James Ellison shook his head. "If I were you, I'd rule out suicide."

"Here he goes again," Conway muttered. The senior detective from the South Precinct glared at his partner.

"How about we hear him out, Ned?" Conway's partner whispered back.

Standing two steps back from the three detectives, Blair swallowed hard, fighting down nausea. Black flies buzzed thick as syrup over the corpse. The hot, putrid air coated his nostrils. How could Jim stand it? Rather than look at the grisly sight on the floor, Blair studied the framed print of Mount Rainier on the wall.

Jim pointed to the fatal chest wound. "See there and there?"

Blair took a visual dive back at Jim's feet and looked away. `God, that is gross.'

Jim plucked a pen sticking out from Conway's pocket, ignored the filthy look that caused, hitched up his slacks and squatted. He used the pen tip to fold back a flap of fatty tissue. "These larvae castings are from a ground beetle. They live in moist soil, under logs and rocks. Not in expensive Berber carpet. The body's been moved." Jim stood and gestured at the sawed off shotgun next to the dead man's hand. "It's staged."

Blair's stomach seemed to be hosting a rousing game of soccer with his breakfast. He turned away, breathing deeply through his mouth as Jim had taught him. Some days being Jim's ride-along plain sucked.

"Well, hell!" Conway groused. "I've got a girlfriend swearing he offed himself."

"She'd told the nine-one-one dispatcher he wasn't answering the door or his cell phone. She said he had been despondent over losing a promotion," Conway's partner explained, her eyes narrowing in thought. "You know, partner. This guy's a lightweight and she manages the Gold Gym down on Hosting Street."

Conway grunted, reluctantly eyeing Jim. "Thanks for the assist, Ellison."

Jim held out the borrowed pen.

"Shit, Ellison. Keep it."

Jim waved to Simon Banks, capturing his attention. The tall man wove through the plastic tables and fixed molded chairs to join Jim and Blair in the busy caf.

"The pork ribs are good today, sir." Jim wiped a bit of red BBQ sauce from his chin.

"Sounds good," Simon said, sitting in the empty seat. "Hand me the phone, Sandburg."

Each table held a phone. Customers called in orders directly to the kitchen and a harassed woman with bright, spiky orange hair exploding from her head delivered the food.

After placing his order, Simon looked at Blair's lunch. "Fruit salad? You come to a BBQ place and order a side dish?"

Jim hid a smile. "We stopped off on Twelfth Street, backed up Conway and Taft on the DB."

"Ah." Simon leaned back with a knowing look.

"You should have seen Jim, Simon," Blair said, much too exuberantly, waving a plastic fork in the air.

"Keep it down, Junior," Jim warned.

"Yeah, right, sorry." Blair looked over his shoulder before continuing. "He was amazing!" Blair whispered, hunched over the table. "Right away he looks over the scene and - bam - he's knows it's murder!"

Simon lifted an eyebrow at Jim.

Jim shrugged.

"And I got to tell you, we're talking small little bug... er, what was it, man?"

"Castings."

"Yeah, itty bitty baby bug skins." Blair held up his fingers to show Simon the size. "I'd need a microscope, at least a magnifying glass."

"Okay, okay," Jim interrupted, pointing at the fruit. "Eat. Simon will read my report."

Blair grinned, his untamed excitement refusing to be muffled. "Jim here identifies the bug as only living outside. Cool, huh? Is that not the wildest? So, how'd you know anyway, Mr. Bugman? They teach that stuff in the police academy?"

Simon looked confused. "No, not that I recall. Frankly that sort of forensic work is done by our technicians. How did you know, Jim?"

Jim set his rib down and carefully wiped his fingers on a napkin. "You guys probably don't want to know."

Blair leaned forward. "Yeah, we do."

With a shrug, Jim explained. "When I was in Peru, living with the Chopec, we scrounged for food. The tribe had many mouths to feed and protein is protein. Occasionally we found bugs. I guess after that, I just got into the habit of noticing the bugs wherever I live."

The light of discovery died in Blair's eyes. He sat straight, his throat working to swallow before he bolted for the door marked `Men'.

"Jim," Simon tut-tutted. "You are so cruel."

"The kid was asking for it. I tried to warn him." Jim picked up his pork rib. "Here's your food, sir."

Simon rubbed his hands together greedily as the waitress set down his paper plate filled with ribs and a dollop of coleslaw. "I love eating here."

"Sandburg, give it a rest. It's okay."

"No, Jim," Blair answered fiercely. "It's not. I mean, come on! I'm an anthropologist! I know some tribes eat bugs to survive. I don't understand why it got to me like that."

They entered the loft, going through their ritual. Jim carefully placed his things where they belonged: gun and holster in drawer, keys in basket, and light jacket on hook. He watched Blair toss his pack on the sofa, his coat on the arm of the yellow chair and his keys...

Jim waited. The kid never put his keys in the same place twice. Ah, okay. Tomorrow he'd dig them out from the stack of ledgers on the coffee table.

Jim slid the door chain in place. "For the fifth time, it wasn't the reference to eating bugs. It was the fact you'd just come from an overly ripe murder scene. You had both visual and olfactory going against you on that one. Frankly, I figured you'd lose it in the victim's house."

Blair had thrown himself onto the loveseat, his expression stormy. "I've got to toughen up."

"For crying out..." Jim pressed the heels of both hands against his eyes hard. "Okay, listen. It's my night to cook. I'll make my famous horned beetle bug pasta. That tough enough for you?"

Blair glared.

Doctor Stoddard walked down the hallway, looking deep in thought.

"Professor!" Blair jogged the last ten feet to join him. "Do you have a second?"

"Sure," Stoddard answered with a sensible nod. "I'm just pondering the age-old riddle of the mouse or touch pad."

Blair's original question was side-railed. "Er, mouse or touch- oh, you're finally getting yourself a laptop?"

The white haired man waved his hand dismissively. "Not for me, for my grandson. He's starting high school this fall." They started down the sidewalk shoulder to shoulder.

"Nice gift," Blair said with feeling, wishing he'd had this man as a grandfather while growing up. "Anyway, I was wondering if I could ask a favor."

"Certainly."

"Didn't our department get a new professor last month? I know I've been tied up with my work at police station lately. But I thought I read something in the newsletter."

"You mean Charlie Bitner?" Stoddard asked.

"Right, Bitner." Blair transferred his stack of books from one tired arm to the other. "Isn't he known for his studies in forensic anthropology? Could you introduce me?"

Stoddard stopped. "Blair."

The sudden halt put Blair a few steps away, he turned back. "Sir?"

Stoddard looked uncomfortable. "Bitner transferred here to work with the new American Indian Cultural exhibit."

Blair nodded. "Right, that's what I read. But-"

Stoddard shook his head. "I got the distinct impression he wanted to leave the forensic part of his career behind."

"What? Why?" Blair asked.

Stoddard gently clapped an age spotted hand on Blair's shoulder. "I didn't ask, son. I just respected his wish."

"Oh," Blair said softly, unable to suppress the disappointment. "Right, got it. Thanks."

"Anytime, Blair."

Blair slowly stirred the rice. Glancing at the clock, he compared dinner's readiness to Jim's expected arrival. It should be close. He covered the pot and turned down the heat. Returning to the table, he glanced briefly at his laptop. His word document was still opened to page three of his article. He frowned at the blinking curser.

"I really have no idea what this is about." Sighing, he hit save and closed the program. His mind refused to give up the idea of talking to the mysterious Charlie Bitner.

Yeah, on one hand, his advisor had made it clear the guy's past was off limits. But Blair had a valid reason. He needed a few pointers from a fellow anthropologist. Who better to help him? The guy had been there and done that, so to speak. He had to be bursting with golden nuggets of wisdom to pass on.

Making a decision, Blair reached over and unplugged the phone cord from the base of Jim's cordless and inserted it into his laptop. Maybe he could find out more about Bitner on-line.

Blair had no idea how much time had passed when he heard the familiar sounds of Jim's key unlocking the door. The sum of his information search was pathetic. Bitner had written some books. He had worked for several large cities, until he switched to teaching and consulting on the side.

"Hi, Jim." Blair logged off the Internet and unplugged. "How was your day?"

"Reduced to being your messenger boy," Jim deadpanned as he shrugged out of his shoulder holster. "H says you still owe him twenty for the bet about golden retrievers and beer, and no, I'm not interested in the details of that bet. Simon says don't forget you promised to hook up the new stereo equipment he got for his office. And, finally, Debbie in records says you're supposed to call." He peered into the pan on the stove. "Smells good. What is it?"

"Your `chicken in lemon sauce' dish," Blair told him.

"Really?" Jim helped himself. Blowing on the wooden spoon, he tasted and smacked his lips. "Doesn't taste like this when I make it."

Returning from taking his computer to his room, Blair tied his hair back and then washed his hands at the kitchen sink. "That's weird, I used your recipe." He slipped by Jim and hurried to dump half a dozen soft rolls into the bread basket and get plates and utensils on the table.

Jim washed his own hands as he ran his tongue over his lips in deep thought.

Blair hid a grin, but Jim caught it.

"Sandburg, is this another one of your tests?"

Busted. "Here's the deal. If you figure out the altered or new ingredients by the end of the meal then you win dessert."

Jim rolled his eyes. Using hot pads, he carried the white rice to the table and set the pan down on a wicker mat. Blair brought the chicken before going to the icebox to retrieve two beers.

"Give me the dessert and I'll tell you about my new case," Jim said.

"Tell me about your new case and guess the new ingredient and you'll get the desert and my help on the new case," Blair countered as they sat down to their meal.

Jim spooned extra sauce over a large helping of rice and reached for a roll. Halfway through the meal he spoke, "Ginger, cumin, paprika..."

Blair watched his sentinel with pride. The guy was good.

"I got it, Saffron," Jim crowed. "What's for dessert?"

"Moose Track ice cream. What's the new case?"

"Murder."

"We don't have much." Jim lifted a heavy cedar bough and waited for Blair to pass underneath. "A guy found a bone out here yesterday while walking his dog."

"Human?" Blair asked.

"Dan thinks so."

The acreage was overgrown with high grass and shrubs. A stand of evergreen grew in a thick clump in one corner. The city was waiting for local zoning to dictate what the fifteen acres of donated land should become. Meanwhile, the locals had turned it into an unofficial park.

Dan Wolf's small forensic group was already hard at work. Dan himself stood watchfully over the operation. A quarter-acre had been roped off with yellow police tape. Several large sifting screens had been brought in and dirt was being carefully shoveled though. Jim pushed his partner in Dan's direction to check in.

"Sandburg and I are on our way to interview a witness on the Fourth Avenue bank robbery, thought we'd drop by. Anything new?"

The medical examiner nodded. "A couple of ribs, the pelvis and a few more metatarsals and this." He held up a small, clear baggie.

"A button." Blair squinted at the round object within. "From a pair of jeans?"

The metal fastener was tarnished from countless seasons of exposure. Tilting the button to catch the light, Jim looked beyond the blemishes to see a pattern. "Looks like the letter `C'"

Blair squinted. "I'll have to take your word for it."

"Do we have enough to ID the victim yet?" Jim asked.

"I'm pretty sure she's female, judging by the subpubic angle in the pelvis bone." Dan made a face. "But an ID? We need the skull."

"I know," Jim sighed, scanning the piles of dirt and scrub. "How long do we get to look?"

"Jim, my department is up to my ponytail in work. I'll keep my team here until five, like we planned. ," Dan said. "Who knows, we may get lucky."

During the drive back to the station later the same day, Blair's thoughts returned to the partial skeleton. Jim had called twice and learned Dan's team had found another long bone and several ribs. When he last checked, they were getting ready to pack it in.

"Jim? Drop me off at Rainier?" Blair asked.

"Why?" Jim shot him a curious look. "I thought you had the rest of the week off."

"I do," Blair told him. "I need some phone numbers in my office."

"If you're just going to run in and out, I'll wait for you."

Blair chuckled. "I'm going to make some calls and see if I can drop in on a fellow professor, man. I'll grab the bus back to the loft. This is not a plan to get out of helping you with your paperwork, honest."

"The thought never even occurred to me."

"Yeah, right."

Jim left him at the curb in front of Hargrove hall, still grumbling as Blair closed the truck door and cheerfully waved farewell. Once inside his office, he called Eli. Part of his plan had been to get out of Jim's paperwork, but he had good cause. He wanted to make the call without Jim listening in, just in case it didn't pan out the way he hoped.

When Eli answered, Blair told him about the bones in the park and how the police needed the skull. Eli listened to his plan silently. When Blair finished, all he heard was his advisor sucking gently on his pipe for several long seconds.

Finally he spoke. "I'm intrigued. I wouldn't mind going out there myself and helping. Are you sure the police department would let a group of college kids do this?"

Blair gave an internal cheer. He knew he'd get the older man's attention. "I'm not. I thought I'd check with you first. I know of a dozen students that would help us, maybe more. If we approach this from an academic angle, I think the benefit to our future anthropologists would be worth it. Plus we're helping the police."

"Doctor Markhurst might want to play. His archeological experience at digs could proof useful."

"Yeah! Good idea." Secretly Blair was hoping for Bitner, but he respected his advisor's decision. "So, should I offer our help to the police?"

"Let me make a phone call," Eli said. "I'll call you back."

"Enter," Simon Banks ordered without looking up from his reports.

"Simon?" Jim entered with a hopeful expression.

"Detective?"

"Sandburg just called, he's got a suggestion for my Jane Doe case."

Simon let his pen drop and pushed back from his desk. He needed a fresh cup of coffee anyway. His morning had been wall to wall meetings. He had a whole thirty minutes before his next one. Crossing to his coffee maker, he refilled his cup. "The bones in the empty lot? Your report didn't sound too promising. Coffee?"

"No, thank you, sir." Jim remained standing, looking like a soldier at parade rest. "You know they didn't find the skull yesterday, right?"

"Right, and frankly, Jim, I don't think the Chief will authorize the manpower to search fifteen acres of undeveloped property for it, as much as I'd like to."

"Sandburg says he can get us a team."

"A team." Simon frowned.

"College kids, sir. With an experienced professor who's been all over the world on archeological digs. They're willing to work for free. He's even figured out how to make it so the kids get some sort of credit for working." Jim looked hopeful. "What do you think?"

Simon pondered the news. "How many kids?"

"Plenty." Jim beamed. "Sandburg has a dozen or so and this professor knows at least that many or more from his own classes. They want to help."

A group of twenty-four young adults for free. The concept made Simon smile. "Let me call legal."

Later the same day the crime scene had taken on a new look. Young men and women worked silently and with purpose. A compact man with weathered skin dressed in tan khakis and a short sleeve shirt gave orders, drew sketches and organized the sifting of wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of dirt.

"Sandburg, you had a great idea," Jim said as he raised a hand in greeting to a police officer keeping a close eye on the dig from a comfortable looking camping chair.

"I know," Blair bubbled, grinning like a proud, new daddy. "Isn't this cool?"

They had just arrived after an early afternoon meeting with the robbery division on a joint case involving a series of home invasion cases. This was their first free moment to check out the park.

"Come on," Blair said, pulling Jim along. "I'll introduce you. Hey, Professor. This is Jim Ellison. Jim, this is Professor Markhurst."

Jim shook the man's hand, feeling the heavy blanket of calluses on his palm and fingers. The guy didn't just sit behind a desk all day. "Thank you for your assistance out here."

"Thank you for the chance to show these pups what it's all about," Markhurst replied gruffly. He wasted no time in showing them his sketch. "I met with your ME. Wolf showed me where you found the majority of the skeleton. I've extended the site to include those trees to the east. The grid is set up and I've given each student a unit to work with. The lack of features should make this move along quickly. I assume you're not too interested in any ecofacts we find?"

Jim stared at the man. He had been following along easily up to and including the grids and unit part. After that...

"Ecofact means discoveries which give information from past environments," Blair explained quickly. "For example, seeds, animal bones and soil could all be ecofacts."

Jim nodded. "Right. Okay, then, anything like that found near one of the human bones should be saved. If that's possible."

"Excellent," Markhurst said. "I personally look over all their finds. I'll make sure everything is proper. The extended forecast is favorable." The man shared a conspiratorial grin with Blair. "The student that finds the skull gets to join me on my dig next summer."

Blair's eyes bugged out. "Where?"

"Madaba Plains Project, near Jordan."

"Wow! They've got to be going nuts!" Blair said. "No wonder you have so many volunteers."

"This is just the first batch. I have more students on a waiting list." Markhurst crossed his arms, looking smug. "I'm working them in shifts. With the long summer days, we should be able to cover this park in about a week."

"Professor!" The shout came from a blonde woman kneeling in the dirt. She waved at them excitedly. Several of the other students made to rise from their positions. "I have something!"

"No! Everyone stay put. Remember what I told you. Keep working," Markhurst ordered as he led Jim and Blair over to where the lucky student worked.

The find turned out to be another long bone. The blonde was busy brushing away dirt. The professor knelt at her side and pulled out a dental pick from his pocket. He prodded the bone gently and hooked a mud crusted section of cloth. "Very good, looks like we have scraps of clothing."

Blair looked over his shoulder. "How'd this get way over here?"

"Animals, probably," Jim told him.

"Man," the observer said under his breath, looking slightly ill.

"Officer," Jim called out to the man in the chair. "Camera, please!"

They took pictures as the bone was carefully revealed. The police officer handled the record, tagging and bagging of the finds. Markhurst and his students kept their own meticulous notes. Such notes would look impressive to any jury panel if they actually managed to make an arrest.

The real prize was revealed when it was learned the cloth included a pocket. Jim held his breath as he realized something was inside. He gently pulled it out.

"It's just a plastic bag," Blair muttered, obviously disappointed.

The bag was laid flat. A faint logo had been printed on the outside with a name.

"Walgreens," Jim read.

"The drug store?" Blair guessed.

`Yep." Waving at the bag, Jim stepped back for the officer to take more pictures. "This helps."

"How?" the blond woman asked.

"We can talk to the company that runs the chain of stores, find out when they used this particular logo. It helps us date the body." Jim pulled out a notebook and made a quick sketch. "We'll get started on that right away."

On the way back to the truck, Jim couldn't help but drop his arm around Blair's shoulders. "Chief, let me buy you dinner."

Blair liked his summer schedule at Rainier. Explaining to his adviser he needed lots of research time to follow Jim around, his only school day was Thursday. He arranged two classes in the morning and kept his afternoon open to counsel students.

Striding purposefully down the hallway after preparing for a test the following week, Blair ducked into the teacher's break room for a hit and run on the snack machine. The food was high priced, but he was hungry. He eyed the rows of options that rolled around on a vertical arm. The apple didn't look too old. He fished his quarters out and dropped them in.

As he turned back, an unexpected movement gave him a start. "Oh! Hey, man. Sorry, didn't see you there."

An older man sat on the brown, fake-leather sofa, blinking sleepily as if just woken. "It's okay. Could only afford a few minutes down time. I've got an exhibit to finish."

"Blair Sandburg, teaching fellow," Blair said, sticking out his hand. "Anthropology."

"Bitner. North American Indian culture." He rose, taking Blair's hand in a quick shake before arching his back in a stretch. The guy was tall, his lanky frame topped with a dome of deeply tanned skin and a ring of light brown hair.

"Professor Bitner. I heard you were working on that new display. Ceremonial feasts, right?"

"That's correct." Bitner tilted his head, his eyes squinting as he pinned hazel eyes on the younger man. "You're the one that got Markhurst involved in that crime scene."

Oops, sorry, Eli. This isn't my fault, the guy asked first. "Right. The university is working with Cascade Police."

"How is it you work with the police?"

Bitner seemed truly interested. Blair cast a wary glance toward the open door, half expecting Professor Stoddard to catch him. Stupid really. The guy wasn't his dad or anything. Still he didn't want to upset his mentor.

"Perhaps I shouldn't have asked?"

"No, no. It's not like that. Er, I'm working on my thesis; closed societies. This partial skeleton was found earlier this week, but the police don't have enough manpower to properly examine the area."

Bitner grimaced. "Sounds familiar. Sometimes it's not the police that catch criminals, it's the fat budgets."

"Yeah, I think Jim spends half his personal time on the job," Blair said thoughtfully.

"Jim?"

"That's the detective I ride with. Jim Ellison."

Bitner stuck his hand into his pocket and glanced at the snack machine as he casually asked, "So, how much have the kids found?"

Blair felt hope rising. This did not sound like a man who was leaving the life of forensic anthropology behind. "Um, well, they've got one full leg, parts of the arm, pelvis, ribs and vertebra."

"No skull?"

`Not yet." Blair took a risk. "I heard you have a background in this. I could maybe show you the site. I'm pretty good friends with the city's ME. I know he'd let you examine the bones."

"No, no." Bitner hastily dropped his money into the slot and opened the small, Plexiglas door to take his chips. "I was just curious. I don't have time to get back into that. I'm retired."

"Oh, sorry. Didn't mean to-"

"No offense, I'm sure." Bitner nodded as he headed for the door. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Sandburg."

Blair was alone in the room. "Yeah, you too," he whispered to the water cooler.

Jim entered the loft, his arms full of bags from the local Italian restaurant. Blair sat on the sofa, his back to the door, bulky headphones over his ears as he typed on his laptop. The kid didn't even know Jim was home. The sentinel didn't like that.

Setting down their dinner on the table, he crossed over to the back of the sofa and gently tapped the curly head.

Blair twisted with a large grin on his face as he pulled the headset down to rest on his shoulders. "You're home!"

"You know," Jim pointed a finger at the door, "I could have been anyone just now. Sit where you're facing the door rather than the view. An intruder is not likely to scale the wall and enter through the balcony."

Blair flapped his hand, completely unfazed. "No one is going to come barreling in here, man. You worry too much." He sniffed the air. "I thought we were getting pizza."

"I was in the mood for pasta. Aldos." Jim started pulling containers out of the larger bag. "And I don't worry too much. I'm just saying you need to stay alert."

"Yeah, coz the world needs more lerts," Blair joked, joining Jim at the table and eyeing the food. "I'm starving."

Jim frowned. Obviously having Lash break down the door last fall, and Brackett inside the loft a few weeks ago, waiting for them were lessons already forgotten. What would it take? No, Jim didn't want to think about it.

"Beer?" Blair stood in front of the open refrigerator. "Or juice? We've got a little red wine left."

"Water's fine." Jim retrieved utensils from the drawer. "Did you finish that test for next week?"

"Yeah, I'm not going to be very popular with my students when they get it. I warned them this class involves more reading than they're used to. I hope they listened."

"You're a cruel taskmaster, professor." Jim looked up in surprise as Blair headed for the living room with his plate of food. "I don't think so, Sandburg. Get your skinny butt back to the table with that."

"Jimm."

"No, nadda, nein, forget it." Jim slid into a kitchen chair and tore off a helping of bread from the freshly baked loaf. "I'm not smelling cheese and garlic for a month while I watch TV. Park it."

Blair returned to the table with a scowl. "We need to revisit all your rules, man."

"Yeah, because your memory of them is slipping."

Snickering as he plunged his fork into his pasta, Blair relaxed. "Guess who I talked to today? Charlie Bitner."

"I know that name because...?"

"I told you about him. He's that forensic specialist from Florida. Wrote those books in Dan Wolf's office?"

"Oh, right. I thought Stoddard didn't want you to go to him."

"I'm innocent. We bumped into each other. He started talking about it, not me. I thought maybe he'd help us." Blair shrugged, stuffed pasta into his mouth, chewed at a rapid rate, swallowed and continued, "But he told me he's retired."

"Too bad." Jim helped himself to more bread and pushed the last of it toward Blair. "Wolf could use the help."

"I wonder why he quit. He's not that old, just a little older than you." Blair smirked. "Probably got one or two more years in him before he's an invalid."

"Nice, junior." Jim glared. "Thank you very much."

"Welcome."

"Well, it's likely a moot point. Without the skull the chances of identifying the body are slim."

Blair dunked his bread into the creamy sauce. "No help with the list of missing persons?"

"That plastic bag has been out for over six years. That makes for a pretty long list. We're still looking for a match to the button. None of the big jean manufacturers claim it. I'm sending enquires overseas now. Might be a knock off." Jim gulped his water and shook his head. "It's a long shot."

`No kidding. We have to identify the body before we can begin to guess who might have killed her." Blair shuddered. "Poor lady."

Friday brought summer thunderstorms as a sea-driven front hit the Cascade Mountains. Jim's skin tingled as he drove to work. Blair sat in the passenger seat, nursing his espresso and yawning.

"How late did you stay up, anyway?" Jim asked.

Blair shrugged. "Two-ish, maybe three AM. Got a lot of work done."

A brilliant flash of white filled the sky.

"Jim?"

"Got it on two," Jim answered as the thunder rolled over them and moved on.

"That was close."

"Yeah."

Three short beeps interrupted them and Jim reached down to crank up the police radio's volume.

"All units, robbery in progress, Washington Mutual, Gordon and fifth."

"That's right around the corner," Blair said.

Jim snatched up the mike with a grim expression. "Central, one-zebra-one responding." Checking his side mirror, he cranked the wheel left and floored the accelerator.

"These the guys we've been looking for?" Blair asked, his voice pitched as he grabbed the door and the edge of Jim's seat.

"Probably," Jim answered. "Stay with the truck, got that?"

"Oh, yeah." Blair jerked his head up and down a few times and swallowed nervously as the truck flew down the side street. "Totally."

Half a block away from the bank, the truck skidded to a stop on the wet asphalt, bringing the tires within inches of the sidewalk that edged a closed real estate office. Jim reached under his seat and pulled his portable police radio from its charger. Other police units were closing in. He quickly dialed to the tactical channel and put himself on location.

"Here," Blair said, holding out Jim's cap with the word `police' embossed across the front. "Careful, man."

Taking the hat, Jim nodded. "Right."

A small mental voice whispered, `Sneak up there and peek around the corner.'

`No, Jim said, stay in the truck,' Blair answered the tiny red-suited, horned imaginary creature on his left shoulder. `I'm staying.'

The modus operandi of this gang was brutal. They carried semi-automatic weapons and were not above using them on guards and civilians alike. If this was the same gang, it would be their third hit since they arrived in Cascade two months ago. The case had come to Major Crimes after the second bank was robbed and one of the tellers had been left in a coma.

Suddenly sharp reports of gunfire filled the block. Jim hollered into the radio. "Move in! All units."

Two marked police cars tore past the intersection. Blair didn't even remember opening the door. He stood by the fender in the downpour, his heart in his throat. He spread his hands over the warm hood, anchoring his feet from running toward the corner to peek down the street. Not for the first time, Blair wished he was more than just an observer. His place would always be at Jim's side.

A flash of lightening blazed across the sky, followed within seconds by a deafening crash of thunder.

"One down! Two on foot," a man's voice, not Jim's, called over the radio.

Blair bobbed his head. Good, good. They had a special code for when an officer was down. So the one they're talking about must be one of the bank robbers. Previous robberies revealed them to be a gang of four. Three went into the bank and one...

Blair's gaze raked over the other parked cars on the street with him. Where was the driver? No one had ever seen the get-away car before. He sighed with relief as he realized none of the cars around him were occupied.

Unexpectedly, the green metal door within the building next to the truck flew open to slam against the brick wall. Two men wearing dark blue jackets and black jeans raced onto the sidewalk. They turned left.

Blair stood directly in their path. Crap.

The first man, a skinny guy wearing yellow tinted sun glasses, brought his gun up. Blair's hands flew up, palms out. The bank robber reached out and caught a handful of Blair's wet jacket at his shoulder, spinning him around.

The second robber was running for Jim's side of the truck.

"Take the truck, man. My blessings," Blair said as he was being jerked around the open door and shoved inside.

"Shut up!" his captor demanded.

Blair's foot slipped off the curb. He fell, chest against his seat.

"We got keys!" the other robber called out as he slipped into Jim's normal position.

"Let's get out of here," the man in the yellow glasses answered. "Get up."

While the two had their attention on the ignition keys, Blair had discreetly turned off the police radio. Maybe if he was lucky they wouldn't know they were about to steal a police detective's vehicle.

The Ford's engine fired to life, motor gunning.

Blair tried to resist being forced into the back seat. "You don't need-"

A painful kidney punch stole his breath. The seat folded forward and Blair was stuffed into the narrow bench seat. Yellow Glasses got in, keeping his gun trained on his hostage. As the Ford's tires spun on the wet road and traction caught, Blair caught a brief glimpse of Jim's angry face as the sentinel appeared through the side door.

"Damn it!" Jim cursed as his truck and his best friend skidded around the corner.

"Jim!"

Jim turned. Simon Banks had arrived. Jim bolted for the empty passenger side of Simon's sedan and wrenched open the door. "They've got Blair! Go! Go!"

Simon stomped the gas pedal and the Chrysler leapt forward. The tires skidded into the turn, but Simon expertly kept the vehicle on track. "How many?"

"Two," Jim said, grabbing Simon's radio mike. He clicked his seatbelt in place and peered out the window. His green truck was several blocks away. "All units on the Washington Mutual robbery. Suspects southbound on Fifth in a green, Ford, F-one-fifty. Washington license, eight-oh-four, george-david-tom. They have a civilian hostage. White, male, mid-twenties, long curly brown hair." Jim released the button and spoke to Simon again. "One's down. We spotted their get-away car, but they made us. They had a second way out, breached a wall into the adjacent business."

"Damn, that's new," Simon said, his large hands tight on the wheel. "The rest fits their MO; break in during the night and wait for the first of the employees to open the safe for them."

Jim smacked the dash in frustration. "I can't believe I put him right in the middle of this."

"Jim, they've never done that before, had a second way out."

"So, they're evolving. I still shouldn't have parked so damn close." A tight band of fear made breathing difficult. "Simon, if they-"

Simon cut him off. "We'll get him back, Jim."

Two blocks ahead, the Ford skidded around a corner.

"That's Jackson," Simon reported tersely.

"All units! Suspects now eastbound on Jackson," Jim relayed.

"Have a roadblock set up on Chapelview," Simon ordered. "We need to stop them before they reach the interstate."

Jim quickly organized the plan. Units acknowledged and moved into place. Jim agreed with his boss's assessment. Right now they were in a sleepy, business part of town. The streets were relatively empty. If this moved into the crowded, rush-hour freeway, things would get ugly fast. He glanced over at the speedometer. They were doing seventy and not catching up. He zoomed in on the shadow of Blair's head through the back window. Jim forced his vision, pushing the focus through the rain.

Yes, Blair was looking backwards, his eyes wide and frightened.

"Shit, Simon." Jim reined in his senses, Blair's expression too painful to look at any longer. "They'll kill him the first chance they get."

"I know, Jim. We're not going to let it happen."

The truck pitched side to side like a hellish amusement park ride as it skipped over rough patches of broken asphalt. Old brick buildings flew by on either side of the street.

"What the hell is this?" Yellow Glasses screamed, pointing under the dash.

Blair's heart froze. Any time, Jim. Make with the rescue.

"What?" the driver shouted back.

"This is a police radio!" Yellow glasses screamed in panic, turning in his seat to grab a handful of Blair's wet hair. "You're a pig!"

"NO!" Blair yelled back. He held up his hands. His head crooked, the angle of his neck hurting. "I'm not, I'm not! I was riding with a cop. That's all!"

Oh, shit! The gun was right in his face. He could smell the gun oil.

"We grabbed a cop, Andy! We're screwed!" Yellow Glasses exclaimed with a half crazed look on his face.

The finger on the trigger started to squeeze.

Blair wasn't going without a fight. Striking fast, he grabbed the gun hand and pushed the barrel away from his nose. The gun went off. The close blast rocked Blair's head as the sound punched his eardrums, reducing his world to feelings and colors.

Red - brightly dripping all over the glass and side of the truck door. The truck careened drunkenly to the right, throwing Blair and his would-be killer off balance.

Don't let go of the hand.

The gun bucked again. Blair was lifted, floating freely until gravity reversed and he crashed painfully onto the truck's ceiling. Nothing was normal anymore. Up was down, then up again, then down. Blair bounced and rolled, striking hard objects with his head, hip, shoulder and back.

Hold on, don't let go of the hand with the gun.

But it kicked again, then one last time. A hot spear of pain pierced him. Blair's muscles became lax as he tumbled.

Then everything settled and became still. His hands were empty. He was crumpled in a heap. The bucket seats were above his head. The warm, sticky body of the driver pressed against his legs. The truck rocked as Yellow Glasses kicked open his door. Blair didn't care anymore. He was broken and dying.

"Hey, Jim. No regrets."

"Son of a..." Simon slammed on the brakes.

The Ford log-rolled down the street. Screeching metal and crashing bangs echoed off the walls around them. The Chrysler was still sliding when Jim flung open his door, his face set in a grim mask of determination.

Simon heard the gunfire.

"Jim! NO!" Simon tried to pull him back. They needed to assess the situation, not run in and get killed.

But Jim was gone, running after his upside down skidding truck.

Jim ran like a man with the demons on his heels. Blair's back pressed against the back window. The driver's window was covered in blood. The passenger door sprang open and a military looking pair of boots emerged.

"Hey, man. No regrets."

Jim ran faster. No, this was not going to happen. Furious, he yanked his gun from his holster. The bank robber crawled out on his hands and knees.

"Cascade Police! Freeze!"

The man rolled on his hip and stupidly brought his gun up, pointing at the cop.

Jim fired in rapid succession, stopping when the fifth round punched the body back against the open door of the truck. The robber died with his eyes open. Jim kicked away the robber's gun and dropped to his knees to peer into the ruined cab of his truck.

"Blair?"

A weary police observer lifted a bloody hand in greeting. "Hey, Jim. Can't... hear too good."

The driver was obviously dead, a pointblank round to the side of his head, enough damage to warrant a closed casket service. Jim crawled inside and shoved the body away from Blair, careful to look calm, hoping the kid was too dazed to notice the driver's condition. "Hey, buddy. How you doing?"

Blair groaned as Jim began his medic assessment. Starting with Blair's head and spine, everything felt okay. He found the exit wound half way down the back, off to the left side. Jim briefly closed his eyes and trembled.

"Jim?" Simon was at the open door, hunkered down to look in.

Jim turned back to whisper. "He's shot. Medic."

"I'm on it." Simon bolted for his car at a dead run.

"Jim?" Blair rolled his head back where it rested in the crook of Jim's arm, upper body draped on Jim's thighs. "Sorry."

Jim was busy lifting the layers of shirts. "Why the hell do you wear all this shit? It's summer." He didn't intend to snap. Fear and anger always arrived hand in hand for him.

Blair's face crumpled in pain. He lifted a hand to his face and left a long smear of blood on his forehead as he scrubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. "S-sorry."

Jim found it. The entrance wound was higher than the exit, but off to the same left side. That was good. Off to the side, Jim reached into his medical training and pulled up the information. Upper left quad. Spleen, maybe. Not necessarily life threatening. He splayed his hand over Blair's bare chest. Good, deep respirations. Strong heart beat. A bit of blue caught his eye and Jim recognized his own first aid kit. He pulled it out from under the seat above them and flipped open the fabric top.

Jim forced his face muscles to relax as he one-handedly searched the kit's pockets. "Hey, Junior, everything's good. You're going to be fine. Can you hear me yet?" Jim asked, pulling out a large trauma dressing. He ripped off the protective cover and slipped it between Blair's back and his own thigh.

"A little," Blair answered weakly and tried to draw his legs up, curl into a ball. "Hurts."

"Yeah, I know." Jim hated this part, but his friend was losing too much blood. Opening a smaller dressing, he slid it under the shirts until it covered the small hole and pressed.

"AAAAHH! S-STOP!" Blair wailed as he tugged at Jim's hand.

"Shhhhhh." Jim's voice broke but he kept the pressure dressing in place. "I know, I know. I'm sorry."

Blair's breath hitched as he fought the pain. He scrunched his eyes shut and bit hard on his lower lip. He stopped shoving and latched on to Jim's lightweight jacket with surprising strength.

"That's right, Partner," Jim told him. "You're strong. You're going to be fine. Hold on, okay?"

Blair nodded his head. Tears spilled down his temples. Jim centered his senses on the regular tempo of Blair's heart and the rushing sound of air filling and emptying his lungs. When the fire engines, medics and police cars parked, filling the street to capacity, Jim never even noticed.

Jim.

Blair opened his eyes to fuzzy gray shadows. Something the size of a Cree fishing spear was rammed up his nose. He wanted to pull it out, but his hand refused to obey. He managed enough strength to roll his head. He could see the metal rail of the hospital bed, the slit of weak light between floor-to-ceiling drapes. There was an empty chair next to his bed. Aw, shit.

A gentle hand cupped one side of his face and turned his head the other way.

"Hey." The sentinel leaned over the bed, looking tired and scruffy with a two day old beard.

"You looked the wrong way, Doofus," Jim whispered.

How peculiar. One second Blair's life was in tatters, the next he was a king.

`Too much', he thought wearily. Jim's hand hadn't left Blair's face. A rough thumb lightly stroked the skin next to his left eye, giving Blair something better to focus on.

"The bullet did very little damage. Nicked your spleen," Jim said.

Spleen. Nicked spleen. The meaning entered Blair's brain as he floated somewhere between the mattress and the ceiling. God, Jim, don't stop. The sensation changed. Jim lightly finger-combed over his temple. It was soothing.

"Didn't even have to take it out, Chief."

Out? Out? Oh, the spleen. Right.

Drifting on medicated currents, a single thought floated by: he had screwed up. He'd gotten out of the truck. It took sheer strength to lift his eyelids again. "Sor-ry."

"Sorry? For what?"

Blair felt Jim take his hand and squeeze. It caused another emotional whirlpool.

"Hey, buddy, you're really starting to freak me out," Jim said smoothly. "Everything's fine. You're not in trouble, if that's what you think. We arrested the fourth guy. The case is basically wrapped up."

Sucking in a shuddering breath, Blair managed more than one word. "I... got out... of the... truck."

"Listen, we'll talk about this later, okay? Right now, all I want you to do is heal. Can you do that?" Jim lightly squeezed his shoulder. "I think I'll call the doctor. This is the most awake you've been and they'll want to take a look at you."

The fourth bank robber was stubborn.

Jim scowled as he listened to the public defender answer Joel Taggert's questions. The captain from robbery was present as well. The interview was an exercise in frustration, actors going through scenes.

A shaft of light fell on the wall to Jim's left as Simon entered the small observation room, quickly closing the door behind him.

"Didn't I send you home?" Simon asked.

Jim lifted his eyebrows and rocked his head gently. He borrowed a trick from his absent roommate. "Well, I took it as a suggestion, not an order."

Simon snorted. "And how is the kid?"

"Much better." Jim wiped a hand down his smooth face, enjoying the feel of his first shave in three days. The first since Blair had been shot.

When Blair had first woken yesterday, confused and scared, Jim was hard pressed to leave his side. He had, but only to report to the first fact-finding interview by Internal Affairs and write his report. When he wasn't at the station, he had been at the hospital.

Simon nodded at the in-progress interview. "Still singing the same story?"

"Yeah, says he was resting in his car. Had no idea a bank robbery was going down."

"We've got him on charges of possession of a weapon. He's on parole. That alone should send him back," Simon said. "Seriously, Jim. You look like something a starving dog would bury. Go home and sleep." He opened the door and pointed.

Yeah, Jim had to admit. He was running on fumes, hell, on the traces of fumes. He followed his boss into the brightly lit hallway. They walked side by side to the bull pen where Jim collected his windbreaker and shut down his computer. He had three more days of paid leave.

"I'll drive you home," Simon offered.

"No, thanks anyway," Jim said. "I'm good." He shrugged into his jacket and waved a farewell to Rhonda.

Simon dogged his side. "Wrong answer, I'm driving. Because, as your boss, I can't let you drive in this condition and, as your friend, I know you'd just end up returning to the hospital."

"Simon..."

"Am I right?"

Jim let his shoulders slump in defeat.

"And when's the last time you had a solid meal? Something that didn't come in a bag with a Wonderburger logo?"

Jim chuckled as he let Simon guide him out of the room and toward the elevator. "Did Sandburg put you up to this? Now you're sounding like him."

The other man was suspiciously silent.

Dozing, Jim came fully alert as his boss pulled into the tiny parking lot of a family run Mexican restaurant. Simon patted his shoulder before exiting. "I called in our orders. Be right back."

Jim blinked in wonder. When had he called? Simon must have been planning this when he first sought Jim out in the observation room. The thoughtfulness struck a deep spot within him. Tense muscles relaxed along his neck and shoulders. He dropped his head back against the rest and closed his eyes.

Simon was back and the car filled with the smell of buttery garlic shrimp. Jim's mouth watered. His stomach took notice. God, he was totally famished. He sat up straight and resisted the impulse to dive into the sack.

Arriving at the loft, Simon set out the food as Jim got the plates down. The apartment smelled stuffy. The small pile of wet towels gave off a `locker room' odor. Jim could see the dust on all the flat surfaces.

"Sorry about the mess. I haven't had a chance to clean," Jim said.

Looking up from his task of dishing out food, Simon glanced around the room. "What are you talking about? The place looks fine." He glowered. "Now, tell me you are not spending the next three hours cleaning after I leave."

Jim held up a hand. "No, no. I'm sleeping. On my honor."

"Good, let's eat." Simon pulled up a chair. "Got to admit, this is my first hot meal in a while. Been hectic."

Jim speared a grilled shrimp. Flavors exploded on his tongue, driving away some of his exhaustion. Shrimp, chicken and beef cubes grilled with vegetables on a skewer. Even Blair had admitted this dish was good. Jim dug into his refried beans and rice, talking between bites. "How's work? Anything new with the skeleton in the park?"

Simon nodded as he chewed. "Good. The Chief's so impressed with the way the university is working the crime scene, they're talking about setting up a forensic class next year. Maybe use them again in this capacity. That Markhurst fella is putting together some reports for the commissioner to look over."

"Good, Sandburg will be tickled."

Simon paused. "How's he doing, Jim? When I saw him yesterday, he didn't seem... well, I know he's been through hell, but he seemed depressed."

"Yeah," Jim said. "I noticed that too. Granted, the doctor said he's on some pretty heavy medication and his emotions will be close to the surface. But he is upset. I get the impression he's... I don't know, either he's pissed at himself or he thinks I'm pissed at him."

"Why?"

Jim rubbed his forehead. "Apparently, when the robbers appeared, he was standing just outside the truck."

"Yeah?"

"That's it." Jim shrugged. "I guess he's fixated on that. I told him to stay put."

"And he did."

"That's what I told him. A few feet one way or the other probably wouldn't have mattered. The door was right next to the truck. They would have seen him even if he'd been inside it." Jim sighed.

"He's going to be fine, Jim." Simon reached over the table and tapped Jim's plate with his fork to get his attention. "The guy's got a survivalist instinct that most veterans can't match. I admit I was slow to come onboard, but you two make a good team."

"I know." Jim glanced up at the wall, suddenly wanting to get down to the hospital and check on his partner. "I just wish being my partner wasn't so dangerous for him."

Something in the loft was ringing. Jim frowned at the door.

"Jim?" Simon tilted his head, smiling patiently. "Are you going to answer your cell phone?"

Oh.

Jim unclipped it from his belt. "Ellison."

"Detective Ellison?"

The voice was male. A vague memory floated in the back of Jim's tired brain. "Yeah?"

"We found the skull!"

Blair was cleaner than when Jim had seen him earlier that morning. His hair had been washed. There was no more lingering smell of blood in the room. The IV was still hooked to his arm. Still no button on the IV stand for the patient to push, that meant he was getting pain meds from the nurses.

Jim closed the door, releasing the knob slowly to keep from waking the man on the bed. Sleep was good. It healed and kept the pain tucked away where it couldn't do any damage. Flowers and plants lined the small counter next to the bed. Jim grinned as he dialed down his sense of smell. Lowering himself into the padded chair, he zoomed in on a few of the cards sticking out from the arrangements, recognizing names he knew and several he didn't.

"Hey."

Jim looked down in surprise. Half opened eyes stared back.

"Hey." Jim leaned forward.

"You look better," Blair said in a raspy, weak voice.

Jim grinned. This was the first comment that told him Blair was taking in his surroundings again. It brought hope. "Yeah, well. I got a police escort to the loft today and placed under house arrest. How are you feeling? How's the pain?" He saw the way Blair tried to moisten his lips and looked around for the water pitcher the nurses always left in the room.

After Blair took a long sip, he closed his eyes. "Thanks."

"Welcome." Jim returned to his chair. "So, tell me. You feel okay?"

Answering with a slight nod, Blair rested his eyes for a long moment then shifted his head on the starchy pillow to gaze sleepily back at Jim. "How long?"

"Have you been in here?" Jim did the math. "Umm, it's Monday, so that'd be three days."

"How long... before I get out?" Blair asked.

"I don't know, Sandburg. I suppose it depends on how quickly you heal." When that produced a sleepy frown, Jim reached through the side rail and gently squeezed Blair's shoulder. "Hey, you got bounced around pretty good. You've got a new hole in your body that didn't come from a body piercing parlor. We're not talking a hangnail here."

Blair's eyelids fluttered shut. A tired smile appeared. "Jerk."

"Yeah, I know." Jim knew better than to push the humor. Laughing with an abdominal injury was hell. "Guess what? Markhurst and the kids found the skull today."

The news got some attention. Blair turned his head more toward Jim. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, the Chief is pleased."

"Cool, man." Blair yawned, blearily focusing on Jim. The conversation appeared to tap the last of his strength, however, and he closed his eyes again. Oh, well. Jim had brought a book to read.

Shifting restlessly on the hospital mattress, Blair wished for the hundredth time he was back at the loft. The data wasn't in yet as to what part being hospitalized was worst. Was it the night time, when he couldn't sleep and there was nothing to distract him from the pain and boredom? Or the daytime, when exhaustion sapped his energy but there was too much noise to sleep?

Blair glared at the fuzzy clock on the wall. What was Jim doing right now? He had returned to work today, after being investigated and released by the shooting board, or whatever they called themselves. Blair was happy for him, of course, but he missed his friend's midday visit.

A hesitant knock on the door surprised him. The nurses just tapped once and walked in. "Come in?"

The man that entered looked familiar. He carried a few rolled up magazines in his left hand and a paper bag in his right. "Mr. Sandburg?"

"Yeah?" Blair wiped his mouth, checking for dried drool that sometimes caked at the corners when he napped. "I know I should know you..."

"Charlie Bitner," his guest explained, provided the missing memory.

Blair's eyes widened. "Wow, yeah. Ah, hi. Sit down."

Some of Bitner's reluctance faded. He sat carefully on the edge of the chair, glancing around the room. "You certainly don't need any more flowers." He leaned forward to hand up the magazines. "I thought you might like some journals."

"Oh, yeah," Blair said, taking the magazines and unrolling them: Anthropology Today. He checked the dates. They were current. "Wow, thanks. I usually wait a year before I can score issues from the teacher's lounge. "

"I've read them. Enjoy."

Blair was flabbergasted. Who visits someone they'd only met once in a university break room?

"How are you feeling?" Bitner asked.

"Fine," Blair fibbed and laid a hand over his bandage. "Tired of lying around."

"Don't push your recovery, Mr. Sandburg," Bitner advised solemnly.

"Please, call me Blair."

"Okay, Blair," Bitner nodded. "Seriously, you must take care not to push yourself."

"I know, that's what Jim keeps telling me." Blair smoothed his blanket over his lap. "I just hate being sidelined."

"You really like the police work, don't you?"

Blair nodded. "I do. It's an amazing ride." There was something in the older man's eyes that Blair recognized. "But, you already know that, don't you?"

Bitner's smile brushed his face and was gone. He cleared his throat. "I'll admit it was invigorating."

"What happened?" Blair dared to ask, in awe of his own boldness. He could always blame the drugs.

The ex-forensic anthropologist fiddled with the flat, square bag he held in his lap before answering quietly. "I made a mistake. Stupid mistake, actually. An important case was lost, the criminal got off on a technicality."

Blair's heart went out to the guy. Visions of himself in that church trying to signal Jim flashed through his mind. "I know about mistakes. We all make them."

Bitner sagged back into the chair. "Well, of course. But my mistake was being pompous and prideful. Afterwards, I talked the police into starting a new investigation. We couldn't re-prosecute the killer for the first murder victim, but we had other bodies. They filed new charges. I worked non-stop. I pushed those that worked under me to the limits." He cleared his throat before continuing, "Then my wife started getting disturbing phone calls. Our house was broken into. My office was ransacked. I was furious."

"Oh, man." Visions of Lash kicking in the loft door came to mind.

"Late one night, when I was leaving the office," Bitner rubbed his left arm, "I was shot. I don't carry a gun, but there was an off-duty police officer nearby. She heard the gunfire and chased the shooter off." He grimaced. "I still feel it when the weather is damp. Makes me wonder why I picked Western Washington."

"I'm sorry," Blair offered lamely. "What happened?"

"I healed. I went back to work with twice the resolve to bring the bastard down. We did. He's in the Florida State Penitentiary for life now." But the guy didn't seem at all pleased over the fact.

"So, everything worked out?"

"Not quite," Bitner said. "My wife left me. I'd turned into someone that she couldn't live with anymore. She was right. I didn't even like me anymore. When I said I was prideful, I mean that it was never about justice. It was all about me being right and proving I was still the best."

Blair had no comfort to offer. Yet he could connect with the man sitting at his side, an academic working in the world of police investigations, using their passion for science in a useful and rewarding way.

"So you left everything behind and moved up here alone." Blair didn't understand how anyone could give all of that up.

Bitner tilted his head. "You've been reading up on me?"

Busted. "I couldn't resist. You know us anthropologists and our love of research," Blair said with a sheepish grin.

"True." He leaned forward to hand Blair the bag. "One more gift. From one anthro-geek to another."

Blair pulled out a hardback book, recognizing it instantly as one he'd seen in Dan Wolf's office. "Your latest book. Wow, thanks!"

"You're welcome."

"You know they found the skull, right?" Blair asked, not bothering to clarify what skull he referred to. "Jim said our medical examiner is only able to tell the age and gender of the remains. I'm sure your expertise would-"

"Blair," Bitner cut in gently. "I'm retired."

"I know, I hear all that. But a woman is dead." Blair had to try. "The skull shows blunt trauma. How can you not want to help?"

"I can recommend some good people. Perhaps they could send the remains out of state for examination." He stood. "I have to go. I'm glad you're feeling better."

Blair shifted, ashamed for pushing. "Wait, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-"

"It's okay, really." Bitner nodded to the door. "I only had a few minutes before my next meeting. Just enough time to drop off your reading material."

The guy truly seemed okay and Blair relaxed. "Okay, thanks for all this. I'm going to enjoy them."

"Good, I'm glad." Bitner stood at the door. "See you around campus."

"Well, I suppose we can let you out," Blair's doctor said.

Yes, finally. Blair gripped the edge of the loosely woven blanket and sighed. "Nothing personal, doctor, but I'm going nuts in here."

Jim leaned in as if to conspire with the medical man. "It was a very short trip."

The doctor grinned, shaking his head. "I'm going to miss you two. Not that I want to ever see either of you here again, but you've certainly made the last two weeks interesting." He noticed Blair's movement to get up. "Hold up, young man. Don't think you're bouncing out of here right now. We've got paperwork to print up and instructions to give."

"Shit." Blair fell back onto the mattress. "Stupid rules."

"And we need to talk about your post care. Who's going to be staying with you?" Frowning, the doctor hugged the metal clipboard, thick with Blair's progress reports and medical data to his thin chest.

"Ah..." Blair hadn't thought about that. He'd never been hurt this badly. He knew Jim had started back to work and his mom was still somewhere in France, living with a rich guy that owned several wineries. They had been getting a bottle of outrageously expensive red wine in the mail once a week for two months. In fact, he hadn't even told her about the shooting.

Jim spoke up. "I've got some friends from the station and his university on a schedule the first couple of days, then I'm taking some time off to catch up on some work I've been putting off," Jim said. "We'll make sure he follows any instructions you write up."

What the...

"Hello?" Blair lightly smacked Jim's arm. "I'm still breathing down here."

"And we're going to keep it that way," Jim fired back with an untouchable look of smugness.

The doctor left the room, chuckling under his breath. Blair gave Jim his `glare of death'. Yeah, he was happy to be finally getting out of the room, but he had a feeling he was going from one set of rules right into another.

"Jim."

"Blair."

"Jim."

"Blair."

"Ah oh, looks bad," Simon said as he entered the room. He wore his best suit. "They're reduced to single syllable conversations."

"Simon," Blair said, smiling sweetly. "Can I crash at your place?"

"I suppose, Sandburg," Simon answered. "But - and correct me if I'm wrong, Jim - but don't you have me on the list for Thursday?"

"What?" Blair forgot and tried to sit up. Deep, fire-laden pain ran up his torso. "Ahhh."

"Easy," Jim said, instantly dropping the playful attitude as he helped Blair back down. He quickly fingered the controls to drop the mattress flat. "Or you're gonna set back your discharge."

"No..." Blair didn't mean to whine. He didn't even know why he was pissed.

"I'm just playing with your head, Chief," Jim said. "I've been fielding dozens of requests from folks wanting to help you out. They're asking. It's not like you're going to put up with strangers in the loft. These are your friends."

"Sorry," Blair whispered when the pain ebbed. "I don't know why I'm being an ass."

"I'll let it slide, this time." Jim held up a noble hand.

"Well, I'm off to my meeting with the Chief. Just wanted to drop in and tell you two to behave." Simon leveled the man in bed with his best `captain-glare'. "Take it slowly, Sandburg."

"Right, slow," Blair answered with a look at Jim. "As if the roommate-from-hell would let me do anything but."

Blair rested while the necessary paperwork was prepared. He stared at the ceiling and tried not to watch the clock. Jim moved around the room, packing books and stuffing dirty clothes into a duffle bag. Finally, the nurse appeared with the promised freedom.

The wheelchair ride to the door was torturously slow. Blair held his two favorite plants, gifts from Professor Stoddard and Joel Taggert, in his lap as Jim pushed him along. Reaching the circular drive outside the main entrance, he waited impatiently for Jim to transfer the plants, books and duffle to the back of the dark green, rental Ford Explorer and pack it just so.

Finally, Jim opened the passenger door and looked down with a teasing smile. "Ready?"

"Ye-ah," Blair groused, pushing off the arms of the wheelchair and biting his lip as his injuries woke up. Jim held his arm, playing the part of a crutch. The short climb into the seat might as well have been a climb up Mount Rainier. "Ah, I don't think..."

"Wait," Jim said. "Hold it a second. Grab the door."

Blair let the door hold him upright while Jim rooted around in the back seat. He reappeared with a short foldable stepstool. "I thought ahead."

Two easy steps and Blair was ensconced in comfort in the bucket seat while Jim worked the shoulder harness.

Mid-afternoon traffic was light. Jim turned on the radio to catch the beginning of an early baseball game. Free from nurse call buttons, blood pressure cuffs, doctor visits and sleepless nights, Blair enjoyed the warm summer heat. The sky had never looked so blue. A lone seagull in flight demonstrated an amazing ability of design and physics. A city park filled with a visiting group of daycare kids playing filled Blair with joy.

"Your silence is scaring me," Jim said. "Doing okay?"

"Fantastic, Jim. I'm doing fantastic."

Jim grinned. "I'm glad you're coming home."

"That makes two of us." Blair closed his eyes. "So much to catch up on. You need to tell me what's happening with your cases."

"You are not rushing your recovery, Dr. Watson. I figure you can probably manage a few hours a day sitting in front of a laptop tomorrow," Jim said.

They were on one of the local four-lane expressways, a quick way to maneuver through the city if you wanted to skip downtown. Jim normally rode the fast lane, even bordered on tailgating. Today he drove like someone's grandmother in the slow lane.

A murky view of his next few weeks materialized in Blair's mind. "Just a few hours with my laptop? Hello? I've got deadlines and projects. You've got cases."

"No, your only project is to heal." Jim shot him an impatient look. "Don't start with me, Sandburg. We're not going there. You have a damaged spleen, remember? Do you realize how fast you die if you start bleeding internally?"

Time to change the subject. "So, who's got the first shift?" Blair asked, meaning the long line of babysitters Jim had lined up.

"Simon gave me the rest of the day off."

Crap.

They finally arrived at the loft - Blair was beginning to think the bus service would be faster - and Jim left the Explorer double parked on the street in front of the entrance.

"Hold tight a second." Jim set the parking brake and got out.

Two yellow traffic cones with the words `City of Cascade' painted on the sides had been left in one of the premium parking stalls parallel to the sidewalk. Jim picked up the first one, dropped it over the second and carried them both back. He opened the rear door and placed them on the floorboards before returning to the driver's seat. Seconds later they were parked, a mere six feet from their building entrance.

"How diabolical," Blair told him.

"I'll come back for your stuff," Jim promised as he aided Blair in getting out.

Sometime during his hospital stay, a curse had been cast over their building. Blair was sure the lobby was ten times bigger, the elevator twenty times slower and the third floor hallway a hundred times longer. By the time Jim's key slipped into the lock, Blair was breathing hard, clutching his side and shuffling. The door swung open. He entered his home, leaning heavily on Jim, knowing the only reason he wasn't lips-to-floor was due to the sturdy arm around his hips.

"Almost there, Junior," Jim murmured gently.

Heat pricked his eyes. God, he was trashed. Three dozen steps had reduced him to this. Who was he fooling? He could no more return to work, even on a limited basis, than run the Boston Marathon.

`Get a grip, Sandburg. Enough with the pity party. Just work on putting the left foot in front of the right foot.' Damn. The curse included the loft. His room was now miles from the kitchen table.

As tired as he was, Blair couldn't help but notice the kitchen was immaculate, more than usual. Not a speck of dust anywhere. The floor glowed. When they finally managed to reach Blair's bedroom, Blair was relieved to see his clutter. Jim's cleaning frenzy had been curtailed to just picking up the dirty tea mugs and emptying the laundry hamper in the corner. His space was still the same. The respect Jim showed touched him deeply.

Jim waited until Blair's knees bumped the mattress before leaning over and flicking back the blankets. He helped Blair ease down and released him with a brief pat on the shoulder. "Did good, kid."

Panting slightly, Blair nodded in acceptance, letting Jim busy himself with moving the half dozen throw pillows into a neat pile on the desk.

"Do you want to keep those sweats on?"

The hospital room had been cold, but the loft was comfortably warm and Blair felt flushed from exercise. "I could lose the top," he admitted.

Jim gentled the lightweight sweatshirt over his head, leaving his white, sleeveless T-shirt in place. "Do you want some juice before you sleep?"

Blair shook his head, guardedly tipping sideways until he was flat before pulling his legs up one at a time. Jim watched, holding up the sheet and blanket until Blair was ready before lowering them down again.

"Jim?" Blair blindly reached for the covers and arranged them just so over his chest. It felt so good to be off his feet. The familiar smell of his room and the soft feel of his own sheets were better than any miracle drug on the market.

"What?"

"Thanks, man. Okay if I sleep for a few days?"

Jim's quiet chuckle was the only answer. Blair drifted off just as a hand briefly touched his forehead, like when Naomi used to check him for a fever.

Nah, he must have imagined that.

Jim spent a pleasant afternoon reading the latest techno-thriller by Tom Clancy. He kept one ear tuned to Blair's soft snores. Around five, when the traffic outside grew noisy with commuters, he looked into the small room. Except for tucking one hand under his pillow and turning his head to the side, Blair hadn't moved. His face looked peaceful in sleep. The deep bruising on his arms and shoulders from the accident had faded to greenish-yellow splotches.

Should he wake his partner now? Nah, Jim decided to fix dinner, then wake him to take his medications and eat. If Blair wanted to go back to sleep afterwards, that would be fine, too.

But secretly Jim hoped he'd stay up.

Dinner was soup and fresh bread from the corner bakery. Blair was on solids again, but Jim wasn't sure he was ready for anything heavy or spicy. At the hospital, all the kid talked about was how bland or overcooked the food had been. Jim had talked Blair's favorite vegetarian lunch diner into making their roasted squash soup. Jim had ordered two quarts, one for the freezer for later.

Heating the soup over a low flame, Jim sliced the bread. He set out the bowls, spoons and a saucer on a wooden tray. The bread was wrapped into a cloth napkin and tucked into a small basket. Going to the refrigerator, Jim found a small container of sour cream. Blair liked to put a spoonful in his soup. Jim preferred his without. He took down Blair's bottle of garlic and rosemary olive oil and balsamic vinegar from the upper cupboard. The oil poured slowly with bits of chopped rosemary leave specks until it covered the saucer. Next Jim poured the vinegar into the center of the oil. He waited until the dark red liquid was half the size of the oil puddle before righting the bottle. Still, Blair hated it when the bread dipping sopped up all the vinegar and only the olive oil was left, so he added the small vinegar bottle to the tray's contents. The rich smell of summer squash told him the soup was ready.

Jim went to wake his friend. He leaned in through the doorway. "Dinner time, Van Winkle."

A not so delicate snort, then. "Huh, wha... Jim?"

"Time for dinner," Jim repeated, knocking his knuckles against the wooden doorframe. "Do you want me to bring it in?"

Dragging his palm over his face and yawning, Blair shook his head. "Gotta get up anyway, man. Use the head." He sucked in a quick, painful breath as he rolled over and pushed himself up.

Jim stayed at the door, knowing any preemptive movement on his part might set the younger man off. He waited.

Laboriously working his legs over to the edge of the futon, Blair sat still for a minute, taking deep breaths while he finished waking up. Arm muscles tensed. He leaned forward as if to stand then paused, eyes widening just a fraction.

The kid wasn't stupid.

"Yeah, okay," Blair said in quiet defeat. "This isn't gonna work without some help."

Jim stepped into the room. He squatted down and patted his own shoulder. "Try throwing one arm around my neck. Say ready and we both stand slowly."

The sleep-warm arm tentatively sought purchase. Jim laid a light hand on the small of Blair's back.

"Okay," Blair said, bracing for the pain waiting a half-breath away.

Jim slowly glided upward, stopping at a crouch when Blair was vertical. Jim knew from experience, it was the unscheduled jerks and bumps that hurt the worst.

With a surprised gasp, Blair nodded. "Yeah, okay then. That works." He patted Jim's shoulder before dropping his arm. "Thanks."

"No problem," Jim answered and offered his arm. "Hold on and we'll make the trip together."

Blair didn't even grouse as he started shuffling his bare feet. They made the trip with few gasps and hitches. Jim waited until both of Blair's hands had a good hold on the bathroom sink before backing away. "I'll finish dinner. You can eat in bed."

Blair tilted his head, looking up at Jim. "Do I have to?"

Thinking of the hard, straight-back kitchen tables with a frown, Jim shook his head. "I doubt you'd be..." He saw Blair glance in the direction of the living room.

No wonder Naomi indulged this kid, Jim thought with worn down regard. Mix that look with a five year old and it dawned on the older man that Blair no doubt got his way while growing up.

"Okay, but..." Jim raised a finger. "... one drop on that sofa and you're paying the cleaning bill."

Blair beamed. "Close the door."

"Don't lock it."

"I won't."

They ate on the sofas. `This Old House' was showing the repeat of a New England barn being remodeled into a home, one of Jim's favorites. Blair worked through his first bowl of soup, making blissful faces with each bite. He asked for seconds. Jim refilled his bowl.

"Okay, tell me about your cases," Blair ordered as he added more vinegar to the dipping oil.

Jim set the bowl down on Blair's lap tray and snagged another slice of bread. "We finished all the paperwork on the bank robbery. The guy inside the bank rolled on the get-a-way driver. So we've got a solid case against both surviving members." He dipped the bread in the oil-vinegar puddle before returning to his sofa.

Blair stirred the sour cream into the soup. "No trial?"

"Not sure yet. Could be. We'll know more after the prosecutor talks to the defense." Knowing the driver would insist on a trial by jury, Jim kept that to himself. He moved on. "Still working on the remains found in the park. I told you the Chief was really happy about the student's help on that, right? He got good PR. One of your more brilliant moments."

Blair puffed. "Cool. But did we ID the woman yet?"

"No," Jim admitted. "Those kids sifted a dump truck load of dirt and only found two teeth. Dan isn't very hopeful we'll get one."

"Aw, hell," Blair said. "Man, I was so hoping..."

"Hey, you gave us a way to get more than we would have otherwise," Jim said.

"But not enough." Blair frowned. "How can our society be so advanced and still so cruel?"

Time for a distraction. "Taft and Conway got a confession on that fake suicide," Jim said. "Turns out it was the girlfriend. She was having an affair with the dead guy's sister and they decided to kill him to get the insurance money. He had his sister as the sole beneficiary."

Blair looked up in stunned horror.

Jim realized too late that probably was not the best distraction he could have thought up.

Later that evening, after the home improvement show and the local news that followed and the setting of the sun, the loft cooled off. Blair slept under the afghan on the longer of the two sofas, Jim polished off a generous dish of peach cobbler and watched the Late Show. Tomorrow Joel Taggert would be here, using his own vacation day. The man had been smug when his name had been drawn first, cementing Jim's pride in his coworkers.

The next day was the start of Jim's normal weekend and he'd gotten permission to use his vacation time after that. By then, Blair should be okay to stay on his own for half days, though Jim had a list of volunteers who promised to `drop' in.

The show was over. "Okay, Sandburg. Time to wake up and get some sleep."

Blair opened one eye and glared. "Ya rel'ze that'z'moron."

"You just call me a moron?" Jim growled as he helped Blair sit up.

Blinking with confusion as Jim repeated the painless maneuver that got him vertical, Blair yawned and muttered a little more coherently, "No, no, said oxymoron."

Jim walked patiently at his side as they trekked toward the bathroom. "Sure you did."

When they reached their goal, Blair's eyes had closed again. He was half asleep on his feet. Jim gave him a gentle shake and Blair fumbled with his sweats. "Kay, I got it."

"I'd prefer it if you figured out your own trajectory, Sandburg."

That brought a soft chuckle. He opened his eyes and Jim stepped back to the door and waited until he was done. After washing up, Jim took his arm. "Okay, now time for a real bed." He led a yawning Blair into his room to settle in. He added a light cotton blanket in deference to the cool nighttime air from the open window. Blair was asleep before Jim made it out of his room.

Shutting off the TV, Jim carried his dish to the sink. He made quick work of the clean up and wiped down the counters before double checking all the locks and climbing the staircase to his bed.

"How'd it go?" Jim asked as he entered the loft late the following day.

Joel Taggert glanced at his watch in surprise. "It's that late?"

Jim shrugged, closing the door and going through the motions of becoming a civilian again. "Yep, another long day in paradise. Sandburg do okay?"

Stretching, the large man nodded. "He's asleep. I tried to give him his medication like you said, but he kept telling me he didn't need it. Oh, and you were smart to turn off the phone ringer. There must be twenty messages on your machine."

"Wonderful," Jim answered from the doorway to his partner's room. Blair was sprawled, face up, over the futon, breathing a steady rhythm. Jim went to the icebox. "But when he was awake, he stayed down, right?"

"Mostly," Joel reported as he stuffed keys and his wallet into his pants pocket. "He ate an early dinner, fish sticks and chowder."

Why did Jim feel like he should be taking a twenty out to pay the babysitter? His dad would do that when he and Stephen were little and Sally had the night off. Jim grinned as he slapped the other cop's shoulder, escorting him to the door. Blair would have a conniption fit if he knew Jim was having these thoughts. "Thanks, Joel. You're a lifesaver."

"No prob, my man. My pleasure, in fact. Sandburg is worth the time, you know?"

"Yeah." Jim chuckled. "We just can't let him know. Call you later."

A simple sandwich was all Jim felt like fixing for dinner. He had worked non-stop at his desk, completing a paper marathon of reports. The goal had been to clean out his inbox by quitting time. Summer vacations were in full swing and extra manpower simply wasn't available. Fellow detectives had agreed to field any calls and updates on his cases while he was away. Even Simon had quietly pulled Jim aside and assured him he'd personally take the more pressing matters. Jim was appreciative.

"Joel..." came a quiet, pain-filled call from the small bedroom.

Jim abandoned his job of slicing tomatoes and grabbed a dishtowel for his hands as he hurried into Blair's room. "Hey, Blair. Joel's gone home."

"Jim?" Blair's face scrunched in pain. His complexion gray, he crossed his arm over his bandage. "Don't feel... so good."

Sitting on the edge of the futon, Jim was already twisting open the vial of painkillers. "I see that." Jim saw the tears forming in the corners of Blair's eyes. "What's the deal, Chief? Joel said you didn't take any pain killers today."

"D-didn't wanna... look like a... wimp."

"You idiot," Jim gently cursed. "Here, let's lift you up."

But even raising enough to drink caused Blair to cry out. He swallowed the pill. Jim carefully lowered him back to the mattress. Blair tightly gripped Jim's arm as he panted through clenched teeth.

"I need to get you something for your stomach, or that pill won't stay down," Jim said as he gently pried his friend's fingers off. When he returned a few minutes later with dry toast, Blair was no better. Jim tore a corner of the bread and held it to his lips. "Chew."

Blair turned his head away.

"Sandburg."

"Hurts."

"I know. Can you imagine what throwing up is going to feel like? Now take this, damn it."

Blair opened his mouth, then took the rest of the slice from Jim. He dutifully ate. Jim lowered the sheet. "I'm going to check your dressing."

Blair wore his summer pajama-wear of choice: sleeveless T-shirt and boxers. Jim pushed up the shirt and held his hand above the entry wound. No blood on the dressing. No extra heat from infection. Carefully dipping his head, Jim sniffed. No putrid smell. He lowered the T-shirt and brought the sheet back up. Jim took the uneaten bread back. Over half was missing, it would have to do.

"Listen up, Junior. You will take these pills on schedule from here out. The idea is to get ahead of the pain, not put it off until you're climbing the walls."

"I think... I'm a believer." Blair's body was tense from pain. "How long before..."

Jim knew all about gut shots. He'd seen vets reduced to tears when the morphine ran out and the medivac was still hours out. "Did I tell you? Brown got a suspect in his auto theft case today. Guy works for one of those new car dealers springing up on the north end of town, by the interstate..."

Jim talked for a solid ten minutes. His hand captured Blair's nearest fist and began thumb-massaging the white knuckles. Gradually Blair's stiff posture relaxed and his weary eyelids dropped to half-mast.

"... so when Rhonda found the form on Simon's desk all along, we all thought she'd make him eat them for lunch. She should be getting roses next week. Hell, I bet he grovels for a solid week to get back into her good graces."

"Jim."

"What?"

Rolling his head to stare blearily up, the man on the bed offered a weak smile and squeezed Jim's hand. "Thanks."

"Feel better?" Jim asked.

"Yeah, much, much," Blair whispered and then sighed unhappily. "Hate this, though. Feel all wispy."

"Wispy?"

"Like... not solid anymore," Blair slurred, closing his eyes. "Gonna rise up an' float away."

Patting his shoulder, Jim stood and picked up the cold toast remains. "If I see you floating by, I'll catch you and drag you back to bed, how's that?"

"'Kay," Blair managed to answer before yawning widely, eyes drifting closed.

Returning to the kitchen, Jim finished creating his sandwich and ate on the sofa, watching the news.

Waking slowly, Blair opened his eyes to the low light cast by the small desk lamp. The window at the foot of his bed told him it was still night. He wasn't alone. Jim bent over him, his hand on Blair's shoulder.

"Time for your meds."

"You woke me up for that?" Blair asked, or at least he tried. The words didn't come out as clearly as he intended.

Jim's arm slipped under his shoulders and Blair head left the pillow. The movement caused a tinge of discomfort along his injured side. Before he could protest, a small pill was pushed between his lips, onto his tongue.

"Hey," Blair protested fuzzily before the smooth rim of a water glass tapped against his teeth and he was swallowing. Oh, that felt good. Blair latched on to the glass possessively. Jim let him drink as much as he wanted. Finally Blair's thirst was satisfied.

"Need the bathroom?" Jim asked.

Blair shook his head. All he wanted was more sleep. Jim lowered him back to the pillow and blankets were repositioned. The light clicked off.

"See you in the morning, Partner."

Blair traced Jim's footsteps, losing them somewhere on the stairs.

The streetlight painted his wall, showing off his primitive spear. A sea breeze blew in through the window, rich with salty brine scents. Blair smiled at the darkness. His room. So much better than the hospital.

`Night, Jim."

Blair drifted off, his mind turning to pleasant dreams.

I'm standing.

Blair moved slowly and used the back of his desk chair to get out of bed the following morning. An exaggerated feeling of accomplishment brought a giddy grin. Jim was out, making a quick grocery run. It was now or never. Blair wanted to see how far he could make it.

He took a deep breath. The distance to the doorway loomed like a racetrack straight-a-way. Shuffling his bare feet, he left the security of the chair and struck out on his maiden voyage. When his fingers gripped the doorframe, he wanted to cheer. The entire lower floor of the loft lay before him to chart and conquer. Lewis and Clark had nothing on Blair Sandburg.

Snorting, Blair pondered the effects of those little white pills swimming around in his bloodstream. Jim had kept him on a steady diet of pain killers.

Where to go now? The bathroom?

"I can do this," Blair muttered.

Shuffle, shuffle... sway... shuffle, shuffle.

The sound of a key in the door made Blair feel just like when he tried sneaking Naomi's wine to his room at the age of eight. Jim walked in with two brown grocery bags cradled in one arm, glowering.

Blair paused, raised a hand and waggled his fingers. He was still several steps away from his goal.

"Bladder so full you couldn't wait?" Jim asked going to the table to quickly set down the bags before striding to Blair's side to take an arm. "Or just bored?"

Blair leaned on his friend and shuffled. "I was doing just fine."

"Riight."

"Woulda made it." Blair reached out and caught the door frame to the bathroom. "Thanks."

"Welcome." Jim turned him loose. "Call when you're finished."

"You're on my speed dial."

Blair decided he'd stay up a while. It was weird. During the hospital stay, he'd been longing for the comfort of his room, but now he found the long hours of lying awake in his own room tedious. He'd tried to explain it to Jim and gotten no sympathy.

"Save it for when you manage to stay awake long enough to drink a half glass of juice," Jim had told him, rolling his eyes.

But it wasn't Blair's fault he kept nodding off. It was Jim and his happy pills. Blair finished his business and hit the lever. He shuffled over to the sink and washed, ignoring his reflection in the mirror. His hair was pathetic and his face could give Stephen King nightmares.

Blair shuffled to the kitchen table. Jim had the groceries put away and was going through dinner preparations, always entertaining. Blair eased his body into a chair. His back and shoulders appreciated the fact they weren't on the mattress.

"The store was packed. You'd think people were expecting some huge storm," Jim said as he sniffed the head of lettuce.

"Yeah?" Blair grinned. Watching Jim wash lettuce was a hoot. The guy would inspect every leaf.

But Jim returned the green ball to the crisper and pulled out a container with a clear lid. He removed the lid and gave it a thorough examination before returning it with a nod. "Then this guy in the quick checkout line goes postal because some lady in front of him has two over the limit. I thought I was going to have to draw down on him."

"My freshman year, I did a paper on that," Blair said. "The classification theories of people based on their time constraints."

Jim lifted an eyebrow.

"Okay, I was desperate. But I got an A."

"So you had this bullshit gene at an early age, eh?" Jim teased while tearing off the plastic film around a pound of ground beef. He sniffed the meat, then took the skillet down from the hanging rack. Lighting the flame under the pan, Jim used a spatula to break the beef up into smaller chunks.

Watching his friend accomplish the simple act of preparing a meal made Blair long for the freedom to move without pain. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, unable to ignore the persistent pull in his side. "I have no idea of what you are referring to, sir."

"You should go lie down. It's going to be another hour before we eat."

"I'm fine."

"You've got pain lines around your eyes." Jim stirred. Grease snapped and he adjusted the flame. "You're not due for another pill until after dinner. Don't overtax your system."

"I'm bored," Blair confessed. "I can't sit up long enough to get any work done on my laptop. I'm tired of staring at the ceiling. You ever notice how lame summer television programs are?"

"Read a book," Jim said.

Yeah, well. That was all fine and well, but every time he started to read, he'd get the urge to work on his dissertation or on a paper or to start an article. Then he'd be frustrated because he couldn't stay awake long enough to get his thoughts into an outline.

Jim glanced up from his cooking, his eyes narrowing in a way that always made Blair wonder if being a sentinel meant you could read minds. "Read something that's going to hold your attention for more than ten pages."

"Like what?"

"Where's that book you showed me? The one that guy from Rainier gave you at the hospital?"

"Ah... Oh!" Blair looked around the loft. `Yeah, where is that book? What happened to it?"

Rolling his eyes, Jim turned the heat down once more and wiped his hands. "I'll find it. Go lie down."

Blair shuffle-walked for the living room. By the time he was comfortable on the sofa, with pillows behind his back and under his knees, Jim had found the lost book somewhere in the small bedroom and handed it over.

"Cool," Blair said, accepting the book. "Did you see he signed the title page?"

"No, but you told me, twice." Jim returned to the kitchen. "Try not to fall asleep before dinner."

When dinner was served, the loft smelling like some of the school cafeterias from Blair's childhood, he was already into the fourth chapter. They sat at the kitchen table because Jim had visibly shuddered when he had looked down at the `sloppy joe' fixings then over at his sofas.

"Did you know they can tell how many children a woman birthed by the shape of her pelvis?" Blair asked as he dug into his potato salad.

Jim chuckled. "Your dinner conversation skills amaze me."

Blair used the side of his fork to cut his hamburger bun into bite sized pieces. "This book makes me wish I'd gone into forensic anthropology."

Jim looked up, suddenly serious. "You still could, right? You could get a full time job with the department if you had the credentials."

True. Blair wondered what type of partnership that would be, though. He'd be in a lab, probably similar to Dan's section of the police building. But Jim would be out in the field and Blair wanted to be at his side.

"Just something to think about," Jim added.

"I'd have to get used to seeing a lot of dead bodies." Blair tried not to think about some of the past crime scenes he'd visited. He averted his gaze from the sloppy joe and reached for his ice tea.

"True, not all your cases would be like the bones in the park."

The woman dumped in the park. Blair's mind latched onto that vision. Clean bones and a few articles of clothing. Would they ever find her killer? "What's going on with that one, any new leads?"

"Not much I'm afraid," Jim admitted sourly. "Simon just gave Brown a new case this week, a triple murder, probably gang related. I imagine that will be my assignment too when I go back to work. The city's worried about a gang war. Retaliation is a way of life for these punks."

And here you are, nursing me. Blair stabbed a potato.

"I'm entitled to take time off, Sandburg," Jim said sharply. "It's on the books. Everyone gets it. There will always be crime."

Blair met his sentinel's stare without flinching. "I hardly call this a vacation for you, man."

"Oh, and you taking time from your life to show me how to control my senses is a walk in the park?"

"I want to. It's more important to me than some stupid trip to Hawaii."

"Goes both ways," Jim said.

Blair snapped his mouth shut. It didn't take a genius to see Jim was taking care of him due to a misplaced feeling of guilt. Blair had caught glimpses of Jim's haunted expressions. First at the hospital and sometimes when Jim was sitting by his futon, because the pain was too much for him to sleep, even with the pills.

"Besides, I've got a list of chores around the place I've been putting off."

Blair rolled his eyes. "Riight, like what, wash mold from the brick wall on the balcony?"

Jim sniffed. "Just so happens I've been thinking about building shelves in my room, Mr. Sarcasm."

"Seriously?"

"Well, building might be the wrong word to use. More like assemble."

"Ikea?"

"Naturally."

"Jim."

"No."

"Half a day."

"No."

"You won't even know I'm there."

"No."

"I'll take a cab back."

"No."

"You can't tell me I can't take a cab."

"You step one foot out of this loft, Sandburg, and I'll arrest you."

"You can't arrest me."

"Yes, I can."

"On what charge?"

"Stupid without a license."

"No such thing."

"Yes, there is."

"Oh, yeah? Where do I get the license?"

"What? You think you qualify?"

"I put up with you, don't I?"

Jim paused. How did Blair manage to turn that one around? "Shit, I thought I was winning," he muttered to himself as he finished shaving. He flicked the last bit of white foam into the sink and turned on the tap. Using a damp hand towel, he wiped his face.

"Jim."

"No, squared, plus infinity." Jim turned off the bathroom light. He pointed at the man sitting at the table on his way to the drawer housing his gun and holster. Blair couldn't manage jeans yet because of his bulky dressing. He wore his best sweat pants and a nearly new `Cascade PD' T-shirt. His hair was pulled back and his face scrubbed. "You are not coming to work with me, even half a day, no way, no how, so give it up."

But Blair did not give up. Jim could tell by the way he cocked his head and squinted. Sure, the last four days had been nice and the loft did have a few home improvements. Blair was staying awake longer. He'd returned to the doctor for a checkup yesterday and things were progressing.

"Two hours?" Blair pushed. "I swear I'll stay in a chair the whole time."

"What if I have to go out?" Jim knew the second those seven words left his mouth that he had totally screwed up.

Blair's face lit with victory. "See? That's what I wanted to explain to you. I want to hang with Dan Wolf. Look over the Jane Doe in the park case. Come on, Jim. Didn't I handle the drive to the doctor yesterday? And I didn't get tired. I'll be back by lunch and I swear I'll go right to my room and rest the whole afternoon. Isn't Molly scheduled to come by at two? You don't-"

"Sandburg, shut up and breathe." Jim pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's about being cleared to work. You're not."

"Newsflash." Blair smiled brightly. "I'm not on payroll."

"It's a liability issue."

"I'll sign a waiver."

"Simon is going to kill me."

"I'll send flowers to your funeral."

"Get your damn shoes on."

"Can you help? I can't bend over to tie the laces."

"Correction, I am going to kill you."

"Ellison."

"Hey, Jim," Blair said.

Jim glanced at his wrist. Blair had been down with Dan for about ninety minutes. "You ready to go home?"

An exasperated sigh followed the ignored questions. "Can you come down here a second?"

"I suppose." Jim stood. He had a few files to return to records and stretching his legs sounded like a good idea. A few minutes later he entered Dan Wolf's kingdom, which was filled with strong smells of alcohol wipes and visions of shiny stainless steel. Jim learned early on as a sentinel not to delve too deeply into the scents. Decaying flesh had a tendency to put him off lunch. He nodded to the technicians and ignored the ongoing autopsy in progress.

Dan had set Blair up in a small, seldom used side room. Jim found him perched on a tall metal stool with a short back. The bones from the park were assembled on a cold metal examination table, the type with grooves along the edges for draining away messy fluids.

"I'm working with this humerus bone," Blair said by way of a greeting.

Jim nodded. They'd only found one of the woman's upper arm bones. "Okay."

"Touch," Blair instructed, fingertips running over the upper part. "Tell me what you feel."

Jim obediently touched. "It's a bone."

Blair missed the light sarcasm. "I want you to concentrate on the surface, man. First the top, compare it with the bottom. Dial it up. Close your eyes and think topographical. What's the top like when compared to the rest of the bone?"

Jim let that voice carry and guide him. Blair's strong hand wrapped around his other wrist, binding him to the earth as he let his sense of touch soar. Topographical... Vast expanse of what? Blair wanted a comparison? Okay, then, lower section of the bone seemed smooth, maybe one or two nicks. Upper section was different. Jim pictured cragged mountain peaks. He opened his eyes and zoomed in on the ivory colored bone.

"Definitely different, Chief. You've got a surface rough with grainy ridges up toward the shoulder."

Blair nibbled his upper lip as he nodded in thoughtful agreement. "From muscles. She had unusually developed muscles in her upper arms. The ridges are from where they attached to the bone. This is her right arm. Damn, I wish we had the other one."

"So, you think she was a body builder?"

"No," Blair said, sliding off the stool with a grimace. He shuffled to the end of the table. "The legs look normal. I think it was just her arms. She had a physical job maybe. She carried something regularly." He bobbed his head as his eyes roamed the table's contents for a clue.

Jim was intrigued. "What else have you found?"

Blair returned to his stool and accepted Jim's help to return to his perch. Once seated, he picked up a small notebook. "You already know the stuff Dan figured out. Female, childless, blunt head trauma."

"Right."

"I've been working on her skull." Blair nodded to a large pair of spreading calipers. He flipped to a page filled with careful pencil drawings of the skull. "Racial differences can be determined, but you already know that. Dan thinks she's Caucasian and he might be right. No way am I saying I'm better or-"

Jim cut him off with a wave. "Just give me your impression. I'm not holding you to anything."

Blair flashed a thankful look. "Okay, well, see the cheekbones? They look a little wing-like to me."

"Wing-like." Jim frowned at the skull. "I'm not looking for the missing link, Darwin."

Blair snorted then clutched his gut. "Ow, ow, ow. No jokes!"

Oh, shit. Jim cupped the back of Blair's neck. "You okay? Listen, we're pushing two hours here. Let's get you back the loft."

Blair sobered up instantly. "No, it's good. Everything is good." He straightened with determination.

"You sure?"

"Yeah," Blair said, all business again as he gestured to the skull. "My point is this. The Mongoloid race will show those facial features. Now, Dan is right about the high bridged nasal bones being more Caucasian, so I'm thinking she was mixed, part white, part Asian."

It made sense. Jim looked down at the bones, traces of a person, clues to a violent crime. "What else?"

Blair seemed to wilt. "That's all I've had time for, sorry."

"Hey," Jim said. "We're not dealing with a set deadline. Don't be sorry."

"It just... when I read the book, everything was so clear." Blair crinkled his nose sheepishly. "I'm really out of my league, man."

Dan walked into the room, carrying a black briefcase. "Hey, Jim."

"Dan."

The Medical Examiner set the case on a side table and opened it up. Inside was a laptop. "Okay, Blair. Here's the deal."

"Deal?" Blair looked confused. "What deal?"

"I had to clear this with the Chief, but after we talked, I figured I'd be an idiot not to accept your help." He unplugged a phone from the wall jack and stuck in a computer line. "This will get you into the department's forensic database. I'll write down the password. You'll need to sign a confidentiality agreement. It's wordier than the one you signed to ride with Jim."

"Sandburg is supposed to be recovering-"

Dan held up his hand. "No expectations. This is my old laptop. The budget had enough in it to buy me a new one last spring. Okay, Blair, let me show you what this will do."

Jim watched with mixed feelings. The laptop already had a complete digital photo gallery and fact file of the bones. Dan explained how his computer database was set up and showed him the link for the state and national sites.

Blair was a kid on Christmas morning.

Jim quietly entered the dark loft. He hadn't meant to stay as late as he had, but they'd managed a major bust on the triple homicide case. He'd called Blair a few times that afternoon, just to make sure the patrol car did follow his explicit instructions to take the observer directly home and not fall prey to the verbal manipulations of the master and get talked into a detour to Rainier. Jim had even talked to Molly around three. Blair hadn't spent the afternoon alone.

The clock on the wall didn't tell him anything he didn't already know. It was after midnight. Simon had sent him home with instructions to take the morning off.

Dan's loaned laptop was set up on the table, a phone cord snaking out the back. No wonder the last several attempts to call the loft had met a busy signal. Jim had ended up calling Blair's cell phone to check in.

Jim cat-footed to the Blair's doorway. It was hard to see where the anthropologist ended and the book pile began. Blair was curled on his uninjured side, head at the wrong end of the bed. His legs were buried under books. One arm curled under his head, Blair was drooling onto a pile of loose papers splayed over the mattress. His right hand still held a pen.

"What part of take it easy and rest had you confused, Scholar?" Jim whispered as he began picking up, closing and stacking books. He read the spines. Blair was researching anatomy and forensic manuals. All the books bore a university library stamp. Tomes now in stacks on the floor, Jim gathered up the papers.

Blair woke, blinking in confusion at the sounds around him.

"It's just me, Blair," Jim said, knowing his guide could not see in the dark room. "Searching through this junk for my roommate."

"Funny, man," Blair whispered as he made to rise. He groaned.

"Did you take your pill?"

"Y-yeah." Successfully pushing off the mattress to sit up, revealing another book he'd been laying on, Blair wiped the side of his face with his arm.

"When?"

"Jim, g'me a break."

The last book would have hit the floor had Jim not moved fast to catch it. He tossed it with the others and took Blair's arm. His partner was getting out of bed for whatever reason, moving like a geriatric patient. "Where you going?"

"Toilet," Blair answered, rubbing his eyes one-handedly. "What time is it?"

"Late." Jim got him past the books and let him continue on his own. He leaned over to reach the wall switch. "Watch your eyes."

While Blair was busy, Jim pushed the books under the bed. God, there had to be entire bookcases empty at Rainier now. How the hell had Blair managed to get them all delivered? Molly?

The next morning Jim allowed himself an extra hour of sleep, waking to the sound of fingers on a keyboard. Heading for the shower, he frowned at his roommate sitting at the table, laptop and books covering its surface. This was not a good sign. Obsessive wasn't just a word, it was Blair's lifestyle. Then again, it was the same trait which kept Jim from living in a mental institution, counting the invisible dust motes in the air.

But Blair needed to recuperate, not begin a new passion.

Later, after the shower and getting dressed, Jim filled a mug with the coffee Blair had thoughtfully made. It smelled several hours old.

"Ready for breakfast, Sandburg?" Jim still had a few hours before he needed to go in to work.

"I had a bagel." Blair didn't look up from his typing.

"That's nice, now how about a real breakfast." Jim opened the icebox. "Omelets sound good."

They ate with the laptop on the table. Blair's eyes never left the screen. After eating half the omelet, Blair stopped picking up his fork and devoted his attention to whatever he was reading on the screen. Jim finished and cleared the table.

Was Blair's skin a little too red? Did he have a fever?

"You took your meds this morning, right?" Jim asked as he folded the damp dish towel and hung it to dry.

Blair looked up from his reading. "You know what you should do, man? Go hit the gym. You need a break."

"I'm just asking..."

"Jim, if you ask me one more time, I'm going to show you how great I feel by chasing you out the door." Blair pointed up to Jim's room. "Go, get your stuff. Exhaust yourself at the gym and go to work. I'll see you tonight."

Yeah, well, it did sound like a plan. Jim felt the tension in his neck and shoulders. A few hours couldn't hurt.

"Well, that was my plan all along." Jim headed for the stairs, ignoring his friend's smirk. A few minutes later he was at the door. "I'll check in."

`Uh huh." Blair was typing again, his eyes on an open book beside the computer.

Pocketing his keys, Jim paused with his hand on the doorknob. "Ethan is coming by around one," Jim said. "Why don't you take a break?"

Blair waved at Jim as if he were a pesky mosquito. "Get out of here, man. I'm busy."

A wise man picked his battles so Jim went to the gym.

"I hear Sandburg is working for Wolf," Simon said as he dropped another stack of papers in Jim's inbox.

Eyeing the new arrivals glumly, Jim nodded. "Yeah, he's got the Jane Doe from the park on his mind."

"And?" Simon crossed his arms and peered over the top of his glasses. "Is he finding anything useful?"

Jim shifted the piles on his desk and pulled out his report and gathered notes on the skeleton from his `in progress' stack. "Well, so far, he's fine tuned some facts. Turns out she might have been part Asian."

"Yeah?" Simon's eyebrows rose. "No kidding? What did Dan say?"

"He seemed happy for the help. Even loaned Blair a laptop and gave him access to the station's database." Jim thumbed through his notes, coming upon the complete list of items found by the college kids in their dig.

"Keep me informed, Detective," Simon said as he returned to his office.

Jim nodded as he reviewed the list, his mind on the victim's unusual upper body strength. Blair and Dan estimated her height as five-two or thereabouts. What sort of activity would give a petite woman in her twenties a set of guns?

He scanned the list again, reviewing the odd assortment of litter that had been carefully bagged, causing the sergeant on shift a minor stroke over the quantity the day it all had been logged in. But the college kids had done an admirable job. The department had even managed a brief tour of the station as a treat. The local press had written a column in the Cascade Times paper. Blair already had a copy in his scrap book. According to the reporter, at least two of the kids were seriously considering a career in forensic work.

Something here had to be useful. But everything seemed to be typical stuff found in any vacant plot of land near houses: pull tabs from beer and soda cans, food wrappers, bits of plastic, typical stuff that took centuries to decompose, if they even could. But one item caught Jim's attention, a blue strip of plastic, perforated with tiny holes.

"Hey, H, I'll be down in evidence if anyone asks." Jim headed for the door. A few minutes later he was browsing through a box, looking for the color blue. Finding the tiny baggie with its stiff paper tag marked with his case number and the number eleven, he studied the blue strip. "It's a Band-Aid."

The middle cloth part was gone. Dirt clung to the adhesive ends. Jim pulled out the plot map. The professor had carefully marked the location each `artifact' had been discovered. Jim found what he wanted.

Yes!

This bandaid had been dug up within a few inches from the victim's left hand bones.

Jim entered his home with an arm load of Greek food. His short day had been productive and he had a spring to his step. Brown's case had been typed up and fired off to the prosecutor's office. His own workload was progressing nicely.

"Sandburg?" Jim set their dinner down and extended his hearing toward his friend's room. Blair's heartbeat told him his roommate was asleep. Jim approved.

Tidying up Blair's papers and books enough to set out the food, Jim busied himself with dishing up two plates. He fixed a tray of Spanakopita, a spinach pie appetizer that Blair loved and Mousaka, an oven baked mix of potatoes, eggplant, zucchini, ground beef, with bchamel sauce. To think Jim's idea of take out food before he met Blair had involved a revolving list of pizza, Mexican and Chinese. For a thrill he would hit a local neighborhood Thai place. Then his senses had gone wacko on him and he could barely manage white rice.

Jim tapped Blair's door frame, balanced the tray one-handedly and opened the French door. "Hey, sloth. Ready for dinner?"

Sprawled over his futon, wearing a t-shirt and covered from the waist down by a sheet, Blair opened a bloodshot eye, his face smashed into a pillow. His hair had been attacked by rabid rats in a nesting frenzy. "Mmmphaszit?"

"Dinner time," Jim answered as he set the tray down on the chair. "I'll get you some juice. It's time for your pill."

He returned with a class of white grape juice to find Blair sniffing at the tray with interest, one straight arm holding his upper body off the mattress, the other arm curled protectively around his injured side. Blair tried to shift his legs forward to sit up, but the movement obviously hurt. Jim set down the glass, lifted the sheet to see hairy legs in cropped sweat pants and reached for one of Blair's ankles. The skin was hot. No doubt about it. Blair had overdone it.

"You have a fever," Jim couldn't help but chastise.

"I'm fine." Blair yawned and blinked several times, scratching the side of his head and pointed at the tray. "Gimme."

After Blair scooted back enough to lean against the wall, Jim set the tray over his legs and quickly touched the back of his hand against the sleep-creased brow.

"Jim," Blair complained.

"Shut up, Sandburg," Jim answered, quickly gauging the temperature; about a hundred. This was not a good thing. "You've been working too hard. I knew this was going to happen. Take this."

"So I'll eat and take a cold shower and everything will be fine." Blair took the pill, swallowed a mouthful of juice and picked up his fork. "Man, this looks good. How'd you know I was in the mood for Greek?"

"I didn't." Jim stood up, his earlier, happy mood gone.

"Get a tray and come in and talk to me." Blair shoved a forkful of spinach into his mouth and talked as he chewed. "I gotta tell you something about the Jane Doe case."

"Fine. Then we're going to call your doctor." Jim pulled a second tray out from under the sink and brought in his dinner. "I have some news, too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, you go first." Jim started in on his meal.

"Okay." Blair set his fork down and drank more juice before starting. "I was reading about the skull and how they can reconstruct the shape of the face with clay. I talked to Dan and he's okay with it. The Art's department has the clay. I think we can build a half decent composite of what she would have looked like. Isn't that cool?"

"Yeah, it is." Jim nodded. "And I need something to show around, because I think I know what she did for a living. I could use your composite to start interviewing businesses."

Blair's mouth dropped open and Jim could see half chewed potatoes and ground beef.

"Didn't your mother tell you to chew with your mouth closed?" Jim asked, wincing.

Blair swallowed in a rush. "Jim! That's great, man! How'd you figure it out? What did she do? What was your clue? How'd-"

"Whoa, slow down before you pop a stitch." Jim waved his fork at Blair's middle. "I'll explain. Give me a chance."

Blair was all ears, his meal forgotten.

"Remember the bit about the upper arm muscles?"

"Yeah?"

"I looked through the debris the kids found and there was a blue Band-Aid that might have come from her left hand."

Blair squinted in confusion. "Yeah?"

"Blue Band-Aid. Get it?"

"No."

"Didn't you ever notice the color of the Band-Aids worn at some restaurants?"

Blair nodded, unsure. "Blue?"

"Right."

"Okay, why?"

"So that if a customer claims they found a Band-Aid in their food, they would know if it's true and not some sham for a free meal if all the employees wore blue colored Band-Aids," Jim explained. "If she was a waitress, it would explain the muscles. They hold the trays above their shoulders."

"Wow... that's incredible," Blair whispered, his eyes wide with wonder. "I think you're right, man."

"If we get a decent looking model of her face, I can show it around the Cascade restaurants that have the blue Band-Aid policy and see what turns up," Jim added.

Blair looked thoughtful. "Even if we never find the killer, we'll have identified the woman. Give her family a chance to stop wondering. Closure, man."

"True, but I'd rather catch her killer," Jim said. "Now, eat up."

Blair felt awful. Everything ached, even his nail beds. It was one AM and he felt like the only person in Cascade awake. He rolled on his good side and stretched for his pill bottle. Fingers knocked over the plastic vial and he heard it roll away on the floor.

"Shit." He threw an arm over his eyes. Why was this happening to him? When did the good-karma well run dry?

Earlier, Jim had stuck a thermometer under Blair's tongue and called the twenty-four hour emergency number for the doctor's office. Blair's temperature had been up, holding at a hundred degrees. The nurse on call had suggested they come down but Blair had quickly talked his roommate out of the drive. He'd felt fine then.

Not now, though. Now he hurt. His side hurt. His head hurt. Every part of his body had turned on him. He needed those white pills. Before he could make his traitorous limbs work and get down on the floor to find the pills, Blair heard feet on the steps above him, followed by Jim's tap on the doorframe.

"Sandburg?"

"Shit." Blair dropped his head back onto his pillow. "Sorry."

Scooping down to pick up the runaway pill bottle, Jim leaned over the futon and placed a cool palm on his forehead. "Your fever's up."

"I feel terrible," Blair admitted, blinking up at the dark shape of the sentinel.

"This would be the right time to point out I warned you not to overdo it," Jim said.

"Don't, Jim," Blair pleaded. "No lectures, give me a pill."

But Jim didn't. The bedside lamp clicked on. Jim pulled the chair close and wore his look which meant Blair might as well shut up and endure. The sheet was flicked down and the T-shirt pulled up. Blair flinched as Jim's fingernail began to work on the tape around his dressing. He steeled himself for the tickly feeling of the tape being peeled back, watching Jim's face for some clue as to what he was seeing.

Blair might as well try reading the side of a stone cliff. Cool fingers gently pressed around the wound.

"This hurt?" Jim demanded.

"No more than before."

"What about here?"

Blair shook his head. "I'm fine, I just need a pain pill and I can sleep."

"You took one less than four hours ago." Jim replaced the tape and drew a circle in the air with his forefinger. "Roll."

"Jiim..."

"Blair." Jim wasn't taking opinions, his decision clearly spelled out in the icy blue eyes.

Blair huffed, but rolled over, clumsily and not without a little pain. The process was repeated, but this time the touch nearly sent him through the roof. "Hey!"

"Yeah, it's infected," Jim declared softly.

Blair smacked the mattress with his fist. Damn it to hell, he'd just read a few books and typed at a stupid keyboard. It wasn't fair. Jim was standing up now, saying something about getting dressed. It was hard to hear over the angry rush of blood pounding in his ears. Jim was going to lose another night of rest because of this. More time off work, maybe. Blair's face prickled with heat from an incriminating blush.

"Come on, sit up."

When had Jim returned? Blair let himself be turned back over, amazed at the way Jim could do it without causing pain. Now he was sitting upright and Jim was threading his arms through the sleeves of his robe. The slippers were too big, but the thick lambs-wool hugged his heel and he managed to walk toward the door.

The cool night air felt great on his face and neck. Blair didn't even mind the shiver that ran up and down his spine. Jim's arm around his back was warm and he closed his eyes, trusting his roommate to keep him from falling.

Realization caused him to balk at the Explorer's open passenger door. "I'm not going to have to stay in the hospital again, am I?"

"Let's just get you looked at first. We'll deal with the rest later," Jim said, not taking `no' for an answer and getting Blair settled into the seat in record time.

"We'll start you on a stronger dose of antibiotics, Mr. Sandburg," the ER doctor said. He glanced down at the chart in his hand. "Frankly, I didn't think you had an infection, but the blood work does show it. It certainly accounts for the fever. I'm glad you didn't put off coming in."

Blair's eyes flicked to Jim in surprise. "I don't have to stay?"

"You need rest and more rest." The medical man scratched down some notes as he talked. "Keep a tight schedule with this new medication. Don't miss a single dose. And don't quit just because you start to feel better. You finish the entire bottle, understand?"

"But, I don't have to stay, right?"

Jim rolled his eyes. "He understands. I'll make sure he stays down."

"Jim, we're working on a case," Blair protested.

The doctor looked alarmed. "You're working? After a gunshot wound? Who's your supervisor? I'd like to talk to him."

Jim held up a hand. "He's a consultant. He was doing some research for us. I'll make sure he scales back."

Still looking skeptical, the man nodded. He lectured Blair another five minutes about the importance of rest before taking his leave.

Blair turned to Jim. "You can't expect me to drop-"

"Enough!" Jim cut him off in mid-rant. "First of all, if given a choice between your health and this case, it's a no brainer. I can't believe we're even having this discussion. Secondly, I said `scale down', remember? No one said you had to drop out of the investigation."

His jaw thrust out and a determined glint in his eye, Blair crossed his arms. "Damn straight."

The eastern horizon held a dusty blush above the mountain range. They drove home in silence. Blair tilted at an angle against the door, obviously to relieve the pressure to his injured side. He stared morosely out the window.

"Got a call about the one-fifty yesterday. They say it'll be ready in another week," Jim said to break the sour mood.

"That's good,' Blair answered flatly.

They rode another quiet two miles before Blair sighed. "I was starting to feel better, like I could teach." He twisted his mouth. "Guess I was stupid."

"Sandburg, you had a lump of metal tear through your body. You need time to heal," Jim said quietly. "Please don't rush it, okay?"

"It's just frustrating, Jim." Blair leaned his head against the door window. "There's so much to do."

"Believe me, I understand. I'm learning that a bored Sandburg is a very scary thing," Jim quipped.

Blair sighed a second time. "I suppose coming in to work with you today is out of the question."

Jim thought at first he was joking, until he looked over and read the slim hope in the earnest expression. "That would be a big `hell no', Sandburg."

Henry had the day off and was on the afternoon schedule to drop by the loft. When Jim made sure Blair was asleep, he made a quick call and the plan was changed. Henry would bring his keyboard and headphones over and spend the day practicing in the loft.

Jim showered, dressed for work and packed a quick lunch. If he worked straight through, he could put in his time and get back early. Brown arrived with a cheerful grin. Jim explained Blair's medication schedule, where the juice and coffee was kept. He moved the yellow chair to make room for the keyboard and left for the station.

That morning an overseas call arrived. Jim took careful notes during the conversation and hung up with a satisfied feeling. They finally had a match to the button. Jim took his notes into Simon's office.

"We have something new on the Jane Doe in the park, Simon," Jim said.

"About time." Simon stood behind his desk, stuffing files into a leather satchel. "I've got two minutes before I'm more than socially late for my Division Leadership Meeting."

"I'll make it quick," Jim said. "The reason we didn't find the manufacturer earlier is because it's not a jean button. I extended my search and made more calls yesterday afternoon. We got lucky. It goes on a heavy canvas apron made in Taiwan and sold through specialty chef supply stores."

"Apron." Simon snapped his satchel closed. "That supports your theory she worked in a restaurant."

"I'm working on a list of restaurants now."

"Good." Simon walked Jim to his office door. "How are Sandburg's forensic skills coming along?"

"I had to put a hold on that, sir." Jim paused, a hand on the door. "He was overdoing it."

"Who's with him today?"

"Brown." Jim swung the door open and motioned for his boss to go ahead. "He's got orders to keep Blair in bed."

"I thought you were my friend."

Henry Brown shook his head. "Nice try, Hairboy, but I grew up the oldest in a family of seven kids."

Blair glared at his appointed babysitter. Jim was so dead. "Okay, if you're going to be a jerk and not tell me where it is, can I at least make a phone call? Even prisoners get one lousy phone call."

Henry grinned wolfishly, his earphones around his neck. "You gonna yell at Ellison?"

"Oh, yeah," Blair growled.

"I'll get it."

Blair dialed. Jim answered in his typical style.

"Ellison."

"Where's my damn laptop?"

"Hi, Sandburg."

"Jim! I get that you don't won't me working on the case, but I'm talking about my personal laptop now. Where is it?"

"In my truck along with your books and notes."

"What?" Blair ignored the grinning man standing in his doorway.

"Chief, calm down."

"I will not!" Blair's fingers squeezed the handset. "You bring me my laptop right now."

"Okay."

Blair sputtered a second, not expecting the calm way Jim agreed to his demands. "W-what?"

"I said okay," Jim repeated. "My shift is over anyway. I should be at the loft in less than twenty."

Blair frowned. The light outside the window told him it was only three, maybe four at the latest. He'd slept most of the day, which was why he felt fine and wanted his laptop. He'd been enraged when Henry had told he didn't know where it was. "Why are you quitting early?"

"I went in early and worked through lunch," Jim explained patiently. "Ask Brown if he wants to join us for dinner."

Blair hugged the phone to his chest and glared at Brown. "You want to eat with us?"

"Nah, I've got a gig to get ready for tonight," Brown said cheerfully.

"He says he can't," Blair snapped at Jim.

"Okay, I'll be there before you know it."

When Brown made to reach for the handset, Blair hugged it to his chest again. "I'm making more calls. Scram." He tuned out the chuckles as Brown walked back into the living room. "Great, I'm surrounded by cop clowns. Laptop stealing cop clowns," he muttered as he dialed the number to Hargrove Hall.

Molly was gone for the day. The secretary offered to take a message. Blair sniffed impatiently, not wanting to ask anyone else to bring him what he wanted. He thanked her and hung up.

When Jim walked in the door carrying a large cardboard box, Blair was just stepping out of the bathroom, wearing clean sweats. The shower had helped center his emotions but he still had the urge to punch someone, preferably the tall roommate who was currently thanking his jailer.

"Anytime, Jim. You have a great place to practice jazz in."

Jim held open the door, nodding agreeably. "We'll set up a night when the neighbors are gone and we have the building to ourselves. You can invite your group for a session."

Brown's eyes widened with delight. "Oh, babe! Don't tease me."

Jim laughed. "We'll do it."

After the cop musician was gone, Jim faced Blair without fear. "How you feeling, Chuckles?"

"You are out of control, Jim," Blair grumbled as he shuffled to the box on the table. Yep, two laptops, power cords and an armload of books. "I can't believe you took my stuff."

"We tried it your way," Jim reasoned as he tucked his gun away. He went to the sink and washed his hands. "Now it's my way. What smells so good?"

This was so not over. "Brown made dinner, chicken something or other."

"All right." Jim opened the oven door and inhaled happily. "I got a line on that button." He sought out the brown bowl used for tossing a salad.

Still not willing to forgive yet, Blair held his tongue. He wanted to run to his room with the box, but knew he could never lift it. He lifted out Dan's laptop and began to sort through the power cables. His curiosity overcame his anger, however, and as the oven timer buzzed and Jim reached for a hot pad to remove their dinner, Blair sat down with a sigh. "What did you find out?"

After dinner, Jim left Blair to his internet research. Seemed the kid was still preparing for his clay model. A temporary truce had been declared. Jim washed up, wrapped the leftover chicken in plastic to save for lunch tomorrow and turned on the TV in time to catch the beginning of a movie he'd been looking forward to watching.

Just after seven-thirty, the sound of approaching footsteps caused him to turn down the sound. Blair worked at the table, unaware they were about to have a visitor. Jim tracked the person as he passed the neighbor's door. Definitely a male, not anyone he knew. Jim stood, walking to the drawer that held his gun.

"Did you invite anyone over?"

Blair looked up from his typing in surprise. "What?"

The knock on the door came. Jim held up his hand. "Who is it?"

"My name is Bitner. I'd like to talk to Blair Sandburg?" the visitor announced through the closed door.

The look of total amazement caused Jim to pull out the gun drawer. But Blair hurried to his feet with a grunt. "It's okay, Jim. Wow. What's he doing here? Let him in."

Jim obeyed, opening the door unarmed. An older man stood in the hall.

Blair pushed in between them. "Professor Bitner, come in, come in."

Jim sized up the newcomer. Tall and fit, someone used to hard work, no stranger to long days outside either, judging by his tan. That hadn't come from the northwest, unless it was from a tanning bed. Bitner was nearly bald, but was the type of guy it looked good on. He wore light canvas pants with cargo pockets and a short sleeve shirt. A shoebox-sized wooden box with brass hinges was tucked under one arm.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," Bitner said, glancing between Jim and Blair.

"No, man. Not at all." Blair waved toward the sofas. "Sit down. What can we do for you? Oh, wait. You don't know Jim. Jim, this is Professor Charles Bitner. Professor, this is Detective Jim Ellison."

Jim reached over to shake the man's hand. Bitner seemed puzzled. He looked at Blair. "You live with a police detective?"

Blair scratched his jaw, obviously working up an appropriate reply, so Jim jumped in. "Sandburg's place had a fire, explosion actually. We were working on a case together, so I offered him my extra room to rent. It works."

"Yeah, aside from the loft rules, it's perfect." Blair had neared the longer of the two sofas and looked like he was ready to sit.

Sitting without having something at waist level to hold on to was painful with a gut wound. Jim moved in and unobtrusively took Blair's arm, using his body to block Bitner's view before taking his own seat further down.

"I heard from Molly you were working with the art department on making a facial replica from clay." Bitner opened the small wooden box and turned it so Blair could see in. "If you're using the three-dimensional process, I thought you might like to borrow my kit."

Jim could see bits of cork, sharp razor knives, and pairs of glass eyes looking back at him. Other odds and ends that he couldn't identify all had their own storage spot in the divided sections of the box.

"Really? This is so great, man." Blair accepted the box as Bitner handed it over. "I've been working on the skin depths. What's the best tissue marker to use? And how important is it to use the Frankfort Horizontal position?"

"I use cork. Easy to cut, glues in place and cheap." Bitner pointed to the box. "Should be plenty. As to the position, absolutely the Frankfort Horizontal. Who's your artist going to be?"

"Well," Blair said, glancing at Jim. "Me, I guess. The department has good composite sketching personnel, and I think Dan's working on a two dimensional composite. But he's going to let me try a three dimensional."

"Is he going to let you bring the skull to the loft?" Jim asked.

"No," Blair admitted. "I need to go down to the station."

"Not going to happen for a while, Chief," Jim stated flatly.

"But you need the model, Jim," Blair said, turning to face Jim with earnest. "You're going to start canvassing the restaurants, right? I've been reading, and a three dimensional is way better than just a sketch."

"I'll make do. If I think someone might be unsure, I'll go back after you've finished."

"Jim."

"No."

Blair flopped back against the sofa cushions. The action caused a flinch he could ill suppress. Jim sighed, seeing Bitner look at the younger man with concern. "Blair's idea of bed rest isn't the same as his doctor's."

"Jim," Blair whispered under his breath. "Shut up, man."

"What if I offer to go down to your police station and work on the model?" Bitner said after a short, awkward silence. "If you think your Medical Examiner would let me, that is."

Blair's entire demeanor did a complete reversal. He leaned forward, excitement leaping from his face. "Seriously? Could you? That would be so great. I know Dan Wolf would jump at the chance to let you do it."

"You don't mind?" Bitner waved at the box. "Sounds like you've already done some good work."

Blair shook his head. "It's not important who finds the clues. What's important is finding the killer. It's all about teamwork." Blair looked at Jim. "Right?"

Jim nodded. "That's right."

The edges of Bitner's mouth dropped along with his gaze. He seemed to withdraw within himself for a few seconds before nodding. "You know, the path is sometimes painful, but the lesson is still true. I thought I could leave my work and spend my last years building displays in museums." He shook his head with a sad smile. "I miss it."

"Hey," Blair said as he handed back the box. "You're wiser. You'll be even better than before. Consider your time with the Northwest Indian display a hiatus."

Bitner took the box and closed the lid. He looked at Jim. "Can I accompany you to work in the morning? I'd like to meet this Dan Wolf."

Jim had a feeling Dan was going to want to meet Bitner.

Jim drove to work with a sense of accomplishment. Blair was still sleeping. Last night, Jim had called the nice old professor lady Blair had once introduced him to, an Estelle Price. When Jim had explained Blair's tendency to push himself while recuperating, she had volunteered to stay in the loft all day. Since today was Friday and Jim had the weekend off, he could guarantee three more days of total rest on his partner's horizon.

Besides, Jim had left the laptops behind today, but stolen their internal batteries and the power cords.

Bitner was wearing a suit and sitting comfortably in the lobby of the police station when Jim arrived. He already had the paperwork filled out and all Jim had to add was his own signature. Navigating the hallways, Jim filled the man in on the facts of the Jane Doe case as they knew them. Bitner listened without interrupting.

They entered Wolf's department to find the medical examiner talking to his secretary about a missing file. Jim waited for a chance to make the introductions. Finally Dan gave the newcomers his attention.

"Dan, this is Professor Charles Bitner," Jim said. "Professor, Dan Wolf, Cascade's Chief of Forensic."

Dan's look of complete shock lasted a full five seconds before he remembered his manners. He stuck out a large paw and shook the visiting man's hand. "What a pleasure, sir," Dan said in his low, gravelly voice. "I have all your books."

"Call me Charlie." Bitner glanced around the busy office. Technicians were milling around the back of the large room, phones were ringing, computer monitors glowed and files spilled out from every desk and wall pocket. "This makes me nostalgic for my old office in Florida."

"Let me show you around." Dan glanced at Jim as if to ask if he was staying. The look was clear, he wanted some time, one on one, with this man.

"I'd like that, then I'd like to offer my services for the case Blair Sandburg is helping you with. I understand you're interested in a facial reconstruction."

Jim was forgotten as the two men headed back toward the examination rooms. The secretary, an older woman with steel-gray curls, shared a knowing look. "Did you need anything, Jim?"

Jim shook his head. "My work here is done. Could you buzz me when Professor Bitner is ready to leave? I'll take him to lunch."

"Certainly."

Jim whistled a tune as he entered the bull pen. He had a list of restaurants to compile. He settled in to his desk, prepared for a productive day.

It didn't happen.

First an important witness on one of his older cases, an identity theft ring, called and asked for a meeting. That lasted until lunchtime. Jim called Wolf's office to find out the man had taken Bitner out for lunch. Left out, Jim grabbed something from the vending machine and made it back to his desk in time to have Simon rope him into a project for a meeting he was attending on Monday. Together with Joel, Jim sneezed through dusty files, compiling data on crime stats and building a spread sheet. It drove home the fact that life with computers had streamlined their work. Today, the statistics of cases were automatically sorted and filed away for use.

Around two-thirty, his phone rang.

"Ellison."

"You are beyond evil, Jim."

Jim grinned. "Hi, Sandburg."

"I want those batteries."

"Have to wait until I get home."

"I hate you."

"Did you sleep well?" Jim slapped a file shut, forgetting the dust, and was promptly thrown into a volley of sneezes. He waited for the normal show of concern from his guide.

"I hope you pop an aneurysm."

Jim's eyebrows lifted. Blair was pissed. Before he could comment, he heard a heavy sigh from the other end.

"Not really. I'm just blowing steam. Listen, man, we've got to discuss this overprotective streak you have. I'm thinking about filing for emancipation orders," Blair said grumpily. He dropped his voice to a terse whisper. "And what's with pulling in Price? She's on me every time I twitch. I'm going nuts here."

There was a certain tone of desperation in his friend's voice. Jim sighed and looked at his own desk. He could use some help. "Do you feel well enough to work on the Jane Doe case this afternoon? Simon's got me neck deep in reports."

"Sure, anything. What do you want me to do?"

"Grab a pen."

The loft was as neat as a boot camp barracks when Jim arrived later that afternoon. The Friday traffic had been bad. Motorhomes and vacationers clogged the streets and highways. The heat of the day had made tempers short and by the time Jim had parked and walked up the three flights of stairs, due to annual elevator maintenance, his reserves were used up.

"Hi, Jim." Blair waved from the sofa. The loft smelled like lemon cleaner and cinnamon rolls. "You just missed Estelle. She had a meeting."

Glancing around in mild shock, Jim took in the gleaming floor, the spotless countertops and the tall glass of ice tea within his roommate's reach. A Discovery channel show played on the TV, something about a tribe living in cliff caves. "Have a nice day?"

"It was okay, I've called all those numbers you gave me." Blair swung his legs down from the sofa and struggled to his feet. "We got chicken-salad sandwiches for dinner. Estelle didn't want to do any more cooking. Those rolls really heated up the place."

"Rolls? Where are they?" Jim could gain five pounds on just the smell. He followed Blair into the kitchen.

"Na huh, sorry. She made them for her meeting tonight." Blair quirked an evil grin. "But, dude, they tasted like heaven. I ate the one she left for you. I guess I'm getting my appetite back."

Jim held out the two battery packs he'd carried up from the truck. "Touch."

"I'm going to buy a safe and put it in my room," Blair promised as he took back his laptop juice. He opened the icebox and pointed to the bounty within. "She used to be a high school home-ec teacher."

"Wow." Jim just stared. "I think we should adopt her."

"How did Professor Bitner do today?" Blair asked.

"Good, I guess. I never saw him after I introduced him to Dan. The two seemed to hit it off. They were talking DNA and databases when I last checked." Jim's stomach growled. That stale sandwich lunch seemed like weeks ago. He looked over his food choices.

Sandwiches under wrap, fruit salad, pudding desserts in individual cups, a large pitcher of ice tea and some sort of meat and cheese rolled up in flour tortillas filled the top two shelves. Jim reached for the sandwiches and salad. The rollups would be perfect munchies for watching TV later on.

They ate in the living room again. It was going to be impossible to get his roommate to eat at the table anymore. One more loft rule torn down and forgotten. Why did he even try?

"I talked to over twenty restaurants that buy those style aprons," Blair reported as they ate. "And over fifty that do the blue bandaid thing. Estelle told me something else. She said that we shouldn't forget the hotels and the larger businesses. Some of them have a full kitchen staff. She said a lot of her students used to get hired by Microsoft and other mega-corporations as chefs."

"Good point." Jim nodded.

"Yeah, so I grabbed the phone book and started another list." Blair held up his yellow legal pad. "We're looking at over a hundred now. And that's just Cascade. If she worked in Seattle or up in Bellingham, we're talking thousands."

"Welcome to police work," Jim said. He took the list. "This is good work, Sandburg."

"You're welcome." Blair polished off the sandwich and licked his fingers. "I was thinking."

Ah oh. Jim braced himself.

"I deserve a road trip. I want out of the loft."

Pushing down his immediate denial, Jim cautiously answered. "Where do you have in mind?"

"You have two days off, right? Can we go camping?"

"No."

"How about a hike?"

"You're joking right?"

Blair innocent look caused Jim to recognize the old `ask for the moon when you really want something closer to planet earth' ploy. "Cut to the chase."

"Can we go to a park tomorrow?" Blair asked, his hands spread out pleadingly. "Someplace, anyplace that isn't here?"

Jim relented. "I suppose the fresh air wouldn't hurt."

"Yes!"

Blair woke to the sound of rain hitting the window. Summers in Western Washington had a way of messing with a person. Glaring at the grey sky, he dressed in sweats and slipped a pair of clean, thick socks over his feet. The temperature in the loft made him shiver as he slowly shuffled toward the kitchen table.

Jim was flipping pancakes. He nodded a morning greeting. "How many can you eat?"

"Three." Blair sat, elbows on the table. He dropped his chin on his palm, depressed. "I suppose the trip is canceled now."

"If I canceled every plan due to the rain, I'd never go anywhere. We have raingear and aren't afraid to use it."

"Really?" Blair straightened. "The trip to the park is still a go?"

Setting a plate of blueberry pancakes in front of his roommate, along with a bottle of syrup shaped like the old lady wearing an apron, Jim poked his arm. "You're like a kid, Chief."

"Hey, I'm just longing for some scenery, man."

They ate, cleaned up, showered and Blair donned his parka. A search for his hiking boots found them under his futon. An hour after eating breakfast, Blair was sliding into the truck.

"Where're we going?" Blair asked.

"Thought I'd surprise you." Jim started the truck and backed out of the angled parking stall. "Let me know if you get tired. We can pull over and rest."

Blair grinned. Wow, this was beginning to sound like a true road trip. He settled into his seat. Jim had brought pillows so he could lean comfortably against the door. After only ten minutes of driving, Jim pulled into a deli.

"Be right back."

Blair watched the Saturday joggers pass by wearing matching colored headbands and sweat suits. Jim reappeared with a shopping bag and set it behind his seat. "Lunch."

They headed northeast. Jim stayed on side roads with stop signs and thirty-five mile an hour speed limits. They drove by dairy farms and homesteads. Blair found himself wishing he'd brought a camera. The rain on the large barns made everything glisten with freshness. It was warmer now and Blair cracked the window enough to enjoy the smell of wet hay.

All too soon, they reached a main two-lane highway and Jim turned toward the eastern mountains. The speed picked up to fifty-five and traffic became heavier. Blair recognized the road.

"We're going over the North Cascade pass?"

"Just to the top. There's an interpretive center up there. Nice place for lunch," Jim told him. "Ever seen it?"

"No, I never did. Always went down to I-ninety," Blair said. "It was faster."

"You're in for a treat. Someday we'll go all the way to Twisp. Great fishing."

The road climbed. They passed small towns, born from the days of railroad and timber. The rain stopped. To the right, an unspoiled river paralleled the road and Blair saw more than one fly fishermen standing waist deep in waders. The fir and cedar trees began to make room for a few pines. They broke above the low clouds. Cragged mountain peaks came into view, tree barren and looking like a postcard from the Swiss Alps.

"Wow!" Blair couldn't see enough at once. He turned to look in all directions. "This is incredible."

"Yeah, always been one of my favorite spots." Jim slowed to turn. The short drive to the parking lot told them they weren't the only refugees from the wet weather. Jim parked near the end of the first row and killed the engine. "Let me scout out a picnic table. I'll come back for you."

"No way," Blair said, unbuckling his belt. "I'm good. I want to see as much as I can."

"Figures," Jim muttered. He retrieved the bag with their lunch, waited for Blair to climb out and closed the door before locking the vehicle. "Come on then."

They followed a path that curved around short stubby pines twisted by the wind. Large granite boulders poked up out of the ground. The mountain air was a subtle perfume of pine and rich earth. Jim leaned down, picking up a long, sturdy branch, thick at one end and tapered to a two inch diameter on the other.

"Here, a walking staff."

"Cool," Blair said, testing it for strength. "Perfect, thanks."

They continued down the trail as it wound around picnic tables populated with families. The view grew more spectacular with each passing yard. Blair leaned on the makeshift staff, grateful for the extra support. The trail became narrow and littered with loose rocks.

After fifteen minutes of walking by occupied tables, Jim paused. "We probably should go back. We can eat in the truck."

"Aw, come on," Blair said. He didn't want to give up this view. "Let's keep going. There are other tables, right? Or we can eat on a rock."

But Jim had the look that said his mind was made up. Unexpectedly, he turned and tilted his head. "We're in luck. That last table we passed is packing up to leave. Come on."

They retraced their steps. Sure enough, a young couple was repacking the bottle of wine into a wicker basket. Soon Blair was resting on the bench seat as Jim set out their meal. Blair couldn't get enough of the mountain peaks. The spot was completely secluded from other tables by trees and the sloping mountainside.

"Here," Jim said, putting Blair's pill bottles on the table.

Blair sighed. Leave it to Jim not to forget the damn pills. He wrestled the cap off the largest bottle of horse pills to fight the infection. "So, Jim, can you feel the altitude difference up here?"

Jim sniffed and shrugged, occupied with unwrapping long hoagie sandwiches and pouring BBQ chips onto two paper plates. "No big difference, air's a little thinner maybe. Smog is missing. That's nice."

"Smog?" Blair reached for the apple juice Jim put near his elbow. "We don't have smog."

"Yeah, we do. Not as much as LA or Seattle, but I always smell the exhaust in the air," Jim said as he set the now empty bag on the ground under their table.

"All the time?"

"Pretty much. Not so bad after the rain. Guess that's why I like Cascade. The rain cleans things up." Jim bit into his sandwich. He sat at Blair's side, his gaze roaming the wilderness before them.

What would it be like? Blair had always figured being a sentinel would be right up there with being rich. Jim was a great cop and protector of the tribe, but he dealt with pollution, probably human as well as industrial.

Gross.

"Okay, new rule. Sentinels are scheduled frequent trips to the mountains and beach," Blair vowed.

The laugh lines around Jim's eyes deepened. "My hero."

"I'm serious, man." Blair ignored the sandwich on the paper plate. "The sentinels that Burton studied didn't have pollution. We have no idea how the long term exposure might-"

"I'm not disagreeing with you," Jim interrupted. "In fact, I'm on board with the plan. Now eat your sandwich before those antibiotics play D-day on your gut."

Blair took a bite, swallowing after a few quick chews. He snuck a glance at Jim's profile, seeing for the first time how tired the older man looked. He turned back to the view, guiltily pondering the last couple of weeks. It was doubtful Jim had gotten a full nights rest because of him. Between pill schedules and Blair's helter-skelter sleep pattern, the loft was more like a hospital ward than the man's home.

"Maybe I should crash with some friends. You're working full time and dealing with me. That's got to be a drag. You need a real rest," Blair said.

Jim shot him a surprised look. "Forget it, Sandburg."

"You can't be having any fun." Blair waved at his stomach. "I'm not contributing around the loft right now. You should have some peace and quiet."

"You sleep most of the day," Jim pointed out. "You're quiet."

"Jim."

"Sandburg, no. Okay? Just drop it."

A light went on. "You still feel guilty, don't you? You're taking care of me because you think it was your fault."

Jim rolled his eyes.

Blair pushed his plate away. "I told you in the hospital. I got out of the truck. It's my fault."

"Listen to me," Jim said, turning a little and putting a hand on Blair's forearm. "Those bank robbers wanted a quick escape. The truck was the first thing they saw. Whether you were inside or standing by the door, it wouldn't have made a difference with those guys. Hell, Sandburg. If you'd been inside, they probably would have shot you through the window. So you didn't do anything wrong, understand? I'm the one that parked you too close."

"So what, next time you park miles away and hop a bus to a crime in progress?" Blair shook his head. "That's ridiculous, man."

Jim waved off Blair's words. "And another thing, I am not taking care of you because I feel guilty. You're my friend. You sure as hell take care of me every damn day with this sentinel shit. I can take care of you if I feel like it. Clear?"

Blair leaned back in surprise.

Jim pointed a finger at Blair's plate. "Now eat."

"Right." Blair pulled the plate near. When the surprise wore off, he let Jim's words sink in and felt a warmth that didn't come from the sun above them. Jim cared, really cared about him.

Cool.

Reaching the city limits of Cascade, Jim wasn't sure whether he should take his dozing partner straight home or swing by the grocery store. They'd been eating a lot of meals at home. The cupboards were bare. A rude motorist with an aggressive horn made the decision for him.

Blair woke with a snort. "Uh? Oh... yawn ... we're already home?" He rubbed his eyes and slid the pillow down from its position next to the window.

"Yeah, I want to hit QFC first. You okay with that?" Jim asked.

Blair nodded. "I'm fine. Really, feel great. Let's do it. I need some stuff too."

The shopping cart filled quickly. Blair still had his walking staff and ignored the odd looks from other shoppers. They argued at the checkout line until it was decided they would split the total fifty-fifty. Jim used his debit card and waited while Blair counted out his bills. He laid them down in a neat fan.

"Can I have my change in nickels?" Blair asked with his lady-killer smile.

Jim caught the exasperated expression on the man standing behind them in line. The woman counted out forty six nickels and two pennies. He pushed the cart out the automatic doors and into the afternoon drizzle. Blair walked with his head bent, squinted at the coins in his hand. He was still at it when Jim finished transferring the bags into the truck.

"Nickels, Junior?" Jim asked after returning from the cart holding area. He started the truck and made sure Blair had his seatbelt tight.

"Looking for nickels minted during the second war. Guy I know at Rainer pays top dollar for them," Blair answered, not looking up from his survey.

Pulling out of the parking lot and joining the traffic, Jim pondered what guys with normal roommates did during their weekends.

On Monday morning Jim once again slipped out of the loft without waking Blair. Sunday had been hard on the kid. Even though the drive on Saturday had been begged for and enjoyed, Blair paid for it.

Blair had stayed down the entire day, venturing out only to use the bathroom. Jim had made sure the pain pills were taken on time and checked the wounds for further signs of infection.

There were none.

Yet Blair hadn't complained.

Now the weekend was behind them. Jim felt comfortable with Blair spending the morning alone. Rafe was scheduled to drop by around noon.

The roads were still wet from rain. But with typical weather-god humor, Monday brought a breakup of clouds and the radio promised a week of sunny days. Jim parked and headed for the elevator, meeting Dan Wolf on the way.

"You!" Dan points to Jim, grinning widely. "Are at the top of my list."

"That's a good thing, right?" Jim punched the button to call the elevator.

"Very good. Bitner and I ended up working all weekend. Come and see what you get for your brilliance." Wolf slapped Jim on the back.

Ten minutes later Jim was staring face to face with his Jane Doe victim.

"That's amazing." Jim stepped back in awe as if the clay face could talk. The eyes seemed to follow his movements.

"The wig really completes the look." Dan crossed his arms proudly. "Oh, here. These are for you."

He handed over a twelve by nine manila envelop. Jim pulled out a set of glossy prints showing the clay face. "They're great."

"I know." Dan still hadn't lost the silly grin. "I talked to the Chief last night. Called him during dinner. I think Bitner would consider coming on board as a consultant for the department. Just for those times we really need him."

Jim found his gaze locked once more with the sculptured skull. She was real now. Not just an odd collections of bones found in the dirt, she had laughed with that mouth, smelled flowers with that small, petite nose. Those huge brown eyes had seen the same world that Jim saw. Had they teared up during her last moments? Had she seen her killer?

"Blair was right, she's part Asian." Dan pointed at the cheeks. "You can see it here." He sighed. "Bitner is truly an artist."

Jim just wanted to get out there and find her killer.

Later that day, Dan's pictures seemed to have the same effect on his roommate.

"Oh my God." Blair looked up at Jim, stricken. "Jim, we've gotta find out why this happened." He shuffled the pictures, gazing back at the skull as the photographer had caught the profile. "Someone must be missing her."

With dinner smells coming from the oven and the TV channel on the fifth inning of a baseball game, Jim let the tension from the day drain from his body. Taking a beer from the fridge, he twisted off the cap. The glass cooled his palm. "I got half way down your list today. So far no one has recognized her."

Blair returned the large photos to the envelope and set them reverently back on the coffee table. "I'm glad I didn't try this. Professor Bitner must be part sculptor or something. I would have ended up with pacman."

"Pac-woman." Jim eased himself down to sink gratefully into the sofa cushions.

"You know what I mean."

Noticing the way Blair held his shoulders and the stiff movements, Jim asked, "Still sore?"

Blair tossed his head. "Nah, I'm fine. It's just those horse pills. They're messing with me."

Jim knew this, knew that the strong antibiotics caused pleasant side effects to include diarrhea, the type that gave you no warning. Possessing the speed of a geriatric slug while under the pill's influence was one of life's cruel jokes. He took another long pull from the bottle before speaking. "You're eating yogurt, right? Try some of that stuff in the blue bottle."

"Nah, I've got it under control." Blair slowly reached for the mug left on the floor.

No wonder the loft had a subtle under scent of peppermint. "Blair, tea is not going to turn it around."

"My body is a big enough chemical dump already," Blair retorted. "I'm not adding to it. Folks have been using herbal remedies for thousands of years." Blair pulled a face as he swallowed.

Curious, Jim dialed up his smell even more. "Shit, Sandburg. What did you put in there?"

"Onion juice." Blair stuck out his tongue, raking it over his upper teeth a few times. "Supposed to help. Kinda hard to get past the taste though."

Jim shuddered and finished his beer.

Later that week Blair found himself being driven back to the doctor's office for still another check up. The news was good and he grinned all the way back to the loft. Jim had even taken time to ask the doctor questions. Blair still couldn't get used to someone doing that. Not even Naomi. Okay, true. Naomi had never had to deal with Blair being shot before, so who knows? She might.

Now, as they rode the elevator, Blair felt right with the world.

"Half days, Mr. Man-of-Steel," Jim growled, his gaze fixed somewhere up where the top of the elevator doors met the ceiling.

"Right, sure. I got that part." Blair flexed on his toes. That hardly hurt anymore. He had permission to return to work. No lifting anything over fifteen pounds. But still, he felt liberated!

"I know that face," Jim said glancing down at Blair unhappily. "You're thinking everything's fixed. You're going to charge around full steam ahead, aren't you?"

"No, mommy." Blair slapped Jim's arm. He wasn't going to let the older man ruin his mood. "I'm going to be with you, remember? I'll call admin about my schedule. We'll make it work."

"I still say it's too soon. Your doctor needs to go back to med school."

Blair laughed.

He was still smiling as he slipped into his jeans the following morning. He owned one pair that didn't hurt when he bent over. He'd bought them in a thrift store, even though they had been a full size too big for him. They had been like new and seventy-five percent of the normally cheap price.

Carefully buttoning up his best shirt and tucking in the tails, Blair slipped the belt through the loops, buckled and clubbed back his hair into a neat pony tail. He carried his sneakers in one hand as he left his room.

"Morning, Jim."

"Morning." Jim poured boiling water over his bowl of instant oatmeal. "I want to leave in twenty."

"Right." Blair sat gingerly on a kitchen chair and wrestled on his shoes. He had to make sure he could do all this without help. Jim needed to be convinced everything was good. "A pass with the electric razor and I'm ready."

"Wrong, shave and breakfast, then you're ready." Jim had the morning paper spread out on the table, reading as he ate. He was still pissed, that was obvious.

"I meant that." Blair finished knotting the last shoe. Standing and going to the cupboard, he reached for the bagels. Raising his arm up over his head caused the belt to press painfully into his side. He couldn't stop a tiny whimper from escaping.

Jim's shoulders stiffened, but didn't look up from the sports page.

Blair unbuckled his belt, uncinched a notch, rebuckled and tried again. Success. He snagged the end of the plastic bag and pulled it down. Quickly slicing a bagel, he popped it into the toaster and headed for the bathroom to shave.

Arriving at work, they reached the bullpen in time for Simon's weekly division meeting. Blair planned on enjoying every minute of his morning. He realized he'd missed much during his recovery time. Jim was not big on talking about the little things that happened around the station. As Simon talked about a new booking procedure that would start next week, Blair sat back and did what he did best: observe.

When had Rhonda gotten a new haircut? And her picture frame was missing from her desk, the one with her boyfriend in it? They broke up? Blair saw that coming. The guy was a major jerk. She'd brought him to the station last month. It was no secret Jim and the others were overprotective of Simon's secretary, treating her sometimes like a kid sister. So when the guy had made a crack about how his new girlfriend was useful and could fix his ticket, Henri and Rafe had run his name on the computer.

The mistake had been his. The idiot should have paid his outstanding speeding tickets or at least refrained from driving to the station with a suspended driver's license.

Oh well, Rhonda could do better.

Joel slipped into the bullpen, dropped a file on a desk and slipped out. He looked good. It appeared his diet was working.

Henry was sneaking grins at Rafe who was trying to listen to Simon while discreetly searching his desk drawers. Blair grinned. What had Brown taken this time? And was Rafe going to finally lose his temper and tell his jester-for-a-partner off?

"... unless you have something to add, Sandburg," Simon said.

Blair's head swung around. What? When had Simon switched subjects? Everyone was looking at him.

"Actually, Sir." Jim let his desk chair spring forward to sit upright. "I've been handling the legwork."

"Go ahead, Jim." Simon crossed his arms.

"I've talked to all the restaurants. No one recognized the victim's likeness. We're working on a list of Cascade's larger companies that might have onsite restaurants. I'll try them next."

"You know," Brown said, pointing his pen at Jim. "If the Doe's been in that park for years, you might think about getting names of past managers. The turnover in some of those places can be high."

"Good point." Jim scribbled a note on a yellow sticky pad.

No one but Blair saw Rafe lean across to Henri and yank the pen from his partner's hand with an angry scowl. Brown grinned like a kid.

"Maybe it's time we release a photo of that clay likeness to the press." Simon pinched his lower lip in thought. "We might get lucky."

"The press would jump at a chance to follow up on that piece they did about the college kids helping us search the park," Jim added with a nod. "If we don't get a hit from the list of restaurants I think we should give it a go."

Simon turned to Rhonda. "Would you make the call?"

"I'm on it, sir."

"Okay, everyone, let's get to work." Simon turned to go into his office, but stopped. "Oh, and Sandburg? Welcome back."

Blair grinned. "Great to be back."

Jim and Blair made phone calls. The morning passed by quickly. When the donut cart rolled by, Blair treated himself to a muffin. The list of companies grew. Jim had switched to a list of previous managers from the restaurants he had already visited.

At three quarters past eleven, Jim stood. "Okay, Sandburg. Let's get you home."

Caught in the act of dialing, Blair looked up in disbelief. How could it be this late? "Wha...?"

"We can grab a bite on the way home. I'll drop you off before I do some interviews." Jim pecked the keyboard and logged off.

Before his brain could think up an excuse to stay, Blair was out in the hall, Jim at his elbow, the elevator doors open before them. Jim propelled him inside and hit the button for the parking garage.

"Why can't I come with you?" Blair asked.

"Half day, Skippy. The doctor told you half days. Not three quarters, not five-eights, half." Jim spoke slowly, pronouncing each syllable as if learning a new language.

"I hate when you get all smug and sarcastic, Jim. It's a real ugly look on you."

"I'll work on that."

Lunch was found at a quick stop at a strip mall half way to Prospect Street. Jim left Blair in the truck and went inside a narrow Subway store for two sandwiches. A teriyaki takeout and a health food store occupied the commercial space on either side. On one corner of the building was a place that did payday loans and cashed checks.

Blair shifted uncomfortably in the truck seat. He'd rather be tortured than admit it, but he was sore. Sitting all morning in an office chair wasn't the same thing as sitting on the sofa at the loft. Maybe taking the afternoon off was a good plan.

Inside the brightly lit store, two East Indian women hurried to make sandwiches to order. Jim still had two people in front of him before theirs would be created. Blair shifted again, his gaze sliding to the left in time to see a big man in the loan store waving his arms angrily at a woman behind the counter. It was obvious the guy had a short fuse. From the way the woman was talking to him, she was doing her best to calm him down.

Blair's chest began to tighten. The guy was really looking mean. He had a hand on the woman's wrist now. She looked scared.

"Jim," Blair said in a calm voice as he opened his door. "There's a real nasty customer three doors down to my left that's grabbing a woman clerk. I don't see any weapons." Blair slid out of the Explorer and moved toward the bumper, his attention on the scene playing out through the large, glass front store.

Suddenly Jim blocked Blair's view. "Get back in the Ford. I'll go in."

"You need backup," Blair said.

Jim's attention was on the corner store. There was no other customer inside but the man and it looked like the other employees were either staying out of sight or she was alone.

The clerk had tried to dial for help, but the man had wrenched the phone from her hand and thrown it down.

"He's hurting her, Jim," Blair hissed angrily as Jim pushed his cell phone into Blair's hands.

"Call it in." Then Jim was striding purposefully for the door, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet that held his police ID.

Blair dialed and reported the problem to the man that answered. Blair explained that Jim was inside trying to talk to the guy and wanted backup.

"Stay on the line with me, Mr. Sandburg. Can you see the officer?" the dispatcher asked.

Blair kept his attention on Jim who had just entered the business. The agitated customer turned to face the cop, not releasing his hold on the woman. "It's just Blair and yeah, Jim is trying to get him to let go of the lady."

"Does the suspect have any weapons?"

"No, but he's big. Real big, like a bodybuilder or something."

Jim was talking now, keeping his hands loose at his sides, his stance balanced and ready for anything.

"Describe him for me."

"Ah, okay, he's white and has dark hair - SHIT!"

"What's wrong?" the dispatcher demanded.

It had happened so fast that Blair was certain he'd missed it with a single blink. The bodybuilder released the clerk and swung at Jim.

"He hit Jim!" Blair didn't even realizing he was moving forward until one foot struck the curb for the sidewalk. "Send lots of help! I gotta go!"

Like two charging semi trucks, the fight turned into a match of raw strength. Jim was strong, but the body builder was stronger. Jim's ability to maneuver to protect himself was limited by the narrow space between the counter top and the glass. A potted fern was knocked over. The flying punches looked lethal. Then Jim caught a pile-driving punch to the temple that laid him flat on his back, stunned senseless.

Blair was at the door now. He wrenched it open, ignoring the slice of pain that tore through his side. "Hey, hey!"

Jim's attacker looked up, not even winded. The woman was nowhere to be seen.

Blair's brain worked feverishly. He had less than a second to convince this Neanderthal throwback to stop using his best friend as a punching bag.

"Tell me you don't have an agent, man!" Blair gushed in what he prayed was his best hero-worship voice. "I don't care if you do. Dump him! I can get you three times what he promised!"

"What the hell?" The man had one meaty fist twisted in Jim's collar, ready to hold the cop still so he could pummel him further. Jim's head lolled lifelessly toward the floor.

Blair advanced, both arms out in supplication. "The fight scene, man. It's all the rage. You! You're a natural. Forget Pitt and Gibson, they're losers! You're made for the big screen."

A flicker of interest showed in the big man's eyes. "Big screen? You talking movies? You work with movie stars?" His sausage fingers started to relax and Jim slid back to the floor, forgotten.

"Hell, man," Blair lied unabashed. "I worked with Stallone. I trained under Tyson. I was supposed to be heading up to Vancouver to meet with some producers but saw you through the window and bam - man, Holy Grail time!"

The idiot was actually preening now. If only Blair could get him away from Jim.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, totally, but listen, dude. Seriously, I don't know what that guy said to piss you off and frankly, I don't care. But folks aren't so easy going, you hearing me? I bet someone's called the cops by now. You'd better split." Blair was pulling out a pen from his pocket. "I want to give you my cell number."

"Cell phone?" The man's face clouded. His eyes squinted. "Why?"

Blair waved his hand at Jim and the counters. "I need to stay behind and fix all this. You know, soothe some feathers, pay off the poor guy you just plowed through the floor. But listen. I have to have your name and way to reach you. You got a card, right?"

"Hell, no." The guy ran a bewildered hand through long, greasy hair. "I don't have a freaking card. Why can't we go somewhere and talk about this now?"

Blair saw Jim frown. The sentinel was listening, waiting for the right time to make a move. This behemoth was standing too close still. If Blair could get him to the door...

Sirens wailed.

The mountain of muscle tensed. He drew his six foot seven inches straight and looked over Blair's head to the street. Then something in his expression made Blair turn to look. Crap. He'd left Jim's cell phone on the hood of the rental Ford. This was so not good.

"You called the cops. Didn't you?" the hopeful movie star snarled as he slowly advanced.

Blair backed up. "No. No. I was on the phone to Vancouver, man. I swear."

"Yeah, right." He curled his right hand into a cantaloupe-sized fist. "This was all a lie. God! I'm so tired of all these lies! You're no better than the rest of them."

The lobby corner bumped into his shoulder too soon and Blair was out of options. He could try fighting his way out. That should last, oh, say two-tenths of a second. If Jim hadn't made it to the bell of round one, Blair was dead.

"Cascade Police! Freeze, asshole!"

The bodybuilder did. He turned slowly and when the seven-forty-seven-wing-span shoulders turned sideways, Blair saw a battered looking Jim sitting up, one leg bent, hands wrapped around his Sig, right arm ramrod straight and braced on his risen knee, left arm bent in a classic shooter position.

"You're a cop?" the man said with surprise.

"Yeah," Jim answered, succulently. "And I'm pissed."

"Who's he?" A thumb was jerked toward Blair.

"My partner. Get on your face and spread him. Sandburg! Get your butt over here," Jim barked.

Blair waited until the big man lowered himself to the floor before scurrying around to join Jim. "You okay?"

"Fine," Jim snapped.

Cop cars arrived, screaming into the parking lot. Uniforms bounding out of open doors before the tires came to a complete stop. Soon the place was wall to wall badges and guns. Blair tried to keep Jim from getting up but failed.

"You need a doctor," Blair said.

"Sandburg, I've been beat up before. I'm fine," Jim answered in a whisper, more interested in watching the arrest. He seemed relaxed. His pissiness gone and Blair was glad.

Miranda rights were being read from a card. One officer was busy with the handcuffs. Blair could tell by the young cop's face he wasn't sure they would fit. This guy was a walking mountain. An older looking cop came over to where Jim and Blair stood.

Jim nodded. "Thanks for the fast response, Blankenship."

The officer tipped his hat back. "The clerk slipped out the back. We've got her in a patrol car. This guy went nuts when she refused his loan application."

"Yeah, I figured it was something like that," Jim said.

"Ellison, you look like shit." Blankenship looked over his shoulder. "Frankly, I can't believe you're still breathing. How'd you take him out?"

Probing a swollen cheekbone, Jim shook his head. "Didn't. Sandburg here pulled out the big ammunition."

"He's armed?"

Blair huffed. "Hey, I don't carry a gun, man."

Jim chuckled, dropping an arm around Blair's shoulders. "Nah, he doesn't need bullets. His tongue is more dangerous."

"Yeah?" Blankenship watched as three officers escorted the prisoner outside. He looked again at Blair, eyebrows arched. "You talked the suspect down? Do you know how long his rap sheet is?"

Suddenly, Blair's knees felt weak. Rap sheet? "W-what?"

Now Jim was wiggling a loose tooth. He pulled his hand from his mouth. "The guy's just damn lucky there's no nearby vending machine. Come on, Mr. Tyson-Trainer. I have a bag of frozen peas at home waiting for me."

"I'm just saying, when a face has been knocking around as much as-"

"Blair! Enough, I get it. Now shut up. I'm fine." Jim leaned his head back on the sofa, the large bag of peas bringing a welcoming icy burn to his left eye. Yeah, he'd sport a shiner a few days, but he knew nothing was broken. Unfortunately, Jim knew what that felt like.

Sounds of pots being slammed around in the kitchen, Blair's little song of irritation, made him sigh and sent the pounding spikes of pain drilling into his cranium with new fervor.

"Sit down, would you? We ate. It's too early to think about dinner," Jim begged.

The sound of the tap coming on answered. Presently, Blair spoke, quietly, with less anger. "Sorry, man. I thought you'd like some tea. I've got willow's bark here with some other herbs that might help."

"Fine." He did have a killer headache. He'd dry-swallowed three Advil on scene, but they still hadn't touched it.

Simon had called, hearing about the altercation from dispatch. With some fancy talking, Jim had managed to keep his captain from coming out. There was really no need. The situation was under control. The loan clerk had been half grateful and half mortified that she had caused the entire situation. Jim had tried to ease her, but Blair had done a better job of it.

Blair had done better. Damn. If the kid ever did become a cop, there'd be no stopping him. A familiar, light feeling of weariness hit and he recognized the downward glide of his adrenalin rush. Exhaustion pulled on his shirttails, a persistent toddler. Jim tried to relax. He felt the heat from the tea approach and realized he needed to adjust his dials.

"What's wrong?" Blair asked, sitting on the coffee table before Jim. "You're frowning."

"I can't..." Jim lifted the peas and sat up, blinking. "My dial's stuck."

"Which one?" Blair demanded.

"Touch."

"The others?"

He fiddled with his mental control panel.

"They're good."

"Okay," Blair said, all business as he set two mugs down. He reached for Jim's shoulders. "I want you to lie out here, yeah. Get comfortable."

Again thankful he'd purchased a sofa long enough for this, Jim stretched out, sinking into the cushions, stocking covered toes brushing one sofa arm. Blair had put a squishy throw pillow under his head. He sighed.

"Now, we're going to try something. Think of it as a recalibration, if you will."

Blair's voice flowed over Jim's world. He let it roll over and around his pain. "Okay," Jim said, trustingly.

"Keep your eyes closed. Relax. Good. Now, think of nothing. In a minute, I'm going to name a body part. I'll give you three seconds before I tap it. Just a light tap. But before I do, you need to imagine me touching you. Ready?'

Jim wanted to ask why. What the heck was this going to prove? A year ago he might have. But now? Now he knew better. Quirking a corner of his mouth, Jim nodded. "Got it."

"Right elbow."

Three seconds and a tap.

Jim expected more of a tap. He waited for the next word.

"Left knee."

Tap.

Ah, he was closer, but still Blair's tap was light. Was he adjusting it?

"Right ear."

Tap.

No, he was trying to keep them the same.

"Left clavicle."

Tap.

Crap, that's right, the scapula was the one in the back. Jim always did get those confused.

They played the game for while. Jim's world became his body. Blair was whispering now.

"Right big toe."

Tap.

"You switched, Chief," Jim said. "That was your pinky."

"I'd say your touch is back to normal, big guy," Blair answered with approval. "How do you feel?"

"Sleepy." And he did. During the game, every one of his muscles had unclenched. The headache was just a light tap on his skull. "Tricky little shit. You did that on purpose." He yawned as the light, summer afghan was removed from the back of the sofa and laid out over his body.

"Nappy time, Oh Mighty Sentinel," Blair whispered.

Jim watched Blair slide carefully out of the truck. This was a bad idea. Why had he let himself get talked into it? They were parked in a three story parking garage of concrete and brick. The second stop on their list of companies large enough to have a restaurant facility within its corporation headquarters. First they'd gone to a law partnership. Now they were visiting a highly successful advertising agency.

"Ready," Blair said, trying to not look like a man in pain. "And stop with the brooding, man. I'm fine. Just a little sore. It's only natural after yesterday."

"Which is why you should rest today," Jim pointed out.

"It's Friday, we can rest over the weekend." Blair struck out across the open expanse, not pausing to admire the BMWs or Lexus sport cars parked around him. "Come on."

Jim followed.

The doctor's rule of half day was still being enforced, but Blair had thrown a fit over the suggestion of another four hours sitting in the bull pen making phone calls. So Jim had let Blair talk him into doing the interviews in the morning.

Inside the lobby, they rode a posh elevator to the tenth floor. It appeared a party was being planned. Caterers beetled and scurried around the labyrinth of hallways. Jim spotted the receptionist desk and guided Blair over.

"Yes?" a perfectly groomed woman asked. Glossy, Picasso fingernails paused on a keyboard. Her only reaction to Jim's bruised face was a small increase in her heart rate.

"Detective Ellison, Cascade Police. This is my partner, Blair Sandburg. We have an appointment with your HR director?"

"Certainly, one moment please, I'll let him know you're here." Her flawless right hand moved over a dial pad, her violet eyes never leaving Jim's face. "Would you like to wait in the receiving area? I'll have some coffee brought."

"Thank you." Getting Blair sitting seemed a good plan.

Comfortably positioned in leather chairs before a glass coffee table displaying a dried flower arrangement the size of Detroit, Blair blew out a hushed breath. "I should write a paper, man. Think about this." He waved a hand. "All of this comes from our deeply entrenched seeded desire for material objects."

"Free enterprise," Jim said absentmindedly. He stroked the leather. It felt nice. Maybe he should look into the price of one of these.

Snorting critically, Blair tried to lean close, but gasped and clutched his side. He stayed still a second and a short man entered the alcove with a round tray loaded with everything a person needed to make a cup of coffee.

"Thank you." Jim leaned forward to help him place it on the low tabletop.

"Would you like something to go with this? We have fresh muffins." His speech was stilted and unsure. His eyes tracked badly, slow and confused.

"No, thank you," Jim told him, smiling kindly as he recognized the man as a possibly developmentally challenged individual. "This is great."

"Okay." The older man turned and disappeared around a corner.

"It's great these places hire ADA," Blair whispered, doing a complete about face in a nanosecond.

Jim fixed his coffee with a hint of cinnamon and real whipping cream. Blair drank his black. They sat in comfortable silence as men and women in suits, jeans and white restaurant uniforms hurried about their tasks. Then a tall man with a beard and shock of red hair turned toward them.

"Detectives? I'm Anthony Lester." He hurried forward. "I'm so sorry I made you wait. Unforgivable."

"Not at all, we needed a coffee break." Jim rose, setting his nearly empty mug down. "Thanks for giving us a few minutes of your time."

"This way to my office." He let the way down a wide corridor, walls filled with professionally matted pictures.

Jim briefly glanced at them in passing. They were all regular pictures of staff members: birthday parties, fishing trips, European vacations, a wedding. It was the stuff one would expect from scrapbooks and spoke loudly of the companies feeling towards its employees.

Lester's office was on the corner and the city of Cascade never looked so beautiful. The blue waters of the sound sparkled in the morning sunlight. The sky went on forever. Even the buildings seem to be crowding forward to show Jim their individual architecture and rooftop plazas.

"How can I assist you today?" Lester settled into his chair. There was no imposing desk between them, only a thin, marble top counter to hold a flat screen computer and wafer thin keyboard. Jim had no idea where the computer tower was kept. He glanced over at his partner.

Blair's face kept switching from sheer envy, raw desire and surprised shock as he gazed at the high-priced electronics in the office.

Lester waved a hand. "I know, I know. Ridiculous, right? But when you represent big companies they tend to get pissy when they don't see their stuff in your office. If Bill installs one more computer in this building, we're going to have to bulldoze it and start over. The walls can take only so many cables."

"Right," Jim said, pulling his photos out of his light jacket. "We were wondering if you could help us identify a murder victim."

"Oh, Oh!" Lester leaned forward eagerly. "Wow, this is surprising. Sure. What do I need to do? Go to a morgue or something?"

Jim pulled out the photos. This guy was like a kid. "No, just take a look at these for us." He laid them out on the marble.

Lester studied them carefully, looking crestfallen when he shook his head. "I'm sorry, really. But we have so many employees." He picked up the large print of Jane's straightaway view. "What makes you think she worked here?" He looked up in surprise. "Unless you think I might have personal knowledge..."

There were days it paid well to be a sentinel. This was one of those days. Lester's respirations and heart rate did not indicate any signs of deceit.

"No, not personal, sir. We believe she might have worked in food handling."

"Ah, I see." His expression grew sad. "She looked beautiful. Can I ask why she seems to be clay colored?"

"It's a clay composite made from her skull."

Lester's green eyes narrowed angrily. Gone was the childlike wonder of talking to a real police officer. He straightened. Decision made, he gathered up the three photos. "Let's go show these to the staff."

Thirty minutes later, Jim had a good idea why this company was so successful. Lester quickly arranged his large staff into orderly blocks of view time. Each man and woman entered the small break room, greeted Lester fondly, helped themselves to a soda or coffee and looked at the photos.

But it was fruitless. No one recognized her. An hour later Lester dragged a frustrated hand through his hair. "Damn, I was so hoping."

Jim was gathering up the photos. "Please understand this is a long shot. Your efforts have helped. Thank you."

"Wait," Blair was sitting down at Jim's left side. "The man that brought our coffee didn't come by."

"He's right." Jim looked at Lester. "A short man with grayish hair?"

Lester pondered a second, then slapped the table. "Stupid of me. I left them out." He stuck his head out the door. "Martha? Can you bring us the SATs?"

"Sats?" Blair asked.

"Special Assistant Technicians." Lester crooked a smile. "It's all in the name."

Blair grinned.

Jim wondered if he was going to lose his guide to this place.

The coffee bearer entered, nervous and looking ready to bolt. Lester was friendly and charming. Quickly the man was at ease, but he didn't recognize Jane. The next visitor was a woman with a pear shape body wearing a decently cut blazer and skirt. Her small eyes sparkled in tiny pink folds of fatty cheeks.

"Mr. Lester, do you need something?"

"Yes, Jessica." Lester beamed at the woman like an older brother. "I need you to look at these pictures for me."

Jessica took a look and promptly burst into tears.

Jim silently cheered. They finally had a solid lead.

No one talked about doctor's orders. If they tried, Blair would have punched the unfortunate person in the face.

It was three in the afternoon. They were in Simon's office holding an unplanned briefing. Brown, Rafe and Joel were present. The excitement vibrated.

"Lucy Ann Wo," Jim recited with satisfaction showing. "Twenty two when last seen by her co-workers three years ago. Moved to Cascade from Nebraska when she was twenty. Parents said to be dead, no siblings." Jim handed Simon a four by four photograph. "This was taken a few months before she quit. The man next to her is her boyfriend."

Blair already knew what the photograph showed. The young couple stood on a mountain overlook, similar to where Jim had taken him last weekend. They wore hiking attire and had bulky backpacks. There was another photograph. Jessica had it stowed within her little cubical.

"This one is a close up of her face." Blair looked at the happy, laughing woman one more time before handing it to Henri. "I've already called Bitner. We can superimpose it over a picture of the skull and see if it's an exact match."

"Like a fingerprint," Joel said.

"Right," Jim opened the file again. "Way I see it, our top objective now is to get a line on the boyfriend. According to Lester, he called to say Lucy had decided to move back to her hometown in Nebraska. Only, when I called the number they had on file, it was disconnected."

"Brown, you and Rafe follow up on the Nebraska angle," Simon ordered.

Jim handed a sheet over to Rafe. "Thanks, Blair and I are going to work on the boyfriend. There's no reason to believe he's left Cascade. Jessica said Lucy and he had been having fights and that she had confided that she'd wanted to break up with him."

The men in the office nodded. Blair already knew the statistics. Violent crimes most commonly are done by those persons close to the victims. Jessica had turned out to be a good informant. Her job was to schedule appointments for the directors, dry cleaning tasks and drivers for taking clients around Cascade. .She had been close to Lucy. Lester had explained that each SAT had a `big brother' or `big sister' within the company, an unofficial mentor. Lucy had volunteered to take Jessica.

If they did catch Lucy's killer, it would be largely due to the woman's own kind nature.

Jim was still talking and Blair tuned back to the meeting.

"... so I'd like to keep working on this. If the boyfriend finds out we're on to him, he might bolt."

"Okay, Jim," Simon said, jotting a note to himself. "I'll see your schedule reflects ten days with four off." He looked at the room. "Anyone have anything else?"

No one did and they rose to get up. Simon cleared his throat commandingly, brining all to a halt.

"I just want to say..." The big captain had his eyes on Blair.

This can't be good.

"... for the record - and I'll make sure that it gets placed in your file, Sandburg - you had a major contribution to this case. Thank you."

`Okay, who knocked me out and when did I start dreaming?' Blair thought, thoroughly shocked.

"Now everyone get out of here." Simon was already bent over his desk in dismissal.

Jim pulled Blair to his feet and they trailed after the departing detectives. Jim's hand was warm on his shoulder. It transferred to his elbow and helped as Blair eased into the vacant desk chair. They had hours of phone calls ahead of them and Blair was fast running out of steam

"Don't look so surprised," Jim chided with a smirk as he settled into his adjacent desk.

"Hey, I'm not, I'm not." Yes, he was. Blair felt like pinching himself. A scary realization hit. "Wait a sec... I have a file?"

The quiet groans brought Jim out of his deep and pleasant fishing dream. His fishing partner had been casting downstream, a tall red-head in waders and nothing else. Needless to say, Jim's attention had not been on fishing.

Smirking at the odd mix of erotic and fishing fantasy, he blinked blurrily at the dark skylight. Another plaintive groan had him sitting up.

Sandburg.

Seconds later, he was barefoot in Blair's room. "Blair?"

Blair's face was pinched in pain. His eyes full of shame. "Sorry... I didn't-"

"Forget it," Jim told him, placing a palm on Blair's forehead. Temperature was normal. No infection. That was good. "Hurting?"

"Yeah..." Blair rubbed a shaky hand over his side. "I thought it... would settle down."

"You over did it today, buddy," Jim said, patting his shoulder. "Hang tight. I'll get you something."

Blair had thrown away the painkillers three days ago, explaining it was a symbolic gesture. When his younger, stupid roommate had returned to his room, Jim had dug them out and stowed them upstairs in his bedside drawer. He retrieved the pill bottle and went back into the kitchen to pour a glass of juice. Dinner had been four hours ago and Blair had eaten well, so he didn't pull a box of cracker out from a cupboard.

"Here," Jim sat on the edge of the futon. Like the very first night Blair had returned home from the hospital, he helped his friend lift his shoulders enough to take the pill with several swallows of apple juice. Jim set the glass on the floor.

"Shit, I hate this," Blair whispered.

"I know."

"Everything just takes too damn long."

"I know."

"I want things back to normal, Jim."

"I know."

Blair opened his eyes and pinned Jim with a look of pained exasperation. "Stop that."

"Okay," Jim answered in the same tone before leaning forward and gently knuckling the skull beneath the mess of curls. "Hey, give yourself time to heal. You're too tired right now to see how far you've come."

"It's too little, too slow," Blair whined.

"You can't rush it, Speed Racer."

"Why not?" Blair continued to paw his side. "'Damn doctors should work on faster healing. They spend all their time... on chemicals and overlook naturopathic options."

Jim remembered reading one of Blair's naturopathic magazines a few months ago. He had eaten too much cheese that day and the kid had left it in the bathroom so he'd read the whole thing. One of the remedies had included massage therapy.

"Roll over on your good side," Jim said.

"Why?"

"Did I ask why when you recalibrated my touch dial, Slick?"

Blair rolled.

Jim scooted into a better position and started a light message at the tense shoulders and working into the neck and up into the skull. Blair groaned with pleasure and melted into the mattress.

"Ahhh, gawd, man. You're so hired."

"I won't hold my breath for that first paycheck." Jim continued to work, feeling each of Blair's muscles soften from their rock-like condition. Soon Blair was snoring softly. Jim patted his arm and pulled the lightweight cotton sheet and blanket up to his neck. "Sleep, Oh Mighty Guide."

They got a late start the following morning. The weather had changed again, bringing gray clouds and persistent gusts off the bay. Still, a light weatherproof parka was enough to take on the elements. They picked up fresh bagels slathered in cream cheese and twenty ounce coffees on the way to the station. Blair was unusually quiet during the drive. He remained pensive all the way to the bullpen.

"Doing okay there, Sandburg?" Jim held the door open for his partner.

"Yeah, I'm good." Blair set his coffee down on the desk he'd been using the last few days and shrugged out of his windbreaker. "Just wondering how we're going to get a conviction, man. It's been three years."

"We have to ID the killer first." Jim hung his coat up and slid into his chair.

"Come on, you know it's gotta be the boyfriend." Blair picked up a copy of the report with everything they knew about the man. "Odds are he killed her because she wanted to break off with him."

Bending down to jab the power switch to his computer, Jim shook his head. "It's dangerous to make those leaps. Facts not stats. We follow the evidence."

"You're right, man, of course." Blair leaned back, thoughtful. "You know, in many ways police work is like being an anthropologist." He pressed his lips together, then sighed. He shrugged his shoulders wearily, meeting Jim's gaze. "I think my brain is fried."

The bull pen was empty. The weekend crew was out doing fieldwork. They had the place to themselves. Jim looked at Simon's dark office. "Why don't you get a few hours sleep? I'll call you when we're ready to hit the road."

"What?" Blair's eyebrows rose. "You're not sending me home at lunchtime?"

As if Jim thought he could keep Blair out of this. "Not if you go in there and rest now. We'll be working on this for days before we get lucky."

"Deal." Blair rose stiffly, transferring the nearly full coffee from his desk to Jim's. "Barely touched it."

Jim accepted the cup and watched Blair disappear into the dark office. Okay, then. Where to start? Jim reviewed what they had. Blair was correct. Odds were great their perp was the boyfriend; Michael Sinclair.

Rhonda had left a computer printout from the Department of Licensing in his inbox. Jim had requested the search before going home yesterday, not expecting to see it until Monday. She must have made some phone calls and pulled some strings. Jim flipped through the pages.

Wow.

Over fifty `Michael Sinclairs' with matching race and age. Jim scanned the addresses. It appeared three-quarters lived on this side of the mountains, none in Cascade but Jim knew people were bad about telling the state of their changes in addresses.

They were looking at weeks of interviews.

The city phone book showed several Sinclairs with the letter M as their first initial. He'd have to cross check them with the DOL list. Be a good project for Blair when he woke up.

Jim turned to his computer to check the state and national database. Washington had no active warrants. He got three hits on the national, NCIC system. He ran through them one at a time. The first was an African American. Their Sinclair was obviously Caucasian. The second name was twenty years too old. The third name was the correct age and race. Southern Florida cops wanted him for an armed robbery five years old, but he'd sported a detailed tattoo around his neck of a thorny vine, some gang symbol. Jim double checked the picture. No such tattoo was visible.

He wished the traffic violations unit was open. It was surprising how much could be learned from the parking violation database. He wished he'd thought of it yesterday. Now he'd have to wait till Monday.

That left the thick stack of papers from DOL.

Jim studied the picture again. What did they know for sure? He dated Lucy. They liked the outdoors.

What were the odds?

Jim pulled out his phone book again and flipped to the sporting good stores. He found the ad he wanted. REI had been a co-op out of Seattle when he'd been a boy, now the stores were all over the nation. Jim dialed the number for the Cascade store.

"REI, how may I help you?"

"Hi, my name is Michael Sinclair. Can you tell me if my card is still good?"

"Certainly, sir," the woman on the other end said eagerly. "There you are. Cascade address, right?"

Could it be this easy? "Ah, okay. Then I'm good? I couldn't remember if I expired or not."

"Absolutely, we can mail you a new card if you'd like. Are you still at two-oh-oh-five Lawson Street? Apartment twelve?"

Jim scribbled the address down. "No, thanks. I'm coming in tomorrow anyway, I'll pick it up."

"Very good, looking forward to your business."

"Thank you," Jim said, meaning it and hung up. "Incredible... Sandburg! Get your coat!"

Blair appeared, hair already sleep mussed. "What?"

Jim stood up with a wide grin. "Just call me lucky."

Apartment twelve of the Cobblestone Apartments had a view of a duck pond. Blair followed Jim down the narrow sidewalk, his gaze bouncing back and forth between the pink and purple hanging baskets. The knee-high hedge had been recently trimmed, the lawn clipped and edged. A mallard glided in, his aim true for the small tranquil oasis. Blair averted his gaze. One of these days he might be able to enjoy a duck on water again without fighting the urge to vomit.

Oblivious, Jim knocked on the door with the brass number twelve. The apartment buildings were carefully arranged to look randomly placed within the park-like settings. Each unit had a ground floor entrance with a second story.

Expensive.

The man in the photographed answered the door wearing tan cargo shorts and a Maui T-shirt. "Hello?"

"Michael Sinclair?" Jim held up his shield. When the man's eyes widened and he nodded, Jim continued crisply. "Cascade Police. Can we talk to you?"

"C-come in." Sinclair stepped back.

Blair took quick stock once they reached the modest-sized living room decorated in earth colors by Ethan Allen. Sinclair had regained his composure, inviting them to take a seat on the fawn-colored sofa as if the visit had been his idea.

"What can I do for you?" Sinclair asked.

"We're looking into the disappearance of Lucy Wo," Jim said.

"Lucy?" Sinclair's eyebrows pressed together in concern. "What happened to her? She's missing from her restaurant in Lincoln?"

"Lincoln?" Jim pulled out his narrow notebook.

"Right, that's were she said the job offer was from."

Sinclair had a deep tan. He wore Borne leather sandals that Blair had admired a few months ago in a catalog someone had left in the Student Union building. They'd been listed at a hundred and fifty smackers.

"She got a job offer, great opportunity." Sinclair shrugged, managing to look sad at the same time. "I even thought of going with her." He paused in quiet reflection before leaning forward from his matching chair. "What happened? How'd she disappear?"

"When's the last time you spoke to her?" Jim asked.

Blair saw a calculated look flit across his face. "I... I guess it's been years now. You know how those long-distance things work. At first you call, you talk about plans to visit, but... Hell, she's got her life and I've got mine. Ya know?"

This was not good. Blair chewed his lip and cut a quick glance at Jim. The cop was a picture of calmness. Blair saw him look around the room. The back of the room led to a sunny kitchen and dining room with shiny appliances and a glossy hardwood floor.

"Nice place," Jim noted. "Where do you work?"

"Microsoft." Sinclair's eyes darted from Jim to Blair and back. "I'm just middle management. I work at the Cascade plant."

"Right." Jim tapped his pad with his pen. "Why do you suppose Lucy left Cascade so abruptly? We understand she had close friends at the advertising agency here."

"You mean that dead end job at High Street Advertising?" Sinclair waved a hand back and forth in disagreement. "She was too good for them. I told her she needed to stop being emotionally attached to her job and co-workers, start thinking about her career."

"Her co-workers said she wanted to break up with you," Jim said.

"That's a lie." Sinclair's face flushed red.

"They said she admitted you two were having arguments," Jim said in the same flat tone, as if he were already sure of his facts.

"No, they're wrong," Sinclair answered loudly. "They don't know shit. Who said that, her retarded friend?"

"Did you two fight? Did you get violent, Mr. Sinclair?"

"No! God! What are you talking about? It's been three years. You're nuts. You have nothing but a few bones in the park!"

Jim's victorious silence was deafening. Blair sucked in his breath with wonder. My God, they had him.

"Who said anything about a body in the park?" Jim leaned forward predatorily.

Sinclair's face flushed white as the blood drained. "I-I'm not an idiot. I recognize you from TV. You had a big deal about those college kids working for the cops. The s-skeleton..."

Jim pulled out the photos and dropped them on the oak coffee table. Lucy Ann Wo stared up at her killer in silent accusation.

"Recognize your girlfriend now?" Jim asked with razor-edged certainty. "You didn't leave us much to work with."

"You've got nothing," Sinclair whispered, unable to look up from the photo.

Jim was staring at something. Blair looked. Was it in the kitchen? He didn't know.

"I see you've got a one way ticket to Mexico. Bought the ticket yesterday, too. Leaving tonight." Jim cocked his head. "Sudden trip? Why is it one way?"

Exploding up from the chair, Sinclair made a desperate lunge for the front door. Unfortunately, he found it blocked by a tall cop. Blair stood uncertainly and was unprepared when Sinclair reached over the short coffee table and caught a fistful of his shirt.

"Hey!" Blair shouted, slapping at the hand. He felt Jim grab his arm and tug.

"Let him go, Sinclair!" Jim bellowed as he reached for his gun.

Sinclair did and Blair found himself flying into Jim. They both went down in a tangle of arms and legs. Blair cried in pain as Jim's elbow dug into his side.

"Chief?" Jim bent over him in concern.

Somewhere a door slammed.

Hot pain seared his nerve endings. Still, Blair pushed at Jim. "G-get him, man. Go!"

Jim patted his cheek and got his feet underneath his body, the glow of a jungle cat on the hunt radiating in his eyes. "Yeah, he's mine. Call it in."

And before he could blink, Blair was alone.

Feet hammered down the sidewalk and Jim followed at a dead run. He had not smelled any gun oil in the apartment. He was relatively certain his suspect was not armed. Rounding a corner with his arms pumping at his side, Jim spotted Sinclair bolting across the parking lot.

"Sinclair! Give it up!" Jim hollered as he ran.

Sinclair threw a panicked look over his shoulder and veered off to the left, cutting across the treed greenbelt between the apartment buildings.

When it was obvious this was going to be one of those long distance chases, Jim settled into a careful pace, breathing with control, preparing for a test of endurance. Sinclair's sandals had heavy metal buckles that gave a faint clink as each foot pounded the ground. To Jim's ears they clanged like bear bells.

He kept the man in his sight through the trees and lost him when he turned a corner of the far apartment building. Jim zeroed in on the sandals, following the sound. He visually picked up the man again three minutes later. They cleared the complex and the chase took them down a quiet neighborhood of modest homes with kids playing on lawns while mothers gardened and fathers washed their cars.

Thankfully, Sinclair didn't seem to be interested in hostages.

Jim slowly gained until the space between them was a mere half block. Sinclair was starting to fade, the initial panic unable to fuel his body. Jim was tired, but knew he could go several more blocks if he needed to. Four more blocks and they were running through four lane streets, dodging traffic and cutting through near empty parking lots of real estate and CPA offices. Large, dark splats of water hit the asphalt and concrete as the gray slate sky opened up with rain. Drops cooled Jim's face and chest. He'd left his parka in the truck.

Sinclair stumbled and caught himself, running with desperation. Jim could hear him gasping for breath. Lucy Ann Wo's face came to Jim's mind. He felt her watching through his eyes. Jim found the strength to close the last ten feet until he could reach out and clamp an iron-like grip on her killer. Jim jerked back and to the side as hard as he could.

Michael Sinclair dropped like a bag of rocks.

Reaching for the cuffs hooked around his belt at the small of his back, Jim roughly rolled the man face down.

"You have... the right to... remain silent," he gasped.

Sinclair was sobbing. "I swear!" He blubbered and gasped before continuing, "It was... an accident!"

"Sure it was, pal," Jim ground out as he closed the last cuff in place. "Get up." He jerked the man to his feet.

"I-I swear... to God." Tears and snot ran down Sinclair's face. "She fell... hit her... head!" he cried, gasped and sprayed Jim with spittle.

Jim spun him around in disgust. "Shut your mouth and let me finish the damn warning, Sinclair."

They had a long walk back.

A squad car with lights flashing screeched to a halt next to the curb.

Or not.

Blair studied the eerie photo in his hand. Bitner's work held a great fascination for him, of that he had no doubt. He had taken Jessica's photo of Lucy, the close up of her laughing and superimposed it was one of Dan's photos of her skull. They fit perfectly.

This was a reprint for Blair's personal journal.

There was a knock on his office door. "Come in."

Jim entered with a short woman wearing a light blue cardigan over a long print dress. A third man followed, same age. The couple wore simple bands of yellow gold on their left hands.

"Hey, Chief. I want you to meet Mary and Frank Wo from Nebraska," Jim said. "This is my partner, Blair Sandburg."

Standing quickly and getting a dull twinge of pain for the effort, Blair walked around his desk to greet them. "You're related to Lucy?"

"My first cousin's daughter," the man said. "We're here to make arrangements."

His wife's eyes were red with grief. Blair's heart hurt for them. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Detective Ellison says you helped find... her killer," Mary Wo said, choking on her words. "We wanted to see you. To thank you."

"I didn't..." Blair caught Jim's disapproving frown. "You're welcome. I didn't do much, really. But you're welcome."

Frank Wo wanted to shake Blair's hand a second time. Although his eyes were clear, his grief had added years to his face. "We still have plans to make. When the police see fit, we're flying Lucy home to be with her parents."

"That's good," Blair said around the growing lump in his throat. He bobbed his head a few times in agreement, not trusting his voice to continue. Lucy was going to have a proper resting place, with family, the way it should be.

After the couple left, Jim stayed. It was Thursday and nearly a week had passed since Sinclair had been arrested. Jim had dropped Blair off on the way to work to spend half a day getting his stuff caught up.

"Ready to go?" Jim saw Lucy's photo on the desk and reached across to pick it up as Blair stuffed books into his pack. "You know, Sandburg, I wouldn't say you didn't do much. You had a big part in solving Lucy's murder."

"Well, there's still a trial," Blair pointed out, zipping the pack closed.

Jim took the strap from his hand and lifted it to his own shoulder. He handed Lucy's photo back. "Not anymore. Sinclair signed a confession this morning."

"First degree?"

"No premeditation, the defense wanted manslaughter but took the offer of third degree. He'll get ten years easy."

"Not enough, Jim." Blair let Jim nudge him toward the door.

"Yeah, I know." Jim waited as Blair locked up.

Walking carefully toward the parking lot, Blair saw the Explorer illegally parked next to the sidewalk. He shook his head. "You're going to get in trouble if you keep this up, Jim."

"What?"

Blair pointed at the vehicle. "That."

"Hey, I didn't use the traffic cones this time." Jim unlocked Blair's door first. Once they were both inside and buckled, he started the motor and smoothly pulled away. "I took Dan's laptop back to him like you wanted. He said you could have held onto it for a while. I think he's hoping for his own ride-along."

"Really?"

"Yep." The muscle under Jim's greenish-yellow, fading bruised eye twitched.

"I've been thinking about that, man. I'm sticking with straight police investigation. I'm leaving the forensic work for Dan and Charlie," Blair said.

"You sure?" Jim spun his forefinger in air, drawing circles. "You really seemed to be getting into all that stuff."

"Yeah, well. I got benched and I needed to keep busy," Blair said. "Now I'm back in the game and I'd rather be with the star quarterback."

Jim smirked and preened. "Quarterback?"

Blair nodded as he waved a hand at Jim's face. "Yeah, man. And if you keep getting sacked, your career is over. Someone has to protect you."

Mock offense. "You? No offense, but you don't fit the NFL profile."

"Hey, I'll have you know I'm known in several high schools as `Milky Way Sandburg'!"

Now Jim was laughing. "What kind of name is that?"

Narrowing his eyes to slits, Blair pulled back his lips menacingly. "Because when I hit my objective, my shoulder was the perfect height. Let's just say the other guy saw stars."

Jim's laughter died a strangled death.

End

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