James Ellison has heard many amazing things in his time. He's even seen a few amazing things. But having his roommate break into song, and then recognizing that song as `Onward Christian Soldiers' had to rate near the top of the list.

"...Where the saints have trod... we are not divided, all one body we..."

"Sandburg! Knock it off," Jim hissed. "And quit bouncing," he added, keeping his voice low.

Blair Sandburg flashed a grin, looking anything but chastised. "Man, I haven't heard this one in a long time. It used to be my favorite." He bopped to the tempo of the music drifting through the doorway of the small rescue mission named `His Street Flock'.

Jim placed a firm hand on Blair's arm, barely stilling the motion. "Although my mind boggles with a million questions, starting with how you even know the words to a church hymn, let alone the fact you have favorites; I'm going to ask you to save this latest tidbit until after we finish the interview."

"Okay, Jim," Blair agreed, but still hummed the tune as they entered the mission.

The church, if you could call the room of twenty to thirty homeless men a church, met in a converted retail space in the seedier side of Cascade, Washington. They had timed their visit to hit the end of the service. Jim breathed in warm air potent with the scent of unwashed bodies and promptly switched over to mouth breathing. The majority of the congregation wore clothes that even Blair would admit were only suitable for rags. The singers were being led by a short bald man in his fifties, who looked like he belonged in a biker's bar, not behind a pulpit. A younger, thin man sat behind a scratched up piano, hammering out cords that set the pace for the group.

Jim held Blair near the back of the room, waiting until the song finished. Blair was singing again. At least he kept it soft. After the last note ended, the men gathered up their worldly possessions and headed for the door. Jim searched the faces as they passed.

One of these men could be the killer he was searching for.

"May I help you two?" the bald man asked as he approached. "You're with the police?"

Jim opened his ID and held it up. "Detective James Ellison, Cascade Police. This is my partner Blair Sandburg. He's consulting with the police on the murders I called you about," Jim said, with a nod to Blair. Perhaps the term `consulting' was a bit strong. Officially, Blair was just a ride-a-long. But even his boss, Captain Simon Banks, had grown to recognize the two of them worked great as a team.

The file had landed on Jim's desk earlier in the morning. Homicide was more than happy to hand the entire shooting match over after the third homeless victim was found last week. No one had a clue as to who or why the murders were being committed.

"Trent Barclay," the man responded, shaking both their hands. "When I heard you singing, Mr. Sandburg, I was hoping we'd found a new member."

Blair grinned. "You guys picked one of my favorites. `Onward Christian Soldiers' was written by Sullivan, from the team of Gilbert and Sullivan."

"That's right," Trent said. "I'm just thrilled when my members can remember the words. Most of our songbooks have a way of walking out of here. So... you said on the phone you wanted to talk about the murders? Why don't we go to my office?"

"I didn't know you recognized anything written by Gilbert and Sullivan, Darwin," Jim whispered over his shoulder as they followed the man towards a closed door against the far wall.

The office was small and crowded. Barclay moved several grocery sacks filled with used clothing aside to make two seats available. Looking around, Blair could see evidence of hard work and true compassion. A well-used book of city and county resource agencies sat on the corner of his cluttered desk. A large white board graced the wall, displaying a complicated looking staffing schedule for a soup kitchen. And bags, similar to the one the man had moved, lined the floor along the walls, each filled with carefully folded clothes and a few toiletry items.

Trent dropped into his desk chair and leaned forward over clasped hands. "I've already talked with Detectives Victor and Chase about the murders. Have they learned anything new?"

"No, we're still investigating," Jim answered. "The case has been moved up to Major Crimes as of today."

"Frankly, Detective, I'm surprised the city showed the interest," Trent commented with a sour face. "By any chance is this an election year?"

Blair hid a smile. Trent was quick. Blair liked him instantly. Jim however, Blair noticed, was not looking very pleased with the remark.

"Mr. Barclay, all three of the victims visited your church within a few weeks of their death. I would call that a fairly significant tie to you or someone in your membership." Jim gave him a stern look. "I wouldn't think you have the luxury of worrying about the city's electoral races at the moment."

Trent held up his hands. "Forgive me. You're right, and I want the killer found and taken off the streets. My members are scared. As to the tie to our church, none of the victims were members. I admit they visited us - but take a look around. We have more than just pat phrases and songs to give. We're doing an outreach here. We take care of their physical needs... as well as spiritual."

"I read the statement you gave. You told the homicide detectives that nothing unusual had been happening with any of your members? No talk of a new threat or theories among your members of why these people are being killed?" Jim asked.

"None," Trent shook his head, his face sad. "I've been preaching here for a year. We're really starting to grow. The last four months our attendance has tripled alone. We've got AA meetings five times a week, a soup kitchen started, volunteers from the hospital visit twice a month to give basic medical exams. God is doing wonderful things for these people. But, these killings are making new folks too scared to come. I've been asking around. No one knows or has seen anything. Believe me, if I did learn something, you would be the first person on my list to call."

"What about your staff? Have they noticed anything about your members?" Jim asked.

"Larry, the guy that plays the piano for me, is the only other person around," Trent told them. "He's already left for his class by now, but he hasn't seen anything either. I don't have much in the way of staff... yet, anyway."

Thirty minutes later, Blair waited for Jim to unlock the truck. The interview had been nonproductive. Judging by Jim's body language, most of the information was already in the file.

"Jim, when are you going to let me read the files?" Blair asked, crossing his chest and lap with the wide webbing of his seatbelt.

"I've already told you the facts, Chief."

Blair shook his head. "So? You've let me look over the files on other cases. I want to help."

"We'll see. Tell me about you and this hidden love for Gilbert and Sullivan songs," Jim said, glancing over as he pulled up to a red light.

Blair smirked, recognizing the subtle change of topics. Okay, he'd play it Jim's way - for now. "Sullivan just wrote the music, someone else wrote the words. Naomi and I used to live with a group of Christians in Colorado. I loved it. We had goats and chickens and a big garden. It was fun."

"A Christian hippie commune?" Jim snorted in disbelief.

"They preferred to be called Jesus Freaks, man. We had bible study three times a week. I used to listen to the Old Testament stuff. David and Goliath, Daniel with those lions, and the guy with the hair..."

"Sampson."

"Yeah, him. He's the reason I wanted long hair. Only in my case, the muscles never showed up, let alone his height."

"Your height is fine, Junior. Just remember, Sampson's troubles started with a beautiful lady."

"Ha. Ha," Blair retorted. "So, where to?"

"Thought we'd check out the location where the last victim was found," Jim answered.

"Please don't tell me we're going to some smelly back alley," Blair moaned. "It's too hot."

"Nope, your delicate constitution is safe, Sandburg."

"I'm only thinking of you, man."

"Riiight."

"You gotta be kidding."

Jim turned off the engine and tossed his plastic `official police business' sign on the dash to validate his right to park in the police-only space. "Nope, this is it."

"It's a mini Disneyland. You mean some sick creep dumped a body here?" Blair asked, climbing out of the truck.

"That's right. Come on." Jim flashed his badge to the man selling tickets and led his friend into the amusement park. The park was full of excited children, running from ride to ride. Tired looking parents followed at a more subdued rate, keeping a watchful eye.

"Wow, with school out, this place must be hauling money in hand over fist," Blair commented as a screaming six-year-old girl ran past. "Go easy on the ears, Jim. We've been here for just a few minutes and I'm already thinking my hearing is too enhanced."

"Way ahead of you." Jim led the way towards a low building that housed the offices for `Enchanted Forest'. Spotting a hanging wooden board labeled `security', he took his ID out again. An older man with glasses and a serious expression that screamed `retired cop' answered his knock.

"Ellison?"

"Yes, I called about viewing the scene where the body was found. This is my partner, Blair Sandburg." Jim replaced his ID case. "Do you have time to show us?"

"Sure, let me lock up." Pulling a large ring filled with keys from his pocket, he retrieved a portable radio from his desk and locked the door behind him. "I've got another security officer patrolling the grounds, he can meet us there."

"How many officers do you normally have on the grounds?" Jim asked as they walked back through the crowded park, dodging kids. The paved walkways took them past bumper cars, spinning teacups and a long line for a roller coaster. The refreshment stands were doing a steady business as parents and kids bought iced drinks and snow cones to beat the heat.

"Two to three during the day, one at night. I'm Ron Langley, by the way."

"You found the body, right?" Jim said, remembering the name from the report.

"Yeah, twenty years with Seattle PD, last ten with CID, and I end up finding the worst murder victim I've ever seen in a kiddy's park." The man shuddered. "I'm just glad some kid didn't find it first."

"It was bad, huh?" Blair asked, sympathizing.

"Oh, yeah. I have no idea how the killer managed it." Langley waved to another man approaching, wearing an identical uniform. The second security officer was of similar age but much taller. Ron unlocked a chain link gate to a secured area behind a popular looking ride: House of Horrors. He waited for the others to precede him before relocking it. "The security around here is tight. We've got cameras and keep our patrols up. The logs show nothing suspicious the previous night. I found the body on my first round that day. So how the heck did he manage to dump it here?"

Jim could see the faded chalk line in the dirt. He remembered from the photos the body had been curled into a ball behind a large air compressor that operated the special effects. Jim scanned the area with a critical eye. The spot was secluded, cut off from the paying customers by the building and machinery, the gate they entered through the only means of access. The ground was hard dirt, scuffed with footprints of previous officers and crime scene personnel. The chances of finding anything this late in the investigation was slim.

"Any new employees?" Jim asked.

Langley shook his head. "No, I faxed a complete list to homicide. The most recent hire was over a year ago, cousin of the owners. This is a family run park, everyone knows everyone. Not like the Carney low-life that you see come and go with those transient shows. I do a thorough background on everyone. If they have anything more serious than speeding, they don't get hired."

"Nothing on the tapes from the surveillance cameras?" Blair asked.

"Not that I saw, I gave them to homicide, too," Langley told them.

"We've got them. Homicide didn't see anything either," Jim said.

A loud scream from inside the building caused Blair to jump and look towards the funhouse with a sheepish grin. "Sounds like someone's having a good time."

"Oh, yeah. It's real popular with the older kids," Langley said, shaking his head. "They love being scared."

Jim pursed his lips, remembering the graphic pictures of the last murdered victim. He doubted the guy loved being scared, judging by his last few minutes on earth.

"Come on, Jim. Give it up."

"Sandburg, you've looked at all the important facts."

Blair rolled his eyes. "Stop trying to protect me, I've seen pictures of murder victims before."

Jim tossed a thick envelope onto his desk; it landed with a dull thud in front of the younger man. "Don't say I didn't warn you. I'm getting some coffee. Want any?"

"Yeah, thanks."

Left alone at Jim's desk, Blair picked up the envelope. Henry and Rafe were out on a witness interview, Rhonda had her earphones on, busy at her keyboard transcribing. No one was watching. He bit his lip nervously, opening the flap slowly as if the contents were dangerous.

He'd wanted to see them, but now that he could - he didn't.

"Get a grip, Blair," he whispered, his fingertips grasped the edges of the pictures to pull them out.

There were over twenty photos in all. The quality of the paper was excellent and Blair immediately recognized the compressor from earlier that day. A pile of red rags had been wadded up and stuffed between the building and the compressor.

No, wait.

It was the body.

"Oh, god..." Blair clamped his hand over his mouth.

Jim was listening, he was certain. Blair refused to let anything else slip. He could do this, after all, he wasn't a wet-behind-the-ears beginner. He'd worked murder cases with Jim before. This was old hat.

Swallowing hard, he forced himself to carefully study each picture. Pulling a yellow legal pad close, Blair started taking notes. After a moment the familiar action of listing his observations had a soothing effect. By the time Jim returned with two cups of coffee, Blair had half a page filled.

"What do you think?" Jim asked, dropping back into his chair and reading over Blair's arm.

"I agree the killing didn't happen at the amusement park," Blair said picking up his coffee and taking a sip, proudly noted his hand was steady. "First I just figured the killer snuck in while the night shift was asleep, but the blood is too bright... too fresh. The M.E. report has the time of death under three hours and he was found at ten-thirty. I'm thinking the killer had to be some kind of Houdini to bring in and dump a body in broad daylight without being seen."

"Homicide agrees with you. Each victim has about a liter of blood left in their bodies, yet no blood is found at the scenes. So, where did it go?" Jim reached across his desk and picked up the other files, his earlier reluctance to share the pictures apparently gone. "The others are just the same. One was found in a city park, that old one on Stafford and the other in a lot on the east end of town, that's the first body."

"Were they cut up like this one?" Blair eyed one photo of the victim. The body was laid out on a table, probably down in the ME's department. His clothes were removed. Blair started to count the number of long, crooked slashes cut into the man's skin. Each cut looked deep and Blair's stomach churned. He set the acidy coffee aside.

Time to switch to tea.

Jim laid out the other two files, the photos looked similar. "All three homeless, two men and one woman. No sexual assault. Hands and feet showed indications of being tied, but no rope near the scene. Forensics hasn't found much of anything in the way of hard evidence. The cuts are crude, maybe made by a common hunting knife."

Blair gave up counting the slashes, there were too many. "I notice the arms have a lot of minor scratching. But the interesting thing is the cuts, they're all grouped in pairs... see? Two... side-by-side, running parallel. But look, the killer isn't just making a slash or downward stroke. It looks like he's carving a design of some sort."

"I noticed that, like lightening bolts," Jim said.

Blair studied the marks. "In mythology, the lightening bolts were the weapons of Zeus."

"Well, if we come across a huge bearded guy with a deep voice that claims to be the king of gods, we'll bring him in for questioning," Jim quipped, dodging Blair's swat easily. "Here, work on these for a while." Jim slid a small stack of papers over. "Lists of the items found at each scene."

"Looks like everyday stuff found in any vacant lot," Blair commented. "Chewing gum wrappers, old beer cans, bird feathers, cigarette butts..."

"Now you know why police work is so glamorous, Chief."

Just before quitting time, Jim got the call from Dan Wolf, the final report ready. Dan's office sat in the basement. Being the senior medical examiner in the city of Cascade, Dan ruled his department with a firm hand. So when Jim and Blair reached his office, it was not surprised to see the man looking upset.

"You have something?" Jim asked with hope.

"Yeah, I need to send a few of my men back to medical examiner Kindercare," Dan grumbled. "Follow me."

Jim recognized Dan's destination as the back room where the autopsies were performed. "Sandburg, you want to wait here?"

Blair gave him an irritated look. "Would you knock it off? I'm fine."

The room was cold, a precaution that caused a small amount of grumbling with the bean counters for the city. Air conditioning was a luxury in the Northwest. But when your job involved being around dead bodies all day, the last thing anyone wanted was a `ripe' body in a hot room. The latest victim had the place of honor on the center table. His skin was pale and waxy, looking more like an old fashioned wax museum exhibit than a person. The multiple cuts stood out in all their glory.

Jim caught Blair's hard swallow and pale face out of the corner of his eye.

"Okay, I decided to do this guy personally and noticed something my two assistants missed," Dan went to the victim's feet. "He was tied, here at his ankles."

"Your guys caught that, Dan. It was in the report," Jim told him.

"What they didn't notice was the bruising and extra pressure around the skin," Dan pointed to the man's ankles. "See, look here, Ellison. Notice anything?"

It was faint, but Jim zoomed in on the skin around the ankles. It looked stretched out, as if the rope had been pulling towards the soles of the man's feet. Jim gave it some thought. We he dragged by his feet? The clothing didn't seem to indicate it, then it came to him.

Blair was faster. "The killer hung him upside down."

"Bingo," Dan said. "If you had a medical degree, kid, I'd take you over my two assistances right now."

"No, thanks!" Blair said, stepping back.

"You mean all three bodies have similar marks?" Jim asked.

"Yes. I know we've been busy with extra work. The county's been contracting our services, so we're stacking bodies up like cordwood lately, but I can't excuse this kind of slip-up. It could be crucial to your case." Dan looked ready to hang up a few of his own as he spoke.

"Thanks, Dan. This does help," Jim told him. "If the killer suspended the victims upside down while they bled, why don't we see more evidence of that? The clothes and skin don't have the drip patterns you'd expect to see."

"Maybe the killer is collecting the blood, letting it drain into something," Dan suggested.

"Yeah, but why?" Jim questioned. "So, was the guy alive or dead when the killer hung him upside down?"

"I'd say alive, judging by the bruising," Dan said, rubbing his chin and studying the body. "We're not finding any evidence of drugs. No signs of fighting. How are the victims being taken down?"

A strangled noise, like someone trying to breath through a twisted tube caused Jim to turn. Blair's face was white.

"Sandburg?" Jim asked, moving to his friend's side.

"I... I think..." Blair looked just barely able to stay on his feet. He swayed like a drunk.

"Come on, Mr. I-can-handle-it. Let's lay you down," Jim said, taking Blair's arm and towing him back into the M.E.'s private office. A soft, brown leather couch sat in one corner. Jim suspected it served Dan more than once as a comfortable late night option to driving home.

Blair sank into the cushions and closed his eyes. "Oh, man."

"Yeah. I tried to warn you this one was gruesome," Jim said, pushing Blair over to lie on his side and picking up his feet to set on the couch.

"The killer strings them up like a side of beef and starts cutting them," Blair whispered. "He wants the blood."

Jim perched on the edge of the couch, next to his roommate. "Maybe; we don't know that for sure."

"It fits, man. God, Jim, this guy is sick. I need to do some research." Blair tried to sit up, only to be pushed down again.

"Just rest a second. You're not going to do either one of us any favors by taking a header in the hallway," Jim ordered. "What kind of research are you talking about?"

"I need to check on those lightening bolts. I'm not positive, but I think there's another group that uses them," Blair said quietly, his color improving.

"Which group?"

"Satanic groups, man. Very, very bad karma."

Jim had insisted they call it a day.

Blair didn't argue. Going home to the loft suited him just fine. Normally, being in Dan's office didn't freak him out. He actually preferred to see dead bodies in the clinical atmosphere with all the M.E. equipment around. It helped to distance him from the fact he was looking at a dead body. Ever since seeing Lash's victim in the bathtub, Dan's office was much easier to take. Seeing corpses in their own homes just reminded Blair these were people robbed of the right to live their own lives. Each victim had been an individual; with likes and dislikes. It was evident by the small details around them; their favorite paperbacks, the type of pattern on their dishes, the color of the furniture.

Give him Dan's examination room, any day.

He powered up his laptop, making himself comfortable on the couch. Using the extra long phone cord, he plugged into the Internet and started a search on lightening bolt symbols. As the inquiry went out through cyberspace, he pondered his earlier near-fainting episode.

Okay, he had to admit, seeing the guy all cut up was gross. But he'd already seen the photos, and Dan's people had cleaned up the corpse. So why'd he do the `fainting swan' thing? He remembered how warm the exam room had gotten and how he'd suddenly had difficultly pulling enough air into his lungs. It was as if everything in the room had become dead.

"Sandburg!"

"What?" Blair answered, startled out of his musings.

"I asked if you want stew or pasta," Jim said, standing in the kitchen with a frown. "You okay?"

"Yeah. I'm good," Blair said. "Whatever you want is fine, Jim. I'm not that hungry."

"Stew it is, then."

Blair turned his attention back to the computer screen. The keyword `lightening bolts' had not returned anything of use. He pondered his options a few moments and typed in `Satan symbols'. The computer listed over a thousand sites.

Wonderful.

He brought up several sites before finding the one he wanted.

"Jim, check this out."

When his roommate stood behind him, he scrolled down the page. "Here... those look like the marks, right?"

"Yeah, they do."

"Okay, it's the `Satanic S'," Blair told him. "I knew I saw that mark before."

"You're saying the person or persons responsible are Satan worshipers?" Jim asked in disbelief.

"Well, think about it. The victims are all people that had visited a church. Maybe they used to belong to a satanic group and the members are punishing them for going to the other side."

"Other side? You sound like a George Lucas movie, Sandburg," Jim teased. "This is real life we're talking about."

"I know. But you've got to realize, one common denominator in all cultures is the presence of good and evil... good verses evil to be more accurate," Blair insisted. "This fits, man."

"I suppose," Jim said, not looking convinced. "So where do we find a satanic church? I don't remember them being listed in the Sunday paper under the religious section."

Blair powered down the computer. "Let me ask a friend of mine at Rainier. He's doing his diss on religious fanaticism; he'll go on for hours if you bring up the Jonestown thing. Maybe he's heard about some activity in town."

Jim held up a hand, his face suddenly hard. "Let's get one thing perfectly clear, Sandburg. You will not go off on your own. Got it? We stick together. This killer is ruthless and clever. I'm not going to let you interview anyone by yourself."

Blair twisted on the couch in surprise. "So, you think my idea has some merit?"

Jim shrugged. "Sure, it's a fresh look on a case that's had some good detectives stumped for over a month. Of course I'm going to consider it. I'm just saying we do this together."

Blair grinned. "You got it, man."

Jim knew he was dreaming. But it didn't make what his mind was showing him any easier to take. The part about dreaming that Jim hated the most was not being in control.

Blair was alone. The room was dark, yet Jim could easily see him. The darkness seemed to move and shift, as if thousands of individual objects were blocking the light. The air was totally still, like a stagnate pond, void of life. It pressed in on all sides.

Dark shapes darted down from above, striking Blair with cruel accuracy. Each attack left a bleeding gash behind. Blair fought the shapes off, fighting a loosing battle, unable to out run the attackers.

"Jiiimmmm!"

Jim rolled out of the damp sheets. The heat inside the loft was unbearable. Below his room, a crash jolted him to the head of the stairs. He managed to make it to the bottom without falling or dropping the gun he clutched. Seeing the front door was secure, he ran to the French doors. It was slightly cooler down here, but still way too hot for the middle of the night, even for August.

"Noooo!" Blair screamed as Jim entered.

"Sandburg!"

God, this room was boiling! Jim took a second to fling open the window and set down his gun. He shook Blair out of his nightmare, shocked by the hot skin under his fingers. Sweat poured off the younger man, completely soaking his T-shirt, damp hair clung to his neck.

"Sandburg, wake up!" Jim shouted, caught up in the panic of the moment. Suddenly, unable to stand the heat in the room any longer, he yanked his not yet awake roommate to his feet. "Come on."

"Whaa... Jim?" Blair stumbled along as Jim dragged him out of the room and towards the balcony doors.

"Something's wrong in the loft, Chief," Jim said, struggling to keep his voice calm. "I think the furnace came on."

"Oh, man... I don't feel so good," Blair mumbled as Jim leaned him against the windows to work the lock on the glass door.

"I know, give me a second. We'll get cooled off." Jim got the door opened and reached for Blair.

Out on the balcony, a cool breeze floated off the Puget Sound. Blair sighed in relief, falling onto one of the two plastic lounge chairs they'd purchased a few months ago. Jim ran a hand through his short hair and dropped into its twin. He needed to open up all the windows and check on the thermostat, but right now, he just wanted to enjoy the breeze.

Blair looked spent, his head lolled to one side to look at Jim in bewilderment. "All I needed was an apple in my mouth."

Jim nodded. "I never heard the furnace kick on, but it sure felt like it was set on high."

Blair closed his eyes, head drooping to his chest. "I'm sleeping out here, man. Not going back inside."

Jim smiled, Blair looked half asleep already. "You're neck might disagree with that idea in the morning, Chief. What was your nightmare about, anyway?"

Blair lifted his head. "What nightmare?"

"You were calling out, wrestling the sheets when I came in. That's what woke me. You even trashed your alarm clock."

"Huh," Blair blinked and yawned widely. "No clue. Just remember being in a hot place, couldn't breathe. Not going back inside, Jim."

"Okay, I get the picture." Jim stood. "Be right back."

Jim opened all the windows in his apartment; the temperature was already coming down. He checked the thermostat, it was off. So where the heck did the heat come from? The apartment below? Gathering up both their pillows and taking time to slip on clean cases, Jim snagged a couple of flat sheets from the linen closet and returned to the balcony. He made Blair lean forward so he could lower the back of the lounge chair down and make it into a halfway comfortable bed, then did the same with his.

They settled down to sleep. Blair skin had cooled off; he even let Jim cover him with a sheet before falling quickly back to sleep. Jim settled into his makeshift bed, his mind too active to shut down. The street below was quiet, only a few cars driving past. The stars above filled the sky, barely visible to the sentinel's eyes with all the lights from the city. On the rooftop across the street, a flock of black crows watched them silently. Somewhere down an alley, an animal was scrounging in the trash for food.

After a few minutes, Jim was satisfied his territory was secure. He drifted off to sleep.

"No classes?"

"Nope, I'm free all day," Blair answered as he hit the pulse button on the blender and watched his algae shake take form. "What did building maintenance say when you called?"

"He'll take a look today. He sounded like I was nuts, though," Jim added as he buttoned his shirt while coming down the stairs.

"Oh yeah, let's invite him over for a slumber party the next time the loft decides to go into its broiler routine," Blair suggested, pouring his shake into a glass to drink. "What's the plan today?"

"I want to revisit that church. Maybe talk to a few members, if they're around." Jim pulled out a bag of bagels and sliced one for the toaster. "It's the only thing that we've found so far to tie all three victims together. You can call your friend at Rainier and set up a meeting for us this afternoon, if he's available."

Later that morning, they arrived at the church to find the front doors locked. Blair eyed the building, looking for another way in. "Maybe the alley has an entrance."

"Let's find out," Jim said leading the way around the side.

An old railroad track ran behind the building, left over from the days the neighborhood was a productive district that shipped goods by train. Now the buildings were used for storage or simply sat vacate. Judging by the broken windows and pulled down sections of plywood, the homeless had claimed a few for their own. Behind the converted church, a small, blond haired girl played on a back step. She looked so out of place that Blair thought he was seeing things. But, she was there, dressed in jean cut offs and a blue T-shirt several sizes too large for her frame. Her toys were pebbles and sticks. Looking up in surprise at the two men, the child wordlessly jumped to her feet and disappeared inside the building.

"Looks like someone's home," Jim commented.

Before they neared the door to knock, a thin man opened it. "Can I help you?"

"Jim Ellison, with Cascade Police," Jim said reaching for his ID. "This is my partner, Blair Sandburg."

"Oh, I remember you two, you came by yesterday. Are you looking for the preacher?"

Blair recognized the piano player. He looked tired, his face pale in the morning light. Blair could see the child, standing behind the man's legs, peering at them with interest. She looked about five or six years old. "We didn't mean to scare your daughter," Blair said.

"She's not used to living here yet. I tell her not to talk to the people that walk by, it's not safe. I'm Larry Nordrum, this is my daughter Kathy."

"You and Kathy live here?" Jim asked, his voice registering his surprise.

"Yeah, we keep an eye on the place while Trent's away, have a small apartment in the back," Larry explained.

"Can we come in and talk? We're investigation the..."

"I know," Larry glanced down at the child. "Let me finishing getting Kathy her snack. We can talk while she eats."

Inside, Blair was surprised to see the apartment clean and comfortable. They walked through a small utility room filled with church flyers and brochures. The next room was a kitchen big enough for a small table. A bowl of canned fruit and a spoon sat out with a glass of milk. Larry set his daughter on a chair and patted her head before leading them into another room with an old couch and a small color TV sitting on a crate.

"Before Trent took us in, we were living on the street," Larry told them. "I know this doesn't look like much, but to Kathy and me, this is heaven."

"It looks very comfortable," Blair said. "I think it's great you get to stay here."

Larry shrugged. "The neighborhood's not very good for a kid, but neither is living in a car. Here, have a seat." He moved some sheet music aside to make room for his visitors. "I didn't really want to talk about the murders in front of Kathy."

"We understand, Mr. Nordrum," Jim said, taking his seat next to Blair. "Did you meet any of the victims?"

"Not really. I've heard some of the guys talk about them. I think I remember the last guy, Jess. And I know I saw the woman before, we don't get many women at the church. I don't know her name though."

"Her name was Tina McFarley, she was the second victim. The first was Bart DeSanto and the latest victim was Jess Krein," Jim said, reading from his small notebook.

"Okay, that sounds right," Larry said, scratching the side of his head through his thin blond hair.

"So, what do you do around here for Mr. Barclay?" Jim asked.

"Oh, anything and everything. I use to play piano for a nightclub before I ruined my life with drugs. When I got out of rehab, my wife had split. I had to get my kid out of social services. I knew Trent from the city jail, he used to come each Sunday and give a service. He offered me a job here. I get a place to live in trade for playing during the service. I do handyman work, fix up things and pass out tracks. There's a soup kitchen Trent runs nearby, too. I work there part time. It's subsidized through the city, I make enough to buy food and take some classes at the inner city high school. I'm training to be an electrician," Larry ended proudly.

No wonder this guy looked tired, he had a full life, plus he was raising a kid by himself. "Who watches Kathy when you're at school?" Blair asked, curious.

"She comes with me, the school has a daycare," Larry explained.

"Mr. Nordrum, has the church or its members been approached by other groups, threatened in anyway?" Jim asked.

"No, not that I know of. We get a lot of support from the businesses around here. The cops leave us alone, mostly. No offense..."

Jim waved him off. "None taken. What about the members? Do you ever hear them talking about being hassled?"

Larry scratched under his chin, his gaze shifting to the dingy ceiling. "We had an ugly scene about a month ago. Trent's trying to get enough funds for a shelter with enough room to let them sleep overnight, like that Gospel Mission place in Seattle. There's a building nearby that would work and it's cheep, only it's kinda being used by a local street gang."

"And they're not willing to give it up?" Jim guessed.

"They made noises, came by with some spray cans and painted swastikas and stuff on the walls."

"Any threats?"

Larry shook his head. "Nah, we didn't have enough money to rent the building, plus do the remodeling that was needed. They lost interest in us."

"Still, it's worth looking into," Jim said, scratching a few notes in his book before handing over his business card. "If you think of anything to add, call me day or night," Jim told him, flipping his notebook shut and slipping it into a pocket.

"How long have you and Kathy lived here?" Blair asked.

"Two months, now." Larry gazed around the room. "It's okay, but I hope to get an apartment soon. Kathy needs a place to play."

"I'll bet," Blair said. "I didn't see her yesterday during the service."

"She won't go into the church. Stays in our apartment or the alley." Larry shrugged. "I think Trent scares her, or she doesn't like to be around the homeless. It's hard for a six year old to adjust."

"I can imagine," Blair agreed. "You'd be surprised though, I used to live in some weird places growing up with my mom. Kids have a way of adapting."

"I hope so," Larry said with a weary look.

Jim watched Blair yawn for the fourth time since they sat down to lunch. He didn't need to ask, Jim felt like yawning himself. Neither one of them had slept well on the balcony. Although it was much cooler, those lounge chairs left a lot to be desired.

"Tell me about this guy we're going to see."

Blair shrugged, pushing the chicken strips around on his plate. "He's okay, kind of... intense. Like I said before, he'll talk your ear off if you get him started about cults and group mentality."

"So he's going to know if any recent voodoo is happening in Cascade?" Jim asked finishing his own meal.

Blair nodded. "If anything weird is happening, he'll either know about it or know who to ask."

"You going to finish that, Sandburg?" Jim jerked his chin towards Blair's half eaten meal.

"Nah... I'm not hungry."

"If you're finished, let's get going," Jim said, grabbing a handful of Blair's chicken strips before sliding out of the booth and heading for the door.

Following Blair's directions, Jim parked close to the Social Science building at Rainier University. The parking lot was more empty than full. While the summer quarter was in full swing, a lot of students took the time off, planning to return to their studies in the fall. This was the reason Blair was able to work with him during the week. His schedule was noticeably lighter compared to the rest of the year. He followed his roommate up the stairs and into the building. The offices were on the second floor. They found the man they were looking for reading a large dusty book.

"Blair! You're early," he said in surprise as they entered.

"Actually, we're on time, Cliff. I keep telling you to get a clock for your office," Blair said with a laugh. "Jim, this is Professor Clifford Yardy. Cliff, this is Jim Ellison."

"Ahh, the detective you ride with! Yes, yes. A pleasure to meet you, sir." Cliff shook Jim's hand formally. He was in his forties, almost as tall as Jim. He wore a wrinkled pair of slacks and a light dress shirt with tie. A matching jacket was draped haphazardly over the back of a wooden chair. His office was as cluttered as Blair kept his, maybe worse.

"Thank you for seeing us, Professor," Jim told him.

"Please, just call me Cliff. I only make my students call me Professor. I'm sure they use worse names when I'm not around." He closed the book and sat behind his desk. "You said you needed to ask me questions about a case you're working on?"

Jim pulled out the close-ups he had Dan take of the cuts on the last body. "We'd like your opinion on these. Our murder victims were found with these slash marks."

Cliff peered at the picture with interest. He nodded his head a few times then rose from his chair. "Sit, sit. I need a reference book, I'll be right back."

He was gone. Blair flashed Jim a quirky smile and took a seat to wait. "Might as well get comfortable, man. We're in for a lecture."

"Wonderful."

They didn't have to wait long.

"Okay, I have to keep the rarer books locked up. But this is the book that might have what we want." He opened an ancient looking, leather bound book. "There are many signs of Satan. You've found one of the less commonly known ones."

"It's the Satanic S, right?" Blair asked. Leaning forward to look at the page he was pointing to.

"Correct, it represents Satan's ability to have power over others, as the destroyer. Hitler used this symbol for his personal SS police force."

"Power?" Jim asked. He could see the symbol in the book matched the marks on the victims.

"Right, biblically speaking, Satan is very powerful. He is only second to God. The bible illustrates him as a deceiver, a liar. He wants to possess our souls."

"Any reason the group would want the victim's blood?"

Clifford's eyebrows rose. "Well... parts of the Bible refer to the blood holding `the life'. God allowed Noah and his family to eat the meat of the animals, but not the blood. I guess a group could take that literally."

"So, would a group of Satan followers attack members of a street mission?" Jim asked.

"Depends. What kind of mission? Christian?"

Jim nodded, he'd never actually asked Trent Barclay, but the diploma on the wall in his office was from a Southern Baptist University. "I think so, Baptist?"

"Then, yes, they are very fundamental and biblically based. Theoretically, Satan would hate everything they stood for," Clifford said.

"Do you know of any such group in Cascade?" Blair asked.

Clifford shook his head. "Not specifically Satan followers. We have some rather dark religions that gather in town. Even some Wicca groups that meet on campus. Ever since Buffy became popular, it's quite the rage."

"Wicca?" Blair asked. "I've seen their flyers. They don't seem to preach Satan. They're more about Goddess and white magic."

"I agree, I doubt they are the group that you're looking for, but keep in mind Satan would be a deceiver; he's not going to be doing his business out in the open. He hides behind beauty and charm," Clifford warned, closing the book.

"Well, what do you think?" Blair asked as they left over an hour later. Blair had to admit, he knew more now about Satanic symbols then he ever wanted to know. Judging by the set of Jim's shoulders, he wasn't the only one. "I know he kind of goes on and on, but he did have a lot of useful information, right?"

"We confirmed your theory about the markings," Jim said, arriving at the truck and unlocking the door. "I just need to put out an APB on a guy in a red suit with a forked tail and horns."

"Ha, ha." Blair rolled his eyes. "At least we can stop looking for Zeus."

"Seriously, I think we're on the right track. We've got three bodies, dead from being strung up and bled out. With ritual overtones. All three having visited the same church," Jim said, pulling out of the parking lot. "The Gangs Division promised to get back to me on everything they have on that gang in Barclay's neighborhood. I'm going to run background checks on Barclay and Nor -" He was interrupted by his cell phone.

"Ellison... we're on our way, sir."

Something told Blair this was not good news. "What?"

"We have a body behind Cloverdale Elementary School. Sounds like a match," Jim said, his voice flat.

Cloverdale Elementary School looked like a leftover from the fifties; a single story, flat roofed set of buildings that allowed each classroom a door opening to the outside. A large field to the north provided space for hundreds of kids to play and run. A baseball diamond sat in the far corner, its wooden bleachers long overdue for a fresh paint job. Closer to the building, a rugged looking play area sported a jungle gym, swings and a large slide.

The body, in red, blood-soaked clothes, had been left under the slide, crammed under the base like someone trying to haphazardly hide a ruined coat.

Blair slowed his step, letting Jim arrive ahead of him and talk to the two uniformed officers. He swallowed hard, unable to take his eyes off the body. Who uses a playground to dispose of a murder victim? It was sick, twisted. Taking a deep breath, he made his legs carry him to stand near his partner. The two uniformed officers passed him, the younger man giving Blair a sympathetic smile as he passed. Blair nodded, recognizing the man from the station.

"Okay," Jim snapped on his gloves, signaling it was time to get down to business. "Let's do this, while we have the chance."

"Ah... right," Blair said, realizing Jim was waiting for him to start. "Let's try scent. Close your eyes..."

Blair watched Jim go through the steps, silently marveling at the sentinel's abilities. Jim's skill was so much better than when Blair first met him. He got a rush just being able to watch him work, making him forget, for a second, there was even a dead body on the ground. After Jim filtered out the smell of the victim's blood, his frown slid off his brow and he became attentive to the very air around him.

"Anything?"

"I smell pine... like the cleaner."

"They did say a janitor found him," Blair suggested. "What else?"

"Nothing really... just..."

"What?"

Jim opened his eyes and looked around. "It's a playground, Chief. I smell stuff that reminds me of kids; peanut butter, band-aides, soda pop, that kind of stuff."

"Right, makes sense." Blair absentmindedly rubbed his ear as he looked around. The area was littered with reminders that they stood in a playground. A lone sandal rested in the gravel under the swings. A crushed pop can lay along side an empty wrapper for a Payday candy bar. An idea formed in his mind. "Jim, did you notice that all the bodies are dumped in areas that kids tend to come to play?"

"Not all, one was in that vacant lot," Jim replied.

"Yeah, but... in the photos, it looked like a crude baseball diamond had been formed in the lot. Could kids be playing there?"

Jim rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You might have a point, Chief. We'll add that idea to the file. Maybe the department's shrink would have a few ideas. Why would the killer do that? Is he hoping a bunch of kids find the body?"

"God, if that's true, then he's one twisted person." Blair shuttered.

"Let's go over the body." Jim knelt down, carefully lifting the tattered blood soaked cloth that covered the dead person's head.

`Oh, let's not', Blair thought to himself, steeling himself for the next part. He hated the first look at the face. No matter how long he worked with Jim, he still hated having to view the results of horrendous actions of a person on another. If Blair lived to be a hundred years old, he'd never be able to understand why these things happen.

"I'm not sure, Chief but it looks like one of the guys we saw at the mission yesterday."

"Really?" Blair leaned forward, allowing his eyes to dart quickly to the face before looking quickly away.

"Yeah, do you still have Barclay's numbers? Let's call him and get him out here. The faster we ID the body, the better."

"Okay, I'm on it." Blair moved away, passing one of the officers returning with a roll of yellow and black crime scene tape. He dialed the number to the mission first. No answer. The next number reached the man at his vocational job with a local computer software company. Trent promised to be there within fifteen minutes.

"Adam Yessler."

"You sure?" Jim asked, glancing back down at the body. The medical examiner had arrived, along with the photographer. The body was laid out straight on his back, ready to be transported to the morgue.

"Yes. I'm sure," Trent said with feeling. He slapped his hand against his thigh. "Why is this happening?"

"Someone has it in for your members, it would seem," Jim suggested, watching Trent's face closely for some sort of reaction.

"But why? None of this makes any sense! These people have nothing to take; they're penniless, living on the street!" Trent paused, taking in a deep breath and visibly calming down. "Detective, Adam had only been to the mission twice. I talked to him last week, the first time he came. He was a fired Boeing worker that started using crack to escape his pain and unhappiness. He lost his house, his wife, everything. Yesterday, I thought I saw a spark of life in his eyes." Trent turned away, his shoulders hutching over as if in pain. "I thought he was getting ready to accept the truth."

Blair moved to Trent's side, a hand on his arm. "We'll find out what happened, man. Jim's the best. We'll stop this guy," he promised.

"Do you have any idea, any at all, as to who would kill him?" Jim asked.

Trent turned back, keeping his eyes on Jim and off the body that was being placed into a long, black, rubber-coated bag with a zipper down the front. "No, but if you need anything. Just ask, and I'll try and get it for you."

"Let's start with a complete list of names. Anyone that's visited your mission," Jim challenged, wondering if the man would follow through.

"You've got it, I'll call Larry. I have some names in my office. He can start putting the list together. I'll bring it to you personally," Trent said with a determined look, ready to fight for his flock.

It never failed to amaze Blair as to how many faces the city of Cascade wore. The waterfront was both trendy and industrial. The neighborhoods had rich boulevards, blue-collar streets and rundown roads with potholes. Downtown was filled with skyscrapers and turn of the century three-story brick buildings.

But here... they walked where the hopeless walked.

Blair tossed his flannel shirt back in the cab before closing the door. It was getting too warm to wear. They had been making their way down the list of Barclay's members all day, tracking down the homeless congregation. It was no simple matter. They'd been in abandoned apartments, condemned by the city. They looked under the freeway viaduct while the traffic roared overhead. They'd interviewed men waiting in lines at soup kitchens and shelters.

Lunch had been a quick bite of take-out while sitting on the back tailgate of the truck, while they watched trains rumble by.

Now they were on foot again, walking side-by-side, searching for a particular back ally. Jim's cell phone rang, causing the cop to pause. Blair could tell by Jim's side of the conversation it was the medical examiner, probably given Jim the preliminary finds he'd made on yesterday's victim. Spying a handy stack of wooden pallets about knee high, Blair took a seat to wait. His feet were starting to hurt.

"What did Dan say?" Blair asked, standing when Jim disconnected the call.

"Nothing much... the victim died like the others, loss of blood, same rope marks, time of death was less than two hours from when the body was found," Jim told him.

"Two hours? Where were Barclay and Nordrum?"

Jim nodded. "We'll make a cop out of you yet, Chief. Barclay was at work. I already called his employer and confirmed it. Nordrum said he was at the mission."

Blair didn't really think either man was the killer, but it was obvious the killings had something to do with the homeless community and the mission.

"Simon promised me some help interviewing the members of Barclay's church; otherwise it would take a year to get through these names. It's not as if we're looking for normal addresses here," Jim complained as they started walking down the ally again.

"Here it is," Blair said. They had been looking for a tiny lot behind a four-story brick building. A temporary shack had been constructed out of odd scraps of metal, crates and plywood. A makeshift cardboard door hung on strips of torn cloth. The result reminded Blair of the kid's books his mom used to read to him by Dr. Seuss, where odds and ends of junk piled high to form useful objects that always seemed just a breath away from toppling. A familiar hand on his arm stopped him from nearing the entrance and Blair found himself looking at Jim's broad shoulders.

Jim tapped on the metal wall. "Sir? Mr. Shelton? Can we speak with you?"

Sounds of muttering and movement came from within. The door swung out revealing a gnome like figure with white hair. He stood, shoulders hunched, giving Jim a scowl. "What? What? You want Mr. Shelton?"

Blair moved around Jim to talk, to try and ease the old man down from his fears. "Preacher Barclay sent us to visit with Mr. Shelton," he added with a friendly smile.

"The preach?" the gnome grimaced, standing a little taller to peer at Blair, his face a roadmap of wrinkles. "I'm Shelton... why me? Cops? I'm not leaving... I don't bother nothing, no one sees me."

"We're not here to move you out, Mr. Shelton," Jim explained. "We wanted to talk with you about Jess Krein."

"All dead! All dead... Jess gone!" He stamped his foot on every other word. "Tina... gone! Bart... gone!"

"That's right, we're here to find the person responsible," Jim explained slowly.

"No one sees me..." Shelton repeated, his eyes squinting up at Jim.

"Who doesn't see you?" Jim asked taking a gentler approach. "Did you see someone talking with Jess? Or Tina or Bart?"

"He doesn't see me, I said `yes'. Yes!" Shelton gave them a toothless grin. "I'm saved! Jesus is in my heart!"

"That's great, man," Blair told him. "Really cool! So now he doesn't see you, right? Where can we find the man that doesn't see you?"

Shelton's smile of delight faded. He looked around confused. "You can't `find' him... he's everywhere, all that's unclean. Look!" he pointed towards the large garbage container a few hundred feet down the alley. "Unclean!"

Blair's hopes for a solid lead started to crumble. Was this guy still on planet earth?

"But them... they waited. They told me `later, Mr. Shelton, later'. I say to them all, maybe no tomorrows. Just like I say to Pete... maybe tonight he comes," the gnome cackled, his tough, stubbly face reforming as he grinned.

"Pete?" Jim scanned down the list in his hand. "Who's Pete? Does he go to the mission?"

Shelton seemed to have a lucid moment. He nodded. "Yes. I bring him. He likes the clothes sack, likes the soup."

"You're a good friend," Blair told him, smiling as the old man preened under the praise. "Can you tell us where to find Pete?"

"Pete likes his privacy," the old man insisted, his manner switching from delight to distrust effortlessly.

"We'll tell him Mr. Shelton is a good friend and he sent us for a short visit," Blair explained. "Then we'll leave."

The distrust evaporated with the reminder of being a `good friend'. Shelton nodded wisely. "Okay. Pete lives in the old food store on Grand."

Jim parked the truck next to the empty grocery store, its front windows long since broken out. "Okay, according to Shelton, our guy hangs out on this block. One last interview and we'll head for the station."

Blair couldn't resist. "Try smiling this time, big guy. You're scaring the locals."

"Funny, Sandburg."

They checked out the building first, it was deserted. A stack of empty crates and boxes were placed in the back corner, creating a small living area. An old foam pad and a few blankets formed a bed. Nothing else of value was left. Blair lifted a newspaper and checked the date. Only a few weeks old.

"If he's anything like Mr. Shelton, he may be a tough guy to track down," Jim said, carefully looking over a supply of plastic bags filled with more plastic bags.

Blair agreed. Sadly surveying the accumulation of debris scattered about; bags filled with pop and beer cans, stacks of magazines and empty whisky bottles. Underneath a soiled towel, he found a small pink box with the name `Southside Baker' stenciled in blue. Blair picked up the box and showed to Jim.

"Yeah, that's not too far from here, just a few blocks. Let's walk over, maybe he's waiting for some backdoor offerings," Jim suggested.

The weather was nice. A high bank of clouds had moved in from the sea around lunchtime and had helped to cool off the high temperatures. Jim could see the window to the bakery three blocks down the street.

"Let's walk; maybe we'll see this guy on the way."

Blair's hand reached out and grabbed his arm, bringing them both to a stop on the sidewalk. He pointed down an alley; a shadowy figure turned the corner at the other end.

"Bring the truck, Chief." He pushed the keys into Blair's hands before breaking into a run. Jim reached the end of the ally, taking the corner carefully. They were just looking for a homeless man to interview, but experience had taught him to play it safe.

The street was empty.

Looking both ways, Jim started trotting down the broken sidewalk, checking the recessed doorways as he passed. He extended his hearing. Nothing. No sign of anyone.

Had he just imagined it? No, Blair had seen something, too. He checked the street behind him, looking for his truck. Blair should be arriving any moment. A nagging uneasiness caused the cop to slow and stop. He couldn't put his finger on why, but he didn't like the fact he and Blair had been separated.

To heck with finding this guy, Jim turned on his heel and began jogging back to where he'd left the truck. They'd check out the bakery and get back to the station. He'd set a four o'clock meeting with the other detectives Simon had arranged to borrow for the interviews and he didn't want to be late.

In the alley, his dial for hearing still set high, he could hear the flapping of wings, beating more than just the air. Then Blair was yelling, calling his name. He sped up, turning the last corner to emerge on the street where he'd left Blair, his heart in his throat.

"Sandburg!"

It was a scene from Alfred Hitchcock's movie, `The Birds'. Blair was curled on his side in the street, ten feet from the truck, completely covered with large, black, screaming birds. They were using their beaks and feet to claw and rip whatever they could reach.

Jim's nightmare returned. Blair was living it.

"Hey! HEY! Get the HELL OFF!" Jim screamed, waving his arms like a lunatic.

Birds scattered into the sky, throwing a dark shadow over them, blocking the light. Using his feet and hands, he managed to knock off the more prescient ones to reach his friend. Blair's bloody arms covered his head, which was turned face down towards the asphalt, in a desperate attempt to escape the attack.

"Blair! Shit... Chief, look at me." Jim gently grasped a blood-slick arm to check for damage. God, if they managed to get to his eyes...

Blair's face had several long scratches; his eyes were fine, but wide with fear. His hair had been whipped into a blood-tinted tangle. Jim quickly assessed the damage. Blair's T-shirt had protected most of his chest and back; but a small fountain of crimson spurted from the younger man's inside left arm, just above the bony part of his wrist.

They'd cut into an artery.

"Ohm god! Jim, they came out of nowhere!" Blair said between rapid gasps, grabbing Jim's arm in a crushing grip.

"Okay, okay." Jim clamped his left hand over the mini fountain, his eyes quickly searching the sky, checking for signs of another organized attack. The birds sat on the roof of a nearby building, beady eyes following their movement with uncanny intelligence. "Let's get in the truck."

He pulled Blair to his feet, catching him around the waist with his free arm, the other hand busy keeping Blair's blood from spilling into the gutter. Blair stumbled in a drunken stagger towards the truck, falling heavily against it. Jim unlocked the driver's door and pushed Blair in first before following. Once the doors were closed, Jim slammed down the locks, with a sudden irrational fear that the flock could somehow get the doors open and finish Blair off.

"Keep pressure on this," Jim ordered. But Blair was preoccupied, his attention on the sky outside the windshield. Jim had to grab his chin and turn his head. "Blair, listen to me. Keep your right hand on this... press hard! Don't let go."

Blinking some of the panic from his eyes, Blair gave Jim a few jerky nods of his head and followed instructions. Pressing down hard over the wound, Blair hugged his torn arm tightly against his chest. Violent tremors shook the younger man while Jim reached across and snagged Blair's seatbelt to strap him in. Starting the motor, Jim dropped the gear selector into drive, the pedal already half way to the floorboards. The Ford surged forward into the deserted streets, like a horse, spooked by the emotions of his rider.

They hit the doors to Cascade General Emergency entrance looking like two extras in a Friday the Thirteenth sequel. A younger woman sitting in the waiting room looked up and screamed as Jim barreled in, half supporting Blair. The other numerous cuts had bled unchecked, coating Blair's arms and clothes and spilling on to Jim. It couldn't be helped; Jim knew the real emergency was the injured artery; Blair was going into shock.

"I need some help here!"

An orderly wearing light blue scrubs dropped a handful of supplies in his arms onto a nearby counter and quickly pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Moving to take Blair's other arm, he pointed down the hallway with his chin. "Treatment room two is open! This way."

They picked up a nurse en route who ran ahead, clearing the way. Jim had a firm grip on Blair's arm, one hand on the wound, the other tightly squeezing Blair's pressure point located above the injured artery, restricting the flow of blood. They entered the treatment room, rushing Blair faster than his legs could keep up, supporting the injured man between them. Together, Jim and the orderly lifted Blair onto the exam table where the nurse wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his right arm.

"What happened?" the orderly asked.

"His left radial is cut," Jim explained in short, precise sentences. "About fifteen minutes ago. He's oh positive."

"Knife fight?"

"He was attacked by birds," Jim said, realizing how bizarre he sounded.

"What have we got?" a black woman asked, entering the room.

"Arterial bleed, Doctor Wilson," the orderly answered.

"Pressure is ninety-four over sixty. Pulse rapid and weak," the nurse added, uncoiling a long plastic tube from an oxygen mask and plugging it into a small green port in the wall before fitting it over Blair's face.

"Okay, let's start a line," she ordered, moving in with a quiet calm that caused Jim to take a deep breath and relax a little. "Taylor, get a restrictive band on that arm so I can look at the damage..."

Jim found himself gently eased back from the exam table as the professionals took over. With a shaky exhalation, he dropped down onto a metal stool, out of the way of the action, but still able to keep an eye on his friend's treatment and answer any question.

He rested bloody hands on his knees, careful not to touch anything as he pondered the last twenty minutes.

What the hell had happened?

How could a flock of common looking birds...

Jim was not a bird person; he couldn't tell a sparrow from a finch. But the birds that attacked his partner seemed larger than just common crows. Perhaps the shear number of birds had played tricks on Jim's vision. Were they just crows? What other kinds of black birds would be in Cascade?

No... the real question is what type of bird would attack a man in the street?

"Sir?"

The orderly was talking to him. Jim stood, snapping his attention back to the present. He needed to stay focused. "Yes?"

"I was asking about your friend. Does he have any drug allergies?"

Jim shook his head, anticipating the other questions the man would ask. "No, he isn't taking any drugs, either; and he doesn't have any medical history. Is he going to be okay?"

"We're sending him up to surgery now," Dr. Wilson answered, turning away from Blair to pin Jim with a suspicious look. "What really happened to this man?"

Jim's mind went blank for a second, instinctively checking Blair over. His roommate looked half asleep. "What? I told you, he was attacked by birds."

She shook her head. "I'm going to have to call the police, sir. Birds don't make these types of marks." She eyed Jim like she expected him to whip out a knife and start slashing.

"Ma'am, I am the police." Jim pulled his ID out with sticky, blood coated fingers to back up his words.

She peered closely, tilting her head up to read through the magnified part of her bifocal glasses. "So you are. Did you see this attack?"

Jim nodded.

"Well, I've never seen any thing like this." She pointed to Blair's arm. They'd cleaned up some of the blood, revealing several long crooked cuts.

Side-by-side lightening bolts.

"Let me see if I understand this..." Simon rubbed his eyes hard, doing nothing to relieve the pressure building up behind them. "Sandburg got the same marks found on the victims... from birds?"

Jim nodded.

Taking a moment to examine his detective, Simon hooked a hand under one arm and pulled. "Come on, Jim. Let's get you cleaned up."

Jim looked shell-shocked, walking as if in a daze. Frankly, Simon found it hard to believe Jim hadn't cleaned up by now. The blood that coated his hands and arms had dried into a rusty, flaky residue. He could feel the faint tremors running through Jim's arm as he towed him into a large, duel-gender restroom and locked the door behind them.

"Lose the polo shirt, you'll have to make do with just the T-shirt," Simon suggested. "But let's get your hands washed up first." Simon turned on the faucet as Jim pump soap into his palm, looking more alert.

"God, Simon... what would make those birds attack?"

"Was it possible Blair got near their nest?"

"He was in the street," Jim insisted. "Unless these birds lay eggs on the yellow lines down the middle of the road, there's no way Sandburg could've threatened their territory."

"Then I have no clue, Jim," Simon said softly to counter Jim's rising volume. "Is any of this blood yours?"

Jim shook his head, continuing to scrub his skin with fervor. He took a deep breath before continuing. "Something's not right about this case, Simon. I don't like it."

"You want me to give it to someone else?"

"No, that's not what I mean." Jim had worked a pink lather up past his elbows on both arms. He leaned down to rinse them off under the flowing water. "These murders seem motiveless. Now I'm supposed to believe someone has trained birds to kill?"

"Aren't you overlooking the possibility this incident is just `Sandburg-luck?" Simon reasoned. "Those marks are probably just a coincidence."

Jim shook his head before carefully pulling off his outer shirt and wading it up in a small ball. "No... no way, I had the ER doc take photographs before they moved him into surgery. Dan's going to find them a near perfect match. We thought all along they were crudely made with a hunting knife; it looks like we were wrong. Remember the crime scenes? They found black bird feathers at three out of four. And those small scratches all over the victim's arms? Sandburg has them. They're caused by those damn bird's claws."

"Jim, calm down," Simons ordered as the other man started pacing back and forth in the small room. "I'm not buying into the idea that a bird's beak can make those kinds of mark."

"Simon! I saw it. Believe me, they can!" Jim insisted hotly. "We're not talking your great aunt's parakeet, here. These birds are carnivorous scavengers. They would have killed Sandburg if I'd gotten back much later. Shit, Simon! How am I supposed to put out an APB on a flock of birds?"

"One night, tops," the doctor said.

Blair sat on the edge of a bed in the recovery room, both arms completely wrapped in white gauze. His left wrist had a plastic splint to keep him from bending it or damaging the sutures. The deep scratches on his cheeks and forehead had been cleaned and left uncovered to heal. He looked over at Jim and shook his head.

"No thanks, it's not necessary." He wasn't going to stay; they couldn't make him if he refused.

"Sandburg, it wouldn't hurt..." Jim started, then stopped when Blair shook his head forcefully. He sighed and turned back to the doctor. "What's the downside of not staying overnight?"

"Well," the man rested his hands on his hips, looking unhappily down at his patient as he answered Jim's question. "If you manage to tear a stitch doing something stupid, you could bleed to death."

Blair shrugged as if to say `he could live with that'.

Jim scrubbed his short hair wearily. "Okay, so we'll keep him from using his arm, he won't take off the splint. Anything else?"

The doctor rubbed the side of his nose. Still looking unhappy with the decision, but accepting it all the same. "Yes, get the antibiotic I prescribed filled and take all of it. You don't need an infection getting a foothold in any of those cuts."

Blair nodded, willing to promise anything to get out of staying. The surgery had been quick, faster than the time it took the nurses to clean and bandage the rest of his cuts. Blair's artery was repaired. He'd gotten a look at the damage, briefly, before they'd bandage his arms. He remembered staring at the sutures in dull shock while the doctor had explained the care that was needed to reduce scarring. Jim had been standing in the room, listening. It was a good thing, too; the lecture had not taken root in Blair's memory.

In fact, he'd like to forget the entire day, if he could.

Finally Blair was released.

He leaned back into the front passenger seat of Jim's truck and closed his eyes. Jim had covered the seat with a blanket he stored in the truck for emergencies. On top of everything else, the needed to figure out how to get the blood cleaned from the seats. Blair sighed, resolving to forget everything for now. It felt so good to be on the way back to the loft. He wanted to clean the blood out of his hair and lie down.

The sound of Jim's cell phone interrupted Blair's thoughts.

"Ellison," Jim said. "Okay... right. Thanks, Simon." Jim thumbed the phone off and tossed it into the cup holder. "Simon went to the meeting for me; the other interviews came up with zilch in the way of leads. Nobody saw anything suspicious or anybody new hanging around the victims. They are pretty scared, which I can understand."

Blair nodded his head, keeping his eyes closed. He was too tired to answer. He wasn't sure what he'd say anyway. He must have dozed off, because the next thing Blair knew, they were parked in the lot on Prospect Street and Jim had turned off the engine. Blair yawned widely as he released his seatbelt and opened the door. Summer days in the northwest were long. Even past dinnertime, the sun hung low in the sky, bathing the neighborhood in soft golden rays.

Jim waited patiently for Blair to join him before crossing the street. "What about my spaghetti for dinner?"

It wasn't Jim's night to cook, but Blair wasn't going to fight him for it. He didn't think he could manage to open a can of soup the way he felt right at the moment. Blair smiled up at his roommate.

That's when he saw the birds.

"Jim!" Blair grabbed Jim's arm and pointed. There were hundreds of them, large and black, sitting in long rows on the power lines, watching them from their lofty perch.

"Get inside, Chief," Jim ordered, running with one hand on his gun, the other pushing Blair along with a hand to his back.

They hit the door to the small lobby and got inside. Blair leaned against the wall, his breath short and painful in his chest.

God! He had to calm down!

Jim was bent low, looking upwards through the glass door towards the power lines. "They're just sitting there." He gave Blair a critical look. "You okay? Your heart's a jackhammer right now. Try and calm down, if your blood pressure gets too high, you'll pop a suture."

Blair forced himself to calm down, not willing to make another trip back to the hospital. Hell, if he had anything to do with it, he wasn't going to leave the loft, period. He jumped slightly as Jim laid a hand behind his neck and gently messaged it. With a stuttered exhalation, he pushed away from the wall, feeling embarrassed.

"I think I'm losing it, man," he admitted.

"It's okay, Chief, we're both a little tense. I'm glad I didn't go with my first instinct out there. I'd have a hard time explaining to Internal Affairs why I felt compelled to empty a clip on a bunch of crows," Jim lightly joked as they headed towards the elevators.

There was something reassuring about the way Jim engaged the deadbolt once they reached the loft. Blair felt the muscles down his back relax and he sighed. He watched Jim toss his keys and tuck his gun away in a drawer. "You want to lie down?"

Blair carefully fingered his hair, disgusted with the stiff, blood-soaked curls. As much as he wanted to collapse, he wanted to feel clean even more. "Can I shower?"

Jim nodded. "Sure... but keep the splint on. I'll change your bandages when you're done."

Finished with his shower, Blair emerged wearing his robe, his hair clean and combed out. A saucepan bubbled on the stove. Steam billowed out of the large boiling pan of pasta next to it. Familiar, pleasant odors filled the loft, bringing another degree of peace back to Blair's day. The shades had been closed on the windows to the balcony, casting shadows in corners.

Leave it to Jim.

Blair had been in fear that when he'd walk out of the bathroom, he'd see the balcony filled with black birds.

Watching... waiting...

"Sit here," Jim ordered, a supply of gauze, tape and scissors sat ready on the table. He waited until Blair was in position before continuing. "Barclay just called. He's coming by with the rest of the names. I told him about today. He has a theory he wants to run by us."

Jim had the wet strips of cloth and splint removed in seconds. The multiple cuts stood out on Blair's skin, at least four complete sets of double lightening bolts and several more not completed. Blair's stomach muscles clinched and he forced himself to look at the pans hanging over the kitchen island. Jim had warned him at the hospital. He still couldn't grasp the fact that birds had given him the same marks found on the victims. The attack had been so sudden, totally out of the blue.

If Jim hadn't of come back when he did...

"Ready to eat, Chief?" Jim asked, finished with redressing and splinting.

"Uhhh... actually, Jim," Blair said, eyeing the food warily. "I think I'd rather watch some television, maybe lie down on the couch. Sorry, man."

Jim waved him off. "It'll freeze, go on.

When Barclay knocked on the door, Blair had managed to reach of pleasant state of dozing. The TV's volume was on low. Jim had finished dinner and was stretched out on the second sofa. They were both watching a PBS special on World War Two fighter pilots when Jim jumped up and announced someone was coming. Blair quickly turned off the program before Jim invited the preacher into the loft.

"Blair, Jim told me what happened. How are you feeling?" Barclay asked as Jim invited him inside. He eyed the bandages, looking concerned.

Blair pasted a bright smile on his face and shrugged. "I'll be fine."

"So, you said you had a theory?" Jim pressed.

"Right, I do. Here's the last of the names, by the way." The man shifted from leg to leg, looking uncomfortable after Jim took the paper. "This is going to sound a little strange to you, but I don't think you're looking for a man."

"You think a woman is behind this?" Jim asked.

Barclay shook his head, clearing his throat to try again. "No, I guess I mean `human'," he explained.

"Maybe we'd better sit down," Jim said, darting an unreadable look to Blair.

Once perched on the edge of the sofa, Barclay relaxed. He leaned forward, holding out both hands as if grasping a basketball. "Okay, this is what I think. I realized that the one thing the victims have in common was their indecision. They were all close to accepting the Lord, but for whatever reason, they were holding back."

"That's hardly grounds for someone killing them. What's the motivation?" Jim asked.

"Detective, I believe there's a constant battle being fought, all around us. Our souls are eternal. The bible tells of only two places the spirit goes after the body dies. God invites us to join him in eternity, but Satan is hoping we delay too long," Barclay explained, his eyes bright, jumping from man to man as he spoke.

"Look," Jim said, cutting him off with a wave. "We're talking about a serial murder. No offense, but I don't have time for a sermon..."

"Wait, hear me out," Barclay pleaded. "It doesn't matter if you believe or not, I'm afraid it won't change the facts that it's still happening all around us. If what happened to Blair today is how the others were killed, then I know it's Satan. The bible has several stories where he used crows or ravens."

Blair blinked. What was he saying? He couldn't remember reading anything like that when he lived on the commune in Colorado with his mother. Devil bird stories would have stood out in a young boy's memory.

"In Scripture, birds sometimes represent satanic activity. In the parable of the sower, the Lord Himself explained that `the birds which ate the seed' represented the action of Satan: `Some people are like the seed along the path, where the word is sown. As soon as they hear it, Satan comes and takes away the word that was sown in them'," Barclay quoted. "In Genesis, Abraham and God were performing a ceremony, but birds of prey came to interrupt it. It's clear that Satan used unclean birds to do his deeds."

"Unclean?" Jim asked, his face ripe with disbelief.

Barclay paused, "It's an Old Testament expression, meaning scavengers; they ate from the carcasses, so God warned his people not to consume them."

Jim shook his head, leaning back against the sofa. "What about Sandburg? Why was he singled out and attacked?"

"I've thought about that," Barclay said eagerly. "Blair entered the church singing the hymn. Satan recognized him as the enemy. I think he's attacking you both, he knows you're here to stop him."

This was making a whole lot of sense in Blair's mind.

"You talk like this `Satan' was inside the church, watching us when we walked in," Jim said, aware of the sarcasm seeping into his voice. "Wouldn't you have noticed?"

"Detective, I don't think you understand. Satan is a deceiver and a destroyer. His demons are everywhere," Barclay explained.

"No, I understand," Jim interrupted, standing up to end the discussion. It was time to send the man on his way. "I'm just not willing to put it in my report yet. I like my job."

"Jim, just listen to him," Blair insisted from his seat on the couch.

"Why? This is insane!" Jim retorted hotly, he turned to face Barclay with both fists on his hips. "What possible reason would he have had to attack Sandburg?"

"He's distracting you, for one thing," the preacher insisted standing up to face Jim's verbal onslaught head on. "You're partners, right?"

Blair nodded his head. "It makes sense, man."

Jim shook his head. "No. I'm not willing to go there. We're looking for a sick, depraved human killer. No supernatural demons or devils."

Barclay sighed. "If you refuse to open your mind to what I'm telling you, I'm not sure I can help. Normal police procedures are not going to work this time."

Jim walked to his front door, making a point to open it before turning to face the preacher again. "Thank you for bringing by the list. If you come up with anything else that might help us in the investigation, please feel free to call... day or night."

Barclay took one last look at Blair before accepting the unspoken invitation to leave. Before he walked out, though, he stopped next to Jim, looking directly into the cop's face. "One last thing, Detective. Don't underestimate him. I think God is going to use both of you to stop the killing, but you need to accept help." With that last declaration, the man left.

Jim locked the door, reluctant to turn and face his roommate. It didn't take a crystal ball to know Blair had swallowed Barclay's theory in its entirety. That was the problem with his roommate. He was `too' willing to embrace the unknown, give the obscure a chance. Jim's world was of flesh and blood - tangible, solid enemies you could fight, perps that you cuffed and locked behind bars.

"Jim..."

"Sandburg, don't start," Jim said, turning to stop the coming lecture with raised hand before his guide could get started. "We're not going to complicate this case with talk of spiritual demons and evil forces."

Blair held out his arms, his bandages on display. "Hello? Does this look like your typical case? Barclay's right, you know. Something controlled those birds today. I bet if I searched the police database, I'm not going to find any cases involving black birds trying to carve pretty designs in someone else's body."

Jim raised both hands in surrender. Blair was getting more and more excited as he talked, the stress of the day's events coming to a head. He approached his friend like a trainer working with a spooked horse, keeping his voice soft and tone soothing. "Okay, okay. Let's just step back and take a deep breath. I'm not saying some weirdness isn't happening. You're right, Chief, this is not our typical case... we don't know the whys and wherefores yet." He laid a light hand on Blair's shoulder. "Barclay is right about one thing, we are a team. Let's not start attacking each other, okay?"

It was working. Blair lowered his eyes, making an effort to calm himself. He raked his fingers through his damp hair and took a deep breath. "Jim, I don't want to attack you. But you're wrong about this..."

"Maybe, okay? Maybe I am. What's the harm in just letting it go for tonight? Today's been a bitch, Sandburg. We need to rest. We're not our best because we're tired. Tomorrow, I'm betting things are going to look different." He turned Blair towards his bedroom under the stairs as he talked. "You need to take those pills the doc prescribed and sleep."

With no small amount of coaxing and emotional blackmail, Jim finally talked Blair into going to bed. However, Blair flat out refused to take the pain pills, insisting they made him dopey. Jim argued back that being dopey was not an issue when a person was asleep. Blair shot down that reasoning by reminding him how many time the two of them ran out the door at `oh-dark-thirty' because of a case.

As it turned out, the kid was right. The phone call came in at one-thirty.

"Ellison," Jim growled into the phone, taking a moment to clear his throat. The loft was quiet. No lights from below. Blair must be asleep.

"De-detective? I need to... talk with you."

Jim searched his memory, matching the voice in seconds. He rolled over in his bed and rose up on one elbow. "Mr. Nordrum? Is everything all right?"

Larry's breath hit the speaker, sounding like mini-windstorms. The man was frightened, that much was clear. He was close to hyperventilating and Jim could pick up the pounding heartbeat without difficulty.

"I was wrong... I didn't tell you everything. Can you come over to the mission? We're all alone and I feel safe to talk to you."

Jim pointed out the obvious, his mind considered the possibility of a trap being laid out. "We were alone before... unless you're scared of my partner." He dressed in the dark, cradling the handset against his ear with a shoulder.

"No... no, please, bring Mr. Sandburg, too. He can help," Larry paused and Jim waited for him to take a deep breath, using the time to cast out his hearing.

No sounds seem to come from where ever the man was calling from. Maybe this was legit.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called. I just... I finally got the courage, you know? But, it'll wait till morning."

"No, wait. We're coming, be there in twenty. Just wait for us, okay?" Jim trotted down the stairs in time to see Blair coming out of his room, dressed and ready.

Something told Jim his roommate had not been sleeping as well as he should have. Jim tossed the phone down on the back of the sofa. "Larry Nordrum called, says he's ready to talk."

Blair's eyebrows rose. "About?"

"That's what we need to find out. Just said he hadn't told us everything." Jim pulled his cell phone out and checked his battery. Full. "I'll call Simon, just to let him know what's going on. This is probably nothing, but I think it's prudent to let him know where we'll be."

They arrived at the mission as promised. Jim killed the engine and studied the building before getting out. Simon had been notified. Jim had his gun, plus his backup. This should be a simple case of a reluctant witness rethinking his earlier statement and coming clean.

Right.

Jim tossed a doubtful look at his partner.

"Don't, Jim," Blair said firmly. "I'm not going to... so, just don't say it."

Jim should his head with a frown. `At what point did I lose control of this partnership?' he mused with dark humor. Blair had a point. He probably wouldn't stay in the truck, and frankly, Jim wasn't sure it would be the safest place for him, anyway. This case had him so spooked; he wasn't sure what was safe - except the loft... maybe.

"Come on, Tonto."

"Geez, just call me `Side-kicks-R-Us'."

The front door to the mission was unlocked. Jim went in first, his hand on his gun.

"Hello?"

His voice bounced back at him in the empty room. Folding metal chairs that looked as if they survived fifty years in a local high school were placed in crocked lines to form makeshift pews. The battered wooden podium had been turned to one side, but still held the position of honor at the head of the room. Jim extended his hearing; a shuffling noise came from the small office where they had first met with Barclay.

Answering the hail himself, the preacher opened the office door and looked at them in mild shock.

"Detective Ellison? What are you doing here?"

He was dressed identically as he had been in the loft, only his rolled up sleeves changed his appearance.

"Nordrum called us at home. Said he had something important to tell me," Jim explained.

"I thought he was at a study group tonight," Barclay told them. "He's usually out late on those nights. I think he combines his studies with playing. Some of his fellow students have formed a makeshift band."

"What about Kathy? The school's daycare wouldn't stay open this late," Blair asked in surprise.

Barclay looked at them, his confusion deepening. "Kathy?"

The first wave of apprehension passed over Jim like a single strand of a spider's web brushing over his skin.

"Yeah... Kathy. You know, his daughter?" Blair answered.

Barclay shook his head. "No, I didn't realize he had a child. Does she live with his ex-wife?"

Now the feeling had grown to a cat-of-nine-tails, flailing at Jim's mind. "Are you telling us that Nordrum does not share that back apartment with a six year old child?"

Barclay looked shocked at the mere idea. "In this neighborhood? Are you crazy? I'd never allow that."

Jim headed for the front of the room. "How do you get to his apartment from here?"

Barclay pointed to a corridor that broke off from the far corner. Jim headed for it, pulling out his cell phone with his left hand, his gun in his right. He felt Blair's close presence, both comforted by the back up and frightened for his partner's safety at the same time. Pausing at the corner, he felt a familiar hand rest between his shoulder blades.

"Try hearing first. How many heartbeats back there, man?" Blair's voice was sentinel soft, meant for his ears only.

"Nothing," Jim whispered back, part of his mind amazed at the sudden command of his ability. It had never seemed so effortless before.

"Okay, take an easy breath; examine the spores floating through the atmosphere in here...anything out of place?" Blair asked.

Jim took a tentative inhalation, then a stronger one. "The air... it's weird. It's like that night in the loft; hot and stagnate." A slight draft moved down the hallway. "Wait... yeah, I can smell blood. Shit, Chief," Jim moaned. "I think we're too late for her." Jim passed his phone back. "Call for back up."

As Jim inched down the darken hallway, the smell of blood grew.

"Jim, your battery's dead, man," Blair announced softly.

"That can't be right..." Jim turned to take the phone back. The battery gauge read empty. "I just checked that at the loft."

"I don't like this." Blair's eyes were wide as he looked up at Jim. Barclay stood just behind them.

Jim had to agree. But the apartment seemed empty and he had cause to search. "Just stay behind me, both of you. Don't touch anything."

They covered the distance down the short hallway and Jim carefully opened the door with his handkerchief. They were back in the living room. A light spilled out from the entry way to the kitchen. The air was hot, heavy with the scent of blood. Jim heard Blair's soft gasp as the stench reached him. This was not going to be a pretty crime scene, that much was obvious.

Turning to look over Blair's head, he caught Barclay's eye. "I need you to call the police. Tell them we're here and to notify Captain Banks we need a forensic team."

"But, who is it?" Barclay asked.

"I'll let you know... later. Can you make that call for us?"

Barclay nodded, somewhat reluctantly. He pulled back and left them alone.

"It's going to be nasty, Chief," Jim warned before going into the apartment.

"I know, man," Blair answered. "I'm okay."

They entered, both keeping to the walls, yet not touching anything. The smallest piece of evidence might be enough to get a guilty conviction in a courtroom. Jim didn't want to risk contaminating the scene. He trusted Blair to follow without being told. Judging by the amount of blood Jim was scenting, the victim was still in the apartment. This would be their first opportunity to investigate the scene before the killer had a chance to dump the body.

Just past the broken down sofa, Jim was able to turn the corner and get his first look into the small kitchen. He held his gun ready, even though he was certain the place was empty.

Larry Nordrum hung by his heels from the ceiling. Someone had tied his hands behind his back. They'd removed one of the drop ceiling panels and tied the rope off on a structural support inside the hidden space above. Larry's clothes reeked with the coppery smell of blood. A thick pool of crimson had formed underneath him on the floor.

"Oh, god," Blair moaned.

"Shit..." Jim was dumbfounded. It takes time to die this way. Not a lot of time, but certainly more than twenty minutes. "Who the hell did I speak to on the phone?"

"You're more close to the truth than you realize."

Jim whirled in a half circle, trying to find the new voice. Pushing Blair against the wall, he blocked access to his friend while searching the room franticly. "Cascade Police! Come out where I can see you!"

They were still alone in the apartment. Jim narrowed his eyes, checking every part of the two small rooms for a possible microphone or camera. He knew one thing, that wasn't Barclay's voice. But maybe the preacher was in on this somehow. Shit... that meant they had no way of calling for back up.

"Jim... what do you hear?" Blair whispered, pressed between the wall and Jim's back.

Tilting his head, he listened. Only the dripping of blood.

"We're out of here," Jim decided, using his free hand to snag Blair's shirtfront and pull him along. The back door was the closest way out of the building and Jim took it.

"I don't think so," the voice said again. It came from everywhere, masculine and deep. Jim's skin crawled.

The door was locked, more than locked - it acted as if it had been welded into its frame. Jim gave it one last tug and turned to face Blair's white face. "Okay, we'll go back out the front. We know that's open."

Blair looked ready to vibrate into a million fractured, tiny pieces, but he nodded his agreement, ready to follow Jim back through the apartment. But the small little utility room was almost preferable to walking by the dead, upside down body of Larry again.

Jim gathered his courage and took the lead. Larry remained the same, dead, as they walked past. Jim's finger stayed steady on the gun's trigger. He took a steadying breath, willing his own heart to calm down. They retraced their steps through the kitchen and reached the entryway to the living room without another announcement from the hidden voice.

Just as Jim had started to convince himself it was just a trick with a microphone, he saw her.

Kathy stood in the middle of the living room. She was dressed in jeans and a blue shirt. The look on her face was calm, almost expectant.

"Oh, man," Blair breathed, peering around Jim's broad shoulders to see the child.

Jim caught him as the younger man started to get around him to go to her. "Stay back."

"Jim, she'll see him! We've got to get her out of here," Blair hissed softly, trying to pull his shirt out of Jim's grasp.

"No! Stay behind me, Blair!" Jim ordered, his voice filling the living room.

"Where's my daddy?" the child asked, her young voice asking with a singsong lilt.

"What the hell are you?" Jim shouted, keeping his gun trained on the child.

Blair froze. "Wha..."

Jim had checked the loft twice for a heartbeat, once before entering and again when they'd discovered Larry's body. He had not heard anyone's but his and Blair's.

That fact had not changed. The child in front of them was not human.

Blair rose on his tiptoes to see over Jim's shoulder. The cop had done that ex-military move again, tossing Blair back. Now Blair's view was blocked by the cop's tall frame. Jim had done this to him so many times, he felt like a dog in training.

Larry's daughter still stood in the middle of the darkened room. Well...okay, they had been told by Larry this was his daughter. But Barclay had been surprised at the mention of a child living back here. Jim was acting like she was public enemy number one.

She was just a kid.

Wasn't she?

Then Blair remembered something. Jim has asked `what'... not `who'.

Oh, man.

"Jim, what's going on?" he breathed as quietly as he knew how.

"No heartbeat, Chief." Came the terse reply.

Oh, man.

"Okay, so shooting it may not be a threat if it's not human," Blair reasoned, unable to pull his gaze off the girl. Shadows hid her facial features, which only added to the eerie way this standoff was going down.

"If it makes a move towards us, I'm willing to find out," Jim declared loud enough to be heard.

Blair swallowed, trying to return a little moisture to his parched throat. The air in the apartment was thick with heat. It pressed in on all sides of them, not a hint of breeze to give any relief. The heat seemed to be attacking. Thoughts were slow to form. Blair's panic increased, he had to stay alert. Jim needed him.

"What do you want?" Jim barked at the thing. "Why did you call us?"

Blair blinked. Called us? She called us, not Larry? Of course, Larry was probably already dead. This thing must have tricked him on the phone, making Jim hear what wasn't there.

The child remained perfectly still.

They must make a strange sight. Two adult men - one with a gun - backed against a wall because of a six year old girl. Somehow, Blair didn't take any comfort with the facts. At that moment, he would have traded his laptop for a whole platoon of marines.

The door opened with a slam, revealing a surprised Barclay, caught in the act of reaching out for the doorknob.

"Detective! I can't get the phone to work..." his voice trailed off as his eyes fell on the child in the room. She was standing sideways to the preacher, caught in a profile. "Oh... my...God... protect us..." he murmured in a wondrous horror.

Blair got the impression he was not seeing a little girl. For one thing, the preacher was staring at a space about three feet above her head.

"What do you see?" Jim asked, keeping his gun on the child. "Tell me!"

Barclay slid into the room, working his way along the wall to stand next to Jim. Blair noticed he got to stay at Jim's side.

"I think you found your killer," Barclay whispered. He raised his voice to address the silent threat. "You don't belong here. You're in the Lord's house."

Blair was amazed at the man's sense of presence. He spoke to the child as if in charge, not acknowledging the threat she represented.

For the first time, the girl spoke and an icy fist of fear squeezed Blair's heart.

"WE belong HERE!" Her voice was not the same as before. She had a man's voice, deep and full. It was as if many men were speaking in perfect unison.

The stifling heat in the room grew unbearably hotter and Blair felt dizzy. Falling into Jim's back, his forehead rested on a shoulder blade. In spite of their situation, Blair's eyelids closed and he concentrated on finding enough air to fill his lungs. The oxygen seemed to be missing for some reason. A flash of inspiration struck, Blair now knew how the previous victims had been killed without any signs of resistance.

"No, you don't. You're in my Father's house, the true Living God. In the name of his only Son, Jesus Christ, I command you to tell us who you are!" Barclay ordered loudly, breaking through Blair's mental fog.

The thing's voice rose in volume, but angrily obeyed. "WE are ADDICTION... GREED... LUST!"

Blair forced his eyes to open, rolling his head back he looked over Jim's shoulder. Heat shimmered. It was no longer a child. Blair blinked his eyes, even his eyelids were sluggish to respond. His vision was blurry. The thing standing before them was no longer small. It was taller, dark and evil looking, with long, pointed fingers. While Blair watched, one arm rose and a finger pointed directly at him. "WE WANT THIS ONE!"

The demons inside the shimmering form began to loudly curse, filling the small living room with its vile, foul language.

"Not going to happen!" Jim shouted back.

Jim's voice was the last thing Blair heard before his eyes closed, unable to fight the high temperatures that were baking his brain. He gave into the heat and darkness descended.

Jim felt Blair lose consciousness and slide down his back to fall to the floor. This was not looking good. Barclay stood at his side, and Jim suddenly realized how much he had misread this case. Facing this creature, he was glad to have the preacher with him. For one thing, it seemed to be answering Barclay's questions, as if forced to.

Jim didn't question it, he was just glad to have an ally.

"What do we do?" he asked.

"We need to get Blair out of this apartment. Somehow Larry's allowed it to live with him, it must have been controlling him," Barclay answered. "The gun's not going to help, put it away."

Jim hesitated, unable to resist a decade of training. "We have reinforcements on the way!" he shouted loudly, trying to talk over the filth.

The voices broke off in a harsh laugh. Simon Banks voice answered, repeating the words Jim had heard over his cell phone during the drive over. "Okay, Jim. I understand. If I don't hear from you in thirty minutes - I'll be there with back up."

"Damn..." Jim muttered, slipping his gun back into his belt. He was a believer. Barclay was his only chance to get Blair out of this mess.

Keeping his eye on the demon, Jim knelt down and lifted Blair over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. Blair's hair was wet with sweat, his breath rapid and shallow. The demon reacted to the move with loud swearing and moved closer.

"NO! HE is OURS!"

"In my Lord's Name - I bind you! You cannot stop us from leaving this place," Barclay shouted, grabbing Jim by the arm and heading for the door towards the mission-side of the building.

A wall of fire erupted from the sofa sitting between them and their escape. Black smoke bellowed, collecting at the ceiling and mushrooming out to fill the room at a rapid pace. A whirlwind of hot rancid air swept through the room.

Barclay was quoting now. Jim wasn't sure, but it sounded like bible verses. Judging by the fact the man wasn't reading from one, Jim was happy he had a good memory, or maybe that was the kind of ammunition that preachers used when fighting demons. Whatever the case, Jim as extremely glad Barclay had bullets in his gun.

"...For you, O Lord, are the Most High over all the earth; you are exalted far above all gods..."

Jim let the man lead him by the arm, guiding him towards the doorway. The flames licked them, but there was no pain. Was it an illusion? No, the sofa was burning and the smoke was making his eyes water. Still Barclay recited his scripture.

"...Let those who love the Lord hate evil, for he guards the lives of his faithful ones..."

Jim stumbled, but Barclay was there, keeping him from falling, from losing his grip on Blair. The demon shrieked its outrage.

"...And delivers them from the hand of the wicked...."

The fire was behind them now. Jim blinked tears from his eyes, unable to free a hand to wipe his face and nose. They were in the hallway, sounds of the fire and the cursing from the demon behind them now.

"...Rejoice in the Lord, you who are righteous, and praise his holy name..."

Barclay continued without pause as they rushed through the chairs. Jim's vision was improving now. He chanced a turn to look back; the fire had followed them into the room, the demon walked in the fire, unharmed by the heat. Panic flooded Jim's mind; it was following them. What happens if Barclay runs out of memorized scripture?

Jim turned back and skidded to a halt next to Barclay, who had fallen abruptly silent. They weren't alone anymore. Five figures blocked the doorway. They were trapped.

"Now what?" Jim demanded breathlessly, Blair heavy on his shoulder.

Barclay looked back at the fire and the demon, then turned to the newcomers, a surprised look on his face. "Shelton?"

Sure enough, Jim recognized the man he had interviewed earlier. Mr. Shelton stood with four other men. Judging by their clothes, they were fellow homeless. Something about the man was different, Jim realized suddenly. For one thing, he no longer had the `crazed' look of a mental patient. If anything, he looked... ready to kick some butt.

"We'll take it from here, preacher," Mr. Shelton said calmly, dismissing them to look back at the fire. "You three get outside."

Jim shook his head. "No, you don't understand-"

A hand on his arm stopped him. Barclay gave him a hard tug. "Come on! I think I understand what's happening here. We'll only be in the way."

Jim gave in, his concern for Blair outweighing the plight of these strangers that seemed bent on helping. The newcomers parted, revealing the door and their chance for escape. They hit the front door, opening it to spill into the coolness of the night. A light rain was falling. A breeze hit Jim's sweaty face, bringing additional relief. He felt Blair moan and he patted a leg as they hurried towards his parked truck.

"We need to call for back up!" Jim said, gently lowering his partner to the sidewalk and taking a moment to wipe the sweat and snot from Blair's face with his shirt, before doing the same with his own.

"I think it's already been done," Barclay said with awe. "Look."

Jim did.

The front of the building was lined with windows, left over from the days it was a store. Through the dingy glass, they could see the fire had spread into the main room, lighting the actions of the men inside. Shelton and the others had the demon trapped in a circle. It shrieked at them, lashing out with claw-like talons in fear as they closed in. What was truly amazing, however, was the fact that each homeless `bum' was welding a sword of fire.

"I think we can safely say the demon has his hands full," Barclay said softly.

Jim couldn't take his eyes off the sight. The demon went down fighting, but it did go down. The fire grew until even a sentinel's sight was unable to track the movements within.

"I have no idea how I'm going to write this report," Jim whispered.

"Come on, Jim! What happened?" Blair asked for the tenth time in the last hour.

Jim replaced the clear, plastic mask delivering oxygen over his friend's mouth. "Shut up and breathe, Sandburg," he ordered gruffly. "Or I'll tell the medic's you're a mental patient that I've placed under arrest and they'll have to take you to the hospital, no matter what you say."

Blair fell back on the gurney, shooting Jim a dirty look.

They were resting in the back of the empty medic unit. Blair was stretched out on the gurney, while Jim sat on the bench seat near the opened back doors. Neither of them needed a trip to the hospital. Nearby, Barclay and Simon Banks were speaking with a fire officer wearing a white helmet. The firefighters were still in the `mop up' phase of the fire, carefully going through the debris, sifting through the ashes for hot spots to extinguish. Smoke still periodically belched out of the building, causing the fire commander to keep crews in breathing apparatus with charged hose lines on standby. It was still dark, only half past three in the morning.

Simon approached them. "Why didn't you call?"

"Jim did! We-"

Jim hushed him, replacing the mask again and pointing a sooty finger at his friend before answering Simon's question. "I called your number, someone that I though was you told me that they'd send back up if we didn't call back to confirm everything was code four."

"Someone you thought was me..." Simon repeated in disbelief. "Is this going to be some kind of sentinel thing?"

"No... I think we can defiantly rule out the sentinel aspect, sir," Jim said with fervor. "It's more of a... good guys verses the bad guys thing."

That got the expected result. Simon shook his head as if clearing it from conflicting data. He opened his mouth to answer, but changed his mind and closed it with a snap. His look was clear to the detective. This was going to be one report Simon could not wait to get his hands on.

Barclay joined them, looking tired, but extremely happy for a man that just had his hard work go up in flames. "How are you feeling, Blair?"

This time, when the oxygen mask was set aside, Jim decided to let it stay.

"Okay, but I'm fuzzy on details right now," Blair said, shooting another look at Jim. "I'm so sorry your church is gone, man."

Barclay's tired smile remained. He shook his head. "The church didn't get destroyed, that was just the building that burned. The church is the body of believers. We're still around to continue the fight."

Jim rubbed his forehead, knowing he was smearing more black soot around, but not caring. He didn't like the picture Barclay was painting. "Continue the fight? You mean it's not finished?"

"Detective, the fight will go on until the Lord returns for us," Barclay explained calmly. "The demons have been banished, but they're far from gone."

"Demons?" Simon stepped back from the rear of the medic unit, his eyes wide. "I need... to go talk with the Fire Chief again. I'll catch up with you guys later."

Jim had to smile as he watched his captain beat a hasty retreat, wishing he could to the same.

"What happened in there, anyway?" Blair blurted out, appealing to Barclay with pleading eyes.

"Later, Sandburg!" Jim reached out and firmly adjusted the mask back over his partner's mouth. "Leave it on!"

"Dictator," Blair mumbled back at him.

"I'm sorry about Larry, though," Barclay continued, leaning against the medic unit, looking like a man that needed to sleep. "I was told they just found his body, in fact, it's the only one they've found."

Jim rubbed his eyes. Only one body. Even accepting that... thing... didn't have a heartbeat, Jim had seen five other men go inside that burning building and not come out.

Now Barclay was telling him the demon wasn't dead, just driven off.

It wasn't over. That thing had wanted his guide...

Jim sighed, checking on Blair. It appeared exhaustion had snuck up and attacked him from behind. His eyes were at half mast and falling. Too bad Jim had already admitted to Simon that Blair had been unconscious during their escape. He really needed Blair's talents for obfuscating the facts on this one. It was going to take a truckload of creative writing to file a report on this case if he wanted to stay out of the unemployment line.

The End

I wanted to add that I love birds - even crows. I hated having to use them for the `bad guys' but couldn't find a substitute. The idea that they're everywhere all the time can be very frightening. I even scared my beta! Sorry, Lisa. (g)

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to LKY

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