun, perforating the damp, salty air.

"Well, we're done here. Maybe you should take your friend home. He's not looking too hot," the captain advised before moving away.

Jim turned and glanced at his companion. "Sandburg?"

"Jim?" Blair replied dully.

Taking a hard look, Jim realized what had caught the trooper's attention. Clothes dirty and wrinkled, long hair stringy and limp, bruises marring his face and neck, Blair looked ready for his own body bag. "You ready to head out?"

Blair looked around the darkening lot. "We done here?"

The kid must have been in his own zone-out. Jim gently took an arm. "Yeah, let's head back."

"Wait, what about..." Blair dropped to a whisper. "You know, did you feel anything on anyone?"

"No, it's gone or in an orca. Let's head home before we're soaked." Jim urged the other man toward his parked truck.

"What about Brooksdale? We need to notify someone, right? He must have next of kin or something."

"Taken care of, this isn't our jurisdiction." Jim opened the passenger door and waited for Blair to climb inside, noting the stiff way he held his arm. "Let me see that," he asked after Blair was in place.

Blair offered the arm for Jim's inspection. The wrist was swollen and bruised, hot to the touch.

"Shit, Sandburg," Jim swore softly. "Can you wiggle your fingers?"

A couple of fingers twitched. "It's fine, just sprained," Blair explained.

Even sentinel touch couldn't be sure. Jim shook his head. "You need an X-ray, Sandburg." The reality of the last twenty-four hours resurfaced in his mind. He'd beaten and terrorized his friend, his best friend and roommate. A weighty sigh escaped him. Blair would be better off without a sentinel in his life. The guy was just too damn stubborn to realize it.

"Jim, it's nothing." Blair pulled away, guarding his arm protectively close. "Let's just go home."

During the drive back to Cascade, Jim waited until the warmth from the truck's heater and the cadence of the windshield wipers lulled Blair into a doze before changing direction. His new destination was a smaller hospital with a late night ER room. Blair needed that X-ray.

Finding an empty parking spot near the sheltered pull through used by ambulances, Jim turned off the engine. The upscale southern suburb of Cascade didn't see the business that downtown Cascade General dealt with on Saturday nights and Jim was grateful. He eased his door open without waking his partner and quickly walked around to Blair's side. Steeling himself for a fight, Jim carefully opened Blair's door.

"Huh? Jim?" Blair blinked slowly as he straightened. "Home?"

"Almost," Jim answered, reaching over to unbuckle the seatbelt. "You've got a date with an X-ray tech."

"Jim!" Blair hissed. "I said no, damn it."

"I know." Jim tried to school the anger from his face. This wasn't Blair's fault. But just looking at the damage Jim had done, made him furious. He backed away from the truck. Blair needed his space, needed to know he wasn't going to be forced to do anything against his will again. "Please, Chief? Will you get checked out and give me some peace of mind?"

"What?" Blair looked puzzled.

"I'm responsible," Jim explained. "I can't let you continue to suffer, and it'll only get worse if it's broken."

Rolling his eyes, Blair huffed as he scooted clumsily toward the end of the seat to climb down. "This is stupid."

Pressing the heel of his good hand into his temple in a worthless attempt to dull the pain, Blair groaned. "Shit."

The doctor, a young woman with a short afro and latte colored complexion looked sympathetic. "I know casts are a bother, but your fractured wrist should heal without too much trouble." She made a note on her clipboard, the pen's tip making a loud scratching sound in the small exam room.

Blair let his bare shoulders slump. He sat, wearing only his jeans, on the edge of the exam table, too tired to dress. The room was warm and the thin mattress was actually looking like a nice place to curl up and sleep. God, he was tired. Too tired to think about how Jim was going to take this latest bit of information. As the doctor continued to talk, he thought about Jim's pissy attitude. The cop must still be angry over how Blair had stopped him from going after Brooksdale. But Blair didn't have a choice and he'd do it again in a heartbeat. Jim was alive and demon free. That's all that mattered.

"Mr. Sandburg?" the doctor said.

"Yeah?"

"Will you tell me?"

"What?"

The woman looked understanding. "I know this is hard. Men sometimes feel they can't admit to being in this situation because others will feel less of them. I want you to know that's plain rubbish. No one should have to go through what you've just experienced. You need to put your own safety first," she explained in a sad tone.

Blair blinked. What was this woman saying? "Excuse me?"

She turned as another man entered the room. He was much older and wearing the same white smock that she wore. "This is Doctor Tyler. I've briefed him on your case. I thought you might rather talk to a man about this."

"Hello, Mr. Sandburg," Tyler said smoothly.

Blair didn't like the way these people were looking at him.

"I understand you're in a volatile relationship right now. Your roommate is abusive?"

A second groan escaped. He didn't have time or the energy for this. "No, no, no. You guys have this all wrong. Jim didn't do anything."

"He says he did," Tyler said, still speaking like Blair was a skittish, mistreated puppy. "Those bruises on your body are talking a lot louder than your words right now."

"No," Blair corrected wearily, feeling suddenly betrayed by Jim. "You're not listening with your ears. You're letting your eyes tell the story. And it's the wrong one." Blair tried to slide down to the floor, he'd fix this stupid misunderstanding right now. "Where's Jim?"

"He's with the police right now," the woman doctor said.

A wide-shouldered orderly arrived, pushing a wheelchair.

The room was becoming too small in Blair's mind. "The police? Jim is the police. I need to talk to him. Get out of my way." He couldn't get around the wheelchair. The blockade of bodies and narrow confines of the room frightened him. When the door opened again, a rush of relief sprang to his throat.

"Simon!"

The tall captain frowned. "Sandburg." He glanced around the room at the medical personnel. "Cascade Police. I need a few minutes alone with Mr. Sandburg, please."

"Mr. Sandburg needs a cast for that wrist," the woman doctor said pointedly. "It's broken."

"I understand." Simon held the door open. "We'll only be a minute."

Even the beefy orderly buckled under Simon's insistence and soon Blair and the police captain were alone.

"Simon, I gotta talk to Jim." Goosebumps were breaking out on Blair's arms, caused by fear not cold. The urge to rip the hospital apart to find his sentinel was overpowering him, rushing his respirations and making his fingers tingle. Twinges of a panic attack taunted him.

"Blair, sit down." Simon urged him backwards, into a hard plastic chair. He pulled a rolling stainless steel stool close and sat down in front of the younger man. "Jim's fine. I sent him home. You're spending the night with me."

"What!" Blair nearly shouted. "You guys can't decide that! I'm not a little kid to pass off between adults. I have some say in where -"

"Blair," Simon interposed with force. He took each of Blair's shoulders in his hands and squeezed. "I'm sorry, okay? Bad choice of words. I'm just trying to figure out what the hell happened. Jim tried to get me to arrest him for assaulting you - don't worry, I didn't. But, the only way I could get him to go home and rest was by promising to take care of you. We'll meet up tomorrow. It was the best I could do."

"Oh... man..." Blair swallowed hard. Anger dissipated. Gravity pulled on every fiber of his body, threatening to send him collapsing to the floor like a spineless corpse. He was so tired. "Why would he... Simon, Jim isn't responsible for this."

"Look, you're obviously exhausted. You're in pain." Simon shared a rare smile of friendship. "I want you to relax and let me take charge. Jim will be fine. Let's get you fixed up."

Blair told himself it was exhaustion that caused his eyes to water. He wiped his face with his good hand and nodded. "I could sleep," he muttered quietly, gaze shifting to the floor. "Thanks, Simon."

Blair woke in Daryl's bed, feeling stiff. Every part of his body protested as he clumsily rolled out of bed. Bruises on his torso and back felt like deep smoldering fires on his body, beating with his pulse. His skull felt too tight. Even his black eye was demanding attention. A bottle of aspirin and glass of water waited for him on the side table. Blair fought the cap, won and downed three. The bedside clock's red LED face told him it was after nine. Outside the morning light filtered through heavy cloud cover. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten ten hours of uninterrupted sleep.

He sat on the edge of the bed, thoughts slow in forming, remembering why he was with Simon and not in the loft. The pain of Jim's rejection still stung, but he guess he could understand his point of view.

Maybe.

If he was an anal retentive idiot with guilt issues.

Anger drove him stumbling toward Simon's kitchen. He'd been here once before with Jim and the floor plan of the two-story house was typical for a three bedroom home in the suburbs. Jim had said Joan was less willing to stay in their house after the divorce and had chosen a trendy apartment closer to her job. Simon apparently hadn't gotten around to selling the large house. Maybe he never would.

Feeling like a pair of old tennis shoes which had spent thirty minutes clunking around in a dryer, Blair shuffled into the brightly lit kitchen in search of coffee.

Simon sat at a small, white tile-topped breakfast table. "Morning, Sandburg."

"Uhhhhggghh." Blair up righted a coffee mug next to the pot with his left hand. The carafe stuck a bit, but he managed to pour and replace it without damage. He greedily sipped the heavenly smelling brew before going to the table to sit. It felt weird to know he was with Simon, looking this way. His uninjured hand swiped his tender jaw, feeling the early stages of a ragged beard.

Simon looked amused. He folded his newspaper and stood. "Eggs?"

The sudden fact he'd gone more than twenty-four hours without food seemed impossible. Blair was famished. "Thanks."

"Coming right up." Simon set out preparing a breakfast that included more than just eggs. As he laid raw bacon into a skillet, placed biscuit dough into a square pan and mixed up a batch of eggs and milk for scrambled eggs, they enjoyed a comfortable silence. Finally he broke away from his work to pour more coffee into Blair's empty mug. "You were trying to ask me for help yesterday when you called me, weren't you?" Simon asked, averting eye contact.

Blair nodded. "Yeah, I managed to get away for a second."

Simon sighed. "I'm sorry."

Blair grimaced. He didn't need two friends doing the guilt thing. "Not your fault, Simon," Blair explained. He stroked his cast absentmindedly. "And it's not Jim's fault either. We were fighting something totally evil. If anything, it's my fault for not helping Jim enough. He wasn't prepared."

Simon looked pained. "I'm getting this feeling the two of you are about to drag me into the Twilight Zone."

"More like a Stephen King nightmare," Blair admitted. He turned when the doorbell sounded. "Is that Jim?"

"Should be." Simon returned the coffee carafe. "Hope he's hungry. No, Sandburg. Stay put. I'll let him in."

Blair obeyed, remembering the rare times Naomi got called to a school to pick him up at the principles office, times where he'd either screwed up or been victim of some bigger kid's temper. Just like then, he found himself reviewing his actions of the last couple days. It was not a puzzle, actually. Thanks to the demon, he had a graphic demonstration of his failures. Most importantly, he'd failed Jim by getting comfortable, being lazy, not pushing the testing of Jim's sentinel abilities. He'd been so caught up in the rush of being a police observer that -

"Hey."

Blair looked up from his study of the coffee mug in his hand. "Hey, you okay, man?"

Jim looked like crap. Clean clothes couldn't hide the tightness around haunted eyes, jerky and tense movements in a normally fluid body. Jim grunted softly as he stiffly sat. He set a black, zippered cloth bag on the floor. Blair was the obvious subject of his scrutiny. "I'm good. How's the ... arm?"

"Doesn't even hurt," Blair fibbed, rushing to add before Jim's attention focused on his heart rate. "What's in the bag?"

"Some stuff for you, clean clothes, shaving equipment, your toothbrush." Jim's voice faded as he continued. "I'll bring some of your books if you tell me which ones."

Simon stood at the stove, busy with his meal preparations, his back to the conversation. But a subtle stiffening of the tall man's spine caused Blair to put two and two together. "But... I'm going home today. Right?"

Jim ducked his head a moment, then pinned Blair with a weary, yet firm look. "Sandburg, it's too -"

"No!" Blair pounded the tile with his good fist. His chance to fix everything was slipping away. "Ellison, this has got to end."

Jim glanced at Simon's back and Blair felt a twinge of regret. He ignored it. Yeah, Jim was a private man and they were basically having a personal argument in front of his boss, but he didn't care. Simon knew the score more than anyone else on this planet and Blair didn't care what the man heard. "Listen to me. This was not your fault."

"Those bruises on your body match my fists, Sandburg, my shoes." Jim turned to Simon, face twisted in anger. "Why aren't you arresting me, Simon? You don't think I'm capable of hurting him?"

"No, I know you are," Simon said, turning with a level look, pointing a spatula at him. "But I don't think Blair is capable of calmly playing the part of your punching bag. There's more here to the story. I'm going to trust the kid on this one, Jim."

Jim shoved back from the table and stood. "Damn it, I can't do this."

"Get back here, Jim!" Blair bounded to his feet, tossing Simon an apologetic grimace as Jim scrambled to follow, slowed by his stiff joints. "Jim!"

The sentinel's hand was on the doorknob.

"Please," Blair said softly, schooling all the anger from his voice, Jim needed careful treatment. "Come on, man. Running doesn't solve anything. We've got to talk." He carefully slipped his left hand under Jim's elbow and tugged. "Let's go into the living room."

Jim's forehead thudded against the solid door. "Chief..."

"I know," Blair soothed, border-line crooned. "But, you're so getting the wrong picture. We're both victims." He tugged, silently rejoicing when Jim allowed Blair to pull him back from the door.

Once in the living room, Jim folded into Simon's Lazy-boy and Blair sat on the sturdy looking coffee table to face his friend as he talked. "You've got to stop beating yourself up. It wasn't your fault."

"I'm not the black and blue," Jim said tightly.

"I'll heal." Blair smacked Jim's knee lightly. "And you were hurt, too. Only your damage isn't in Technicolor." He changed the subject. "Why are you kicking me out of the loft?"

"It's not safe."

"The demon is gone." Blair nibbled his lower lip a second, thinking. "Right?"

Jim nodded unhappily. He appeared to ponder something then met Blair's gaze squarely. "What if there're more out there? I let it hurt you. I gave it full control of all my actions. I couldn't stop it. It moved in and controlled me. Shit, Sandburg..." Jim closed his eyes and rubbed them with one hand. "I just want... to feel safe in my own skin again."

Blair's breath stalled. Sliding off the table to kneel, Blair caught Jim's free hand with his own left. "Jim, I swear to you. I'll help you. I'm sure you can fight them. Evil's been around since the dawn of time. It's my fault -" He swallowed hard. "- you're not stronger with your abilities. Give me another chance?"

"Sandburg," Jim said with an exasperated sigh. "You didn't sign on for this."

"Perhaps, but I'm here now. And I'm staying," Blair vowed.

"This is nuts." Jim stood, brushing by Blair. He paced the spacious living room between the sofa and the entertainment center. "I'll just end up driving you away, Chief. I'll get tired and cranky. I'll shoot off my mouth without thinking and say something stupid."

Blair bit back a laugh. "I've got a newsflash for you, man. You're already illegible for that particular door prize, but I'm not a weak nerd, dude. I thought you knew that. I can take whatever you dish out."

Jim froze, shooting Blair a serious look. "I never thought you were weak, Sandburg."

"And I'm not letting you ditch me. I'm staying at your side." Blair stood up awkwardly, waving his hand to emphasize his point. "Even if you throw me out, I'll find somewhere close to live. I'll be there every time you turn around. You need me."

A frown thinned Jim's lips. "I don't deserve you, Chief," Jim admitted straight-faced.

Caught in the process of drawing in a breath to continue his argument, Blair paused in shock. Jim's compliments were as rare as tropical flowers in the northwest; worthy of enjoying. Warmth returned to his body and he felt light enough to fly.

A hesitant grin appeared like a shy five-year-old on Jim's face.

"Breakfast is on the table!" Simon bellowed from the kitchen.

Jim followed his roommate into the loft. After a leisurely breakfast, they'd driven home with all thoughts of Blair staying away forgotten. Jim's own feelings were mixed. He knew he needed this man in his life, but hated when he got hurt. The memory of hurting Blair, feeling his fists sink into skin and muscle, hearing the pain-filled grunts would haunt him until he died. A solid weight saddled his chest again, unable to be thrown.

No, the demon did that, not him. Jim had to remember that. He paused after locking the door behind them and took a deep breath. The demon was gone. They had survived. Blair was right. They needed to move on. The tightness in his chest started to go away.

"You cleaned," Blair stated as he looked around the loft, his eyes skipping over the post that he'd been tied to.

"I couldn't sleep last night," Jim admitted. "Spent half the night running to the bathroom."

Blair blushed deep red. "Ahhh... about that..."

Jim grinned. "I know, Sandburg. I figured it out. For what it's worth, I think it helped to send the demon packing."

Rising briefly on his toes, Blair grinned back. "Really? Cool. Hey, I know..." Blair disappeared into his room, tossing away the tote bag Jim had packed and returned. "Take a bath, then get some sleep."

Jim shook his head. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not." Blair turned on his heel and headed for the bathroom. "I'm starting your bath. I've got just the stuff to relax you. Then you're taking a nap. Then we're going to set up a testing schedule, I've got to book some lab time at Rainer..." His voice echoed off the bare bathroom walls as the sounds of running water drifted out. "Hey, I know, I'll make a pot roast for dinner. We'll stay in tonight. Maybe take a drive to the coast tomorrow."

Jim chuckled. The dark pressure of guilt was nearly gone now. He took off his coat and hung it on the hook next to the door. Jim knew he'd have more bouts of guilt. It was just the way he did things. Hopefully he wouldn't let it screw up his friendship with Blair. Jim would never admit it in a million years, but being taken care of was rather nice.

Blair appeared, crossing to his room and back to the bathroom holding a dark purple bottle. The subtle scent of lavender and rosemary filled the loft. Jim wandered over to the open doorway to watch Blair fuss as he sat on the edge of the tub pouring some oily looking concoction into the water.

"You're okay being here, right, Chief?" Jim had to ask as he leaned on the door frame, arms crossed. "The memory of what happened is not going to bother you?"

Blair met Jim's gaze, expression serious. "I'll remember. I want to. It'll remind me what happens when I don't take my job seriously."

"Your job?"

"Yeah," Blair said, grinning. "I'm your back up. I'm also the guide, remember?" Blair stood, squeezing by Jim to stand outside the bathroom.

Warm air tickled the sentinel's skin, radiant heat from the bath water swirling in the tight confines of the room. "You're still not borrowing my fishing gear, Mr. Guide," Jim joked, touched deeply by this man's commitment to him, wishing he knew how to voice it.

Blair grinned up at him knowingly as he single handedly backed Jim into the bathroom. "Eh, give me time, Jim. I'll wear you down," he promised before stepping back and shutting the door.

Jim smiled. The tub did look inviting. Unbuttoning his shirt, he sighed. "I don't doubt you for a second, Sandburg."

End.

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