Even though the mix of dried sweat and stale beer made Jim Ellison's nose twitch, he entered the dimly lit bar. The place was full for a weeknight. The silvered mirror behind the scarred wooden counter held a thin coating of fryer grease. Standing just inside the doorway, Jim scanned the late afternoon patrons and the knot of fear in his chest eased a bit as his gaze settled on the far corner where Blair Sandburg huddled over an empty shot glass.

Jim slipped into Blair's booth. "Last time I was in a bar this lovely, Brown and I ended up arresting three quarters of the clientele for possession." Jim leaned both elbows on the sticky table and interlaced his fingers.

"Cheap drinks." Blair lifted his chin, blearily focusing on Jim's left ear.

"Got to love that happy hour." Jim wanted to add `what the hell is wrong with you?' but managed to keep it to himself. "You finished?"

"Ha." Blair slumped into the booth's corner, his wavy hair loose, half covering his face. "Finushhed, right."

A ten dollar bill and three singles were laid out on the end of the table. Blair had been paying as he went along.

"Would have been cheaper to bring a bottle back to the Inn."

"Pay ya' back," Blair muttered around a whisky-rich belch.

Jim sighed. "Not the point, Chief. Besides, it's our money."

The barmaid, a thirty-something dimple-kissed brunette wearing a low cut brown tank top and Daisy Duke shorts approached. Jim shook his head. She veered off.

"Come on, let's head back," Jim said.

"No." Blair squinted toward the bar, searching expectantly.

"She's cutting you off, Chief," Jim lied.

"Why?"

"You've had enough."

Snort. "Not near a `nuff."

"Come on," Jim coaxed as he stood, reaching for Blair's elbow.

It was one of those `could go either way' moments and Jim waited, but Blair gave up with a lazy shudder and leaned toward the inviting hand.

Of course, that didn't get him any closer to standing.

With a sigh, Jim placed a knee on the seat. Hooking fingers into Blair's waist band, he slid him close and had to save the shot glass from crashing to the floor just as Blair decided it was coming along. "No, let's leave it."

Blinking and frowning, his nose now inches from the tabletop. Blair slapped his hand down on the ten, leaving the singles behind. "Tip," he stated loudly.

"That's fine," Jim answered, getting one arm around Blair's waist and lifting. "And keep your voice down."

Getting a smile from the barmaid, Jim supported Blair's drunken stumble to the door. Getting Blair inside the Bronco was like pouring half-set Jell-O into a broken mold. Arms and legs flopped where they didn't belong. Jim would tuck one in, only to have two more spill out.

"Sandburg, work with me," Jim snapped.

The mild rebuke worked and Jim managed to close the door without Blair losing any limbs. Avoiding Blair's despondent expression, Jim trudged around the vehicle to the driver's seat feeling like an old man. Wordlessly, Jim started the engine and pulled away from the curb. Within minutes they were back in the Resident Inn parking lot.

Blair battled with the seatbelt for a full minute before Jim couldn't stand watching the fumbling fingers a second longer. He leaned in and flicked the buckle open with a quick jab of the orange release button.

"Damn... it. Jiiim! I can do it!" Blair leaned too far out, his eyes widening as gravity took him down until his nose smacked into Jim's bicep. "Ouch."

Jim pulled him out of the Bronco and stood him on the sidewalk, waiting through Blair's attempts to gain balance. Finally, swaying top-heavily, Blair was ready. All fight gone, he offered a lopsided, sheepish grin. "S'rry, man."

"Can you make the door?" Jim asked.

"'Course." Blair stepped off the sidewalk, into the street and away from the building.

Jim pulled him back and sighed. "Other way, Professor."

Once inside their temporary home, Blair jammed both hands into his pockets and scowled at the carpet.

"What's up with you?" Jim asked, setting the keys on the small breakfast bar.

"Nuffin. Go out if I want," Blair answered, swaggering to the middle of the living room.

"If you wanted out, why didn't you join me when I went for the oil change?" They'd been staying at the suite for three days, not going anywhere except for groceries.

"Not my oil needin' changing." Blair stuck his chin out, lost his balance and sprawled across the sofa.

Jim pinched the skin between his eyes. "Sandburg, you're not making any sense."

"Hell, no. I'm `runk."

Jim took the chair across from the sofa; a small coffee table separated them. "Why?"

"You left," Blair mumbled. "Didn't `elp."

Jim sat back with a weary sigh. "I don't get you, Sandburg."

His cheek smashed into the sofa cushion, Blair snored.

Jim went to bed.

Hours later, Blair stumbled for the toilet.

The lid was up and a towel had been carefully folded and arranged on the floor. Blair's knees appreciated the padding, but his stomach had more immediate concerns.

The plop, plop, plop echoed in the small room and the stench caused Blair's eyes to water. Light flooded the bathroom and Blair winced as his stomach lining tried to scale up his throat.

"How's it going, Sandburg?" Jim asked pleasantly.

Hands slipping on the porcelain rim, Blair twisted his neck enough to see Jim leaning smugly against the doorframe. "Mind? Dying here."

Jim grinned. "Well, since you're up I'll start breakfast. How's bacon and scrambled eggs sound?"

Blair groaned and retched into the bowl. He wiped his mouth on his arm. "Hate you."

Chuckling, Jim left.

Blair spent the day making trips from his bed to the bathroom. The rest of the time he slept and drank glasses of water Jim brought him. Around evening he wandered out of his room. Jim was cleaning his gun, bits of metal spread out on newspaper.

"Why the hell do I feel like shit?"

"First time on whisky, Sandburg?"

Blair thought about it. "Always been more a beer guy."

"Yeah well, the whisky's a little more..." Jim shrugged.

"Now you tell me."

"Believe me, you only do it once."

Blearily studying his friend, Blair noticed Jim's pinched expression. "Hey, man. You okay?"

Jim scrubbed his face with both palms. "I've got a headache, sort of itchy feeling." Jim shrugged and twisted one arm back to reach between his shoulder blades.

Blair glanced about the rented living room of their temporary home. "So you're saying it's time to move on."

Jim packed the Bronco while Blair slept, wrapped in a blanket on the sofa. Jim had turned on the TV to catch the evening news and weather report. Blair had lasted twenty minutes before falling back asleep. Jim let him, preferring to arrange their gear without any help. When he was done he left Blair on the sofa and went upstairs to bed. After allowing a few hours of sleep, Jim got up and showered. Dressed, he took one last look around to make sure nothing was left behind.

He ruffled Blair's messy hair until he was awake.

"What?" Blair pulled the blanket down and glared.

Jim snickered. "Say goodbye to Salt Lake City."

A hundred miles later they sat across a scarred tabletop in a corner table at the `Quick Gas and Go' truck stop for breakfast. The weather was already too hot and the diner's cooling unit was on its last leg, spewing air that smelled and tasted like moldy grease on unwashed gym socks.

Blair cradled his head, elbows on the table.

Jim pushed his half eaten breakfast away and reached for his coffee, the one redeeming element to the whole joint. Loud laughter caused him to turn and throw a `cop glare' at the offenders. A group of college-age kids occupying the table behind him dropped a few wadded bills on their table and stood to leave. One of the girls looked familiar and for a second Jim panicked.

No, that wasn't Blair's friend Molly, just someone that looked enough like her to be her sister, or close cousin. Jim turned back to see Blair cringe.

`He's homesick,' Jim realized. He sighed and checked his watch. It was a good thing the food was cheap, neither one of them had eaten much. "Let's get going."

Blair followed, his hands rammed into his jeans, shoulders slumped.

The Bronco started with a quick twist of the key. Jim checked the gauges out of habit. Everything checked.

The kids from the diner drove a beater; something Blair might have driven back in Cascade, a gutless Pinto hatchback some would consider a classic. It pulled out ahead of them waiting for a break in the traffic. Jim didn't need enhanced hearing to know they were laughing at stupid jokes, acting like the world was their own personal playground and trouble was for the other guys. The Pinto turned right. Jim went left.

That night they slept under the stars, not bothering with the tent. They roasted deli sausages over a small fire and baked bread dough wrapped around a freshly peeled stick. Their beer was dark and imported. Jim noticed Blair's face had smoothed out and relaxed as the meal progressed.

"You know, Chief," Jim said, leaning back, his rolled sleeping bag making a comfortable pillow. "We've got over a week before meeting your folks."

Blair poked at the fire with his cooking stick. "If she's there."

"She'll come through," Jim assured him. "Do you have any preferences on how we spend the time?"

Blair looked about their camp. "This is nice."

Jim agreed. The air was cool and refreshing. A nearby creek happily chattered and the nearest sign of life was a small herd of deer foraging in a grassy meadow below their location. The dirt road they had followed to this place hadn't held another car all night.

"We'll need to hit a store and get some supplies," Jim said. "But yeah, I agree. We can take it easy."

His brow smooth and body language once more relaxed Blair nodded as he poked the fire. "I'm down with that."

"

"At least it's not a Wal-Mart," Jim offered as he shut off the Bronco and reached under his seat for his wallet.

"Kmart, Wal-Mart... it's all evil," Blair grumbled.

The furrows had formed between Blair's eyes again, almost as soon as they had entered town. Jim wouldn't really call this place a city, but it was a growing community with interfacing industry and farming. The town was tucked into the shadows of rolling foothills that bordered the Rocky Mountain range to the west.

"You okay?" Jim reached for Blair's forehead.

Blair slapped the hand away. "I'm fine, Mommy. Stupid headache."

"We'll pick up more aspirin."

The store was packed. Jim got his hands on the last cart available, beating out a large, brassy redhead wearing a spandex halter and pink flowered Capri pants. She glared. Jim saw an employee coming across the lot with a long train of carts and did the gentlemanly thing, stepping back from the cart and nodding. "Go ahead, ma'am."

With an ill tempered huff, she snatched the cart, nearly knocking Blair over as it swung around.

"So much for chivalry appreciation," Jim muttered, watching her storm off. Expecting Blair's input and not hearing it, he turned. "You okay?"

Cheeks pale, Blair swallowed as if in pain. "Let's just get what we need and get out of here."

Jim took his arm and gently drew him out of the stream of coming and going customers. "What's wrong? Are you sick?"

Fingers pressed against his temple, Blair cringed. "Too much."

"What is?" Jim was getting seriously scared. They couldn't risk going to the hospital. Too many questions. But if Blair was ill...

"People. Too many." Sweat beaded on Blair's forehead and upper lip, even though cool air flowed out from the large store.

"Come on," Jim ordered, guiding him back out of the building and to the Bronco. He unlocked the door and helped Blair in. The younger man's eyes were squeezed closed. He groaned, curling forward as he sat, lacing his fingers together behind his head.

Jim leaned into the cab. "Talk to me. What's happening?"

"I'm..." Blair mumbled into his knees. "...crazy, man. Going crazy."

"Give me specifics, Sandburg," Jim snapped.

Blair was not a wimp. Jim had wrapped his cracked ribs watching him suck up the pain and deal. If the kid was acting like this, he had good reason.

Blair sat up, meeting Jim's gaze with bloodshot eyes. "Please. Just get me out of here."

"Hang on." Jim closed Blair's door. He climbed into the driver's seat and drove, not stopping until the town was a clump of green trees and rooftops in the rear view mirror. Parking on the shoulder of the road, Jim turned to his partner. "Blair?"

Leaning wearily against the door, Blair nodded. "It's better. Almost gone."

"What is?" Jim asked.

Scrubbing his face with a hand, Blair turned a haunted gaze on Jim. "It's hard to explain."

"Try anyway." Jim realized how that sounded. "Listen, Chief. I'm not angry. We're close to ending this. But if you need a doctor, then--"

Giving a weak, mirthless laugh, Blair shook his head. "A doctor got me into this mess."

Jim crossed his arms.

Blair huffed. "Okay, maybe that's not true. Oh, man, I'm screwed. I can't tune them out."

"Since when?"

"Salt Lake. Since... coming out of that canyon." Blair rubbed his eyes. "It wasn't bad at first. But every day, it got a little worse."

Jim remembered the bar. "Is this the reason you hit the booze?"

Blair shrugged. "I thought it would dull it."

"And?"

"It made it worse."

"What's `it'? What are we talking about here?"

Blair tossed his hands up. "How the hell do I know? Take your pick, man. Schizophrenia, delusions, bipolar disorder, full-blown mania--"

"Stop it. You're not going crazy."

Fisting his hair, Blair laughed morosely. "You don't know that."

Jim ran a hand over his face and scrubbed at his jaw. "Sandburg, I've been there, okay? At first... I thought my sentinel abilities were a disease. You made me realize they were something I needed to master."

"That's different."

"How?" Jim squeezed his friend's shoulder. "Listen to me. You're saying you're out of control."

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

"So you learn to control it."

"It's not the same, Jim." Blair squeezed his eyes closed. "It not like having enhanced senses."

"Agreed. This is the other half."

Blair looked confused.

"I think it's time for me to be the guide," Jim said and restarted the motor. He made a tight turn, heading back toward town

Blair gnawed his lower lip and shot Jim a look. "Where are we going?"

"We'll buy supplies somewhere less crowded," Jim answered. "Hiding in the hills isn't going to help."

"It's not?"

Jim smiled, remembering that day so long ago in Cascade General. "Do you remember our first conversation, Dr. McCoy?"

Blair nodded.

"Trust me." Jim lifted an eyebrow. "School is now open."

Jim drove the winding roads while Blair leaned against the passenger door and drooled. Gaining elevation as they entered the mountains, the air grew cool and pure. Pine trees hemmed the roads shoulders. They met few cars coming down. Jim kept his foot light on the accelerator through the hairpin turns, with the steep drop offs becoming more and more frequent. They passed unadorned, simplistic road signs advertising Forest Service roads leading deep into the wilderness.

No fancy parks with water and power hook ups. No tourist traps selling burgers and snow cones or high priced souvenirs of authentic Sasquatch carvings.

Jim liked it.

The narrow valley widened, enough to support a few homesteads. Rough pens constructed from planks hammered onto pine trees held horses and milking goats. They passed a sign advertising the town of Clearwater, population six hundred. The road paralleled a boulder-filled river. Jim saw deep blue pools, strung like rich sapphires on a necklace, perfect for casting a fly line.

Three white crosses were bolted to the railing at mid-bridge span. Jim glanced over the side, seeing the long drop into the swiftly moving currents.

He drove on, under a banner stretched between two tall pine trees, advertising a summer festival. Then they were in the town.

Jim nodded to himself. This would do just fine.

Main Street possessed a gray-stone bank, a grocery store, feed store, gas station and two blocks of businesses. Large `no parking' signs had been set up on sawhorses, keeping cars from stopping on the street. Jim slowed the Bronco and turned into a potholed parking lot. A few vehicles, mostly trucks, were scattered about. Jim parked in the far, empty corner, a habit he'd picked up the last few months to keep the amount of casual strollers from looking inside. Even though they kept the vehicle tidy, it was obvious to a ten year-old that the drivers of the Bronco were living on the road and Jim didn't want any more attention than they already seemed to attract.

"Wake up, Sandburg."

Blair's eyes fluttered open. Pain still creased his brow. "Where...?"

"Late lunch or early dinner. Whatever you want to call it," Jim told him. "We just passed a small caf that was practically empty."

"Okay then," Blair muttered, straightening and reaching for the door handle. "I could eat." Stiffly walking around the front of the Bronco, Blair slowed to arch his back with a grimace.

The front of the diner had a row of tall windows. The back section held a counter with a dozen mismatched tables scattered between, some joined two abreast. A hand painted sign invited patrons to seat themselves.

Blair led the way to a front table by the window and pulled out a chair. Jim caught his elbow and nodded toward the dimmer back corner.

Silently, Blair tucked the chair under the table and followed. They settled into the corner. The menu had the usual offers. Jim ordered an open-faced roast beef sandwich. Blair paused longer over his selection then did the same, but over wheat bread. The waitress brought coffee and they sipped in silence while waiting for their meal. Jim checked over the place. The only other occupied table had a young couple with two small kids just finishing their meal. Jim watched his friend as the other family left.

There it was.

After the door swung closed and the small overhead bell's ringing faded, Blair's face relaxed a fraction, his shoulders loosened up and he leaned back into his chair.

"Was it bad?" Jim asked.

Blair looked at him, puzzled. "What?"

"That family." Jim tapped his temple. "Hurts?"

A blush darkened Blair's cheeks. "It's fine."

"How many people have to be close by before you're overwhelmed?"

"Drop it, okay?"

"Why?" Jim studied Blair with a frown. "I'd expect you to be eager to analyze, to get a handle on this."

"Analyze?" Blair dropped his gaze as the waitress approached with a fresh carafe of coffee. She refilled their mugs. "Thank you, ma'am."

Jim waited until they were alone again. "Listen to me, Chief. You're smart, I know--"

Blair cut him off. "So, we staying or passing through?"

Jim sighed, leaning back. He'd let the subject drop for now. "Looks like a good town. Small, private. A place to rest and let the days pass. If you're in agreement, we look around for a place to rent."

"What about camping?"

"As a last resort. I like the idea of regular showers."

"Salt Lake spoiled us, man." Blair reached for the bowl of cream packets and gave a tentative smile.

"Yeah, I suppose it did." Jim watched Blair lighten his coffee and kept the real reason to himself. Blair wasn't going to learn to control by camping around raccoons and deer.

They ate a surprisingly tasty meal, finishing with homemade lemon bars and vanilla ice cream. Jim paid in cash and followed Blair outside.

"Hotel?" Blair asked as they got in the Bronco.

"Let's drive around first and check our options." Jim started the motor.

The only motel available looked like a mini ski chalet and promised high rates. The other side of town held a gas station and homes.

Jim swung the car in a tight U-turn and headed back.

"Let's check out the side streets," Jim said.

They passed narrow sidewalks and green lawns. The old neighborhoods took pride in their huge oak trees and trimmed hedges. Either the population consisted of retires or there was a city mandate on keeping up with the Jones's. They neared an elementary school and slowed to twenty miles an hour, even though the playground was empty.

"This reminds me of a place Naomi and I stayed back in seventy-two," Blair said, forehead scrunched in thought.

"Yeah? Good times?"

"I caught the chicken pox from Lamont Bartok after sharing my hummus and bean sprouts sandwich."

Jim laughed. "Sounds like a counterstrike to me."

"How about that?" Blair pointed to a faded sign with a hand-painted sitting fox, its red bushy tail wrapped around its forelegs. The sign advertised rooms by the week. Someone with an overabundance of tomatoes had used the sign for target practice.

Even under the red stains, the words were legible. "The Sitting Fox Bed and Breakfast, right turn on Acorn Street," Jim read aloud. "Let's check it out."

The sign pointed down a two-lane road, which wound out of the valley and led to a wooded draw. After another five miles without any signs, Jim pulled over. He scratched his ear. "We should have seen it by now."

They turned around. After half a mile, Blair spotted the small board first, the same sitting fox and an arrow underneath, but laying on the side of the road. "That must be the turn. Someone's taken the sign down."

"Stupid way to run a business." Jim took the turn, and in a few miles, saw another sign telling them they were still on track. They took a right turn onto a gravel road, crossed a low bridge over a creek and came to an open gate announcing they had found the bed and breakfast. Nestled in a stand of pine and oak trees, a two story white farmhouse with green trim stood among smaller outbuildings and a long, gabled roof barn.

The driveway took them around to the backyard. A screened porch wrapped around the long side of the house. Wooden steps led up to a double door with oval, etched windows. An `office' sign was hung next to the doors. They parked and rang the doorbell.

No one came.

Jim rang the bell again, hearing it echo from within.

"No one's home, Chief," Jim said, letting his senses reach into the house to confirm his guess.

"Here he comes." Blair pointed at a distant outbuilding, where a man was hurrying their way. The slender owner walked with a ground-eating stride. Blond hair spilled over his collar, making him look young, except for the weathered crowfeet wrinkles that placed him around Jim's own age. He wore baggy, brown overalls and a faded plaid shirt. His work boots and pant cuffs had sawdust clinging.

"You guys looking for a place to stay?" he asked as he neared.

"Yes, sir." Jim met him at the base of the steps. "If we can afford your rates."

"If you're not fussy about what you eat, or better yet, make yourselves handy in the kitchen, I'll give you a discount."

"We can do that."

"I'm Paul Fox. I'll show you the rooms." He carefully kicked off the sawdust on a forged iron bar bolted to the edge of the porch.

They walked through a comfortable living room with glossy wood planked floors, over hand-hooked area rugs in warm browns and greens. Jim appreciated the brown leather sofa and decent-sized TV. A narrow flight of stairs led to a mustard walled hallway with four doors.

"I've got two queens, but that would mean renting two rooms. The back room is a suite with its own bath, pricy. Best rate for you two would be this double."

The room was clean and efficient, two twin-size beds against the side and back wall, a low dresser next to a vanity desk. Jim looked at Blair, who nodded in acceptance. "We'll take it."

"Great, so you'll be here for the festival?" Paul asked, not waiting for an answer. "Let's get the paperwork out of the way. Credit card or check?"

"Cash," Jim answered.

"Even better."

"You're kidding, right?" Blair asked, his eyes searching Jim's face for a clue the older man was playing him. "You want me to play with blocks?"

"Work with me," Jim told him, tone completely devoid of humor. "I'm not yanking your chain, Junior."

They had unpacked their meager belongings. There were still several hours of sunlight left to the day. Fox had given them permission to wander anywhere they wished. Jim had led them toward an outbuilding that had smelled of fresh lumber. Judging by the height of the cast off pile in the corner, Fox enjoyed woodworking. The odd shaped blocks were perfect for what Jim had in mind.

Jim squatted, ignoring his protesting knees to sit on the sawdust covered floor. He picked up a block of wood. "We're going to build a wall."

Blair joined him, sitting cross-legged. "A wall."

"Right."

"Can we build a tree house next, Wally?" Blair asked with a cheeky smile.

"As long as you don't tell Dad we're borrowing his power tools, Beav."

They got to work on their walls, keeping them separated by six feet of space. Blair made his taller than Jim's and matched the blocks carefully. Jim focused on strength. After a solid thirty minutes of careful construction, Jim called a halt.

Blair proudly surveyed his work.

Jim lobbed the first block and three quarters of Blair's wall tumbled down.

"HEY!"

"Your turn," Jim told him, nodding to his wall. "Toss it underhand. Just like I did, no harder."

Grumbling under his breath about evil roommates who liked to destroy a man's wall, Blair tossed a block. Jim's wall lost a few blocks from the top, but stayed upright.

"Okay, now rebuild yours, but reinforce it with more blocks behind the wall."

"What's the point?" Blair asked, all kidding gone.

"I'll explain when you're done."

Jim watched Blair rebuild his wall, noting how his friend glanced over to study Jim's as he worked. In a few minutes, he was done. Jim tossed a light block at it. The wall held.

"Better."

"You going to march around it seven times and shout it down?" Blair quipped, folding his arms and lifting an eyebrow.

This was Sandburg speak for get to the point, Jim thought. "Okay, Chief. Here's the deal. When you're out with strangers and the crowd starts to get too much, think of this wall. Like this morning at Wal-Mart."

Blair's face scrunched. "How's thinking of wooden blocks going to help?"

"Not the blocks individually, a mental wall, to block the emotions," Jim clarified.

Blair gave Jim a look which suggested Jim had been out in the sun too long. Jim huffed in exasperation.

"Is it any different than my dials?"

"Yeah, man. Totally." Blair gestured first at Jim. "You are a sentinel, okay?" Then pointed inward. "I am not."

"Newsflash, Junior," Jim said. "Burton didn't have all the answers. How many times did you go beyond his work to help me? This time's no different. Burton probably never figured out the other side of the partnership. I only wished I'd paid more attention to Incacha..." Oops, Jim hadn't intended to let that slip out.

Blair was on him like a Georgia bloodhound, crowding into Jim's personal space. "Who? What are you saying?"

Jim held him back with a hand on his shoulder. "Easy--"

"If you know something--"

"I'd share it, I swear," Jim promised. "My memories from Peru are real fuzzy, Sandburg. But I remember one man. He was the spiritual leader of the people. He helped me... a lot."

Visibly trembling with excitement, Blair gripped Jim's forearms. "How come you never told me?"

"Maybe some memory is coming back because of what you're going through, I don't know." Jim patted Blair's cheek and turned him by the shoulders to look at the wall again. "Anyway, I think this will help. It's your protection, a mental shield of sorts."

Chewing his lip, Blair hesitated before saying, "You're talking about visualization. It's exactly the same thing I used for you with the dials. Athletes have used it for programming performance... or overcoming challenges."

"Right, exactly." Jim knelt down to pick up another block of wood. He tossed it at the wall, knocking off three of the upper blocks, but the structure stayed intact. "You helped me. Let the same thing help you." .
Blair rubbed his chin. "I don't know, man. This isn't like your gift. It's not a case of managing enhanced senses."

"Why not?" Jim crossed his arms, studying his friend with a tilted head.

Waving a hand in the air, Blair avoided Jim's gaze. "At first it was cool, you know? But then in that canyon, something broke. It went from a trickle to a flood." Blair stuffed his hands into his jean pockets. "It scares me."

Jim remembered the feeling when he thought his career was over after loosing the switchman in that abandoned sawmill outside of Auburn. He felt Blair's pain. "You can control this. Hell, probably without my help, too, but I'm hoping you'll let me help you here, Chief. Let me return the favor."

"You don't owe me anything, Jim."

"Just my life." Looping an arm around Blair's neck, Jim walked him toward the door. "Come on, where's the guy that held a flare gun on a helicopter pilot, stood down an inner-city gang and hotwired a truck in the middle of an exploding Peruvian village?"

Blair shrugged. "Not all on the same day, man."

Walking through the wide barn doors side by side, Jim's laugh ended in a strangled shout as Blair unexpectedly shoved him back. His ass hit the dirt just as a lethal two-by-four slashed the air inches over their head.

"Getoutta my barn!"

Jim had a brief vision of a man standing over them, raising the makeshift club for another try. Instinct kicked in. As Blair rolled away, Jim swept his leg out, catching their attacker just above the ankles. The man went down and Jim sprang off the ground in counterstrike mode.

"Jim! No!" Blair shouted.

"Dad! STOP!"

With one fist in the attacker's collar, Jim had his other arm drawn back, seconds away from landing a punch.

Blair grabbed his fist with both hands.

Paul Fox appeared, breathless and red-faced as he pulled their attacker from Jim's hold, sputtering anxious apologies. "I'm so sorry, guys. He didn't mean... He has no idea..." When Fox had separated them and seemed sure Jim wasn't going to attack, he turned on the newcomer. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Jim could see the man was older and bore similar facial features to their host.

The attacker shouted back. "This is my place! I can come and go as I please!"

Fox closed his eyes as if in pain, shoving the older man away in disgust. "You're drunk."

Blair released his strangled hold on Jim and struggled to his feet. "This is your dad?"

"Yeah," Fox wearily answered. "He's supposed to be back East."

The man sat in the dirt, swaying, glaring up at the three men towering over him. The smell of whiskey wafted up, carried by the warm currents of late afternoon sun. "Come `n go as I please... my place... my land."

Fox squatted down, jamming a finger in the air, inches from the drunk's face. "No! No, Dad! Not anymore. You begged me to buy this place. I did and you're supposed to be in treatment."

"We'll just go inside," Jim said, hooking Blair's wrist. "Let you handle this privately."

"But, Jim..." Blair whispered.

"You guys are okay, right?" Fox asked. "He didn't hurt you?"

"We're fine," Blair assured him as Jim tugged him toward the main house. "Everything's fine."

"Good," Fox said, running a hand through his sun-streaked hair and turning back to the old man with a heavy sigh.

Entering through the kitchen, Blair tugged out of Jim's hold. "That, man, was rude. We should have stayed to help."

"Sandburg, he tried to clock us with a two-by-four," Jim countered.

Standing firm, arms crossed for a verbal fight, Blair shook his head. "He thought he was defending his place from intruders."

"He's a drunk."

"He's an old man."

"Right, a drunk old man," Jim answered. "And he's not our problem. By the way, how'd you know he was standing just outside the door?" Jim had been so focused on his memories about Incacha, he'd let his guard down, returned his senses to normal.

It wasn't going to happen again.

"I'm not sure," Blair answered, uncrossing his arms and shoving his hands into his pockets. "Just a flash of anger."

Jim smiled. "Well, Will Robinson, you're a handy guy to have around."

The answering smile, shy and just a little proud, was a welcome sight.

Blair sleep was pure, not inundated by dreams of pursuing government suits. No Naomi flying a Top Gun fighter plane, her finger on the trigger. No Jim going over a deadly Utah waterfall in a tattered raft, but restful. He woke to the soothing caress of a warm, morning sunbeam on his face.

Their room was empty. Jim's bed was made.

Blair sat up, rubbed a hand over his stubbly chin and scratched his belly. "Jim?"

"Here."

The answer drifted into the room through the open window. Blair looked out to see Jim standing in the yard. Blair lifted his hand, returning the greeting and flipped back the covers.

He didn't know what he wanted first; breakfast or a shower, then got a whiff of himself. Shower won.

Twenty minutes later, a clean and hungry Blair wandered into the kitchen. Jim met him, coming through the back door, after pausing to wipe his feet on the woven mat.

"Good morning." Jim pointed to the cupboards above the counter holding the antique Aunt Jemima cookie jar. "Bowls are up there. That door leads to a walk-in pantry. He's got five types of cereal."

Blair sniffed the air. "Any more of whatever I'm smelling?"

"Fresh buttermilk biscuits." Jim filled two coffee mugs with dark, rich looking coffee. "I managed to save you two. It wasn't easy. I deserve a medal. Check the oven."

Blair accepted the coffee and dutifully checked the oven. The golden-topped biscuits were the size of saucers. "Wow, thanks."

"How'd you sleep?" Jim asked.

"Good. You?" Blair spotted what looked like homemade strawberry jam on the counter. Cereal could wait.

"Not bad. Bed was decent." Jim had pulled out a cantaloupe from the refrigerator and a long knife from a drawer.

It almost felt like they where home.

Breakfast was simple, filling and the best Blair had tasted in a long time. The scent of honeysuckle carried in by the morning breeze through the screened windows filled the kitchen. Branches heavy with long needle pines and aspen were visible through the open kitchen door, swaying in a light breeze.

He remembered the loft in Cascade, how the morning scent of cherry and apple blossoms, mixed with the salt from the bay drifted in through the balcony door. A stab of homesickness caught him unaware.

Jim frowned at him.

Right. Hard-wired.

"Sorry," Blair muttered, focusing on buttering his biscuit. What their unique connection needed was an off and on switch.

Jim silently rose from the table and made busy cleaning up the little bit of mess they'd created.

Blair sighed and set aside the second biscuit, his appetite gone.

The soft margarine tub was returned to the refrigerator. Jim soaked a cloth under the faucet and attacked the counter with angry swipes. "Do you ever wish that damn fax machine was out of toner the day you got that message from your friend about me?"

Life without Jim? Blair shook his head. "Not even."

"You'd have your life back."

"We're both going to get our lives back, man. Mom's going to have a plan and we're going to go home again."

Jim turned his head enough to study Blair closely. "I'd settle for not having to watch over our shoulders every five minutes."

"Home," Blair repeated softly, his mind already picturing them walking into the loft again. "You going back to work and me going back to school."

"You might have your goal set a little too high there, Chief."

"You two heading anywhere today?" Paul Fox entered the kitchen with an armload of carved mountain goats, each about the size of a softball.

"We hadn't thought about it," Jim admitted. It occurred to him he'd better come up with a plausible excuse for two grown men to be staying in a bed and breakfast. "My brother and I are mostly taking a break, relaxing. Blake's getting over a bad case of malaria and the doctor told him to take it easy for a few weeks."

Blair rolled his eyes.

"Wow, that's rough," Paul said, looking sympathetically at Blair.

Managing a straight face in time, Blair shrugged. "You know how it is. If it's not one thing it's another." He changed the subject. "So, how's your father doing?"

Paul went to work putting the carvings into a large, colorful basket. "I wouldn't know. I threw him off the property last night."

"Does he come by very often?" Jim asked.

"First time in three years." Paul crossed his arms. "Last time we talked, he told me he would never come back. I said good riddance."

"Maybe he wants to talk things over," Blair said then blushed and stammered, "I mean, you guys need to... ah, anyway, he's obviously changed his mind."

"Coming back here, drunk and assaulting my clients isn't going to make him father of the year with me," their host said angrily. "I wanted to tell you, last night was on the house. I still feel bad about the way he attacked you."

"No harm done," Jim said. "But thanks for the free night."

Blair picked up one of the carvings, examining it as he turned it in his hands. "These are pretty good. Did you make them?"

"I did," Paul answered with a hint of pride. "Tomorrow starts the Clearwater Rocky Mountain summer festival. I'm selling these, along with some other things. You guys should check it out. Good food, great crafts and music."

Jim nodded. "Sounds good."

The sound of a vehicle coming down the driveway caused Jim to peer out the small window over the sink.

A dark blue Jeep Cherokee with a county sheriff's logo on the driver's door pulled into the yard. Jim tensed. His fight or flight instinct kicked in. Across the kitchen, out of view from the car outside, Blair sat up with alarm.

"Damn it, it's already starting," Fox grumbled, finger combing the hair back from his face. He went out the kitchen door.

Jim's fingers ached for his gun, which was currently up in their room, tucked into his duffle bag, between his shirts.

"How's it going, Ivy?"

Blair had moved to view the meeting between Paul and the cop through the window. "Jim..."

"Easy, partner," Jim answered in a low voice. He leaned forward and snagged the newspaper folded on the table, opening it to the sports section. "Just act like you're on vacation."

"Heard Brian was back," a woman's voice said.

From Jim's angle, he couldn't see the deputy, only her shadow on the steps as she stopped to speak with their host.

"Yeah, he was by yesterday."

"He here now?"

"No."

The woman mounted the stairs and Jim could see tanned arms, muscular for a woman and a greenish brown uniform. Then she leaned forward to peer into the kitchen. Jim made a point to glance up, curious-like, but kept his face neutral. After all, she was a cop and cops learn from the first day in the academy to make themselves aware of their surroundings.

"Is he coming back?" the cop asked.

Fox's tone became terse. "Ivy, you know I wouldn't invite him here. What's he done now?"

"We just want a word with him," she answered.

"I doubt I'll see him. Be too busy setting my booth up."

"You're in the festival?" she asked.

Standing tall, Paul crossed his arms. "This is still my town."

The silence that followed told of her disapproval. Finally, she sighed. "If you see him, call us," she instructed, avoiding his direct question. "Okay, Paul?"

"Yeah, sure, whatever."

She leaned forward again. Jim kept his gaze on his paper this time.

"Guests?"

"Yeah."

"I'll be seeing you around." Her voice carried back as she returned to the car. Seconds later she had driven off.

Paul reentered his kitchen with an angry expression. "Unbelievable." He snatched up his basket of carvings and left the kitchen, leaving sawdust snow in his wake as he stomped into the front of the house.

Blair hugged himself, eyes following their host. "Man, there goes a lot of hurt."

Jim folded his paper, returning it to the table. He suddenly had a bad feeling about staying on.

"This was supposed to be a shortcut, Sandburg."

Blair studied the map. "Do the blue lines mean road or river?"

Jim went slack jawed and the front right tire hissed over the gravel shoulder.

"Hey!" Blair straightened the wheel. A sharp drop off loomed out his window. "Dude, I'm joking. Don't get us killed over it!"

Jim steadied the Bronco and slapped Blair's hand away from the wheel. "I should know better. Using the words `Sandburg' and `map' together in the same sentence just invites trouble."

"Ye of little faith," Blair dismissed with a snort. "We gotta be close. Look for a fork in the road. Then take the left."

Jim squinted. "The sign up there says `Clearwater, next right.'"

Blair blinked, confused. "It does?" He glanced back down at his map again. "You sure?"

Leaning over, Jim snatched the map, flipped it upright and slapped it back on Blair's thighs again. "There you go, Four Eyes."

"Oh, yeah. Right. I knew that, man."

Minutes later, after taking the right turn, Blair felt a low frequency buzz build behind his eyes. He took a deep breath. Here it comes.

Jim pulled off into a wide turn out and killed the motor. The two lane road had light traffic. They'd only passed a handful of cars and trucks over the last twenty miles.

Blair looked at Jim. "What?"

"Did you build that wall?"

Blair shook his head. "It's not that bad, Jim."

"I understand, but if you practice using it, it will get easier."

Blair pinched the bridge of his nose. It just felt so weird. Intellectually he could get behind what Jim was saying, yet it was one thing to read a theory in a text book, another to put it into practice.

"Come on. No one's watching," Jim promised with a teasing grin. "Now, close your eyes and take a deep breath. Relax."

Blair followed Jim's directions. An unexpected knuckle rap against the side of his head caused him to straighten with a protesting, "Hey!"

"I said relax, Sandburg. All of you, not just your hands."

"Shit, Jim!" Blair snapped, rubbing his head. "You call that a bedside manner? You suck!"

"Last I looked, you're not in bed."

"It's an expression. How am I supposed to do this if you're going to assault me when I least expect it?"

Jim chuckled. "I seem to remember a certain person in a doctor's waiting office saying -- when I least expected it -- what was it? Boo?"

Blair couldn't help it, he giggled. And damn if he didn't feel a whole lot looser. "Ass." He closed his eyes and completely relaxed. "Okay, fine. This isn't going to work, man."

"Not with that type of attitude," Jim said softly. "God, Sandburg. I never gave you this much grief when I was doing the dial stuff."

"Yeah, right. I think you have a selective memory." Blair took a deep breath and tried to relax. He reached out with his mind. A mini figure of himself appeared, the block of wood reached his knees. He picked it up. It was light. "I've got it."

"Can you feel the town? The people that live there?"

Turning, his imaginary self felt the buzz, caressing his world like a million feathers riding the breeze, tickling his body. "It's coming from over there."

"Good." Jim sounded pleased. "Build your wall."

Blair went to work. It was hard at first. The blocks didn't want to stack right. But he got a rhythm and soon he was protected on all sides. Small, fist-size holes between the blocks let in some feathers. Blair could feel the odd emotions in passing, but the bulk of the flow didn't touch him.

He was safe.

Blair opened his eyes. "Wow. It works!"

Jim looked up from a fishing magazine he had propped against the steering wheel. "It's holding?"

Blair nodded and grabbed Jim's arm, turning it to read his watch. "How long?"

Shrugging, Jim tossed the periodical into the back seat and restarted the motor. "Half an hour. Hopefully, you'll get faster."

They entered Clearwater from the opposite end this time, driving by the post office and a central park with a statue that honored the veterans from World War II. Large blue, yellow and red flowering baskets hung from the street lights. An air of jubilation spilled out from the music piped down the main street and shop owners industriously swept the sidewalks in front of their businesses.

"Any minute, we're going to see Andy and Opie walking down the street with fishing poles," Blair quipped.

"Opie's too busy making millions behind the camera now," Jim said, scanning the street. "Parking might be a problem."

"There's a sign." Blair pointed.

The hand-painted sign pointed to an overflow parking lot, a large field next to the high school. Trucks and older model sedans waited in line next to late model luxury cars. They pulled in next to a Pepsi truck and walked back toward the town's core.

Clearwater hugged the bank of its namesake. The fast flowing river glided over multi-patterned river rock. The crystal water, pure as mountain air, spilled from the higher mountains, sculpting the large boulders smooth. The scene was picture postcard perfect and the town folk had taken advantage of it by building a boardwalk which hung over a rock reinforced bank.

"Wonder if they rent fly fishing gear," Jim asked.

Blair could tell by the way the sentinel tracked the currents that he was watching trout. The memory of Jim teaching him to fish, them standing knee-deep in the river brought a pang of homesickness.

The town had changed. Barricades and tape kept vehicles off the main street. White canvas-wall booths with striped awnings had been set up, lining both sides of the four blocks. Tables, with all manner of crafts from carvings to jewelry, were being set out. Prices ranged from a single dollar to over a thousand.

"This is amazing," Blair said, running his hand over a cherry wood bookcase with glass doors.

"How's your head?" Jim asked.

Blair found his mental wall solid. "Still holding."

"Good, there's Paul." Jim nodded down the street.

Paul's booth held more than just his carved animals. Small tables, desk sets, frames and bookcases were crowded into his space. It was obvious the workmanship was as good, if not better, than most others.

"Hey, you guys made it." Paul finished arranging a display of gleaming hand-turned wooden fountain pens.

"It was touch and go. I let Blake use the map." Jim expertly dodged Blair's elbow.

"The back roads are tricky." Paul squatted down to pick up a box filled with serving bowls carved from burl wood. "People keep taking down the sign posts."

"We noticed." Blair looked at Jim. "Told you it wasn't my fault."

"So, judging by the effort this town puts into this festival, I suppose it draws a good-size crowd?" Jim asked.

"Not too bad. Today's set up. Tomorrow will be a madhouse." Paul set more carvings out. "I suggest you take a look today, maybe get some BBQ. The Rocky Mountain Oysters are best in the state."

"Ah, maybe some other time. So, you need any help with--." Blair's offer was cut short by a hard shove. He crashed into the table, knocking over baskets and a bric-a-brac shelf filled with a Noah's ark selection. Zebras, lions and a pair of hippos crashed to the asphalt. Blair caught the boat before it landed on the pavement. "Oh god, sorry! Sorry, man!"

The cause of the accident, three teenager boys, broke into brassy laughter.

"Get out of here!" Paul ordered as he helped Jim scoop up fallen animals.

The kids sauntered off.

"What's their problem?" Blair demanded, resetting the ark on its stand with shaky hands. None of the intricate patterns etched into the wood seemed damaged. "Are the animals okay?"

"It's not your fault," Paul answered.

A sharp, piercing pain hit.

"No." Blair tucked his chin in and held on to the table as an abrupt flow of hate, putrid and black emotions swamped him.

"Chief?" Jim voice sounded so far away.

Blair felt Jim's hand on his elbow as pain spiked down his spine. His stomach churned. Blair closed his eyes, dimly aware Jim was keeping him vertical. "The wall...broke," he breathed.

The breach widened. Loud laughter from nearby brought a bright spark of happiness. A woman holding a fussy baby passed and Blair was hit by her worry. Her kid was sick. After that he couldn't keep track of the kaleidoscope of emotions: lust, rage, happiness, sorrow, fear.

Blair spiraled into the darkness.

"What's wrong with him?" Paul asked.

Jim had his hands full, literally. "Need to... lay him down," he grunted.

"This way." Paul pulled the rear tent wall aside and helped Jim carry Blair onto the sidewalk. They were in front of a used bookstore. Paul opened the door.

Blair was completely limp now. Jim ignored his back's protest as he scooped to lift Blair in a fireman's carry. He followed Paul down a wide aisle lined with tall bookshelves. The shop lights were off. It appeared closed, but Paul called out and another voice - a woman's - answered. A back door opened and the woman stuck her head out.

"What in the world?" She frowned. "Paul? What are you doing here?"

"Stella, this man just collapsed on the street. They're my clients at the Sitting Fox," Paul answered.

She swung her door open. "Put him there on the couch. Should I call the paramedics?"

Lining himself up to lay Blair safely down on the sofa, Jim shook his head and rolled Blair off his shoulder. "No, please. He just... needs to rest a second. Here he comes." Paul settled Blair's legs in place, while the woman stood at the opposite end, ready with a pillow for Blair's head.

Jim focused on Blair, gently taking the pale face in his hands. "Hey, partner. Come on. Focus on me."

Blair's eyes shifted behind closed lids.

Jim was getting scared.

"What's wrong with him?" Stella asked.

Thumbing Blair's right eyelid up, Jim answered, "He's got mild epilepsy. Once in a while he has a petit mal. No reason to get EMS involved." Jim looked up at Paul. "You should go back to your booth."

"You sure?" It was obvious Paul wanted to.

"Yeah, go."

Paul left.

Stella hurried out of the room and returned with a damp washcloth which Jim placed on Blair's forehead.

"Will he be okay?" she asked.

"He'll be fine." Jim hoped the lie held some bit of truth.

Blair woke up in confused degrees, feeling like a hundred year old man trying to climb a steep staircase. Bits and pieces of information drifted by on random currents. He was lying down. He was somewhat comfortable. It was dark. Jim was close by - how did he always know that? - and worried.

And he had the mother of all headaches.

"Ooowww."

"Hey," Jim whispered at him, catching a wet cloth as it slipped off his forehead when Blair turned to squint. "Welcome back."

A soft, feminine shadow peered over Jim's shoulder, too fuzzy to make out.

"G-grace?" Blair mumbled, confused. How'd they get back to Sedona?

"No, Chief," Jim assured him. "We're in Clearwater, Colorado."

Right, right. Blair remembered now. They were in the Rocky Mountains. Or somewhere close by, the foothills maybe. He'd been with Jim looking at...

Noah's ark?

"Someone... pushed..." Sitting was an uphill struggle, but Jim helped and he made it, earning a spinning head. Not a good move.

"You gonna be sick?" Jim asked.

"Here!" a woman insisted and a plastic trashcan appeared next to where Jim was kneeling on the floor.

Pressing his fingers against his temples, Blair squeezed his eyes shut and took deep breaths. He was not going to be sick. Not. Sick. Not. The exercise worked. The nausea abated and Blair looked around the room. "Where are we?"

"Second Time Around Bookstore," the woman answered.

Blair focused on her. She was about Jim's age, maybe a little older. Tall and slim, she wore a bright pink t-shirt over blue jeans. Her black hair was cut short and curled around her face and neck. Without even trying, Blair felt her emotions, curiosity mingled with concern.

"How's the head, Chief? You shoring up okay?"

Blair turned back to Jim and blinked, feeling slow. Why was Jim talking like a sailor? No wait... shore up. To build a barrier.

His wall.

Tilting his chin down, Blair took another deep breath and checked. Oh, man. Bits of his broken wall were scattered everywhere. "It's... not so hot, man. I don't think I can go out there."

The woman sat down on the sofa, patting Blair's knee. "Epilepsy is nothing to be ashamed of. My grandfather had it. People understand today better than when he was a kid."

"Epilepsy?"

"Sorry, kid," Jim said. "I know you don't like when I tell people. But she was nice enough to let you recover in her shop and all. It's closed, so no one should bother you." Jim addressed the woman on the sofa. "I'm J.R. and this is my brother, Blake."

"I'm Stella." She smiled at them both. "I understand you're staying at Paul's place?"

"Yeah," Jim stood. "We'll be heading back now. I think Blake should get some rest. Do you have a back door? The front street is a little crowded."

She nodded, rising to lead them out of her office.

Blair accepted Jim's hand as he stood. The change made his head spin and he leaned on Jim's shoulder until it passed.

"You going to make it to the Ford?" Jim whispered.

"This sucks, man," Blair answered, trying not to whine. He forced his body to stand on its own. "I'll make it."

Stella was still talking as they walked to the back of the bookstore, through a narrow storeroom filled with cardboard boxes overflowing with paperbacks, hardbacks and old sets of encyclopedias. "I'm glad Paul finally got the time to fix that old farmhouse up into a bed and breakfast. It should be listed with the state as a historical landmark. It's just a good thing his father didn't burn the place down around his ears."

They were outside now. Blair squinted and shielded his eyes from the afternoon sun with a hand.

Jim was shaking the woman's hand. "Thanks again, Stella."

"No problem. Glad you're better, Blake. Come back when you can and check out my books."

"Thanks, ma'am." Blair let Jim take him by the elbow. All he wanted right now was a quiet room with no one but Jim around for a hundred miles.

The bed and breakfast was warm and overly stuffy when they got back. Jim unlocked the kitchen door with the key Paul had given him.

"I'm going to lie down," Blair mumbled as Jim started opening windows to get the stale air moving.

"Do you want something to eat first?"

"No." Blair clumped up the stairs, with slumped shoulders and dragging steps.

Hand on his hips, Jim stood in the living room, frowning, not remembering the last time Blair clumped anywhere. He was used to a Blair who ricocheted, energy in motion. Jim should follow and get Blair to talk. Or would it be better to allow his friend some space? Hell, they'd been living in each others pockets since their escape from Cascade.

A crash and thump coming from the direction of the front porch caused Jim to spin, ready for an attack. Hearing instantly reaching out, he categorized one heartbeat. His sense of smell reached out a second later.

Blood.

Moving fast, Jim pressed against the wall. He carefully pushed aside the curtain's edge in front of the large picture window.

"Crap."

Paul's father huddled against the porch railing, holding his left arm close to his chest. Rusty streaks covered his left forearm. Jim visually checked the area to make sure they were alone before going out.

"What happened to you?"

Paul's father lifted his face. Bloodshot eyes crinkled with pain. "Paul?"

Jim squatted down. "No, Paul's in Clearwater. What did you do you your arm?"

"Don't know."

Jim pried the man's fingers away from the injury. "You've cut yourself."

"Suppose so."

Looking around, Jim didn't see a vehicle. He hadn't heard anything drive up either. The guy was on foot.

"Come on. Get up." He pulled the man to his feet. Unwashed body odors and old vomit smells wafted out.

"I'm leaving. I'm leaving," the old man muttered crossly.

"Yeah, you are, but first you're going to get cleaned up and I'll put something on that cut."

Walking slowly alongside the injured man, Jim wondered if this act of kindness would get him and Blair tossed out on their ears.

Blair woke with the late afternoon sunlight on the wall above his bed. Groaning, he rolled over to realize he was alone.

Being alone might be his new world. Blair's head felt better. Quiet.

"Hello to the hermit life," he whispered, rubbing a hand over his face.

He could use another shave, but didn't want to take the time, suddenly feeling a real need to find Jim.

Their duffle bags had been unpacked and clothes put away into the wide pine dresser which matched the twin beds. Only Blair had stuffed, as opposed to Jim's careful folding, so Blair had to do a little rummaging before he found a pair of clean shorts.

The afternoon heat felt delicious on his skin, so he barefooted down the stairs and found Jim, reading a hardback book, sitting in a leather chair.

"Hey, how you feeling?" Jim set the book aside and swept Blair with a visual head-to-toe examination. Blair ignored the question, spotting the familiar looking man sleeping on the long sofa at the other end of the living room.

"What the heck?" Blair whispered.

Jim stood and crooked a finger at Blair to follow as he walked into the kitchen.

"I found him on the porch. He was injured and exhausted and more than a little dehydrated," Jim said in a low voice.

"Ohhhh, man. You did the right thing, but Paul's gonna be so pissed."

"I know."

Blair picked up an apple from the fruit bowl and ran it under the facet. "When's Paul due back?"

Jim shrugged. "No idea. I figure when he wakes, we can feed him and send him on his way."

To where? Blair had a feeling the guy wouldn't be here if he had another place to go.

"Now tell me, how's your head?" Jim had opened a food cupboard and was turning cans to read the label. "We need to practice building your wall again."

"That sounds so strange." Blair bit into the apple and dropped into a kitchen chair to enjoy it. "It's a little sore, I've had worse hangovers. I should meditate."

A box of emergency candles appeared on the table along with a book of matches. "We'll pay him back," Jim said, then turning back to the canned goods.

Blair smiled. He picked up the supplies and took his apple with him as he went out the back door into the warm afternoon. The grass tickled between his toes. He'd find a quiet place and hopefully be done before Paul got back or the old man on the sofa woke up.

"I'll call you when dinner's ready," Jim called after him.

"Thanks, man."

Two large oaks growing next to a lazy stream made the perfect meditation court. Blair settled down into the lush vegetation with a sigh. A crop of light purple wildflowers poked up from the grass, forming a long run that paralleled the creek six or seven feet away from its banks, apparently finding the soil better suited. Growing right in the water, but on the edge, were tall plumes-topped reeds. The feathery tops caught every slight breeze with a delicate dance.

He set one candle out and lit the wick. Folding into his usual cross-legged position, Blair went to work.

It was easier than the first time, but still took effort to rebuild. Blair spent a little time on each block, making it fit and taking care to line up the edges. It was no surprise to find the blocks actually representing parts of his life, of his soul maybe, that gave him strength.

Jim was in many of the blocks.

His mother was there as well, along with other friends of hers that he'd lived with growing up. Rainier had a few blocks that he recognized. Some blocks appeared to be plain, ready for the impression to be added into them. These were the hardest to lift and they wobbled.

It was hard to know how much time had passed. Blair felt confident that Jim would come get him before allowing him to miss dinner. So when the first hard poke in the side registered, Blair jolted back to awareness.

"We asked you a question, queer!"

Three men stood around him and Blair flashed back to that early morning in the forest chasing Quinn, when Jim had left him alone for much needed rest. His heart slammed into his throat. Legs stiff, he began to stand.

One man, wearing a bright orange hunting vest shoved him back down into the dirt. "What are you, stupid? Answer the question."

"W-what question?" Blair asked. An oak trunk against his back, Blair felt a small measure of protection. The three were older, bigger and looked pissed.

How far had he wandered from the house?

"We heard he's back. Is he back?" The man asking was the shortest of the bunch and had a week's worth of stubble on his face.

"Look, you guys." Blair used the tree to gain purchase to stand, forcing a smile. "I just got in yesterday, okay? I don't know what you're talking about."

The third guy was tall and looked military, holding himself with the same confidence that Jim did. He had to be the one giving off the dangerous vibes Blair could feel buffeting his newly built wall.

He prayed it would hold this time.

"That baby killer, Fox. Is he back like we heard?" Orange-Vest asked.

Stunned, it took a second for Blair to snap his mouth shut.

"Well?" the short guy demanded, drilling a dirty finger into Blair's sternum.

Blair knocked the hand away. "Listen, you Neanderthal-rejects. I'm trying to be nice. I don't know what you're talking about and I don't care. Get out of my face before I call the cops."

Orange-vest brayed a short laugh and helped himself to two fistfuls of Blair's shirt. "You'd have to holler pretty damn loud, hippie."

Blood pounding, Blair recognized the anger swelling within him. He smiled and squinted at his attackers. This wasn't his anger. "You guys better get out of here," he warned them in a low tone.

The shorter guy moved in, trapping him with smells of bad beer and old tuna.

"Or what? You going to hurt us?"

Blair stared him down. "I know this is difficult, considering your brain size, but it's not me you should be worrying about."

Orange-Vest lifted Blair to his toes. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"He's talking about me, Asswipes." Jim had his Sig in his right hand. He hunched his right shoulder as he took aim, using his left hand to brace his shooting arm. "Back away. Now."

Blair shoved Orange-vest away. "Warned ya."

All three men fell back. Jim moved to Blair's side, keeping his aim true. "You're trespassing. You've got twenty seconds to leave."

"Who are you?" Orange-vest asked.

"The guy that's going to put a bullet in your worthless brain if you don't follow my orders," Jim replied.

Wow. They'd come a long way from `you have the right to remain silent,' Blair realized.

"You can't keep him hidden from us," the short guy snapped, but they were sliding back.

"You're wasting precious time. You boys can count to twenty, right?" Jim raised the gun again.

They turned and ran.

Jim remained motionless, head tilted as he listened. Licking his lips, Blair quietly waited. Finally, Jim nodded. "They had a truck parked back on the dirt road. They're gone." He turned to Blair. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," Blair answered. "What the hell was that all about? Is Paul's father a criminal? Is he wanted by the law? Why wouldn't he tell us?"

"Let's get back to the house." Jim slipped his gun into the waistband of his jeans. "We'll ask him."

Blair smacked into his back a second later. He skirted around to gape at the sofa. "He's gone? Can you hear anything?"

Jim shook his head. The front door stood ajar. Mumbling a short oath followed by, `God, our money, man.' Blair ran upstairs. Jim made a quick inventory of the main floor. If this guy took something that belonged to his son, Jim wanted to know about it. It was bad enough the man had left wearing Jim's clothes - granted, they were from the Salt Lake thrift store...

"Our money's still there." Blair bounded down the stair, worry replacing the earlier panic on his face. "What if those three guys meet up with him?"

"It's not our problem." Jim folded the light blanket, taking it into the utility room to leave it for washing later. He returned to find Blair standing with hands on his hips, nibbling his lower lip in thought. "Don't get that look, Sandburg."

"What look?"

Jim shook his head. Why did he even bother? "The look that says you want to get involved."

"Jim--"

"Blair, no, we're not here to fix anything but you. Now, how's your head? Any problems after those three bozos tried to rough you up?"

Sharing a quick grin, Blair rocked up on his toes. "It was so cool, Jim. It was like I could `see' their emotions, but it didn't hurt. And then, when you started getting close - BAM - I felt you, felt how pissed you were. It was awesome."

Jim grinned back. "Good."

"Think of the possibilities." Blair rubbed his hands together. "God, I just wish we were home so I could get my notes together. And tests, I need a lab. I need to--oh! Man, if I'd had this talent back when I started dating..."

"I shudder to think of the possibilities." Jim caught him by the shoulders. "But remember, this is part of the reason we're being hunted."

"I..." The happiness evaporated. Blair crossed his arms over his chest. Guilt checked in just as Jim figured it would. Like the younger man could control his own genetic make up.

"Hey, none of that." Clapping his hands together, Jim headed for the kitchen. He needed a diversion and food usually worked. "Paul called from Stella's place earlier. He's going to be home soon. I told him I had the fixings for stir fry ready and you would make a salad. He's bringing a fresh loaf of bread."

Blair trailed behind.

"The stuff you need's in the fridge. He has some of that goat cheese you like, in the door."

They cleaned and chopped in silence, Jim leaving Blair to his own thoughts.

When Paul drove up the road an hour later, Jim lit the gas burner and poured a little olive oil into the stir fry pan. Paul entered the house through the kitchen, a bemused look on his face.

"I could get used to having you guys around," he said, setting a grocery bag on the table and going to the deep sink to wash his hands.

"How'd it go today?" Jim asked.

"Not too bad. The big crowds will come in tomorrow. We consider today a warm up."

Blair entered the kitchen. "Hey, Paul."

"How're you feeling?"

Jim found himself on the receiving end of one of Blair's better scorching looks, but the kid was all smiles by the time Paul looked up from his hand drying.

"A hundred percent," Blair answered, going to the icebox to pull out his salad.

"Great." Paul set out a long loaf of bread wrapped in a paper bag. "I got a French loaf from the Clearwater bakery. Picked up more milk and eggs."

"Blake and I will pay for our share of the groceries." Jim judged the oil the right temperature and started the stir fry.

The meal was simple and delicious. By agreement, Jim and Blair had decided not to tell Paul about his father's visit until afterwards. They ate, talked sports and cleaned as a team. The sun was behind the mountaintops now and the singing of crickets accompanied by deep bass frogs drifted in through the kitchen screen door.

Seeing Paul's hand reaching for the kitchen light switch as they started cleaning dishes gave Jim a second to dial down his vision. "You had a visitor today," Jim started.

Paul frowned. "Who?" But he guessed when he studied Jim's normally impassive face. "My father was here again?"

Something told Jim the guy didn't get many visitors. How was his Bed and Breakfast going to survive? "Yeah, well. He was hurt and looked exhausted."

Closed off, Paul avoided eye contact. "I hope you chased him off. Was he sober?"

"Yes... and no," Jim answered carefully, clarifying, "He was more sober than the last time. He'd cut his arm. It needed to be cleaned and bandaged. I let him shower, loaned him some clean clothes. He slept a few hours on the sofa."

"You didn't have to."

Blair frowned. "We're not going to withhold aid from someone in need, man."

Paul scrubbed his face, slumping against the counter. "Yeah, I'm sorry. It's just I've been pissed off at him for so long..."

"You're not the only one," Blair muttered.

"What do you mean?"

Jim answered, "Three guys came looking for your father. They were... insistent."

Guardedly, Paul frowned and crossed his arms. "What happened?"

"Nothing," Blair said, shooting a `shut up, man' glare at Jim. "They just made it clear they wanted your dad. And they didn't sound too friendly about it."

Picking up a washrag and using it on the table with long, angry wipes, Paul said, "No, I don't expect they would be."

"Why?" Blair pulled out a chair and sat down. "They called him a baby killer."

Paul slammed the rag into the sink. "Because, he is."

"But--" Blair started, and Jim silenced him with a hand on his shoulder and a head shake as Paul walked out of the kitchen.

"Shit. That so did not go well."

Jim pursed his lips. "I think it's time we moved on, Sandburg."

"What!" Blair shook his head. "No. We need to--"

"Leave. Focus on ourselves. Survive." Jim punched the air with his finger. "Any of this ringing a bell?"

Snapping his jaw closed, Blair scowled, leaning back and crossing his arms. Jim looked away. He'd accept a petulant best friend for as long as it took to get them out of here. He knew the argument by heart, but it wasn't going to persuade him this time. They had an understanding between them in the matters of staying free, Jim was the boss.

"I'll take care of our bill. You start packing the Bronco," Jim told him. "We'll leave first light."

Colorado Mountains knew how to do mornings.

Crisp air a person could taste on his tongue, carrying the scent of flowers, sweet and fresh. Sunshine soaked the trees. The earth was radiant, the sky a topaz crown.

Jim knew Blair wasn't noticing. His friend sat, straight and tense in his seat, silently staring out the side window as Jim drove. Their stuff was packed. The bill, such as it was, paid. Paul hadn't made any comment when Jim had told him they were moving on.

All in all, they had finished what he had set out to do. Blair seemed to have this empathy thing under control. Sure, his skill was shaky. He was new at building his wall but Jim was certain, with time, Blair would get the hang of it.

"We'll stop in town and get supplies," Jim suggested, breaking the silence.

Blair didn't answer.

Jim bit back a sigh.

The festival in Clearwater had started with a bang. Parked cars and trucks spilled out of all the public lots. People swarmed over the street and the booths packed with wares. Jim was forced to park at the city limit sign and they walked in. The town's only hardware store was on the side street, away from the crowds. Over the door, a bell tinkled as they entered. Jim dug a folded list out of his pocket, scanning it as they entered. Surprisingly, the place was deserted except for an old man stocking shelves with bags of bird seed.

"How about you pick up the tarp and rope? I'll get the rest."

Blair nodded and veered off down a side aisle.

Jim headed for the hardware section. The lid to their camp stove wobbled. A nut had worked loose and had dropped off somewhere.

Searching the long row of nut bins for the correct size, Jim let his hearing widen to track Blair's progress. He picked up new voices, familiar voices that caused his jaw to clench and his fingers to tighten into fists. The place wasn't as deserted as he had first thought. Jim forgot the stove and crept back towards the rear of the store.

"Look, kid. Are you buying or not?"

Blair slapped the tarp down on the counter and dug a wadded ten out of his jeans. "Yeah, here. Now, can you check one more time for me?"

With a burdened sigh, the old man rang up the purchases, not bothering to bag them. He handed a few coins back and thumped off, returning a few minutes later. "No, okay? Your brother isn't back there."

Blair nodded, taking his purchases and walking out the front door. He paused on the sidewalk. Where the hell did Jim go? No way was Blair going to believe Jim had purposely ditched him.

"Hey, man. If this is you getting back at me because I was sulking, it's working," Blair said aloud to the pigeons pecking at crumbs on the sidewalk. "I'm sorry. So come out already so you can gloat." Blair waited.

Blair took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Would it work? He pictured his barrier and carefully nudged aside one of the blocks. The whole wall shook as hundreds of people's emotions hit, causing Blair to take a physical step back.

Okay, so he wasn't that good yet. Blair bit his lip. He'd have to find Jim the old fashioned way. Feet dragging with doubt, Blair trekked back to the Bronco and used his key to unlock the door. He stowed the purchases in the back and looked around.

This was stupid. He was getting worked up for nothing. Jim had just ducked out for some errand he wanted to run. Something last minute.

Blair leaned against the Bronco and waited.

Throbbing, dull, relentless pain kept Jim floating, out of reach of consciousness, but not so deep that he could escape. His world was colorless and confusing. Heavy, smothering smells made taking a lungful of air impossible. His sinuses felt clogged with mildew and decay.

The sentinel wanted his guide.

"Sure you don't want some pie? We have mountain blueberry. You'll love it."

Blair clutched his coffee cup, warmed by the refill from the caf waitress. "No, really. I'm fine."

She wandered away and Blair realized her attention wasn't so much kindness, but the fact he'd been sitting inside the diner for more than an hour and had only ordered coffee. Impatient people stood by the door, waiting for a free table. Enough waiting, it was time to do something. Blair pushed the mug away and rose.

Leaving the diner, he stood on the sidewalk and let the late afternoon heat permeate his face, arms and back. Blair checked his mental wall and found it holding. The town was filled to capacity and more. People wandered the streets, laughing and eating fried bread with syrup or rainbow colored snow cones. Blair was careful to keep out of contact with them. He didn't trust his ability to keep from being overwhelmed.

He needed Jim.

"This is crazy," Blair whispered. "Where are you?"

He couldn't call Simon and ask for help, or even the local police. Official investigation involved identification and background checks, resulting in questions that Blair didn't have pat answers for. One slip-up could bring down those who wanted nothing good for the Sentinel and Guide team.

But how was he supposed to go about finding Jim without help? And what had happened? Had their enemies already taken him?

No. Impossible. Blair jammed his hands deep into his pockets and started down the sidewalk in the direction of the Bronco. If Jim had been taken, they would have grabbed him as well. It wasn't like they couldn't find him. Blair realized he'd been stupid by waiting in plain sight, but it didn't matter. Maybe he'd been subconsciously testing them.

No, whatever had happened to Jim didn't involve any government black ops.

Then what?

He stood next to the Bronco and leaned for a minute against the door. He'd wait a little longer, then go back to the hardware store and snoop around.

Blair moved the Bronco to a vacant lot on a side street in view of the back of the hardware store. He could see the old man who had helped him walking around a large, fenced in lot, locking a gate and throwing large plastic tarps over various items to protect them from the weather.

Blair entered the rear of the store without activating any type of security that Blair could see. Chances were good the store owner relied on the tall cyclone fencing to keep people out. The top of the fence was protected by a curling strand of barbed wire, but Blair could make it over that without a problem.

A few minutes later, the owner and another man exited the building and headed toward two trucks parked alongside the store. Something about the shorter man caught Blair's attention. Blair wished for Jim's incredible vision. Still, Blair only used glasses to read. His distance vision was good. When the man reached into his truck and shrugged into an orange vest, Blair had it.

"You son of a bitch." Blair gripped the steering wheel until his skin stretched white over his knuckles. "What did you do with Jim?"

The man's black truck had a canopy on the bed. Easy enough to hide a person in the back, tie him up, gag him and drive off.

Blair started the Bronco and waited for the black truck to pick a direction, sure that Jim was inside.

The truck turned left. Blair spun the Bronco's rear wheels as he left the lot.

"Cool it, Sandburg," Blair muttered between gritted teeth. He didn't need to be pulled over by the cops for reckless driving. He needed to help Jim.

Forcing himself to take it slow, Blair still had sight of the black truck by the time he reached the main street. In fact, the following distance would be perfect, with only one car between them as they left Clearwater and headed into the forest.

A mental checklist went through Blair's mind: Lash, Kincaid, Hersch... Blair could fill a Who's Who book on the times Jim had rescued Blair. Now Jim needed the cavalry and Blair wasn't going to let him down.

As Jim became fully aware, he cursed his stupid luck.

Smells of thick dust and ancient mold caused a violent sneeze. They had put a burlap sack over his head. Jim wrenched his smell dial down. Coarse twine bit into his wrists as he rolled from his stomach, to his side and onto his back. The movement caused his gut to swim with nausea and his brain to throb. He waited for it to pass.

The last thing he remembered was sneaking into the back storeroom of the hardware store, trying to get a glimpse of the men he'd overheard. He'd been ill prepared for the loud ring of a simple telephone. As he had flinched away from the noise, his hip had knocked into a stack of boxes. One had toppled and something, some powder, had burst upon impact and Jim's last thought as he had drowned in the dust cloud, seconds before something hard had crashed into the back of his skull, had been how stupid he'd been, taken out by a bag of concrete mix.

Through the smell of burlap and the lingering hint of concrete mix, Jim could smell fertilizer, gravel, birdseed and paint. He was still in the hardware storeroom or somewhere close by. That had to be a good sign. He had no idea how much time had passed. Blair had to have missed him by now.

Jim extended his hearing, checking for nearby people and found nothing. The place must have closed for the day.

Wiggling around, Jim checked out his surroundings. He bumped into boxes and stacks of bags, probably cut off from view. No doubt by the very men he'd been trying to get a look at. The two men that had threatened Blair back at Paul's place. Jim was sure of it, and from the sounds of their conversation, they hadn't given up on trying to find Paul's father.

Jim tried to work his bound wrists around his butt, straining to curl into a tight enough ball for it to work, but couldn't. They'd tied his wrists too high, too tightly. Jim didn't have the slack he needed. With a groan, Jim gave up, sweating and gasping through the dust motes being filtered through the coarse weave of the burlap. When he could breathe normally again, he struggled to sit up. He rubbed his head against the nearest stack of sacks. The burlap began to ride up. Cool air tickled his neck. A few more minutes and Jim had the sack off and could see. He was inside a large metal shed, probably behind the store.

Tall stacks of bagged seeds, galvanized steel pips and elbow fittings for furnace venting, boxes of nails, and more surrounded him. Jim grinned. Finding something sharp enough to cut through his cords around his wrists and ankles was not going to be a problem.

It was just Jim's luck that, after nearly rubbing his wrists raw and then coming within a millimeter from slicing open his radial artery on the sharp edge he'd managed to find protruding from some thin metal tubing, he'd finally gotten free only to realize the shed doors were padlocked from the outside.

"For crying out loud. How much crime does this place have?" Jim muttered, casting about for something to force the doors open.

He found it under a roll of chicken wire. Hefting the long rebar pole, Jim used it like a lance, spearing the tight space between the sliding doors about hip high where his sentinel vision could make out the cross members of the padlock between the handles. With a strong heave, and all his body weight, the satisfying sound of the plastic handles popping off the sheet metal made Jim grin with delight.

"Yes!"

A second later, Jim was staring at the barbed wire-topped fence.

"This just keeps getting better and better."

The rear door to the store was locked and probably had an alarm. Jim sighed as he picked the best place to climb over. Using a pair of heavy gardening gloves he found under an overturned ceramic pot, he managed to get over the barbed wire with only half a dozen bleeding scratches to his person, even after using a few draped burlap sacks. The long barbs cut through the cloth with ease. Several blocks away, he could hear the festival in progress, yet no one was within sight to witness his break for freedom. Just as well.

Jim limped toward the street where he'd parked the Bronco. Night was near. Fireflies danced in the shadows under the trees. Frogs sang their deep song. Scents of fried chicken and sweet bread were carried on the warm evening breeze and Jim's stomach growled with hunger.

First he'd hook up with Sandburg and then he'd figure out what to do about the conversation he'd overheard in the back of the hardware store. Turning the corner, Jim spotted the VW van parked where he'd left the Bronco.

"Crap," Jim muttered, slowly spinning in place to scan the blocks for the familiar vehicle. "Where are you, Chief?"

Orange Vest's truck was parked in a deeply rutted yard before a large pole building. The front of the metal structure had huge barn-like doors, which rolled back on an overhead metal track. The place had a neglected look about it, with broken down trucks and trailers and a faded sign on a metal pole: Maverick Trucking - no load too large or small. A real estate sign had been posted out on the road. It had a new `sold' sign nailed over the corner.

Blair passed the turn-off and parked around a bend in the road. He locked the Bronco and jogged back to watch the man he had followed enter the building.

Perfect.

Blair slipped out from behind the pine tree and ran toward the truck.

The sun had disappeared behind the tall mountains, but there was still plenty of light. Country western music played from a radio inside. From his vantage point next to the truck, Blair saw more vehicles parked next to the building, another truck and a SUV. He could also see a rutted road going behind the building, toward a house backed up against the tree line. The house was two-story and badly in need of a paint job. The roof had a heavy coat of moss and the gutter on one side had fallen away from the overhanging eaves, nearly touching the ground.

Sliding to the end of the truck, Blair took a quick look at the building, judged it clear, and reached for the handle to open the canopy.

It was locked.

"No!" Blair hissed.

The windows were darkened and he couldn't see within. Blair slipped back toward the driver's side, hoping there was an unlocked window big enough for him to crawl through between the cab and the truck bed. The door was unlocked. Yes, there was a window, but not the type you could open. Blair pushed aside coke cans and sunflower seed wrappers to kneel in the middle of the bench seat.

The view to the truck bed was blocked by boxes.

"Jim!" Blair whispered, slapping the glass with his palm.

"What the HELL!"

Blair twisted on the seat. Orange Vest stood in the open doorway. Blair dived for the other door, just as another person wrenched it open. A large hand caught the back of his collar and much of his hair.

"Hey! Easy, easy!" Blair blathered as he was dragged out of the truck. He held his empty hands out.

"What are you doing here?" A third voice demanded.

Blair recognized the tall, military looking guy. "Where's Jim?" Blair shouted.

"Who?" The tall man shot a confused look at his two companions.

The one holding on to Blair shook him hard. "You're trespassing, punk."

But Blair was watching Orange Vest. The man looked uneasy and avoided the tall guy's stare. "Ah, that's what I was trying to tell you, Adam."

"I knew it!" Blair crowed, twisting free of the hand. "He's in the truck, isn't he?"

"You brought him to my place, Pete?" Adam demanded, his tone deadly.

Orange Vest - or Pete - backed away, looking scared. "No, no, no. I swear. He's back at the store. I caught him snooping around, listening to me on the phone with Jason. We tied him up."

Adam glared at the other man. "You knew about this, Jason?"

Jason shook his head. "No way, Adam. I didn't have a clue."

Surrounded by the three men, Blair suddenly wishing he hadn't been so hasty in following Pete from town. "You mean Jim's back at the store?"

"Yeah, seems like." Adam rubbed his jaw. "And you're out here..."

Blair tried on his best `let's all be friends' look. "Okay, then... I might have jumped to some conclusions, you know, a little premature..." He edged toward the break between Adam and Pete. "So, no harm, no foul, right? I'm just looking for my brother, so I'll be--"

"Hold it, hippie." Adam lifted his vest and pulled a gun from his waistband. "Now that you're our guest, I've got some questions for you."

"Paul?"

Paul Fox looked up in surprise. "JR? I thought you guys were long gone."

Jim ducked into the back of the man's booth. "My brother is missing. I was wondering if you'd seen him?"

Paul shook his head. "No. It's been pretty crazy, but I'm pretty sure he didn't stop by."

Scrubbing his face wearily, Jim blew out an exasperated breath. "I think he's in trouble."

The festival was winding down. Night had settled over the mountain town and the air had turned crisp. Parents were herding their kids towards station wagons and SUVs while the booth owners were packing it in for the day. Jim had searched the entire town on foot looking for the Bronco and had blisters for his effort.

"What type of trouble?" Paul asked.

Jim didn't have a choice. He had to ask Paul for help. The only other option was to go to the local police. They couldn't afford the spotlight. "Remember when I told you yesterday there had been some visitors? Three guys looking for your father?"

Paul's expression became closed off, guarded. "Yeah."

"I overheard one of them in the hardware store today," Jim continued, lowering his voice and looking around to make sure they didn't have an audience. "He was talking on the phone. They were making plans to visit you again, only they weren't leaving until you told them where your father was."

Paul threw up his hands in frustration. "I don't know where he is!"

Jim grabbed his arm. "You don't understand. They wouldn't have cared. It was vigilante talk. I was a cop, I know what it sounds like."

"Shit." Paul's complexion paled.

"There's more." Jim drew a deep breath, embarrassed to admit the rest. "The guy... got the drop on me. He knocked me out. I woke up in a shed out behind the store. Only now I can't find Blake. I think he might have followed him."

"Why?"

"We were in that store together. If Blake saw this guy, he would have recognized him and maybe thought I was being taken or something."

Paul rubbed his hands together. "Hardware store... that would have been Pete Handover. He works there."

"Any idea who the other two would have been? The ones that came out to your place yesterday?" Jim asked.

"Well... Pete's brother-in-law is Adam Carson. Runs a well-drilling operation."

"Describe him."

"Tall, ex-marine."

"Yeah, that's him." Jim nodded. "The other guy was shorter and needed a shave."

"Jason, Jason Saxton. He's an out of work logger who rooms with Pete."

Now they were getting somewhere. "Can you tell me where they live? Or where they might go to meet each other? A bar or something?"

Paul finished boxing up the last of his carved animals. "Help me carry this stuff into Stella's place. I'll take you there myself."

"Where is Paul hiding his old man?"

Blair tried to ready himself for the next blow, but who the hell was he kidding? The fist sank into his gut, just under his ribcage and he doubled over in pain, letting the hands holding him carry all his weight.

They dropped him.

Hitting the concrete floor hard, forehead bouncing off the unforgiving surface, Blair curled into a ball while the stars spun pretty lights in his head. With arms wrapped around his midsection, he groaned.

The relentless beating seemed to span a lifetime. Blair's left eye was swollen shut. His ribs hurt. His lip was split. His ears rang. He was certain he was going to puke. And just to add to his misery, his mental wall was shattered. The hate flowing off the three men was heavy enough to drown in.

The hard tip of a work boot struck him in the back. "Tell us!"

"I don't know!" Blair gasped, reaching behind to protect his back, as if it would help. "We're on va-vacation."

"Why was your buddy spying on my friends?" Adam bent down and lifted Blair's head by a handful of hair.

It hurt too much to talk. But, he didn't really want to piss these guys off anymore than they already were. Blair made the effort. "I don't know. I swear. I came here to f-find him."

Adam slapped him hard. "I don't believe you." He stood, blowing out his cheeks, fists against his hips. He wasn't even breathing hard. "Time to change tactics. Get the welding torch."

A phone rang on a nearby wall. Adam answered while the other two left Blair lying on the concrete, going to get the equipment. "Yeah?"

Run! Blair tested his arms, pushing off the ground a few inches before his elbows lost strength. He groaned, unable to remember the last time he hurt this bad.

The heavy sound of something being rolled broke through the haze of pain and Blair turned his head to see the men bringing a large double tank welding unit near.

"Wait, wait. Slow down. Tell me again," Adam demanded from the person on the phone. "Are you sure? No, that's fine. Right, okay, thanks. I owe you." He slammed the phone back into the cradle. "He's been spotted out on the Thompson canyon cut-off. He's on foot."

Jason huffed as he set the canisters upright. "The canyon-cut off? What's he doing out there?"

"Hiding out from me, probably," Adam answered with a dark look. "There's hunter shacks up there. Probably holed up. Come on."

Pete pointed down at Blair. "What about him?"

"We'll bring him along. When we get him, we'll make it look like an accident, only they'll find two bodies, not one."

"W-wait." Blair muttered as they lifted him by his arms and dragged him along. "You d-don't wanna do this."

"Yeah, kid. I really, really want to do this," Adam answered with a snarl.

Jim rode shotgun. "Tell me why these three guys are looking for your father."

"They want to kill him." Paul's fingers tightened on his truck's steering wheel.

"You sound pretty calm about the idea."

Paul shrugged. The dash lights lit up his face from below, giving him an eerie look. Pain furrowed around his eyes.

"So what did your father do to this guy?" Jim pressed.

"He killed Adam's entire family," Paul answered in monotone. "Wiped out three people in one heartbeat."

"How?"

"Head-on collision. Dad and his buddy were drinking. They were in his friend's new Cadillac, complete with airbags for driver and passenger. They crossed the centerline."

The crosses over the river. "On the bridge into town?"

"Yeah."

Jim did the math. Paul had said he hadn't seen his father for three years. Killing three people while driving drunk would have resulted in vehicular homicide. It was hard to believe Paul's father only got three years prison time. "You said it was your father's friend's car? So your father wasn't driving?"

"No, but it was his idea to go drinking." Paul slapped the steering wheel. "Damn fool, always looking for an excuse to drink after my mom passed away."

"How could he go to prison? You said he wasn't behind the wheel."

"He was on probation for prior drinking charges. Just being drunk put him in violation. The judge threw the book at him."

"But why would Adam go after your father? Why not the guy that was driving?" Jim asked.

"The driver died in prison last year. Someone knifed him." Paul looked over at Jim. "Rumor has it someone paid for it."

"This Adam guy?"

Paul nodded. "Adam was a stand up guy when his wife and kids were alive. He pretty much lost it after..."

Jim rubbed his brow. What a mess. He could only imagine what life after the accident had been like for Paul, living under the shadow of his father's sin. It shouldn't be that way, but Jim understood small town life, where everyone knew everyone. It was that way with the Chopec. Hard to have any secrets from each other.

How far down the revenge trail had Adam gone? And the big question - would Adam's rage cause him to hurt Blair?

The truck slowed and turned off, parking in front of a large metal building. "Adam tried to keep his business going after... the accident, but..."

Jim got out, extending his senses and knowing the place was empty. The house behind was completely dark. Jim wanted to check the metal building first. He tried the door and found it unlocked. The inside was cluttered with metal pipes and braces. Empty pallets lay stacked against the wall. Jim squinted when Paul flooded the space with light.

"Hard to tell if anyone's been here in a while," Paul picked up a grease gun from the workbench.

Jim studied the blood spots on the floor and eyed the welding equipment with trepidation. "They were here. And so was my brother."

"You sure?" Paul joined Jim.

Nodding at the dark red drops of blood, Jim glowered as he sniffed the air. The scent was fresh. Where had they gone? Quickly searching, they found nothing. Jim checked the house, breaking into a side door off the kitchen. The place was as dismal inside as out. Dirty dishes and take out pizza boxes covered every inch of the kitchen counters. The carpet hadn't been vacuumed in over a year. The heat was off and mold was growing black stains on the inside of the windows.

They returned to the truck. Jim picked up Blair's scent. He tracked it back toward the road, through a stand of pines out to the shoulder, then turned right and followed the shoulder. Paul followed quietly.

Their Bronco was tucked in behind the tall ground cover. Jim unlocked the door, reaching instantly for his Sig under the driver's seat. The weight of his gun in his hand brought great comfort.

"Right, you said you used to be a cop," Paul whispered to himself and nervously licked his lips.

"Listen." Jim turned to him, standing in the open doorway. "If you want your old man killed by these clowns, that's your business. But they've got Bl - my brother. Are you going to help or not?"

Paul nodded, his expression ready. "I'll help."

"Good." Jim tucked the gun into his pants. "Now, think a minute. Your dad needs a place to hole up. The mountains are too cold at night. Who would take him in?"

"No one," Paul adamantly responded.

"Okay, then he's found someplace. Is there a shelter? A cave? Anything?"

"No... Hold on, wait a sec." Paul snapped his fingers. "There's a hunting shack we used during deer season. He could make it on foot. It's only a few miles out of town."

"Let's go." Jim climbed into the Bronco's driver seat.

At least Blair knew for sure that Jim wasn't in the truck, but it was of little consolation. They hit a pothole and Blair's face bounced off the spare tire. Warm blood flowed from his reopened cut lip. A bucket filled with a heavy chain toppled, hitting Blair in the knees. A tire iron dug into his shoulder. If they hadn't lashed his bound wrists with his ankles behind his back, Blair could have braced himself and avoided the additional pain.

His bruises were becoming bruised.

Then, without warning, the truck made a sharp turn and braked. Blair slid up to the front, squished face first into a filthy rolled up sleeping bag smelling of axle grease and sweat. The engine shut off. Cab doors slammed and the tailgate was dropped with the rusty screech of a neglected hinge.

Fingers circled his ankles and pulled him toward the edge. They hadn't bothered to gag him, but Blair didn't feel like talking at the moment anyway. They cut the rope from his ankles and hoisted him out to stand. When they let him go, Blair's knees buckled and he fell in an uncoordinated heap.

"Get up." Adam prodded him roughly with his boot.

"T-trying, man," Blair answered, flailing his legs in the dirt to try and sit up. With hands tied behind his back, and every movement sending stabbing pains through his gut, chest and head.

They yanked him back up, this time holding on so he didn't fall.

Blair looked around. Adam carried a hunting rifle, complete with scope. They were in the forest, parked where the dirt road ended against a steep mountainside. Moonlight coated the road and the forest floor in irregular shaped patches as it seeped between the tall canopy. The air was cool and Blair shivered. Silence made the harsh breathing of his kidnappers seem disproportionately loud.

"Get the flashlights," Adam ordered and Pete reached into the truck bed for a large tool chest.

Five minutes later, Blair was second in line, staggering behind Adam as the four men wound up the trail into the dark forest.

"There's Adam's truck," Paul announced.

Jim had been driving the last mile with the headlights off, after assuring his passenger he could see just fine by the moonlight to navigate the mountain road. Jim backed the Bronco out of sight and parked off the narrow road between two huge stumps.

"Will they have guns?" Jim asked as they met behind the Bronco. He paused to drop the clip and make sure it was full, and then slammed it back in place with a well practiced move.

Paul had been eyeing the gun nervously. "All three of them hunt, so I'm sure they've got at least one rifle."

Jim nodded. He'd expected as much, but wanted to ask. He opened the rear door and grabbed a day pack, checking the contents and adding some things they might need.

"I'd understand if you wanted to stay here."

"I'm going."

"Okay, then." Jim headed down the road, toward the trail he'd spotted in the moonlight. "Let's do this."

After the first mile, Blair got the hang of walking without falling, even with the fatigue and the fact that every part of his body ached for rest. The slope of the moonlit trail was brutal, gaining altitude with each step and narrow in parts with steep drop-offs.

It took all of Blair's focus to make sure each step was placed on solid ground. Thankfully, Pete, who had been shoving him along from behind, didn't push. When it seemed that Blair didn't have enough energy to lift his foot another step, Adam stopped their procession with a raised hand.

"There's the cabin."

Lantern light silhouetted the small window through the stand of trees.

Blair drew in a deep breath. "FOX! RUN! They're here to--"

The rest was broken off as Adam slammed the butt of his rifle into Blair's head.

Then there was nothing.

Over a mile away, Jim heard Blair's shout, followed closely by the unmistakable thud of a hard object impacting skull. He broke into a full run, leaving Paul behind struggling to keep up. Jim let instinct guide his feet, running as he had when he had lived among the Chopec. The trail was rugged, but Jim didn't fall. Sentinel eyes found sure spots for the balls of his feet. Arms found the balance needed to stay upright. As the ground to the left fell away in a sharp drop-off, evidence of an ancient rockslide, Jim didn't even slow down.

His guide's heartbeat was still half a mile away.

A minute later, gun out and ready, Jim slipped into stealth-mode and left the trail. The wind in the trees masked his footsteps. No branch found its way under Jim's foot, to snap unexpectedly.

Mere feet away now, Jim could smell Blair's blood and pushed back the rage. He eased around a tree, spotting the form of a single man crouched behind the bushes edging the open yard of a distant hunter's cabin. Blair was in the dirt, curled in a fetal ball at the man's side.

A single shot would have given Jim enormous satisfaction, but would alert the others of his presence, so he made do with a blow to the back of the man's head, dropping him without a peep. Sprawled on his back, Jim saw it was the shorter man - what had Paul called him? Jason?

Jim went at once to Blair, grimly taking in the signs of abuse. An egg-sized lump was forming over the younger man's left eye. Jim patted his cheek gently, getting no reaction. He cut the ropes around Blair's wrists.

Inside the hunter's cabin, the sounds of smashing furniture caused Jim to pause and focus on the window. Two men were moving about inside. From the sounds of their destruction, they were pissed. The cabin was empty.

"Looks like he heard your warning after all, Chief," Jim whispered, pulling Blair up by one arm. Standing slowly, carefully balancing Blair's limp body in a fireman's carry, Jim got a firm hold on one leg and arm, then turned and slipped back into the woods. He needed a safe shelter; somewhere he could assess the damage. Then he'd return and deal with the men responsible.

Blair's groan signaled his return to consciousness and Jim knelt at his side. "Hey, buddy."

They had found shelter under an overhanging cliff of granite. After meeting up with Paul again, Jim wanted to find a safe place to wait until Blair recovered and could be medically assessed. Blair had been unconscious for close to an hour. Jim was starting to worry. The high mountain nights were chilly, even in summer. Clouds filled the sky and Jim could smell a storm building.

Blair's face screwed into a painful mask of misery. He turned toward Jim, eyes still closed. "'im."

Smoothing blood-matted hair back from the swollen cheek, Jim waited for Blair to show his eyes, needing to see his pupils. Please be equal. "Come on, tough guy. Wake up and look at me."

Panting through his pain, Blair expelled a weak cough, followed by a groan. "Over... rated."

"What? Looking at me?"

"No... waking." Blair rolled to his side and curled in the dirt, his arms around his stomach.

"What were you thinking, Chief?" Jim chided gently. He rolled Blair onto his back again. "Why'd you go out alone?"

"Thought they... took you," Blair answered, eyes still closed. "Gonna... make them tell me...where you were. My turn to...make with the rescue."

Checking Paul's location and finding the man keeping guard and out of listening range, Jim stroked Blair's back. "Hey, kid. You've been rescuing me daily from my senses ever since we've met. Now, relax." Jim probed Blair's stomach, gently pushing Blair's protesting hands aside. "Damn, they worked you over."

"Had them... right where I wanted... them," Blair weakly quipped. He gasped when Jim found a tender spot over his liver. "Ahhh, god, Jim. Stop."

"Sorry." But Jim continued his exam. He tugged Blair's shirt up to find blossoming bruises marking his torso and searched his memory for medical knowledge. Probably no internal damage. He'd need to watch. He lifted Blair's shoulders off the dirt and pulled him close while reaching for a water bottle. "Here. Take a sip for me."

Blair managed two swallows before turning away.

"Open your eyes, Sandburg," Jim pleaded quietly.

Blinking tentatively, Blair followed orders. His dull glaze searched the shadows. "Jim?"

"Right above you," Jim answered. "Give yourself a minute to adjust."

"Dizzy." Blair swallowed unhappily. "Don't feel so hot."

"You've got a nice goose egg." Jim hooded Blair's face from the little moonlight seeping into their shelter. He pulled the hand away. Blair's pupils failed to adjust to the low light.

Not a good sign.

"Can you see me?"

"I see... a lot of dark silhouettes, man. How many people are with us?"

"Just Paul. And he's over there."

"Then we've got a problem." Blair closed his eyes and turned into Jim's shoulder. "Oh, man. I'm gonna puke."

"Deep breaths. Ride it out."

After a few minutes of unsteady breaths, Blair swallowed and relaxed. "Yeah... better. How'd you find me?"

"Paul took a chance his old man would be here."

Blair grabbed Jim's arm. "We gotta stop them."

"Easy, right now all we have to do is get you back to the Bronco. Do you think you can walk?"

"Paul's dad, they're going to kill him. I could feel it, feel the hate." Blair sat up and squinted in the darkness. He raised a hand to his head, fingers exploring the makeshift bandages. "Where are we again?"

Jim started packing his first aid supplies into his pack. "Still in the mountains."

"Paul?" Blair called out, one hand reaching blindly.

Paul crawled over. "Hey, Blake."

"Your father, they want to kill him."

Paul nodded. "Dad got away. Don't worry about him. He knows these mountains. He'll be fine."

Jim shouldered his pack and rolled to his knees. The low overhanging boulder prevented him from standing. As long as Blair had the energy, they might as well head out. "Come on. Let's start walking."

But Blair only lasted twenty feet before the hand on Jim's arm tightened and he leaned into the older man with a groan.

"Chief?" Jim cupped the back of Blair's head, feeling the ragged, hot breath on his neck as Blair trembled.

"It `urts, man," Blair mumbled as his legs went limp.

Jim grabbed him, taking them both to their knees.

"Everything's fuzzy..." Blair twitched and Jim could hear his stomach churning.

"Is he okay?" Paul hovered over them.

"No!" Jim snapped, angry all over again at the senseless beating his guide had taken. "He's not going to make it back to the car."

"What are we going to do?"

Jim knelt and held Blair close. He let his hearing reach into the dark forest, picking up the sounds of raccoons, deer and elk. Scurrying tiny feet of shrews and chipmunks looking for food, trying to stay out of the way of the wandering wolves. There, miles away he heard the movement of men.

Could he keep Blair safe while they hunted? He didn't have a choice.

Jim looked up at Paul. "This isn't going to work. We'll have to wait until he's able to hike. Let's go back. The cliff gives us some shelter."

Paul nodded, helping Jim lift Blair off the ground. "Should we carry him?"

"Yeah, grab his legs," Jim instructed as he got a better grip on Blair's shoulders. "Come on, Chief. Let's get you back where you can rest."

Blair quivered all over. "Nnaaaagh."

"Don't puke on me."

"T-trying."

The walk back to the shelter was slow. Blair's eyes stayed unfocused. His battered face twisted with pain. Finally, they were back under the overhang and Blair didn't resist as Jim laid him down, getting him comfortable as best he could. Shucking off his light jacket, Jim covered Blair's torso, tightly tucking in the edges. He gathered an armful of dry moss and made a pillow of sorts, enough to raise Blair's shoulders and head off the ground.

Blair remained silent, keeping his eyes closed. His breaths came in short pants through his nausea.

"Better?"

Blair nodded. "Sorry."

"How's the vision?"

Blair opened his eyes and Jim could read the fear on his face.

"Is this temporary, man?"

"I'm sure it is," Jim lied, clueless. "You took a few nasty blows. Let the swelling go down. It will be okay."

Blair closed his eyes, satisfied in Jim's words. "You're the medic."

"Listen, Chief," Jim started, knowing Blair wasn't going to like what he had to say, but also knowing he needed to get a better handle on what was happening out in the forest. "I'm going to scout around a little. You stay here with Paul. Understand?"

"No." Predictably, Blair tried to sit up. "I'll go--"

Cutting him off and holding him down, Jim said, "Forget it, Skippy. You're staying put. I'm serious. You can't even stand. We've got tracks coming and going now to this place and I need to get them erased. I'll be right back."

"Jim." Blair had Jim's forearm in a tight grip. "Don't... get near them."

"I won't, Mom."

"Don't fool around," Blair pleaded, his voice breaking.

"Hey." Jim knelt close and patted Blair's good cheek. "I'll be right back. You won't even have time to miss me."

"I didn't know if I'd find you..." Blair whispered.

"I'm not going near them. I'll be back."

The promise seemed to work. Blair leaned into his moss bed and closed his eyes, releasing Jim's arm. Jim shucked out of his pack, setting it down at Blair's elbow. He went to where Paul was watching the slope up to their hideout.

"Remember, stay quiet." He looked over his shoulder, back to his friend. "Keep him here."

"Right." Paul gave a courageous and determined nod. "We'll be fine."

Jim slipped back out into the night.

"Need anything?"

The voice startled him. Blair had forgotten Paul was with him. "No, I'm fine," he lied.

As long as he stayed perfectly still, the pain was bearable. Blair huddled under Jim's jacket. His head pounded, but his abdominal muscles had hurt the most, so he had rolled onto his side and drawn his knees up.

Paul left him alone.

Blair would listen for Jim's return. Better yet, he'd meditate.

He centered his thoughts, clutched the edge of Jim's jacket close to his face. He could smell Jim's scent on the collar. He could imagine Jim, running like a warrior, ducking under low tree limbs, gracefully gliding over the flora, not making a sound, a shadow.

Blair focused.

The sensation became clearer. He felt the thud ripple up his legs as the balls of his feet touched down on the forest floor. The velvet touch of a tender fern brushed his bare arm. Night air cooled the sweat on his forehead. Harnessed strength, moving in synchronized unity was amazing, nearly overwhelming

Blair was more than imagining this. He was inside Jim's head!

The discovery nearly threw him out of the connection. Blair focused and let the sensations continue to flow through him, marveling at the second-hand experience of being a sentinel. God, it was amazing. And yet how much more for Jim who got the full effect? Blair's own body, battered and hurting as it was, faded as he embraced the new sensations.

He knew the second Jim realized Blair was there, felt Jim's body start with surprise, going out of synch until he stumbled and went down.

Blair's ecstatic glee turned into remorse and he pulled back, returning to the darkness and pain of his own body.

The last of the footprints were gone. Jim checked the sky. Dawn was still hours away. He'd found the location of the three men. They were still in the area, but not so close that Blair was in danger of being found. Jim would get Blair back to the trailhead and slip away. They'd drive somewhere remote and just camp until Blair healed.

Blair.

Had Jim been imagining that? Running, following his senses, Jim had had a sudden awareness of his guide.

Impossible.

And yet...

The granite overhang was in sight now. Jim slipped in quietly, nodding to Paul before going to where Blair lay curled on his side, shivering, awake. Paul moved away, giving them privacy.

"It's me, Sandburg."

"Jim," Blair answered, his relief obvious as he lifted his head. Unfocused eyes failed to track Jim's movements. Blair jerked as Jim knelt down and touched his shoulder. "You okay? You fell!"

Jim went cold.

"How did you know that?"

Looking guilty, Blair said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I was just thinking about you... and then I was with you."

Jim's butt hit the dirt. "Shit."

"You're okay, right?" Blair pleaded.

"I'm fine." Jim closed his eyes and hung his head. They were so screwed. Every time this connection of theirs grew, they were in that much more danger. "God, Chief. I'm beginning to think my sentinel abilities were just the tip of the iceberg."

"I'm sorry, man," Blair repeated, sounding so lost.

Jim pulled himself together. "Relax, kid." Jim patted his shoulder again, frowning when it became obvious just how cold his friend had become. He should have taken care of this before he'd left. "Let's get you warmed up."

He pulled the pack close and rummaged within the large compartment. "There you are," he muttered and pulled out two tightly folded emergency foil blankets, each size smaller than a pack of cigarettes. He tossed one to Paul. "Wrap up in this. The temperatures are dropping."

Paul took it gladly. "Thanks."

Blair lay near the granite wall. Jim scooted around until he had his back to the stone and opened up the blanket, as thin as a sheet of paper. Setting it aside for a moment, he reached over and got his arm under Blair's shoulders. "Come here."

"What?" Blair looked confusedly up at Jim as he allowed himself to be tugged through the dirt.

Jim bent his knees, forming a cradle of sorts for Blair's upper body to lie in.

"What're you doing?" Blair tried move away. Jim pulled him close.

"Warming you up." Jim reached for the foil blanket and started to shroud it around Blair's upper body, tucking it between his knees and Blair, then under Blair and over the top, until the only open side was facing Jim's torso.

"I'll squash you, man." Blair laid stiffly in Jim's hold, glancing guiltily around.

"As if. Face it, Junior. You're still a lightweight." Jim adjusted the blanket more to his liking, already feeling it reflect his own heat back. "Relax, will you?"

"I usually get a free dinner first, man," Blair mumbled.

Jim tapped the tip of his chin, one of the few places on Blair's face not sporting a bruise. "Behave."

"What about Paul?"

Jim looked over to see the other man happily wrapped in his own blanket, lying on his side with his eyes closed. "He's fine, Chief."

Blair quieted. As the temperature within the blanket rose, Jim waited and watched. Blair's body began to respond, relaxing until his face was smashed into Jim's upper right shoulder and he blissfully sighed.

"Don't drool on me," Jim whispered as Blair's eyes closed a few minutes later.

Blair answered with an exhausted snore.

"Up and at `em, Sandburg."

Reluctantly opening one gritty feeling eyelid, Blair became slowly aware that he was toasty warm and that any movement on his part promised pain. Therefore, going back to sleep made more sense than responding to Jim's order.

He closed his eye.

The bed shook.

Whoa, how'd Jim do that? Wait... what? He wasn't on a bed. He was on... Jim?

Movement came without warning as Jim sat Blair up and patted his back before guiding him back down onto the hard ground. He tucked the foil blanket around Blair's body as he talked. "Thanks, Chief. I really need to take a leak." Groaning, Jim lumbered to his feet and stiff-legged away, Blair tracked him until he disappeared into the nearby tree line.

Clutching a foil blanket around his shoulders, Blair drowsily took in his surroundings. The first tendrils of dawn's ray pierced the star canopy over the lacy tree silhouettes. Their rocky cleft a shelter, facing a dense forest.

Trust Jim to find a safe place in the middle of the wilderness.

Blair yawned. His face hurt. Tentatively he touched the swollen skin around his eye. Last night's memories returned and Blair shivered. The beating. The drive. The long walk. The threat to the old man in the cabin. Then Jim had been there and he knew everything was going to be okay again.

Sounds of rustling fabric made Blair realize Jim was back, squatting by a backpack, pulling out a water bottle and tearing open a small packet with his teeth.

"Here," Jim said, coming over with two white pills offered on his palm. "You look better. How's your vision?"

"Fine." Blair sat up. Pain lanced through his body. Every muscle he owned ached. Managing not to moan, he washed the aspirin down with water, drinking half the bottle and tried to hand it back. "Sorry, thirsty."

"It's okay," Jim promised, gently pushing it back. "I've got a second one."

Blair drank his fill and looked around. "Where's Paul?"

Jim pointed toward the trees. "There he comes."

Paul entered the shelter. "Morning, Blake How do you feel?"

"Good," Blair fibbed as Jim finished unwrapping two emergency bars. He broke them into sections and divided them between the three of them.

"Everybody eat," Jim ordered.

Blair took a sample and chewed. Even his teeth ached. "Taste like flavored sawdust."

"Provides calories," Jim answered as he repacked their blankets. "Try and finish it."

Blair managed half his ration before giving up. Jim helped him stand. Steadying himself with a hand on the granite wall, Blair waited for the ground to stop pitching back and forth.

"Okay?" Jim asked.

Blair nodded.

"Let's head out."

They walked single file with Jim in the lead and Paul last. Blair could tell by the way Jim angled his head every few minutes that the sentinel was at work, checking the trail ahead for danger. Morning arrived with soft, green light, tender on his eyes. He still wore Jim's jacket and was glad for the warmth. His head hurt and his face really hurt. Walking helped to loosen up his back where he was kicked and his gut only hurt when he twisted.

Jim held up his hand, stopping the line. Then, taking Blair by the arm, he slipped into the forest greenery, taking them several yards into the trees before pulling Blair down beside him to hide behind a dense bush. Paul knelt at their side.

"Quiet," Jim ordered.

Blair waited, holding his breath. A scuffling sound came from the trail, followed by a thud and a soft curse.

"Shit," Jim muttered, rising. He held Blair's shoulder down. "No. Stay put."

Blair could only watch as Jim bolted onto the trail. Seconds later, he returned, pulling a stumbling, bedraggled looking Fox Senior along at his side.

"Dad!" Paul exclaimed.

"Shh!" Jim snapped, pushing the old man into Paul's hands. "Get out of sight and stay quiet!" He pulled his Sig from behind his back, holding it ready.

Thankfully, the brush was dense, providing decent cover. The older man didn't utter a word as his son tucked him close. Blair grabbed Jim's arm as loud voices drifted to their hiding location. He knew those voices!

"We'll check the truck first. Get more supplies and head back out."

"I still say we split."

"No, you drive back, like I said. Get the infrared equipment and come right back."

"Shit, this was supposed to be easy. I nearly got my head caved in. How'd that little shit get the jump on me?"

"Nothing's easy..."

The voices faded. Blair remembered to breathe.

"What are you doing here?" Paul's father demanded in a weary tone, his eyes only on Paul. His beard spiked out in tuffs from sunken cheeks and he smelled like stale beer and sweat.

The younger man didn't answer, avoiding his father's gaze.

"We're here to help you," Blair answered.

"Now, wait a--" Jim started.

Blair cut him off with a stage whisper, giving Jim his best `This is not negotiable' look, "You heard those guys."

The old man studied Jim and Blair. He cut in with, "You're the ones staying at my son's place." He pointed at Jim. "You patched up my arm."

"Yeah," Jim answered with an unhappy glare at Blair. "Look, if we're going to get out of here we need to go now."

Paul jerked his head toward his father. "He'll slow you down."

"No more than I will. Anyway, we need a hiding place," Blair put in. "Back to that rock outcropping?"

Jim shook his head. "I'd rather find a place closer to the trail head." He looked at the father and son pair. "Is there a place to wait these clowns out? High ground if possible."

"There are a couple of vacation cabins off the dirt road. No power or phone," Paul suggested.

"No, they'd think to check those. Anywhere else?" Jim asked.

"There's a blind nearby." The older Fox scratched his head. "It's in the direction of the road, but higher."

Blair expected Jim's assessing look and nodded. "I can do it."

"Okay." Jim stood, brushing off his knees. "Show us."

They hiked uphill, through a steep meadow which offered an amazing view of the Colorado Rockies. Blair paused long enough to take in the beauty, but not so long that Jim would realize he was seriously winded. His headache swelled and his vision started to blur. His bruises throbbed hotly. After another forty-five minutes of steady walking, Paul's father stopped, breathing hard.

"It's here somewhere."

"I see it," Jim said, moving forward toward a distant clump of low trees and heavy brush.

If Jim saw it, Blair figured he had the dial turned way up.

As they neared, Blair realized he'd been looking right at the structure without knowing. A wooden box built on short stilts. Someone had painted it dark green, the same color as the shaded foliage which it was backed up against, then draped it with a green camouflaged burlap.

They trekked the open, mountainside meadow only after Jim had them crouching on its edge, hidden in the lower, scrubby trees for a solid ten minutes.

Blair was glad for the break.

Still, walking toward the hunting blind, Blair tripped over every stone, every clump and knot of vegetation, until Jim dropped back to his side, and circled an arm around his waist. Pain spiked through his rib cage, traveled up his spine and rebounded in his skull with every step. God, he hated concussions.

"A little farther, Chief."

The sun was so damn bright. Blair closed his eyes and leaned into Jim's reassuring presence as he walked. "Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for."

The blind had a deadbolt clasped to the door. Jim snapped the whole thing off, the weathered plywood giving way to the rusty screws. He ushered the others inside. It was roomy, about half the size of Blair's old room back in the loft. Sunlight seeped into gaps high on the walls, air circulation vents, probably. Shutters, hinged from the top, could be raised and tied back to allow a hunter to view three sides of the blind, the sides facing the meadow.

Jim pushed one shutter out and used a stick he found leaning against the wall to prop it open. More light filled the room. Two stools and a tiny card table sat in the corner.

Blair ignored the stools and sat in the corner. He dropped his pounding head into the heels of his hands, resting his elbows on raised knees. His shoulder was nudged.

"Here, take these," Jim ordered.

Blair took the pills and sipped the water Jim offered. He tried to hand it back.

"Drink a little more."

But his stomach wasn't being so nice. Blair shook his head, or started to, stopping when the pain got bad. If he didn't spend the next several minutes being perfectly still, he was going to be redecorating their hiding place, including a little aroma therapy, and not in a good way.

Blessedly, Jim left him alone.

"Do you know the way to the trailhead from here?" Jim asked Paul.

"Yeah, I think so." The man looked at his father. "Follow the hill down and stay left of the wash, right?"

The older Fox nodded.

"Okay then, you and I will slip down and check on our friends," Jim said.

All Blair heard was Jim leaving. He started to stand. "I'll come."

"No." Jim pressed a firm hand against his shoulder and squatted down to look Blair in the eye. "Rest. I'll be back before you even know I'm gone."

"Jim," Blair whispered lowly, breathing the name.

Jim nodded with understanding. "I will be right back. We'll get out of this. Drop them somewhere safe and split. Just stay out of sight for a few days, okay?"

Reluctantly, Blair saw the wisdom. His internal batteries were dead and Jim knew it. "Yeah, maybe an hour's rest would be a good thing right now, man."

Jim stripped off the pack and set it by Blair. "I'll be back before you even miss me."

Blair nodded. "Be careful."

"I will."

Leaning his head against the wall, Blair closed his eyes. It felt so damn good not to be walking. A light touch to his cheek had him looking once more into Jim's earnest face. Jim had his gun out. He took Blair's right hand, turned it palm up. The gun felt heavy and warm.

"No."

"Yes."

Blair bit his lip as Jim forced Blair's fingers to curl around the grip. "I need to know you can protect yourself, Darwin."

"But, you--"

"It'll be fine. I'm on recon. I'll be back within the hour." Jim patted his knee and rose. He jerked his head at Paul. "Let's go."

Then they were gone and Blair looked over at Paul's father who had parked himself on one of the rickety looking stools at the opposite end of the hunting blind.

Colorado grew a different forest than the western slopes of the Cascade Mountains, making it easier to travel through and Jim was thankful. The overhead canopy of pine and aspen was dense and the underbrush was light. It felt like a park. Paul kept up, pointing out the landmarks, mostly mountain tops, as they descended. They crossed an open meadow, offering a view of the gathering storm clouds overhead.

After a solid half hour of walking, Jim held up his hand, alert to a new noise. They were too far out to be heard, but to the sentinel, danger was close. They moved in silently. Hidden behind a boulder, one knee pressed into the pine needle covered forest floor, Jim peered through a leafy bush.

Damn.

He watched with silent rage as the two men methodically trashed the contents of their Bronco. Clothing, camping gear, food supplies lay strewn about the dirt road. Thankfully, their ID was still hidden within the engine compartment, carefully wrapped in protective cloth.

"Nothing worth our time," one man - the guy Jim had knocked out - complained bitterly.

His companion, the taller man who seemed to be in charge, threw one of Blair's sweatshirts into the dirt. "I should have taken the punk's keys off of him when I had the chance.

"You wanna burn it?"

"And bring down every law enforcement agent within thirty miles? Are you an idiot?"

The other man avoided the penetrating glare of his friend. "Well then, what are we going to do?"

The taller man pulled a large hunting knife from its sheath. "We can fix it so it will never drive again."

A low growl boiled up from Jim's chest. They needed that vehicle to keep one step ahead of the government.

Blair huddled against the wall, hugging his dirt crusted knees close to his chin as thunderheads rumbled so close he felt his arm hairs stand on end. Terse, dark, bitterness abounded. Blair hastily reinforced his mental blocks. Exhaustion made the job three times more difficult than when he practiced with Jim.

Exhaustion? Or the fact Jim wasn't in the small blind with him? He never should have let Jim talk him into staying behind.

"Why do these guys hate you?" Blair asked, longing for distraction.

Paul's father had been sitting, staring silently at the card table like it held the secrets of the universe, unaware of the mental shrapnel he threw. He glanced up at Blair, his face slack. "I killed them."

"What?"

Dragging a dirty hand down his jowls, the older man sighed. "Adam's family, I killed them. Wife, two kids."

Blair gripped Jim's gun, keeping it hidden from the other's view with his bent legs. "What happened?"

"Me and Lamont were drinking. We hit them. They went into the river." He let his head drop forward, his unshaven chin thumping his knobby chest. "At night... still hear them kids screaming."

Blair nibbled on his swollen lip. The other man's regret was real. "Who was driving?"

"Lamont."

Blair could say something lame, about how it wasn't really his fault. But he kept silent. "What's your name?"

"Brian."

"I'm Blake."

"Nice to meet ya," the older man listlessly muttered.

A stiff wind shook the blind. Gloom had settled inside, as if the sky had a gone into economy-mode, shutting down half the sun. It was still early, yet through the propped open window, it looked like twilight. The crackly sound of thunder rolled up the mountainside.

"So, you came back to visit Paul?" Blair asked.

"He doesn't want to see me," Brian answered.

Yeah, well, Blair hadn't wanted to point that part out. From all of Paul's comments and actions, the older man was pretty much correct. Still, Blair couldn't understand what Brian was doing back in his hometown. "He said you were back east."

"Finished treatment." He snorted, shaking his head. "What a joke."

"Sometimes it takes... you know, more than once. One day at a time. You need to keep trying."

Brian cast a doubtful look toward Blair. "What's the point? We all die."

Okay, then. Time to change the subject.

Another crack from the heavens, accompanied by a flash and the thunder bounded around the mountain valley for several long seconds.

Silently, Jim moved into a more strategic position, staying hidden behind trees and bush. Paul followed. There was a place where he had a chance to jump the taller guy, with just a bit of luck. They had the element of surprise while the two men were busy with plans to destroy the Bronco.

Approaching the spot he had in mind, Jim glimpsed the long hunting knife the smaller man had pulled out. Even in the storm-darkening light, its shiny blade acted like a mirror, throwing a bright light on the rocks and tree limbs. It flashed over Jim's face twice. The blinding flirt of a zone threatened.

Jim stumbled and paused, poising momentarily on one knee and his splayed fingers on the ground.

`No, no, no... keep focused. Don't zone,' Jim ordered himself, glad for the pine needles pricking his fingers.

He could hear Paul's questioning shuffle as he waited patiently for Jim to start moving.

Jim shook his head and cast a glance through the bushes to make sure the two men were still oblivious to their presence.

They were.

Jim moved forward, reaching his goal, a clump of Aspen trees.

Without warning, the air electrified. The sky ripped with light and heat. From the towering, black clouds, a slash of fire shot down and engulfed a hundred year old pine tree, less than a hundred feet from where Jim and Paul hid.

The lightening bolt spiraled down from the top of the tree, charring bark and looking for a ground. The crack of thunder, a million-times louder than a train crash, smashed into Jim's skull.

Pain ripped through Jim's body, just before his world went black.

The rain pounded the mountainside into submission. Blair watched through the open door of the blind as the cloud lifted off the distant tree line. Lightening rumbled, but nothing like the heart-stopping crash he and Brain had heard about half an hour ago.

The squall was starting to move on. Blair could already see lighter clouds driving down from the east...

Or was that south? Maybe north?

`Screw it,' Blair thought. He longed to see Jim walking across that opening. Yeah he'd be drenched and probably pissed as hell because normally Jim was prepared and right now, Blair was wearing Jim's coat and even though he'd tried to give it back, Jim hadn't taken it and why was it that Jim always felt he had to sacrifice something...

`I'm rambling,' Blair thought. `He should have been back by now.'

"Didn't your friend say he wouldn't be gone long?" Brian asked from his perch on the stool.

"Yeah, he did," Blair answered. He crossed his arms, not yet willing to close the door and sit back down. Pondering his options, he wondered what the likelihood of meeting up would be, if they were to take off after Jim and Paul. It wasn't like Blair didn't have his own local guide to show him the way. Didn't they say it was downhill? How hard could it be? Something about a wash, they had to stay left... or was it right?

He had Brian to show him.

But what if Jim was already on his way back? God, he'd be pissed. Blair could picture Jim's face when he reached the hunting blind to find it empty. They didn't have a pen and paper. They couldn't leave a note.

Crap. Blair didn't know what to do.

That twitch returned above his right eye and Blair rubbed at it impatiently. This was crazy. He couldn't just stand here and wonder. He needed to...

Of course. Blair dropped his arms, nearly slapping his forehead at his own stupidity. Maybe they couldn't talk, but he could get an idea of Jim's situation by what Jim was feeling.

Blair hurried back to his corner and settled in, not bothering to explain his actions to Brian. Settling into the most comfortable position he knew, cross-legged, with his wrists resting on bent knees, fingers lax, Blair closed his eyes and mentally reached out. He pictured Simon's office and the doctor making a sketch on a notepad. So long ago. What was his name? Tempus? No, Tapas. Tapas had made a crude drawing of Blair's nerve cell, explaining how Blair had some type of extra synapses locators and how Tapas didn't know what they connected to.

Well, Blair now knew.

Taking a few deep breaths, ignoring the pull on bruised muscles, he turned his focus inward... and let his body go. Thoughts went to Jim and only him. The sentinel. Strong, reliable, honorable, dedicated to the point of distraction... yet so very, very vulnerable.

Deep, cold despair filtered in. Failure and self loathing. Pain. More pain and a flare of anger, mixed with helplessness.

"Shit!" Blair bolted to his feet. Brian snapped alert from his doze with his own curse. Blair snatched the pack from the floor and stuffed the water bottle and Jim's gun inside. "We gotta go, man. We got to go help them."

"What?" Brian looked afraid.

"Come on." Blair finished shouldering the pack and crossed the room in two long strides. He grabbed a fistful of the older man's lightweight jacket, ignoring the smell of unwashed body such close proximity brought. He tugged the guy to his feet. "You know the way to the trail head, right? Let's go. Now!"

Arms straining, shoulders burning, Jim stood on tiptoes. He had woken from his zone to find himself stretched under a dripping pine tree, tied by the wrists from the lowest branch. The rain was falling at a steady pace, but not as hard as a few minutes ago.

A hard fist rammed into his stomach.

"Tell us!" Adam demanded, looking over at Paul, who was tied in a similar position to another tree.

Paul met Jim's determined gaze and stayed quiet.

This had been going on a while. First the two men had slapped Paul around, trying to get him to talk. Then the leader had switched tactics. It had almost worked, but Jim had shouted out, through the red pain, to shut up and the other man had.

They had wadded one of Blair's t-shirts half down his throat after that. Jim had fought to keep the smile off his face. Even under the faint taste of laundry detergent, the lingering hint of Blair was there and that had helped Jim dial down the pain. Jim rocked back as another fist slammed into his cheek. His arms, framing his head, helped to absorb the blow.

Adam was as soaked as Jim, but his face was aglow with the madness of revenge and he didn't care. The other one, Pete, seemed more alert to his own misery and was keeping warm by using Jim as his punching bag.

"Where is he?" Adam repeated.

Paul studied the ground, staying silent.

Then Jim heard it. He sniffed, picking out the unique scent he knew better than his own. No, no, no, not now.

Adam drew out a hunting knife and walked over to Jim. He pointed the tip at Jim's face. "First the left eye, then the right, then his ears. Can you watch? Are you man enough to let this guy pay the price for your silence? Paul, why bother? Your father is nothing. He's a drunk and a baby killer. Why the hell do you care?"

"I'm not letting you terrorize me, Adam," Paul answered. "Yeah, you can kill him. You can kill me. But I'm not going to be part of your holy crusade." Paul looked up, anger snapping in his eyes. "What the hell is wrong with you? You used to be a good man!"

Covering the distance in long strides, Adam lifted Paul off the ground with a handful of his shirt, screaming into his face. "My FAMILY was murdered!"

"They died in a head-on accident!" Paul shouted back, and then seemed to wilt, his strength gone. "I'm sorry."

"Back OFF!" a familiar voice demanded.

Blair stepped out of the forest, expression battered but firm. He held Jim's gun in both hands, pointing it at Adam. Jim groaned. Blair was capable back up, but didn't stand a chance. Adam was probably ex-military.

Adam turned. A smile played on his face. "Where is he?"

"Back away," Blair ordered, taking a step closer.

Jim shook his head frantically, uselessly shouting through the gag.

Adam took several steps back from Paul, but made sure they were steps that took him closer to Blair.

"All I want is his old man. I don't care about you or your friend."

Blair's arms trembled. "Cut them down."

"Is he here somewhere?" Adam took another step closer.

"Do it, man." Blair saw his own danger and backed away. "Don't make me shoot."

"You're going to kill me?" Adam whispered, inching forward.

Blair raised the gun, but his voice trembled. "Stop! I'll shoot. I swear."

Adam stopped, reading Blair's face.

Knowing Blair was seconds away from being taken out, Jim shouted into the cloth.

The effect proved disastrous. Blair briefly looked Jim's way.

Adam moved like a cobra, springing out further than physically possible.

The gunshot ripped through the forest. The bullet went high as Adam twisted the gun from Blair's grasp. Before Jim could blink, Blair was face down on the forest floor, knocked senseless.

Adam laughed in delight as he delivered a hard boot tip into Blair's ribs. He tucked the gun into his waistband and nodded to his accomplice. "Tie him up."

Pete bent down and scooped up a section of rope lying on the ground, left over pieces from when the men had bound both Jim and Paul. He rolled Blair onto his back, grabbed his hands and tied the still dazed man's wrists together. Jim cursed into his gag as Blair was dragged and dropped by Jim's feet.

With a menacing look of anticipation, Adam pulled the cloth from Jim's mouth. "So, this is your brother," he whispered almost seductively.

"Go to hell," Jim croaked with a dry throat.

Adam slowly half circled Blair, but kept his eyes on Jim. "He's your family."

Jim didn't answer.

Drawing his booted boot back, he kicked Blair hard in the thigh. Blair groaned and rolled away.

"My family was MY WHOLE LIFE!" Adam screamed. "Tell me where that bastard is or I'll gut him in front of you!"

It was clear now, Adam had gone beyond grief. The man was crazy, probably had been for a while.

"Listen to me," Jim said quietly, managing to keep his terror for Blair in check. "I can't pretend to understand your pain. I haven't lost kids. But I watched my entire unit die, like wounded animals, one at a damn time. And I never got to repay the asshole that pulled the trigger and brought us down. But I found a life again. I kept going."

A muscle twitched over Adam's left eye. He reached down, lifting Blair's head off the dirt by his curls. Blair whimpered, but didn't open his eyes. "Don't preach at me. Tell me where that bastard is."

"Then what?"

Glowering, Adam's mouth curled into a blissful smile. "He pays."

"And after?" Jim pressed. "You eat a bullet, am I right?" Jim looked at Pete, calling out. "You okay with that? Taking the heat for our deaths? That works for you?"

Adam dropped Blair and advanced, swinging a fist and hitting Jim in the face. "Shut the hell up!"

Through the blurry haze of pain, Jim watched the light of realization blaze in Pete's eyes.

"Hey, what's he talking about?"

"Don't worry about it," Adam snapped. Rain soaked his hair and ran in ropey streams down the planes of his brow and cheeks. His eyes sparkled with madness. He folded over and fisted Blair's shirt, lifting Blair's shoulders off the ground. He drew the hunting knife and challenged Jim with a feral grin. "Tell me, now, or I'll do him right here!"

Blair's eyes were half open now, more alert to his surroundings. He lifted his head. Seeing the knife in Adam's hand, he tried to recoil.

Knowing Blair's time was running out, Jim directed his attention to Pete. "Your brother-in-law doesn't plan on sticking around, pal. He's a coward. Hope you have a good attorney lined up, or do you plan on killing yourself too? Because I have to tell you, life in prison isn't pretty."

Pete's face had blanched during Jim's rapid-fire speech. He turned to Adam, yanking on his shoulder. "You never said nothing about this!"

Dropping Blair again, Adam spun and batted away his brother-in-law's hold. "Get off me, you idiot!" Seeing Pete's fist coming, he ducked. He turned the knife sideways and gripped the handle. It acted like a set of brass knuckles as he sunk a brutal fist into Pete's side. The other man doubled over and tried to fight back, clumsily using his knee and elbow, the latter caught Adam in the throat. Adam found himself caught in a headlock.

"You fool!" Adam hollered, twisting. "You're messing everything up!"

Jim nudged Blair's shoulder with his toe, getting a grunt from his guide. Another nudge and Blair was blinking up at him. Jim mouthed the word `run.'

Blair pushed off the ground, using Jim's leg for support. Moving slowly, Blair got to his feet, pausing to catch his breath, leaning heavily on Jim as he awkwardly stuffed his bound hands into his own jean pocket.

The fight between the brothers-in-law raged on. Adam was gaining the upper hand as Pete took more hits. The thuds and curses were drowned out by another heavy roll of thunder. Rain, which had slackened earlier, started to fall again in earnest.

"Sandburg, run," Jim ordered in a low tone.

But Blair had managed to pull out his pocket knife. With stiff fingers, he worked the blade open and reached up for Jim's wrists.

He was too short. Blair cursed.

"Damn it, Blair," Jim whispered as Blair used him like a ladder, standing on Jim's feet, stretching upward with his pocket knife to reach the rope. Jim switched back to the fight in progress. Pete wasn't going to prove much of a contestant for the enraged widower.

A brutal roundhouse punch and Adam was the only one left standing. Turning back to where Blair was attempting to saw through the rope holding Jim, he wiped blood from his jaw with the back of his hand and smiled.

"Go!" Jim ordered, banging Blair away with his chest.

Falling back, Blair looked over his shoulder. "No, not leaving you," he whispered before slipping the knife into Jim's hand.

And Adam was on him, jerking Blair backwards, lifting him off his feet, flinging him away. Blair hit a tree trunk and fell, rolling one and a half times away before rising to one elbow and warding off the man with bound hands. "E-easy, man. Just, calm down."

Jim could only watch as Adam stalked his friend, drawing his foot back, getting ready to deliver another brutal kick. With a sick feeling in his gut, Jim forced himself to look away, to focus on using Blair's knife to cut his own ropes. His fingers felt thick and unfamiliar as he maneuvered the small, red knife. He could see where the rope was nicked by Blair's first attempt.

Blair's cry jerked Jim's attention back down to the drama unfolding. Blair was still moving, but not for long.

Jim worked harder, seeing the strands split as the blade cut in.

"Stop it!" Paul screamed.

Amazingly, Adam did. Chest heaving, he backed away, face fury-red, a wild gleam as he scanned his three prisoners and his own brother-in-law, still lying in the dirt. He pulled the gun from the small of his back. "Time to finish this."

Jim went cold.

Adam aimed at Paul and hollered out to the surrounding forest, "You watching, Brian? You ready to see your son die?"

The safety was slid back. The automatic was steady.

Paul lifted his chin and returned the man's gaze. "You're a damn fool."

"And you're a dead man," Adam answered.

Blair rolled clumsily onto his side, his left eye completely swollen shut, blood and mud streaks covering his face. "D-don't..."

Jim attacked the rope with all his might.

Three things happened simultaneously.

Jim's rope separated.

The gun went off.

A shadow bolted from the underbrush, slamming into Adam. The two men rolled in the dirt. The gun fired a second time.

"Dad!" Paul twisted on his rope, blood showing through his left sleeve.

Running to help, Jim shook off the loosening rope from his wrists. Both men were still. Hearing only one heartbeat, Jim grasped Adam's shoulder and rolled him onto his back, off Paul's father. Adam's glassy eyes stared unblinkingly up into the falling rain. The fatal wound had taken Adam square in the chest, right over his heart.

Paul's father groaned. His hand twitched, rubbing his sternum as if checking for bullet holes.

"Dad!" Paul shouted again.

"He's fine." Jim helped the older man sit up. His semiautomatic lay in the mud. He stretched over and took it.

Paul's father picked up Adam's fallen knife, got to his feet with Jim's help and stumbled toward his son. "You okay?"

Paul's face was pale and his eyes glazed over with pain. He nodded. "I'm fine, Dad."

Jim went to Blair, checking the still form of Pete as he passed. Pete was unconscious, but breathing well enough. Blair's pocket knife lay in the pine needles where he'd dropped it. He picked it up and fell to his knees by Blair's side.

"Hey, buddy," Jim whispered.

"Hey," Blair answered around a swollen lower lip, weakly panting. "Gettin' tired of... rescuing ya."

Jim snorted. "You're a mess."

Blair offered up his wrists. "Ya mind?"

"No problem." Jim cut through the ropes.

With a sigh of surrender, Blair let his arms drop. The rain had washed most the blood from his face, giving Jim a good look at the damage. A deeply split lower lip gave him a lopsided appearance. The left eye was still swollen shut and a small cut over his left cheek bone had Jim gently probing with his fingers for facial fractures. He didn't find any, but did locate a nice goose egg behind Blair's left ear, causing a grumpy groan and feeble protest.

"I'm fine." Blair batted the wandering hands and rolled on his side, away from Jim.

Jim took the opportunity to run fingers down Blair's spine and back of his neck. He checked out the ribs, feeling the heat and swelling from the bruises through the jacket. "Take a deep breath for me. Does that hurt?"

"Hell... yeah." Blair struggled to sit up. "I just got the... shit kicked out of me. I hurt all over, man." Blair gasped, circling his arm over his stomach and leaning into Jim's hold, no longer fighting Jim's arms as they supported him.

"Easy," Jim said.

"He was... part man... part mule." Blair paused to pull a few carefully drawn, deep breaths. "You tie him up?"

"He's dead."

"Paul and... Brian?"

Jim looked up, seeing both men huddled under a cedar tree to keep out of the rain. Paul was being tended to by his father. "They're okay."

"Good."

So focused on his guide, making sure the injuries weren't more life threatening than they appeared, Jim didn't notice the sound of tires and the purr of the powerful engine until two sheriff's SUVs turned the corner. By the time he did, there was no time to run.

Through Jim, Blair picked up the existence of a new threat as the arms around him tightened, drawing him closer to his sentinel. At the moment, Blair hurt too much to care. He hoped Jim didn't plan on dragging him back into the trees, because moving would be ever so bad right now. Breathing was barely manageable. Lifting his heavy head, he blinked in attempt to clear his fuzzy vision - signs of head injury, right? - and looked to see what had Jim back in `fight or flight' mode.

A car.

Official looking emblem on the door.

Two people in brown uniforms with Smokey Bear hats.

Cops.

So not good.

Blair closed his eyes and gave up. The pain drummed through his veins and filled his world. He knew he was a coward for letting Jim deal with this latest chapter in their miserable life, but he didn't care.

He escaped into the darkness.

Feeling Blair slip into unconsciousness, Jim forgot the cops standing with drawn guns. "Chief?" He checked Blair's pulse and found it strong.

The officers broke into teams. Two went to check Adam and Pete, another went to Paul and his father.

"Do we need life-flight?" Ivy, the same female deputy who had visited Paul at his bed and breakfast, asked. She holstered her sidearm and squatted next to them.

"I don't think so," Jim answered.

"I'll have to ask you for your weapon." She held out her hand.

Still cradling Blair's head and shoulders with his right arm, Jim pulled the gun from his waistband with his left hand and surrendered it. If she asked for a permit, he'd have a hard time explaining why he didn't have one to show her. On the other hand, it hadn't been concealed, so technically he shouldn't require one.

"Both of you need a hospital," she declared.

Jim shook his head. "We're just bruised. We'll heal."

She frowned, her squarish face switching from concern to a `no-nonsense' expression found in veteran street cops. "I've seen men worked over before and you both got the full treatment." Rain collected and ran off her wide hat brim. She cocked sideways, enough so the water landed on her own shoulder, and not on Blair. Her coat was open and Jim could see the name-tag pinned above her right breast pocket. Franklin.

"We'll see our own doctor. He's only a few hours back toward Denver," Jim lied and tried to change the subject. "How'd you know where to find us?"

"I saw Jason in town, looking like he'd been in a fight," she explained. "He never was the brightest. Didn't take much to get him to tell me what was happening."

One of the other deputies approached. "Ivy, Adam's dead. Pete looks okay, enough so he can ride with us. Ambulance is twenty minutes out," he reported. They'd already cuffed Pete and placed him in the back of a police vehicle. They had a medical kit out and were busy putting a pressure bandage around Paul's arm.

Franklin nodded, looking down at Blair and back at Jim. "Your friend will go by ambulance."

Jim sighed and gave in.

Hospitals meant questions and the answers might land them both in the hands of the very men they were running from. But she was right. Jim slipped his left hand up Blair's shirt to carefully palpate his friend's abdomen. Blair needed X-rays, proof that he wasn't bleeding internally from those kicks. Jim knew his own body well enough to be confident he was fine. Sure, the next few days would be a bitch. He'd be sore. But it was nothing time wouldn't heal.

"If it's a money issue, don't worry about it. You're victims. We have emergency funds for these situations." Franklin looked over her shoulder at the body. "He used to be a good man. Grief can..."

Just as Jim was about to suggest they find a dryer place to wait - Blair's body temperature was starting to drop and he didn't need to go into shock - his guide moaned. A few seconds later he opened his eyes.

"Have a nice nap, Junior?" Jim asked.

With a confused expression, Blair looked from Jim, to the female cop hovering, and back to Jim. "Di'we get'm, man?"

"Who?" Franklin asked before Jim could respond.

"Quinn."

Quickly, Jim shushed him, just managing to restrain himself from covering Blair's damaged lips with his hand. "Rest easy. Everything's fine."

"Took Simon." Blair mumbled, closing his eyes.

Franklin looked like a woman intrigued with a new puzzle.

"He's confused," Jim explained weakly.

"Who's Simon?" she asked.

Jim shrugged. "Like I said, he's confused. I want to move him somewhere dryer."

Thankfully, she dropped her questions and helped Jim carry Blair over to a more sheltered area under the ancient pine tree he'd previously been tied under.

"I've got a blanket in the car," she said and trotted back to get it.

Jim leaned over Blair's face, catching the occasional drip from the pine boughs above them on his back. Then Franklin was back and he helped her wrap the dark gray wool around his friend.

The Clearwater Community hospital didn't have a separate ER entrance, just the main double doors. Inside, the small waiting room was empty. The ambulance attendants wheeled the gurney carrying Paul down a side hallway, past a startled looking receptionist. All available help gravitated toward them and the parade grew. Nurses hurried ahead to prepare the treatment room. Technicians pushed the gurney and held clear bags of Ringers high over their heads, careful to keep Paul's IV lines tangle free.

Jim pushed Blair in a rickety wheelchair, following at a more sedate pace.

Blair seemed alert. Gaze darting around as if expecting monsters to attack from every corner, he clutched the arms of the wheelchair until his knuckles stretched the skin white. "What if--"

Jim cut him off with a whisper, "Our IDs will hold."

"But the Bronco," Blair whispered back. "Man, we're so screwed."

Jim had to agree. Adam and his buddies had managed to rip out the wiring and cables from under the hood. Jim hadn't been able to stop them. Before the ambulance had arrived out in the forest, Jim had taken a moment to return all their belongings - muddy as they were - to the vehicle and lock it up. Thankfully, the windows hadn't been busted out. Their money and ID had stayed hidden and Jim had managed to retrieve them.

"If we have to, we'll leave it all behind. Just stay cool. We'll watch for a chance to slip away."

Blair was examined by an intern, called in from his day off, while the on-duty doctor took care of Paul. Jim watched while Blair's face was cleaned, his vitals were written down and then took his own turn while Blair was wheeled off to the X-ray room. It was easy to monitor what was going on next door while a butterfly-bandage was applied to the cut over his brow.

"Whole town is talking about Adam," the intern working on Jim said. "What a raw deal. First his family is killed by that drunk, now he's dead."

Jim began to understand a little of the pain Paul must have been going through living in his hometown. Even though his father hadn't been behind the wheel, he stayed under the umbrella of the accident and the fallout. Small towns never forgot.

Franklin tapped a knuckle on the door-frame before entering the room. "Can we talk?"

It was her official tone that told Jim their day was about to go from bad to toilet bowl. The intern working on him had finished and slipped out of the room.

"It's just a formality, but you and your friend are under arrest." She crossed muscled arms over her bullet-proof vest and stood with legs shoulder-width apart.

"What's the charge?" Jim asked, seeing the second police officer taking position outside the room.

"You're being detained for questioning, no charges."

"We haven't done anything. We were on our way out of town when this whole incident blew up around us."

"I understand." Franklin nodded. "You won't have to wait long. They're on their way now. Said it would just be an interview."

Jim's hand twitched for the gun he no longer carried.

With a nod, Franklin left. Another officer slipped in, alert and ready for anything Jim might try. Jim rubbed his brow and tried to keep from slamming his fist through the sheetrock. Hell, he doubted he had the strength to snap a tongue depressor. How had their cover been blown so quickly? Or had it happened the first day they had rolled into Clearwater?

Jim slid off the table as Blair's rapid heart rate reached his ears. Blair had arrived back in the examination room next door. He was whispering in a panic.

"... oh, shit, oh, man. Jim. Jim! They know, man. They know."

"Please return to your seat, sir," the officer at the door ordered.

Jim remained standing. "Do you have specific orders to keep us separated?"

The officer, a man about Blair's age, hesitated. He nodded and stepped back into the hallway. Jim strode angrily out of the room and into the exam area where Blair lay on a gurney, one wrist cuffed to the railing, trapped and scared out of his mind.

"What's going on? What did--" Blair sat up and rattled the cuff against the railing.

Jim cut him off. "All I know is we're being detained for questioning."

Up on one elbow and leaning toward Jim, Blair's gaze darted about the room, taking in the officer standing at the doorway watching them, before hissing, "You know what that means!" He leaned out too far.

Jim caught him by a shoulder. "What did the X-rays show?"

"I have no idea," Blair snapped. "It's not like they ever talk to me."

"Chief," Jim whispered, taking a minute to rub his friend's tense shoulders before gently pushing him down on the mattress. "We're worthless if we don't calm down. We need strategic thinking, not panic right now."

Half swallowing a bitter curse, Blair shook his head. "Try it when you're wearing the handcuff, man. Where do they think I'm going to go, anyway?" He yanked his arm once more, the cuff clattered on the metal rail.

Jim shot a poisoned look at the young cop. "Take it off."

"Sorry sir," the cop shrugged, "following orders."

"Get Franklin in here," Jim demanded.

"She'll be back in a moment." The officer was following procedure perfectly, his voice calming, his stance poised and ready for anything, keeping a safe distance between Jim and himself.

Jim could see a second officer just outside the door now, waiting in the hall. Any chance of overpowering them and getting the key for the cuffs was gone.

"Jim," Blair whispered, looking desperate. "Get out of here, man. Run."

"I'm not leaving you."

"You gotta."

"Shut up, Sandburg." Jim steadied his friend with a hand on his arm. "Let me think."

Blair fell back onto the exam bed with a huff.

Jim scrubbed his forehead. Half a day had passed since they'd been rescued. The military hadn't scooped them up. That had to be promising, right? Still, Jim wasn't nave enough to believe they'd simply be questioned and released. The people coming had to be the same group chasing them. These folks worked within the dark hallways of the Pentagon, with dubious permissions and double meaning orders. If the public knew about them, they'd be shut down. Of this Jim was certain.

So how much time did that give them? Could Jim make a break for it? Could he get Blair out of the cuffs, isolate the weakest link to the local sheriff's net around them and get away without hurting anyone too badly?

First Jim would need to get his hands on a gun.

"You made it," Franklin's voice said with relief. "We did what you said, cuffed the younger one to the bed. The other guy stayed put."

They'd run out of time. "They're here," Jim told Blair.

Pale, his lashes damp, Blair bit his lip. "I'm sorry, man. It's all my fault. All of it."

Jim started to tell him to stuff the guilt, that they were in this together, when he caught a familiar scent. He looked at the doorway in wonder.

"Do you KNOW how long my ass has been in the fire over you two?"

Blair jerked as if electrocuted. "SIMON!"

Simon Banks had entered the room alone. He closed the door behind him and broke into a brief, toothy grin before switching back into his angry-boss face, drilling them both with his famous death-glare. "I want answers."

"Simon, please..." Jim started, holding up both palms.

"No! Don't even! You left. You didn't call me. What happened, Jim? I thought we trusted each other."

"No, no, no." Blair shook his head, blurting out his answer in the face of Jim's doubt. "You don't get it, Simon. Man, they'd have hurt Daryl or Joan. We did the right thing."

Before Jim could formulate a defense, Simon was on him. Stiffening, expecting the blow, Jim was further shocked when he found himself smothered in a fierce hug, Simon whispering in his ear. "I thought you were both dead, you jerks."

Jim allowed himself a brief second to enjoy the contact. Then drew back. "He's right, Simon. These people would have killed you to get to us."

A brief knock and Franklin entered. She smiled at Blair while unlocking the cuff on his wrist. "Sorry about this."

"How'd you...?" Blair threw his legs off the edge of the exam bed and stood, swaying like a man on a pitching deck on a ship at sea. She took his elbow to steady him.

"A fellow deputy was killed years ago by that bastard, Dawson Quinn," she said, looking apologetic. "When you mentioned his name back in the woods, I remembered how he was taken down by three guys from Cascade a few years later, one being a Simon Banks. Everything clicked. So I called."

"And here I am." Simon crossed his arms and smiled.

"Your vehicle is in the lot behind the police station," Franklin told them. "I've got your testimony and two local witnesses who can still make my case against Pete and Jason. If we need either of you, I'll send the subpoenas care of Captain Banks. Now, I'm thinking you three have some catching up to do." She checked her watch. "Excuse me. I have to release my deputies."

She left the room.

"Simon, I..." Jim's throat tightened.

"God, Jim. It's good to see you." Simon moved on to Blair. "Hey, kid. You're too skinny." He accepted and returned Blair's typical exuberant hug with a wide grin.

"I can't believe it." Blair turned Simon loose and looked up in awe.

Jim asked, "Simon, did you tell anyone about coming here?"

Suddenly serious, Simon shook his head. "Officially, my uncle Cletus on my father's side passed away and I'm on bereavement leave. I booked a flight to Chicago then bought a last minute ticket with cash. My tracks are covered."

Grinning, Blair looked between the two taller men. "Cool."

"Come on, Jim." Simon nodded toward the door and dropped his arm around Blair's shoulders. "Buy me some dinner."

Blair couldn't believe his eyes.

Simon.

Here.

In the same room with them.

Simon.

"Sandburg, stop staring. You're making me nervous."

"Sorry," Blair said, but didn't look away. "It's just... You're here."

Simon buttered his sourdough toast with a shrug. All three had decided to have breakfast for dinner. "So, I'm here. Deal with it, boys."

"It's too dangerous," Jim cut in with a frown. "We need to talk."

Simon returned Jim's glare, maybe even topping it. "I'm not without my own resources."

"I'm just glad you're here," Blair said with feeling, then looked guiltily at Jim. "I mean, yeah, I know it's risky and all. But it's just been so long..." Blair ducked his head, feeling Jim's disapproval. "Shutting up now."

Chuckling, deep and rumbly, Simon leaned back in his chair. They were the only ones in Clearwater's diner. "Lighten up, Jim. I'm telling you, no one followed me. Franklin was very discreet. She called me under the pretense of work."

"They won't give up, Simon. They're watching all of you."

Blair swallowed his orange juice wrong and coughed into his napkin. Jim was right. Shit. Why did he think it was a good thing that Simon had found them? "If anything happens to you..."

"Nothing will." Simon leaned on the table. "At first, we heard the taps on the lines and saw the occasional tails. Taggert even made a few comments. But we waited them out. I tried to find you both, all the stuff that anyone would have expected their boss to do. After a few months it went away. But we never stopped looking for you, keeping alert for any clue."

"Thank you, Simon." Jim pushed the hash browns around on his plate, avoiding looking at either man sitting at the table.

Blair could only wonder what it had been like.

"I called Naomi, or the numbers I knew for her. No luck." Simon met Blair's gaze. "After a while, she got word to me. Told me to stop." Simon growled at that comment. "I was pissed."

"I'll bet," Jim commented with a knowing grin.

"But I trusted her. At least in my mind, it meant you were both still alive and kicking." Simon cleared his throat. "Anyway, your turn. What the hell is happening?"

Jim dropped his voice, even though the only other occupant in the diner was an old man with hearing aids in both ears sitting at the opposite corner eating pie. "Our genetic abnormality has been discovered by some less than honorable government types. Before we ended up on a dissection table, we ran. Naomi and Tristan are working to contain the situation from within."

"We're meeting with Mom in a few days," Blair added, suddenly realizing he'd lost track of the calendar over the last few nights. "When is it, Jim?"

"Next week, Chief."

"Cool." Blair rubbed his hands together. His mother and Tristan would make everything right again.

Simon pushed away his clean plate and picked up his coffee. "So what's their plan?"

"We don't know," Jim answered.

"Then how will you know where to go? What to do?"

"We'll call her when the time is right," Jim explained laying down his fork and looking expectantly at Blair. "Finished?"

"Yeah." Blair stood, following the two men to the cash register and then out into the parking lot. The Colorado air was perfumed with sun-warmed pine. The sky was deep blue. Birds never sounded so sweet.

Blair opened the back door to Simon's Ford Expedition, rented in Boulder. All their gear was stored safely in the trunk. They'd never see the Bronco again. Blair couldn't help but feel elated. They were a step closer to the life they'd had before.

"You want to check on those two guys before we leave town?" Simon asked starting the Ford.

Jim shook his head. "We've said our goodbyes."

"I'm just glad Paul's talking to his Dad again," Blair said.

They crossed the bridge. Blair watched the three small, white crosses go by.

One accident. So much hurt, so many lives ruined.

Within thirty minutes they were deep into the forest. The road was deserted. Simon handled the wheel with expert motions and Blair couldn't help but notice Jim's shoulders relaxing. He didn't have to shoulder the full burden anymore. Simon was here to help them.

Blair closed his eyes and let his head fall back onto the seat, just enjoying the peace. Without warning, the familiar tingly feeling rose. Blair sat up. "Jim--"

Simon slammed on the brakes. The seatbelt caught Blair hard. Jim grabbed the dash as the car skidded to a controlled stop. A large pine tree blocked both lanes.

Before they had come to a stop, Simon pointed a small canister at Jim. An acid smelling mist shot into the sentinel's face.

"NO!" Blair screamed, lunging forward. His door was wrenched open and two men reached in. His seatbelt was undone. Strong hands grabbed his arms.

Blair fought to get free.

Jim curled in his seat, gasping for breath.

"Simon! Why?" Blair cried as the other back door opened and another man crawled in, pinning him back. Blair was yanked out of the vehicle into several waiting men's hold. He kicked out. Hands captured his ankles and he was lifted off the ground. "No! Let me go!"

Jim was pulled out of his seat, face wet with tears and snot, his eyes puffy and red.

Simon stepped out of the car. His face showed no emotion while the men attached padded cuffs around their captive's wrists and legs. Blair twisted, unable to escape the belt strapped around his waist. With a snap, his bound wrists attached to the belt and it was over.

Two black helicopters flew in and hovered over the two lane road. They settled to land on the centerline, one on either end of the car. More armed men, dressed in black, poured out, running toward them.

"Simon, please, man, PLEASE!" Blair begged.

But Simon had turned away to greet a familiar looking man and Blair's perception of his friendship with the police captain exploded.

The doctor from the Kansas army base shook Simon's hand.

"Good work," the doctor said.

"You promised not to hurt them," Simon reminded him.

"And we won't." The doctor looked over at Blair, his smile not reaching his cold, assessing gaze. "They're too valuable to our nation."

Blair felt the sting and burn from the hypodermic pierce through his jeans. Swinging around, he saw Jim was receiving the same treatment. He lurched out to stop them. "No!"

The drug attacked and Blair felt his strength betray him. He sagged into the restraining hands. Colors started to blur. Sounds faded.

"Calm down, Mr. Sandburg." The weasel-faced doctor was too damn close now and Blair recoiled. "You're only hurting yourself."

As his vision shrank, swallowing him whole, Blair saw Jim sink to the ground and Simon, the Judas cop and ex-friend kneeling down with one large hand resting on Jim's chest like a blessing before everything went black.

TBC

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to LKY

Home

[an error occurred while processing this directive]