"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 looking 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, 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 your 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.

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