"Morning, Jim."

"Joel," Jim Ellison greeted the large ex-captain, stepping off the elevator and falling into step by his side. Both men worked on the seventh floor of the Cascade Police Department.

"How's Blair's leg?"

With a sigh, Jim opened the door to Major Crimes and allowed Joel to go first. "He would be better if the little twit would listen to his doctor and stay off it," Jim commented as he set his coffee cup down on his immaculate desktop. "He's only been home for forty-eight hours and he's already giving me grief about `loft-fever'."

"Face it, Jim. Your roommate can't sit still for more than ten minutes at a time. Why would you expect a mere bullet wound to keep him down?" Joel said with a chuckle.

It was early, the bullpen empty except for the two men. A hasty handmade banner still decorated the outside wall of Captain Simon Banks office, a leftover from the small `welcome back' party the detectives had thrown for their boss, commemorating his rescue a few days ago from an escaped convict named Quinn. The small party had lasted about twenty minutes, long enough to eat fresh pastries from the local Starbucks and present a child's pair of water wings. Apparently, the cops had heard about the business with Simon in the well and thought the gift would be handy if the situation ever arose again.

Simon had laughed, and accepted the wings with grace. Jim had thought it tacky, knowing better than to tell his roommate about the gag. Blair was still getting used to cop humor; it was definitely an acquired taste.

"He'd better follow the doc's advice if he wants to walk without a permanent limp," Jim groused as he punched the power button on his computer. "He's supposed to stay off his feet till Monday except for trips to the john. Then he's got physical therapy to look forward to."

Joel thumbed through a stack of reports on his desk, finding the one he was looking for and carefully pulling it out. "Tell him I said `hi', will ya? I've got to get this to the D.A.'s office. I'll catch you later."

The door wasn't closed for more than a minute before Simon Banks entered with his head down, nose buried in an open file. The tall dark captain wore a long unbuttoned raincoat that flapped around his legs as he walked. Jim covertly studied his face. He looked rested, the physical signs from Quinn's attack beginning to fade.

"Morning, Simon," Jim said.

"Good morning, Jim, you're here early," Simon noted, looking up from his reading. "How's Sandburg?"

Smiling, Jim wondering how many times he'd have to repeat himself. Maybe he should print a newsletter and pass it out. His roommate may not be on the payroll, but after riding with Jim for over a year, he'd been accepted by the tightly knit group of Major Crimes.

After updating his boss on Blair's condition, Jim spent the next two hours working on his pending cases. Coworkers appeared for work and soon the sounds of clicking keyboards and ringing phones filled the room. By ten, Jim stretched his spine and decided he needed a snack from the vending machines. But first, he wanted to call the loft and check up on Blair. Just as he reached for his phone, Simon walked out of his office, frowning at a fax in his hand.

"Listen up, people."

The room quieted.

"I've got an opening for a four-day conference on inter-agency emergency preparedness that starts tomorrow. Abernathy was supposed to go, but the judge moved a high profile case up on him. Do I have any takers?" Simon watched as each detective suddenly found something fascinating to study on their desks. No one returned eye contact with the big captain.

"Brown? What about you?" Simon pressed.

"No can do, sir. I've got that Blakely interview, the one we've been trying to set up for months, remember?" the detective wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt announced, failing to hide his obvious relief on his face.

"Ellison?"

"Give me a break, sir," Jim moaned. "I did the last conference that came down the pike, remember?"

"Oh, yeah," Simon nodded with a sympathetic expression. "I'd forgotten. The state's review on archiving official documents, wasn't it?"

"I keep the manual by my bed," Jim deadpanned, "just in case I can't sleep."

"Well, I've got to send someone, the money's been spent. Knowing those vultures in accounting, if I don't follow through with a body, they'll squeal to the Chief and I won't be able to pass enough funding next year to keep us in sticky notes," Simon prophesied as he headed for the door. "Maybe burglary can spare a body. I'll be right back."

Jim dialed the number to the loft, chuckling as the men in the bullpen sighed in relief. After several rings, he gave up. Dropping the phone back into its cradle, he rubbed his forehead wearily. Where had his roommate disappeared to now? None of the other residents in his building stayed home during the day, so he couldn't be visiting a neighbor.

His cell phone.

He dialed that number and waited for the connection to go through.

"Blair Sandburg."

"Where are you?" Jim demanded, not wasting time with polite greetings.

"Umm...oh, hey, Jim. Did I miss your call or something?"

Jim's eyes narrowed. Something about Sandburg's tone put him on alert. "Yeesss. I just called. Are you staying down?"

"Oh, yeah. No problemo, man. I'm just chilling. You know? Goofing off on the computer and stuff."

"Okay, thought I'd check in. You need anything?"

"No, I'm good. Thanks for doing the big brother thing and all, but I'm cool." Blair's voice sounded nonchalant, but Jim had been living with the younger man long enough to know how Blair operated, this was his `escape and evade' voice.

Just before the connection ended, Jim dialed up his hearing and heard the deep voice of Simon Banks. Jim's eyes hardened. "Got cha', partner," he muttered rising to his six foot plus height and striding out of the room like a large cat on the hunt.

One floor down, Blair Sandburg pointed to a computer screen. "See, now you have a shortcut for your spreadsheets on the stolen merchandise and your addresses, now if you want, we can---"

"Jeez, run for the hills, guys. Ellison looks ready to kill," a short rotund detective whispered from two desks over.

Blair looked up to see his roommate advancing. "Oh, shit."

"What's wrong?" the detective sitting at his side asked, distracted from his computer.

Jim stopped in front of the desk, his face hard as he eyed the new set of crutches leaning against the wall. The room quieted as a few cops paused in their work to watch the upcoming drama unfold. They'd all seen Ellison in action before, both on the street and in the station. His temperament was the stuff legends were made of; slow to anger but once he reached boiling point - watch out!

"Sandburg," Jim said.

"Hey, Jim!" Blair answered with an enthusiastic smile. "I was going to come see you next. Lloyd and I are working on a spreadsheet for his auto shop break-ins."

"Uh huh. You told me you were at the loft."

"No, actually, I only asked if I'd missed your call. You just assumed I was at the loft."

Jim looked Blair over, he was dressed in sweats, probably the only thing he owned that would fit over his swollen thigh. The flannel shirt layered over a cotton Henley seemed too warm to be wearing in May, but this was Blair - always cold in Washington. His long hair was combed back into a ponytail. Jim noted the pale face and fine creases on the wide forehead. Jim knew he was in pain, probably from the foolish stunt of coming into the station, which caused Jim to wonder...

"So how'd you get here?"

Cops rose out of their seats, suddenly finding an excuse to be somewhere else. Blair watched as more then three quarters of the room's occupants left.

"It's no big deal, Jim. I drove in," Blair explained as Lloyd muttered something about needing a fresh cup of coffee and abandoned ship.

"Sandburg, your Volvo is a stick."

"No kidding, really?" Blair joked, then shook his head as he laughed. "Would you relax, man? You've got the natives here freaking out. I'm fine - bored - but fine!"

Jim bent down and scooped up the backpack from the floor by the desk. Unzipping the outside pocket he rummaged around and pulled out the set of keys. "The doctor told you no driving for a week, Chief. I heard it as plainly as I can see the pain lines on your face. I'm revoking your driving privileges as of now. The Volvo can sit in the parking garage until you get the okay to drive."

The smile slipped off Blair's face, replaced with a scowl. "I'm not staying at home, man. Keep the keys if it makes you feel better, I can still get around."

Jim fought the urge to jerk his guide out of his seat and shake him until some common sense broke free and began to function in that curly head. Sandburg was already hurt - because of Jim - couldn't he see his body needed time to heal? Jim unclenched his fists and scrubbed his face. Would he get away with cuffing Blair to his futon during the day?

Blair leaned back in the chair, arms folded across on his chest, a clear signal of his position on the argument.

"Look it's only four days..." Simon's voice floated across the silent room.

Jim got an idea. Turning to his captain, he called out, "Simon, if you throw in lodging for two, I'll take that conference off your hands."

Simon was at his side in a second, clapping his back and smiling broadly. "Wonderful! Hi, Sandburg, aren't you supposed to be at home? Jim said you had to stay off your feet for a few days."

"Jim's being a little over protective, Simon," Blair explained. "What's this about a conference?"

Simon handed the faxed page over to his best detective. "Enjoy. You're taking Sandburg along?"

"Yes," Jim answered over Blair's protests.

"Hey, you can't commit me to some---" Blair started in.

"Relax, you're not due back at Rainier till next week. I'll attend the meetings, you can watch TV and rest," Jim ordered with a wave of his hand. "Where's the class at, Simon? Seattle? Portland?"

"Jefferson County is hosting it. It's in Port Townsend," Simon answered as he clapped Jim's back one final time before leaving.

Frowning at the facsimile of the brochure on the conference, Jim recalled what he knew about the small Washington town of Port Townsend; filled with old Victorian homes located near Point Hudson in the far northeast corner of the Olympic peninsula. The residents were known for their liberal views and interest in the arts. Swell.

"Port Townsend! Oh wow, that rocks!" Blair's eyes sparkled with anticipation. "Thanks, man!"

Given the choice of taking two ferries or driving down to Tacoma and fighting the traffic over the Narrows Bridge, Jim picked the ferries. He scheduled their departure on Wednesday to allow them enough time to arrive at the ferry dock early in the morning. Blair sat in the passenger seat of Jim's new loaner Ford Explorer, surrounded by papers, books, bottled water and a box of Fig Newtons.

"So, you gonna to get one of these if the insurance totals your truck?" Blair asked as they parked with the other vehicles waiting for the ferry's arrival.

"Maybe. I'm eyeing the new Expeditions, though," Jim answered, holding out his hand.

Blair slapped three cookies in the waiting palm. "You should get a classic like my Volvo."

"Yeah, right."

"No, seriously. They have `personality'!" Blair declared. "Wonder which ferry we're gonna get."

"What's it matter, Chief? As long as we get there." Jim popped a soft cookie into his mouth and chewed. The distinctive tang of fig exploded on his tongue as he crunched the small seeds between his teeth.

"Jim, each ferry has its own history. I did a little reading last night on the web. Did you know the original passenger ferry is at Lake Union?" Blair asked pulling his laptop from the floorboards and opening it up as he spoke. "I saved some information here."

Jim eyed the computer, recognizing all the classic signs of `Blair getting ready to lecture'. What Jim desperately needed right now was a distraction.

And he found it.

Down the row of parked cars, a woman was working her way toward them, selling newspapers. Jim dug into his pocket for change. The woman spotted the sale and zoomed in to deliver the paper.

"Here, Chief." Jim offered the paper, keeping the sports section for himself. "Relax and catch up on current events."

"Real subtle, Ellison," Blair snickered, returning the laptop to the floor. "As least you didn't just tell me to shut up." He snapped the paper open and began to read.

Jim allowed a small smile to stay on his face, safely hidden behind the Mariners' scores.

Blair watched as Port Townsend's waterfront approached. They had the first position on the deck, allowing them a spectacular view. The ferry navigated across Admiralty Inlet, a heavily trafficked waterway between Whidbey Island and Port Townsend. The morning was beautiful, like a postcard, with blue skies, white fluffy clouds, multiple sailboats, and the snow capped Olympic Mountain range to the south.

"Come on, Jim. Let's go to the upper deck. I brought my bird watching binoculars," Blair said, holding up a small, but powerful pair of binoculars.

The electric lock slammed down before Blair could open it.

"No. It's a short crossing, you can watch your birds from here," Jim said, reading the newspaper.

Blair pursed his lips in thought. "I have to go to the bathroom," he declared with a sincere look.

Jim's eyes flicked to his face for a second, then back to the paper. "Yeah, right. We both went on the Cathlamet. You just want to use ogle the blonde you saw going up the stairs."

Blair snickered softly. When had Jim gotten so adept at reading him? Settling back in his seat, Blair watched as a sailboat changed directions, moving out of the way of the larger ferry. It felt so great to be out of the hospital and the loft, heck, even out of Cascade.

"Did I tell you the meaning of Cathlamet, Jim? It's from the Kathlamet tribe, the Chinook word calamet means `stone'. It was given to the tribe because its members lived along the rocky stretch of the Columbia River. Isn't that cool?" Blair asked, remembering his reading from last night.

"Uh huh."

"You know what this ferry's name means?"

"mmmm..."

"Klickitat. It's a Native American/Chinook word for `beyond'. This boat was built in San Francisco back in nineteen-twenty-seven," Blair explained. "Just think of the history this baby has seen, man."

"Uh huh..."

Blair turned face Jim. "You're just letting me ramble, aren't you?"

"What ever keeps you happy, Chief...and in the vehicle," Jim answered without looking up.

"Jerk."

"Uh huh..."

The pilings from the original Port Townsend ferry dock stuck out of the water like soldiers from an old, forgotten war. A few blocks south, the currently used dock received the old boat like a welcomed friend.

"Jim, turn right," Blair ordered as they left the ferry and stopped at the first intersection.

"Why?"

"I want to check out a book store I read about. It's supposed to be totally awesome."

"I guess we have time before registration, but I want to get checked in to our room before it gets too late." Jim turned north as requested. Tall turn of the century brick buildings lined each side of the narrow street. The sidewalks were filled with shoppers and tourists.

"Wow! Look at that building, the one on the corner." Blair pointed to a blue and white structure. "It looks like it belongs in Dickens' Christmas Carol! I bet it's over a hundred years old."

Jim bent down to stare up at the large building. "I'd guess late eighteen hundreds."

The building was at least four stories high, with a circular room on the corner of the second floor that reminded Blair of a turret from a castle. The ground floor held an old fashion tavern, complete with pool tables. Ornate cornice pieces and carved work decorated the building.

"Wouldn't it be cool to live in a building like that?" Blair breathed.

"Sure, old plumbing, faulty wiring, drafty rooms - I can hardly wait. Where's this bookstore you want to look at, Chief?"

Blair rolled his eyes. "Sheeze, man. You are such a mood killer," he teased. "There! On the right. The Charles-Franklin."

Jim slowed as they passed. The store was sandwiched between a clothing boutique and a florist shop. A short concrete ramp led up to a pair of tall wooden doors. Windows on each side of the entrance were filled with old and new books on display.

"Let me out, man. You can pick me up after you register for the conference." Blair was suddenly anxious to get inside, caught up in his dream of finding more manuscripts by Sir Richard Burton.

"Wait, Sandburg. I'll find a place to park and go in with you."

A few minutes later, Jim held the door open as Blair swung in on his crutches. The old bookstore was narrow. Two long aisles ran down each side, filled on each wall with shelves reaching to touch the high ceiling. Each shelf overflowed with books. A glass case stood directly in front of them, displaying the rarer, more valuable finds. A short wooden counter with a cash register sat to the right. A young Asian man with short dark hair and an athletic build looked up from behind the counter, greeting them both with a smile.

Blair froze as he stared at the shop; wall-to-wall, floor to ceiling, literally filled with books just waiting for his fingers to pull down and leaf through. He was in heaven.

"Shut your trap, Chief. You'll catch flies," Jim teased. "So, which section are you interested in?"

"What?" Blair shook himself from his musings.

"I asked `which books are you interested in'. You can go sit in that chair and I'll bring you the titles you want to look at." Jim pointed to an overstuffed green chair half way down the right side aisle.

"You don't have to..." Blair's words died out as he saw Jim's expression. Oh, boy. Jim was using `that' look again. Better to take a seat and let the man do the fetch and carry thing. Besides, Blair reasoned as he maneuvered his crutches down the narrow aisle towards the chair, at least Jim had stopped. He had half expected to be driven straight to their motel room and locked in for four days.

Blair lowered himself into the chair, his crutches safely tucked out of the way. Jim stood at his shoulder and began to quietly read the titles off the spines of each book as Blair pointed to a section he was interested in. Soon, there were several stacks of books on the floor next to the chair. Blair felt a moment of hesitation as he studied all the titles, unsure of where to start. He donned his glasses, then pulled a notebook out of his backpack, along with a pen, and prepared to take some notes.

"How much time are we looking at here, Chief? Before you're ready for me to pick you up?" Jim asked.

"Ummm...at least two hours. Why don't you register and check us into the motel first?" Blair suggested, already reaching for the first book, choosing a green book with a tooled design on the front cover.

"Okay, we can get some lunch. I have my cell phone on, call me if you need anything. And stay put, Sandburg." Jim eyed his friend closely as he spoke.

"Uh huh."

"Sandburg...what did I just say?"

Blair looked up, eyeing Jim over the top of his glasses. "Uh...lunch...cell phone...keep my butt parked in the chair?"

"Close enough. See you in two hours."

Blair raised a hand in a dismissive wave, his head already bent, eyes on the book in his hands.

Jim made a beeline for the clerk behind the counter; aware that the man had been watching during the entire process. He smiled as he neared.

"Hi, I was wondering if you could keep an eye on my friend while he looks over those books. I'll be back in two hours to pick him up," Jim asked, pulling out a business card from his wallet.

"I'd be happy to," the man said with a smile. "He looks like he has enough to keep him busy for the whole summer."

"You'd think, but I've seen him go through twice as much back home, just getting ready for a class. The thing is, he needs to keep off his leg. I'll be happy to replace the books he doesn't buy, but could you help him if he needs any more?"

"Sure, that's what they pay me to do," the young man said as he accepted the business card and read the print. "Police? You're here for the conference this week?"

"Yeah, we're staying at the Bayshore Motel. Any idea where that is?"

The clerk nodded. "You're only three blocks away. Go north, it's on the left. Big three story square building."

"Great, thanks. My cell phone number is at the bottom." Jim pulled the baseball cap out of his back pocket and fit in over his short brown hair. Taking one more look at Blair, happily reading in the large chair, Jim headed for the door. The store did have a certain appeal. Jim made a mental note to check out a few titles before leaving on Sunday.

Jim decided to check into the motel first. The clerk was right, the motel turned out to be close, he could see the top of the building from the front door. Jim checked in and drove the Explorer around to the room to unload their luggage. The manager gave them a ground room floor facing the street. On the other side of the narrow two-lane road, the shoulder sloped down to a small rocky beach with a view of Puget Sound and Whidbey Island. After checking out the room and approving of the two twin size beds, he unloaded their bags and headed for the conference.

On the opposite end of town, a large conference hall sat on a bluff overlooking the old town. Once a large Victorian hospital, a small group of businessmen had decided to convert it into a multi-room facility able to host large conferences. Jim found the registration desk and signed in. Accepting his badge, he looked over the scheduled meeting. It was the usual fare to be expected at an emergency preparedness seminar; earthquakes, flood, fires - typical chaos.

"Ellison, you dog!"

Jim looked up, seeing the heavyset man crossing the crowded lobby. Accepting the warm handshake being offered, Jim smiled at the man. "Martin! What are you doing here?"

Martin Franks laughed, his white teeth a marked contrast against his tan skin. "I work here, Port Townsend PD, bucko. I'm helping with the Jefferson boys organize this wonderful extravaganza. You're supposed to be Abernathy, if I remember my list correctly. What happened?"

Jim shrugged. "Pitch hitting. He had a court docket moved up on him. Last I heard you were working in Seattle."

"I was. Hated it. Transferred again, now I'm Assistant Chief," he barked a laugh at Jim's expression. "I know, I know. I've gone over to the dark side. But it's been along time since we swapped `I hate the brass' stories back in Vice."

Jim shook his head, unable to prevent the sly smile from appearing on his face. "So how much is it worth to you?"

Franks' eyes narrowed as he hooked both thumbs in his belt and rocked on his feet. "What?"

"To keep me from telling your officers about that little incident with the transvestite midget?"

Franks sputtered for a few seconds, his eyes wide as his face began to darken to a red color, similar in shade to the plush carpet they stood on. "You wouldn't!" he managed to choke out with some effort.

Jim laughed at the reaction, it was better than he'd hoped for. "Relax, all your secrets are safe with me."

Franks calmed down. "God, man. Give me a heart attack, why don't you? Are you still in Vice?"

"Nope, Major Crimes now."

"Wow, fine score there, Jim. That was a nice division to hang with."

"Still is."

"So, let's get some coffee and I'll bore you with my administrative woes." Franks pointed towards a sign advertising the direction of a refreshment room.

Jim glanced at his watch. He still had forty-five minutes before he had to collect Blair. "Lead the way, McDuff."

Time ceased to exist for Blair. The call of the hunt throbbed through his veins making his surrounding fade into nothingness. The books circled his chair now, each one bookmarked with scraps of paper. So far, he'd only found two in the `must have' stack, but the prices on the books were decent and he toyed with treating himself to a few more. Just as he was getting ready to turn the page, a light touch brought him out of his thoughts.

"Huh?" Blair blinked a few times as he refocused his eyes.

"I asked if you'd like something to drink."

Blair recognized the clerk from behind the counter standing next to his chair. "Oh, hi."

"Hello," the clerk said, extending his hand for Blair to shake. "I'm Sam Wah. I'm getting ready to run next door for a soda, do you want anything?"

"Yeah, I could drink," Blair said digging into his pocket and handing the clerk a dollar. "I'm Blair. Thanks for the refreshment run."

"No problem, I have orders from a very big cop to take care of you," Sam confided with a mock whisper.

Blair rolled his eyes. "Tell me he didn't..."

"Yep, I'm to nark if you get out of the seat. He even gave me his card and everything," Sam said with a chuckle.

"I'm like `so' sorry, man," Blair moaned. "He's been over reacting since I got hurt."

"What happened to you?" Sam blurted out, then blushed. "Sorry, that was rude of me to ask."

Blair waved a hand. "Forget it. I was just standing in the wrong place at the wrong time, my usual luck."

"Okay, I'll be right back, Coke or Pepsi?"

"Pepsi's good, thanks."

Sam headed for the door. "You're in charge while I'm gone, man."

Blair laughed as the door closed. "Talk about leaving the fox in charge of the chicken coop," he muttered, setting a book down and carefully standing. His body was stiff, joints popping as he moved. Quickly checking his watch, he realized Jim would be coming back in about twenty minutes.

Man, he should have asked for at least three hours, maybe four. Oh, well, they were staying for four long days, plenty of time to return and browse.

Reaching for a single crutch, he hobbled over to the history section. One of the books he wanted was a second volume. If he was lucky, he might find volume one. Having both books would an awesome addition to his library. Blair tilted his head back to examine all twelve feet of shelving. It was hard to see the titles from his position, but a few books might be the one he wanted, if he could reach them. Blair spotted a round step stool. Carefully pulling the stool closer to the shelf, he eased himself up on one good leg. Nearer to his goal now, he saw the book he wanted.

"Darn, how did they ever manage in the old days with these high ceilings?" he muttered quietly as he stretched on his toes.

Blair wasn't sure how it happened, either his center of gravity was off or the floor had a slope to it. But without warning, the stool shot across the aisle and he was falling. With a curse, he tried grabbing the shelf to keep from landing wrong, but his fingers slipped off. Blair landed hard on his injured leg. A white-hot pain seared his body, reaching all the way to the top of his head as his vision faded to gray. He was dimly aware of crying out as his right hip, shoulder and the side of his head bounced off the wooden floor.

"Oh, shit!" Footsteps vibrated on the old wooden planks and Blair felt a hand on his arm. The voice was wrong, though. This wasn't Jim. For a second he couldn't remember the clerk's name.

"Blair, are you okay, man?"

Sam. The guy's name was Sam.

Blair jerked his head, hoping that it was moving in the correct direction. His vision starting to come on line again, the pain was ebbing now, letting him think. He had to get off the floor. Jim was going to be walking in that door soon. If he knew...Blair refused to complete that thought. The weekend would be over before it even started.

"H-h-help me up..." Blair stuttered quietly through clinched teeth.

Sam was stronger then he looked. With little effort, he managed to get Blair back into the chair. Leaning forward at the waist, Blair gripped his thigh with both hands as it throbbed with fresh pain. A low groan escaped before he could stop it.

"Man, you're trashed. I'm calling nine-one-one."

"No!" Bair snagged a sleeve before the other man could get off his knees and head for the phone. "Just...give me a minute. It's getting better, really." He had to get back under control before Jim arrived.

"Should I call your friend? He gave me his cell phone number...just in case---"

Blair shook his head, long hair flying out from his neck. "No, no, no. You've got to swear you won't tell him, Sam. He's going to be here any minute."

Sam looked skeptical. "You sure?"

"Oh yeah. Trust me on this one."

Sam stood; retrieving an unopened Pepsi can from the floor and handing it over. "Okay, the customer is always right, dude. What were you doing out of the chair, anyway?"

"I'm looking for the other volume to this book," Blair explained, starting to breath easier.

By the time Jim walked into the store, all was back to normal. A few other customers had arrived and Sam was busy with an elderly lady looking for the latest mystery by Tony Hillerman.

"Hey, Jim," Bair said as his friend neared. "Ready for lunch?"

"Yep," Jim answered. "How many of these books am I putting back on the shelf?"

Blair pinched his lower lip between his teeth as he studied the stacks. Decision time had arrived. "Well, that one... and those two for sure." Blair pointed to the stacks as he talked. "Sam is going to hold this pile for me until we leave. I'm taking those three with me now."

"Okay," Jim said. He scooped up the nearest pile and began to replace the books. After the last book, Jim paused, his eyes on the floor. Blair shifted nervously in the chair as he watched Jim's gaze swing to the nearby stool and then return to the shelves. Jim turned to pin Blair with a deadly look.

Uh oh.

"Something you'd like to get off your chest, Sandburg?" Jim asked in a lethal tone.

"No...not really. I just need to pay for these books and we're out of here."

"Riiight," Jim drawled; his fists had found their way to his hips. "Did I ever tell you about the time we solved a burglar's point of entry question by the marks he left behind in the dust?"

Blair was reaching for his crutches, his hand freezing for a moment before pulling them to his side. "No, don't think you did. Carry those books to the counter for me?" He positioned himself to pull his body out of the chair with the help of the crutches. A large hand on his shoulder stopped him.

Jim squatted down in front of the chair, his face level with Blair's. "There's dust in your hair, junior. I can smell traces of fresh blood on your leg. How bad was the fall?"

Busted.

"Jim, I'm okay."

The Rock of Gibraltar had nothing on Jim Ellison at that moment. Blair doubted he could get past the older man if he had two good legs to walk on. There would be no escaping this conversation.

"How bad? Were you standing on the stool at the time?"

"Okay, fine. I was on the stupid stool. I slipped and landed on the floor. But I'm okay," Blair insisted. He groaned when Jim reached down and began to work the right leg of Blair's sweat pants up over his knee until the bandage was uncovered. "Come on, Jim. This can wait."

"No," Jim said firmly as he started to peel back the tape. A small spot of red stood out on the white gauze.

The bandage came off the shaved skin easily; the angry looking bullet wound was seeping a thin trickle of bright blood. Jim studied the entry wound carefully. "I don't think you tore any stitches. How does it feel? And don't even think about lying, Sandburg, I can tell when you do."

"Aches a little, like when you really stub your toe and it throbs for a second," Blair admitted.

"Okay. We'll get you to the motel and ice it for now. I'll check the exit wound then." Jim replaced the tape, letting Blair work the leg of his sweats back down to his ankle.

Sam rung up the book sale and Blair handed his cash to Jim to make the transaction. After the books were loaded into the Explorer, Jim double parked it outside the door and helped Blair out of the store and into the passenger seat. Sam stood in the doorway, waving as they drove away.

Jim tried to curb his anger as he followed his roommate into their motel room. This weekend away from the loft was supposed to keep Blair off his feet; instead he'd tried to scale the sides of bookshelves.

"Which bed is yours, man?" Blair asked.

"This one." Jim pointed to the closest bed. "Let's check your leg, then I'll get us some lunch."

Blair pivoted awkwardly and slipped out of his sweatpants before sitting on his bed in boxers and a sweatshirt. "Sam told me the pizza down the street tastes decent."

Pawing through a supply of bandage material the hospital had sent home, Jim nodded his agreement. "Yeah, I met an old friend at the conference who recommended it too. Lay down on your stomach, I want to look at the exit wound."

Blair did as instructed, keeping still as Jim removed the second bandage. This wound was larger with more soft tissue and muscle damage as the bullet had tumbled through Blair's leg during its lethal trajectory. The surgeon had spent hours repairing the damage. Jim found himself getting mad again.

"Damn it, Sandburg. What were you thinking?"

Blair sighed, his head pillowed on his folded arms. "I didn't expect to fall, man. It just happened."

"Well, if you don't start doing what the doctor said, you could be walking with a permanent limp."

"I know. I'll be more careful."

Jim let the subject drop as he went out to find the ice machine. Blair did sound miserable and Jim didn't want to end up fighting. He returned to fix an ice wrap for Blair to use. He could lie on his bed and look over his new books; hopefully the swelling would go down. Jim left to get lunch.

Port Townsend's old section of town was seven blocks long, from the ferry terminal to Point Hudson. The main street ran north and south. The large Victorian-style buildings on the east side had water lapping against their foundations. Built in the mid-eighteen hundreds, the town prospered as a major seaport until the crash of 1892, complete with taverns, pool halls, and brothels. Now, as Jim headed for the pizza stand, he passed galleries, fine restaurants and gift shops.

Returning with several large slices of hot cheese filled pizza, they ate while watching the news. Jim used the small round table by the window, while Blair leaned against the headboard of his bed.

"I've got to get back to the conference," Jim stated as he carefully folding the wax papers that had come with each slice.

Blair lifted his right hand as if taking a vow. "I, Blair Sandburg, do hereby promise to stay in this room and off my feet the entire afternoon, so help me God," he recited with somber reverence.

"Add a pain pill to that promise and I won't handcuff you to your bed," Jim said.

Blair made a face. "No way, Jim. I'll fall asleep!"

"Exactly." Jim reached into his overnight bag and palmed the small medicine bottle that Blair had purposefully left behind that morning in their bathroom. Shaking one while pill out onto his hand, he offered it with a smile. "If you take this now, you'll be in shape to go out to dinner tonight. We've been invited to join some of the Port Townsend cops."

Blair took the pill and eyed it with a look of doubt.

"Come on, Chief. An authentic pub, live music, pretty girls..."

Popping the tablet into his mouth and washing it down with a swig from his coke, Blair smirked. "Overweight, balding, backwater cops with nothing but war stories and lies to swap all night, should be a blast."

"Why'd you take the pill then, Darwin?" Jim asked, tucking his wallet into his back pocket and picking up the keys from the table.

"You promised pretty girls, right?" Blair said.

Jim laughed as he headed out the door. "Okay, pick you up at five. Stay off your leg!"

As Jim climbed into the Explorer he continued to monitor his roommate.

"And I'm not talking `four beers and closing time pretty' either, Jim. You'd better know what you're talking about here, man."

At five o'clock exactly, Jim walked in the door to their room. Weary from sitting in a chair all afternoon, he was looking forward to meeting Franks at the pub and having a beer. The afternoon was pleasant, white fluffy clouds drifted across the sky and a stiff breeze tickled the water, causing small whitecaps to appear across the inlet. Sailboats were plentiful as they darted and dodged the commercial ships reroute to Seattle.

"Hey, Sandburg," he called out, hearing the shower running. "You get any rest?"

"Yeah, I'm going to be awake all night, big guy. I'll never sleep after that power nap you made me take," Blair replied from the bathroom.

"Great," Jim moaned. It wasn't a problem back at the loft when Blair stayed up all night, but in this small room? Jim shook his head.

After re-bandaging Blair's leg, Jim took a turn in the shower. Soon both men were dressed and ready to head out, locking the door behind them. Blair was dressed in tennis shoes, loose jeans and a light gray long sleeve Henley with a light flannel shirt, his wet hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. Jim wore leather loafers, dark Dockers and a lightweight, blue cotton cable sweater. Jim opened the door for Blair to go out first. Blair's first swing on his crutches over the sill was aborted when he spied the foldable wheelchair just outside the door.

"No way, Jim," Blair declared firmly, backing away.

"Sandburg, empty parking spots don't exist this time of day. The pub is over five blocks away, and you are `not' walking, even on crutches. Besides, this will give you freedom during the day to check out the galleries and return to the bookstore."

Blair's face brightened. "Really? I can go back to the bookstore?"

Jim gave his friend a look of disbelief. "Do I look stupid? Admit it, you planned on returning tomorrow, didn't you? At least with this, you're still following the doctor's orders."

Blair lowered himself into the chair and leaned the crutches on his knee and shoulder. "To the pub, James," he ordered in a bad English accent.

Arriving at the pub, Franks stood up from his table and waved at them across a large crowded room. Blair had refused to use the chair inside the pub, so it was folded and placed off to the side by a large coat rack. Using his crutches, Blair maneuvered his way through the room with Jim on his heels. One side of the open restaurant was covered with a huge antique mahogany bar, complete with the original mirror. The ceiling was covered in decorative hammered copper. A band was setting up, getting ready to play on a small corner stage.

"This must be the famous Blair Sandburg!" Franks said in a loud voice as they neared. "Martin Franks. Joel's told me all about you!"

Blair looked at the older man in surprise, leaning on one crutch as he shook the extended hand. "Joel Taggert?"

"Yessiree, worked with Joel for over five years, just before I got assigned to the desk next to Ellison's in Vice." Franks admitted, pulling out a wooden chair. The legs scraped across the wooden floor, causing Jim to flinch from the sound.

Blair sat as Franks introduced the other five men at the table by name. The men were a mix of city and Jefferson County off duty cops all about Jim's age or older. Jim nodded to each man as he took a seat next to his roommate. He could see the men sizing up Blair, probably puzzled by his age and appearance.

"Joel says you ride with Jim for your college studies," Franks said as the waitress set a large pitcher of beer on the table. Franks helped himself to a glass, passing the pitcher to Blair, who passed it off to Jim.

"What? You're not twenty-one?" Franks asked.

"No...I'm on meds," Blair explained, catching the eye of the waitress and grinning. "Coffee?"

"Coming up," she answered, returning a warm smile.

"Ah...of course. Your bullet wound," Franks said. "During the Quinn escape attempt, right?"

"Yeah."

A man from across the table leaned forward. "We got a chance to read some of that report. How'd you know which way Quinn went, Ellison? All the sheriff's search crews went the opposite direction."

Jim poured his beer and passed the pitcher to the next man. "Just following a hunch, knowing my Captain's luck, if the entire rescue team heads off in one direction, then Simon went the opposite."

The group laughed. An older man speared Blair with a measuring eye. "You're not with the department, Sandburg, why did you go along?"

Jim bristled at the tone. He knew some of these men had pegged Blair as an outsider, a hippie like the young men and women that seemed to roam the streets of Port Townsend in packs. Jim began to regret his decision to bring his partner. They should have just found a quiet place to eat alone.

Blair ignored the tone, giving a short laugh. "Are you kidding? Jim alone in the woods? Who would protect the bears and other poor woodland creatures?" he joked, before his dark blue eyes became serious. "Jim's my partner; you go where your partner goes. Besides, Simon's a friend."

The table grew quiet. Then the older cop nodded. "Well said, kid."

The group began to share old cases, as they tried to top each others stories, each more outlandish then the last, until the table was laughing loud enough to cause heads to turn. By the time the food arrived, the stories had slowed down and the talk switched to sports. Jim took time to prepare his prime rib the way he liked it, smothered in coarse horseradish. Beside him, Blair dug into his chicken and pasta.

The band was playing, people laughed and joked, adding to the noise in the room, causing Jim to turn his hearing down. Still, a soft cry reached the sentinel's ears. Jim looked up from his food, his face alert while his eyes searched the room.

"What is it, Jim?" Blair whispered.

Jim didn't answer, his eyes checking each occupant as he dialed up his hearing.

"Give it up, Annie. You know you want it."

"No, I'm leaving...augh!"

"I'm not forking out dough for this lousy food just to have you split, baby."

Jim spotted the couple at the other end of the room, toward the back where a booth offered some privacy from the crowd. Jim could see the backs of their heads, unable to see what was happening, but he didn't need to, his ears told him enough. Without explaining his reasons, he was out of his chair and across the room.

"Excuse me, Miss," Jim said politely. "Can I help you?"

The woman at the table looked young, eighteen or nineteen. Her hair had been dyed with multiple colors of red, orange and blue, forming long streaks down the strands. She was pretty, slim-figured and petite. The man leaning against her in the seat removed his hands from under her sweater and turned to glare at Jim with a murderous expression.

"Get the hell out of here, mister." His voice was low and angry; a wave of sour whisky wafted up into Jim's face.

Jim's badge was out and slammed on the tabletop in an instant as he jerked the younger man out of the seat by the scruff of his neck. "Wrong tactic, cowboy. I was hoping more for the `one too many drinks by the fella and now he's all sorry' scenario here."

The man swung his fist towards Jim's face, but his alcohol soaked brain made the punch slow, easy to dodge. Jim shoved him face first into the wall, pinning him with his right arm behind his back.

"What'cha got, Jim?" Franks voice asked over Jim's shoulder.

"Cowboy here was not being a gentleman," Jim explained as he twisted his head to look at the girl cowering in the corner, her white face frozen with fear. "Are you alright, Miss? Do you want to press charges?"

She shook her head adamantly, snatching up her knitted handbag from the floor and sliding out of the booth. "No, no...really it's all right."

Franks laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Miss, have one of these officers call a friend to take you home. Do yourself a favor and stay away from this guy, okay?"

She nodded. "That's okay. I've got a cell phone. I'll call my dad," she said. A waitress appeared at her side and offered to take her to the back to wait.

"Let him go, Jim," Franks ordered.

Jim released the man and stepped back, fighting the urge to sneeze. Something in the air was irritating his nose. Jim traced the scent to the man's expensive smelling cologne. Jim hadn't noticed it until now, the strong smell of alcohol overpowering anything else on his person.

Franks looked at the local man with contempt. "What's wrong, Sanderson, misdemeanors too boring for you now? Trying your hand at felonies now?"

Sanderson glared at Jim and Franks, then two more cops from their table arrived to back them up. The fact he was outnumbered four to one seemed to sink in. Attempting to adjust his sweater, his face flushed. "I don't know what you're talking about, Franks. I was enjoying my dinner when this jerk came on like Conan and started throwing his weight around. I didn't even know he was a cop."

Franks pointed to the badge on the table. "What's that? Looks like a clear message to me."

Sanderson pointed at his face with a smirk. "No glasses."

Franks turned to Jim. "Your call, Ellison."

Jim considered the younger man for a second. Did he really want to deal with this? He'd have to come back for the court date, not something he looked forward to. Plus he'd never verbally said he was with the police, with Jim's normal luck, the guy was legally blind without glasses, just too vain to wear them on a date.

"Get out of here. Grow up and learn how to treat women, little boy," Jim warned, picking up his badge and returning it to his pocket. Sanderson replied with a look of smug insolence. It was almost enough to cause Jim to change his mind and make an arrest on the spot.

Franks jerked a thumb at the doorway. "You heard him, get out of here before `I' change my mind and take you in."

Sanderson slipped past the cops without a word, disappearing through the doorway and walking with angry steps down the sidewalk. Jim ran a hand through his short hair. "Nice little town you've got here, Martin."

Franks clapped a hand on Jim's shoulder as he guided the other detective back to the table. "Trust you to find the local asshole, Ellison."

Blair was visibly vibrating in his seat when the four cops returned to the table. Jim noted Blair's crutches were currently in the custody of the older cop, out of Blair's reach.

"Sorry, Jim. They wouldn't let me back you up," Blair explained.

Franks took his seat and nodded in agreement. "It was my call, Blair. You need to stay off that leg. Besides backing up the trouble magnet was always something I was good at. This felt like old times."

Blair's eyes widened. "Trouble magnet? Jim used to be a trouble magnet?"

With a groan, Jim sank into his own chair. Picking up his fork ,he speared a piece of steamed cauliflower.

Franks laughed. "Oh yeah, he ever tell you about the time he was down at the fish processing warehouse in the middle of August?"

"Franks! Don't you dare," Jim growled, knowing Blair was ready to start taking notes; thankfully he'd left his backpack in the motel. No wait, this was Sandburg, he probably had a notebook and pen stuffed inside his shirt.

"The guys back in Cascade call `me' the trouble magnet!" Blair confessed.

"You are, Sandburg. I passed the mantle to you when you started riding with me," Jim grumbled good-naturedly.

Later that night, Blair fell into bed with a sigh. He was stuffed. In spite of the nap he'd taken that afternoon, he was exhausted, barely finding the energy to change into his sweat pants and t-shirt.

"Franks is such a cool guy, Jim," Blair said with a yawn. "Hard to believe he's an Assistant Chief."

Switching off the light and crawling into his own bed, Jim grunted. "You should have seen him back when I worked in Vice. He and his partner were always having their butts chewed for something. They were good cops, but real hotheads."

"Wow, coming from you, they must have been something..." Blair muttered, almost asleep.

A second later, Blair was wide-awake, the result of a pillow smacking the side of his head.

"Hey!"

"Don't even pretend you didn't mean that slam, Sandburg," Jim growled.

Blair grinned in the darkness as he rubbed his ear. "Jeez, just a little sensitive there, Big Guy? Keep it up and I'll tell Rafe the fish story."

"What! Franks never told you that story," Jim protested. "You're bluffing."

"Remember when you went to the bathroom?"

"That traitor! And I promised to keep the midget story to myself!"

"Night, Jim," Blair said in a sweet voice.

"Ah...about that pillow incident, Chief. You're not ..."

Blair remained silent, his grin stretching his face, knowing Jim could easily see him in the darkness.

"Oh, wonderful. I thought I'd finally got that stupid story behind me when I got to Major Crimes," Jim muttered in the darkness.

Blair was still smiling as he drifted off to sleep.

The sound of the door slamming woke Blair up. He rolled over to see Jim in his gray running sweats, searching his duffle bag with a grim look on his face.

"What`s up, man?" Blair croaked.

"Body in the water," Jim announced calmly.

"What?" Blair asked, sitting up in his bed in alarm.

"He's about half a mile off shore." Pulling out his cell phone, Jim headed for the door again. "Stay here, Chief," he ordered before disappearing outside.

Blair tossed his covers of and climbed out of bed, searching the floor for his sneakers. "Yeah, right."

It wasn't easy using crutches on a beach. Remembering the fall he took the day before in the bookstore, Blair took his time, making sure each rubber tip was firmly planted in the rocks before moving forward. Blair could see Jim up the beach, by an old boat ramp. The morning was overcast, the gray clouds mirrored in the gray water, water that yesterday had been a picturesque blue. Unable to keep from shivering as a wind gust lifted his long hair from his shoulders, Blair took a second to zip up his jacket before crossing the last few feet to stand at Jim's side.

When the first marked police car joined them, Jim had given up trying to talk Blair into returning to their room. Jim pointed east, directly at the body. The cop squinted as she searched the gray water, not able to see anything.

Blair handed her a pair of binoculars. He'd stuffed them into his jacket pocket before leaving the room. "Let her try with the binoculars you used."

"Oh, right. Thanks, Chief," Jim said as he pointed again. "Look right over there."

"Okay, got it." The cop returned to her patrol car to notify the marine unit of the approximate location.

Jim gave Blair a nod. "Good thinking."

Thirty minutes later, the body had been retrieved. The beach dipped into the water with a gentle slope, allowing the police boat to bring the body directly to their feet. Assistant Chief Franks arrived just in time to see two of his officers dressed in wet suits carry the deceased to land. Jim had observed the two cops check the body over when they first pulled it out of the water. For whatever reason, they didn't start CPR.

"Ben Sanderson!" Franks exclaimed. "Holey shit, this is going to get ugly fast," he muttered to Jim and Blair with a grimace.

"How do you mean?" Jim asked.

"The Sandersons are a powerful family around here. Hell, the building we were in last night for dinner was built by this kid's great-grandfather. His grandfather was the first judge in Jefferson County and his father was the city mayor for four terms before retiring to the city counsel." Franks headed for his car. "I'd better call the Chief."

Blair got a good look at the body. Sure enough; it was the same guy Jim had confronted. He looked in his early twenties, still wearing the same clothes they'd seen in him last night. Jim and Blair stepped back, keeping out of the way. After talking with his supervisor on the radio, Franks returned.

"What happens now?" Blair asked.

"Well, I called the Chief, so he can deal with the family and all the political fall out - if I'm lucky. It's not like we have a town full of people that are going to miss this kid. I'm just hoping he wandered into the water last night and drowned. It's rare, but it's happened before." Franks finger combed his gray hair as he spoke.

"Not likely," Jim said, nodding to the body with his chin.

The dead man's shirt had been unbuttoned to reveal several knife wounds on his chest, the exposure to the salt water making the edges of the wounds white and wrinkled.

"Oh, man..." Blair whispered, swallowing hard as he looked away.

"I'd rule out suicide if I were you, too," Jim said calmly.

The crowd grew in numbers as the local residents woke to see the police activity on the beach. Barricades with bright yellow tape were put into place. Checking the time and seeing Blair shivering, Jim made the decision to head back.

"Come on, Sandburg," Jim said, pulling him away. "Martin, I'll see you at the conference?"

Franks shrugged. "Hard to say, I might be tied up with this. I'll try and catch up with you guys later."

Jim slowed his walk as he accompanied Blair off the beach. Back in their room, he tossed the binoculars back into Blair's open bag. "Take a shower, Chief. I'll go get us some breakfast."

Blair disappeared into the bathroom on one crutch, clean clothes under his free arm. "Thanks, Jim."

Locking the door behind him, Jim headed into town, towards a small coffee shop he'd noticed last night on their walk to dinner. Like the other stores in `old-town', the shop was on the ground floor of a three story brick building. Jim marveled at the fine craftsmanship of the brickwork. His eye caught the name at the top of the structure, centered at the roof line, `N.D. Hill'. In fact, now that he noticed it, many of the old buildings had the names of the persons that had built them; Hill, Tibbals as well as Sanderson.

Opening the old fashion wood-framed screen door, Jim entered the coffee shop named `McKinsy's' and took a deep breath. The fragrant smell of dark coffee, fresh bakeries and rich chocolate caused his mouth to water. The shop was narrow, high ceilings, and walls painted a dark green that complemented the old oak cabinetry. Small square wooden tables with mismatched wooden chairs allowed customers to sit and chat while enjoying their purchases.

As Jim waited in line, he eyed an antique toy fire engine and large handmade sailboat displayed on the top of a cabinet. Those would look nice in the loft. Zooming in on the small white sticker, he read the three letters penciled in by hand: N. F. S. Oh well, there was an antique store one block to the north, maybe he could talk Blair into looking around later.

With two coffees, a couple of slices of hot mushroom and bacon quiche and a bag full of bagels, Jim returned to the motel. Blair was finished with his shower and already at the table with his new book purchases, making a few entries in a small notebook.

"Yum! Smells good," Blair exclaimed, pushing his work to the side as Jim joined him.

"Wait till you see the shop it came from. You know, I'm signed up for meetings till two-thirty. If you want, we can look around downtown this afternoon," Jim suggested as he set out the food and drinks.

"I'm in. I'll even treat you to a late lunch."

"Deal. I saw a place called `The Cellar' that looked good, we can go there." Jim had his first bite of quiche ready and followed it with a sip from his coffee. The food tasted great.

"I'm going to work here this morning," Blair said after finishing his slice and reaching for a bagel. "I found some great stuff in these books for a paper I'm working on. I bought one book on the history of Port Townsend. I want to read it before we start looking around."

Jim eyed his partner with a smirk. "My own personal tour guide."

But that afternoon, when Jim returned, he found the room empty and the wheelchair missing. Relocking the door, he headed for the bookstore on foot. The day had remained overcast, but dry.

Blair was back in his overstuffed chair, head bent over an open book. A new clerk, an older, tall man with stooped shoulders sat behind the counter today. Blair looked up from his reading as Jim's shadow fell across the pages.

"Oh, hey, Jim. Is it already time for lunch?"

"Yeah, I thought you were staying in the motel today," Jim asked

"I did - most of the day - I needed to check something out," Blair told his friend. "I'm ready to go now."

They found `The Cellar' under a bead store, accessible by an outside staircase. Leaving the wheelchair in the care of the clerk at the bead store, Blair carefully worked his way down the stairs. The store was set up as a one-man deli, allowing customers to point at the different dishes on display under glass. Jim ordered a large bowl of gumbo in a sourdough loaf while Blair picked roasted vegetables with bread sticks.

"Hey, Jim, check this out," Blair said, pointing over Jim's shoulder. The back wall held a wide glass window, allowing the customers to view a small room with a mannequin dressed in old-fashioned clothes and tied hand and foot while lying on a pile of burlap sacks. A small card with handwriting was taped to the glass.

Jim zoomed in on the card. "It's depicting the old practice of shanghaiing men. It's believed that room was used to hold their victims, it connects to tunnels so they could carry them to the waiting boats."

Blair's eyes widened with wonder. "Really! I've been reading about that today, Jim. This town was a wild place back in the eighteen hundreds. Bartenders put a drug in their drinks and the guys from the ship would kidnap them. Can you imagine, man. Waking up and finding out you're on a clipper ship!"

"That's where we get the term, `being slipped a mickey'." Jim nodded. "Working on a ship was no fun. A lot of men died."

"And they wondered why folks weren't knocking down their doors to sign up," Blair commented. "But I've got to tell ya, Jim, this town is so cool! I mean the history is all around us."

Jim smiled as he took another spoonful of the spicy gumbo, listening as his roommate talked about the history book he'd been reading. It looked like the decision to get Blair out of the loft was a good one after all. As long as he used the wheelchair for the next few days, Blair could research to his heart's delight.

"Think about it, this town had all the stuff that movies are made of! Young seaport town, growing, cultures mixing and clashing as people struggled to make a living. Entire fortunes were made and lost on these streets." Blair's lunch was barely touched as he bobbed and weaved in his seat, his eyes shining with excitement.

The door opened and Martin Franks walked into the restaurant, his eyes searching the room and finding Jim and Blair. Jim nodded in greeting as he pointed to Blair's food. "Better finish that, Sandburg. I think we're about to be interrupted," he whispered as Franks pulled a chair away from an empty table and joined the two men.

"How'd you find us?" Jim asked.

"This is a small town. Just had to ask a few clerks where the `big buff hunk and the adorable guy with the hair' went," Franks said with a smirk. "Their words, not mine," he added as Blair blushed.

Jim felt his own face warm. "I had to ask," he moaned with a slight shake of his head. "What's up?"

"We'd like to borrow you for this murder investigation, Jim. My detective is out on maternity leave. She won't be back for another two weeks. I called your captain; he said it was up to you."

Jim sat back in surprise. "What about the conference?"

"There's another one set in six months, Cascade already has a seat reserved," Franks said.

Damn. Jim looked as his roommate. Blair was supposed to be resting; there was no way he'd be able to keep Blair from tagging along if he said yes.

"Captain Banks warned me you two come as a team, that's not a problem. Blair can ride with you, just like back in Cascade."

"Cool! Let's do it, Jim," Blair said eagerly.

Jim sighed as he opened the folder and started reading. Between Blair's excitement and Frank's hangdog expression, he had folded like a house of cards. Franks had promptly walked with them back to the police department located a block south of their motel and set them up in his office with all the information they had gleaned so far.

Jim's afternoon of antique shopping was forgotten as he read the short report. Uniformed officers had canvassed the store-owners, but no one had seen Sanderson walking away from the restaurant the previous night. No witnesses had been found. Sanderson had a large lump on the back of his head, suggesting he was knocked unconscious before he was stabbed.

"Possible robbery..." Jim said out loud.

Blair had an extra copy of the report, a faster reader than Jim, he was almost finished. "It says a ring was missing. Did you notice a ring last night?"

"Not really."

Blair looked up from his report. "Let's try using meditation again. We've done it before with your hearing, only this time, we'll concentrate on your sight."

Jim tossed the file back on the table. He'd learned to trust Blair with these ideas. "Okay, what do I do?"

First Blair talked him into relaxing. Using his friend's voice as a fulcrum, Jim let his mind empty of all thoughts, depending on his guide to supply the needed direction. Blair led him through the events of the previous night, up until he pulled Sanderson out of the booth.

"Okay, I see it," Jim said, his eyes closed as he leaned back in Franks' chair. "It's old looking, gold with a capital `S' spelled out in small diamonds. He wore it on his right ring finger." Jim opened his eyes and looked at Blair. "I can understand why a thief would want to take it."

Blair nodded.

"Wait, though. He still had his wallet on him, with over three hundred in cash." Jim tapped the report where it listed the items found on Sanderson's body. "Not exactly chump change."

"Yeah, that's true, man. You'd think the killer would have taken the money," Blair commented as he pinched his lower lip in thought. "So maybe the ring had a special meaning to the killer...like a trophy?"

Jim shrugged. "Maybe. We need to interview the family. Franks called and they're expecting us this afternoon."

"Great, let's go."

"Chief, are you sure you're up for this investigation? You're supposed to be resting."

Blair rolled his eyes with a chuckle. "Jim, would you stop with the invalid treatment? I promise to stay in the wheelchair you borrowed for me. I know! I'll pretend to be Raymond Burr and you can be the guy that used to push him around. We'll need to find you an afro wig, though," Blair said, leaning sideways to avoid the swat heading for the back of his head.

"Smart ass."

The Sanderson home was on the list of historical Victorian houses that caused artists and photographers to flock to Port Townsend in droves. It was three stories high, on a hill with a one hundred and eighty degree view of the Puget Sound and Admiralty Inlet. Painted in cream color with blue trim, the one hundred and forty year old home appeared to be in perfect condition from the manicured lawn to the iron railing of the `widow walk' located on the roof. A two-story carriage house in the back yard was painted in matching colors.

Jim parked on the steeply angled street, carefully turning the wheels into the curb. Blair eyed the steep stairs to the porch and decided to forgo the chair and use the crutches for this visit, rationalizing that the walk to the front door was short and they'd probably be sitting in the living room during the interview anyway.

"I found some stuff on the Sanderson family today while you were at the conference," Blair said as they headed toward the house together. "Ben's great-grandfather was a captain of a clipper ship, that's how he made his fortune. He settled here, built this house and the family has stayed on ever since."

"Watch these steps, Chief."

"You know they call the roof a widow's walk, because the captain's wives waited up there to spot the sails of the ships when they're husbands returned to port, it gave them time to get to the docks and greet their men. Only some of the husbands never returned," Blair continued as he maneuvered the crutches up the wooden stairs, Jim's hand on the small of his back.

"You're a plethora of information today, Junior," Jim teased as he knocked on the door.

Blair shot a grin at his friend. "Didn't you know, man? Life is in the details."

The door was opened by a short priest, complete with the white collar around his throat and a somber look on his face. After they had introduced themselves, the priest led them through a front hallway. They passed a steep staircase with a carved wooden banister. A plush runner carpet traveled up the stairs to the second floor, held in place by a series of metal rods. Plants and vines grew in every available corner.

They passed through a set of opened double doors into a parlor. A thin, attractive woman sat in a comfortable upholstered rocker with crochet dollies on the arms. The room had the same high ceilings typical in Victorian style homes. The walls were adorned with paintings of stern looking men dressed in old fashioned clothing, hanging on long wires and tilted out at an angle from the wall. Standing with his back to the room, a tall man leaned a hand against the fireplace mantel, gazing intently into the empty firebox. Above his head, a large oil painting of a clipper ship at full sail hung in an ornate oak carved frame.

"Charles, Susan, these are the men that Police Chief Rickman sent," the priest announced gently and left the room.

Blair gave the woman his best sympathetic smile, careful to keep his crutches from getting near the many crystals and porcelain figures scattered about the room. Even the smallest piece of art looked pricey enough that, if accidentally broken, he'd have to sell everything he owned and still not have enough to replace it. Blair watched with just a hint of envy as Jim gracefully approached the woman to shake her hand briefly, giving his condolences and sitting on a delicate looking loveseat. Blair clumsily sat down next to him, his fingers smoothing down the short white threads fringing a small hole in the knee of his jeans. Why didn't he think to wear a better pair of pants?

"I know our timing is not the best, Mr. and Mrs. Sanderson. But we need to ask you both a few questions about your son's death," Jim said in a soothing voice.

The man turned away from the elaborately carved Carrara marble fireplace, pinning both men with a steely look. "Don't you mean murder?"

"Charles, please..." the woman interrupted quietly.

"Susan, someone has killed my only child. The Sanderson name just died in this town. I'm entitled to be `angry' about that, don't you think!"

Blair visibly recoiled from the hostility in the man's voice. His wife seemed to shrink in her chair, dropping her eyes to the floral carpet and remaining quiet. Above her head, on a tiered whatnot shelf, a porcelain figurine mimicked her posture. Apparently, none of this man's collection was allowed to speak back to him.

Jim turned his attention to the angry man. "Do you have any idea who would want your son dead?"

"No, Ben was well respected in this town, as he should be. He had many friends. I expect one of the lowlife hippies that moved into Port Townsend with all the other liberal scum killed him for the family ring." Sanderson's mouth seemed to bite out each hate drenched word with pleasure.

"Ben was named after his great-grandfather, Benjamin A Sanderson?" Blair asked.

Sanderson nodded, giving Blair a measuring glance. "You know about my family?"

Shifting a bit in the sofa, Blair cleared his throat. "I did some research..."

"What was the value of the ring?" Jim asked.

The man turned back towards the cold fireplace. "It's priceless. My grandfather had that ring made when he moved here. Ben was the fourth Sanderson to receive it on his twenty-first birthday." He slapped a large hand against the marble mantle, swinging around to point a finger at Jim. "You `will' find that ring, damn it! Even if I have to remarry, the Sanderson name will continue!"

With a sob, Susan Sanderson stood and ran from the room, leaving the three men alone to avoid each other's eyes.

"You'll have to excuse my wife, she's distraught," Sanderson muttered gruffly.

After another ten minutes of questions that provided no clues to their investigation, they left. Blair worked his crutches down the wooden steps, swinging his injured leg like a prisoner heading for an early parole. He waited until they were out of hearing range before exploding in outrage. "Holy cow, what a dysfunctional family! Can you believe that attitude of his? Unbelievable! What was he thinking?"

Jim started the engine, checking over his shoulder before carefully pulling away from the curb. "People handle their grief differently, Sandburg."

"That wasn't `just' grief, man. That was ..." Blair found himself too stunned to verbalize his disbelief. He took a deep breath and unclenched his fists before trying again. "That house, those antiques, I though at first it would be cool growing up with that stuff. But, I...I guess I've never met such a cold-hearted attitude, Jim. He didn't even think about his wife with that crack about remarrying."

Jim's eyes remained on the road, his face grim. "Yeah, I know. Trust me. Some families do not end up in a Norman Rockwell painting."

They returned to the station to type up a narrative and save it to disk. Jim checked his watch. It was time to call it a day, even though they'd gotten a late start, he was satisfied with what they had accomplished, although a return visit to the victim's family might be fruitful, if they got a chance to talk with the mother alone.

No new information had arrived. The obvious cause of death was still the stab wounds to the chest, although Jim was curious if Sanderson had been alive when he went into the water. The preliminary report from the Jefferson County Medical Examiner, a short, plump woman with a no-nonsense attitude indicated the wounds were enough to kill the man. They should know more after a complete autopsy being done that day.

"Let's grab a bite, Chief."

Blair sat in a comfortable looking chair in Frank's office, his head bowed over a book. "Not hungry."

Counting to a slow ten instead of launching into an argument about Blair's body needing nourishment, Jim turned off the computer and stretched. He knew his friend was still upset about the earlier interview. It was another unpleasant side of police work, like when they dealt with the results of one person's savagery on another, leaving a dead body behind. In this case, the brutal acts were attitudes and words, but the results were just as ugly.

"I'm going to try that Mexican place across the street. What if I bring you some take out?"

"Maybe some rice, I guess," Blair admitted as he gathered up his stuff and pulled himself up with his crutches.

After settling Blair in the motel for the evening, Jim headed towards dinner. The small restaurant was narrow and filled with tourists. Brick walls on each side were decorated with large Aztec sun dials and colorful blankets from south of the border. Jim took a small table in the back corner and studied the menu. His dinner arrived, smelling great. He ate with pleasure, enjoying a few hours to himself. By the time he arrived back at the motel, Blair was sitting at the table, his laptop plugged in. Judging by the telephone cable, Jim guessed he was on the Internet.

"Hey, Jim. I found a site that has some information on the original Benjamin Sanderson and his ship," Blair said, his blue eyes animated again as he pointed to the small screen. "He was a crook! A smuggler."

Jim set the take-out bag on the table. "What?"

"Yeah, no kidding! Look at this." Blair began to read from his screen. "In 1854, the U.S. government moved the location of the Customs headquarters from Olympia to Port Townsend to help combat the smuggling of liquor, opium, and illegal aliens. This brought the remote outpost of Port Townsend into immediate prominence. Because every vessel entering or departing Puget Sound had to stop and clear at the Port of Entry, Port Townsend became the leading shipping port north of San Francisco." With a flick of his finger, another screen popped up. "Now this is another passage I found from a customs' journal. This guy suspected at least four fellow customs agents were on the take. And right here, he names a few ships that he believes were doing the smuggling, but couldn't prove it. I guess whenever a captain though he was going to be boarded, he ordered the contraband to be thrown overboard. Now, look at this, see that name...the Edith Louise? That was Sanderson's ship."

Jim read the entries again. It looked like Blair was right. "Do me a favor, Sandburg. Don't bring this up with the family. We need to stay on their good side while we investigate their son's murder. Not piss them off so bad we get run out of town on a rail."

Blair laughed softly as he reached for the bag on the table. "I promise. I'm starving, what did you bring me?"

"Rice, like you asked...and maybe a few other things," Jim tossed over his shoulder as he headed for the bathroom.

Blair pulled out a full meal of enchiladas, beans and rice. "Thanks, Jim."

The next morning, they finished off the last of the bagels and checked in with Franks before heading out to interview the victim's coworkers at a large pulp mill owned by the family, located fifteen miles south of town. Driving past the convention center, the town began to look more like a standard business district and less like a picturesque seaport. They past by a large car dealership, tire store, a Safeway, even a small airport before finding the road that took them to the pulp mill. Jim took the wheelchair out and pushed Blair up the large concrete ramp that led into the mill. After checking with a manager on duty, they were led to a quieter office area where clerks typed at keyboards and answered phones.

A balding man sat behind a large desk. He rose as his secretary introduced them. "Gentlemen, I understand you're investigating Ben's death."

Jim rolled Blair into the room, taking a seat in the chair after shaking the man's hand. "We are, Mr. Peters. We were told that Ben worked for you?"

Peters returned to his seat, his eyes glancing at the closed door. "Yes, his father owns the mill, but he insisted that Ben learn the operations from the ground up. Not that Ben did much learning when he did decide to show for work."

"Do you know if anyone seemed angry enough with Ben to want to kill him?" Jim asked.

"Not really. He was a real jerk, but being the boss's son, he was just a pain you learned to endure," Peters admitted.

They asked a few more questions, getting frank and honest answers from the man. Finally, Jim asked to see Ben's office. They were led to a small office a few doors down and left alone to look around. Jim searched through some filing cabinets while Blair rolled over to the computer and powered it up. After over an hour of looking, Jim dropped into the desk chair to watch Blair on the keyboard.

"Well?"

"Nothing really, Jim. He had a lot of half finished reports and inventories on his hard drive. I don't think he did anything of real importance for the company. It's like he was just pigeon-holed here," Blair said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Well, he has an extensive collection of soft porn hidden in the bottom drawer," Jim added. "I can't find anything to justify a paycheck either."

They thanked Peters for his help and headed back to town. The day was cloudy, with each passing hour the sky grew darker. Jim parked in front of their motel. It was kind of nice being within walking distance from work and so many good places to eat. A guy could get used to this.

"Are we eating lunch now?" Blair asked while Jim got the wheelchair out again.

"You want to go to the place I found the quiche and bagels yesterday? They had a lot of other stuff you might like," Jim suggested. "We can swing by the station on the way and see if the M.E.'s report arrived and take it with us."

"Sure."

The secretary, a young woman with spiky red hair and a pierced eyebrow smiled as Jim rolled Blair into the lobby. "Hey, guys! What's shaking?"

"Hi, Rosy," Blair greeted the woman with a brilliant smile. "Sure I can't convince you to move to Cascade and work at the station downtown? You should see the grumpy old guys I have to work with there," he teased.

Jim left them to chat, heading for the fax machine in Franks' office. Jim knew the Assistant Chief was at the conference today, unable to get out of one of the meetings. He'd been briefly introduced to Chief Rickman before the man had left for a city budget meeting. Although they had seen a few of the uniforms over the last two days, the small police station was mostly empty except for Rosy and her radio. She was also the police dispatcher during the day shift. After snagging the report and making a few copies to take with him, he filed the original fax in Franks' desk and returned to the lobby to save Rosy from Blair's flirtations.

Blair fell in love with the small coffee shop at first sight. "Oh, wow. We should use this color on the walls at the loft, man," Blair said entering the narrow shop. "Our brick is about the same color of red, it would look fantastic."

"We'll talk about it, what do you want to eat?" Jim asked.

Blair carefully surveyed the prepared foods, choosing a croissant sandwich with cream cheese and salmon. He surprised Jim by filling half a small bag with chocolate covered malt balls and adding it to his purchase. After Jim bought his sandwich, they settled down to eat at a narrow counter built into the front window, allowing the customers to watch the sidewalk and street as they ate. The old brick building across the street had a yoga store that sold incense and candles.

"Remind me to get a birthday present for Naomi while I'm here," Blair said as he opened his sandwich and carefully spread the cream cheese to his liking with a plastic knife.

"Yeah, I saw a few stores that I want to check out for Simon and Carolyn," Jim said, passing a copy of the M.E. report to his friend.

The next few minutes were spent eating and reading the report. Part of Jim contemplated the effect the last year must have had on his guide. Who would have expected Blair to be able to munch happily on his lunch while reading the stark facts surrounding a murder victim?

"Looks like he was dead when he went into the water," Blair finally noted, keeping his voice low. The place had a few customers sitting at other tables.

"Yeah, I wondered about that," Jim said, finishing the last of his meal.

The bag of malt balls appeared between them on the counter. Jim waited until Blair had helped himself before reaching into the bag. "This is a side of you I never thought I'd see, Sandburg."

"Hey, we all have our weaknesses, big guy," Blair admitted. "Do we have time to go to the book store after lunch? I still have a few books to look at and I want to see if Sam is working today. He told me he's into Port Townsend history. I want to pick his brain a little, maybe learn more about the Sanderson family."

"Poor guy," Jim commented as he crunched on a malt ball, enjoying the flavor as it exploded on his tongue. "Tell you what, Frank set up an interview with the girl who was with Sanderson at the pub. You go to the bookstore and we'll meet up again at the motel."

"Perfect," Blair said, finishing his cup of hot tea.

"Just stay off the stools, Sandburg. Your leg is still healing."

"Got it."

Sam was working when Blair rolled up the short ramp into the store. The store was empty of customers.

"Hey, Blair," Sam greeted, looking up from shelving some books.

"Hi, Sam. You missed all the excitement yesterday," Blair said.

"I heard," Sam breathed as he stood and moved a box out of Blair's path with his foot. "Can't believe it, though. The one day I go to Silverdale, I miss the biggest thing to happen in Port Townsend since the arson fire in uptown two years ago. You looking for more books on that Burton fellow?"

"No, I'm kind of into the local history, you told me you belonged to a historical society or something, right?" Blair asked.

"Oh, watch out, Blair," Sam laughed. "You're going to get me started on my favorite subject. I hope you don't have anywhere to go for the next few hours."

Blair joined in with his own laughter. "Trust me! I know what it's like to find a fresh ear. But I really want to listen, man."

"Okay then, I'm going to consider this my lucky day. Tell you what. The store's been dead all day; let's grab some coffee in the back room. I'll hear the bell ring if someone comes in." Sam invited Blair back with an outstretched arm.

A small room off the back held a tiny desk and a coffee pot. A second door in the room was closed; Blair guessed it opened up to a set of stairs. The coffee was fresh and soon both men had a hot cup in their hands as Sam turned to the computer on the desk.

"I'm writing a book on Port Townsend, but nothing like the stuff you'll find on the shelves out there," Sam said. "I'm not sugar coating the past like others have done. Believe me, there are going to be some gnashing of teeth and tearing of sackcloth when this baby hits the stores."

"Really, what's in it?"

"Lots. At first I was just trying to research my family tree. Kind of like `Roots' , ya know? My mom raised me after my dad died when I was a baby. She didn't know a lot about him, except that he was born in Port Townsend. But the more I found out about my dad's family, the more I realized some of the respectable upstanding citizens in this town had a lot in their closets to hide." Sam clicked on a file. A large scanned picture of a very old looking Port Townsend appeared on the monitor.

Blair rolled his wheelchair closer to see the screen, taking his glasses out of his pocket and slipping them on his face.

"See, this is the building the bookstore is in now, but from 1925 to 1933 this building was called `the Palace of Sweets'. It operated as a brothel and hotel. Because this was during Prohibition, some patrons came for alcohol as well. Now, on the third floor there are four inside rooms lighted from the stairwell skylight, but closed to the outside that served as "cribs," or small rooms for the girls to use. I found out that my father's grandmother worked as one of the prostitutes." Sam gave a bitter laugh. "Not exactly the family history I was hoping for."

"Wow," Blair said. "My mom never told me who my dad was. This kind of makes me wonder..."

"Yeah, this was only the tip of the iceberg," Sam started, but stopped as they heard the tinkle of the bell over the front door. "Be right back."

"Go ahead," Blair said, still studying the old picture.

But Sam's customer must have needed more than just a quick hand, because he ended up being gone for a while. Blair started scrolling through the other pictures of the city, reading the notes. Finally, when it looked like Sam wasn't going to be returning anytime soon, Blair closed the file containing the scanned pictures and started to roll backwards out of the room, then a filename on the `C' drive caught is eye.

Edith Louise.

His curiosity piqued, Blair quickly opened the file with the mouse, revealing another scanned picture. But instead of a photo of a clipper ship as he expected, he saw the file was a scanned manifest of sorts, written by hand and looking very old. The date in the corner was eighteen-eighty-four. A long list of Chinese names scrolled down the page. Blair knew from his research that in eighteen-eighty-three, a law was passed that excluded any Chinese immigrants from entering the United States, which started the smuggling of immigrants into the United States.

So, if this was a list of smuggled immigrants, they were brought in on the original Benjamin Sanderson's clipper ship. He continued to scroll down. Half way down the list, a name was highlighted in red; Le Wah. Next to the name, some one had typed a short note: great-grandfather.

Sam's great-grandfather?

Blair read to the bottom of the list. Another note in red appeared.

`Passage ended for all immigrants when the captain ordered all contraband thrown into the sea, believing they were being boarded by custom ship. Several bodies washed to shore, one carrying this copy of the ships manifest in an oil wrapped cloth.'

Blair sat back in his wheelchair stunned. Sam's great-grandfather had been murdered by Ben's great-grandfather.

"What are you doing?"

Jerked out of his stunned musing, Blair gave Sam a guilty look. "Nothing, just waiting for you to come back..." Blair voice trailed off as Sam closed the door before crossing to the computer and shutting off the monitor. He turned and leaned against the desktop to study Blair.

Blair swallowed hard, not liking the look Sam was giving him. He willed his hands to still, fighting the urge to roll for the door, wishing he hadn't left his crutches in the motel room. "So, we were talking about your grandmother right?"

Sam tilted his head. "After the first customer was getting ready to leave, know who came in?" Not waiting for Blair to answer the question, Sam stood up and walked over to the other door, the one that Blair thought opened to a flight of stairs to the upper floors. "Rosy. She was looking for you, had a message from your friend, the big guy. What was his name, Ellison? I didn't know the city asked you two to investigate Ben's murder."

The door was open now. A cool salty breeze blew into the small room. Blair realized he was correct about the stairs, but they went down, not up.

"Really? I guess I'd better call him, then." Blair turned his torso to reach for his backpack hanging on one of the handles of the chair.

Sam was behind him in a flash. Blair's wheelchair was shoved towards the opening before he could move to get out, his injured leg making any chance for escape futile.

"Hey!"

"Sorry, Blair. Nothing personal," Sam muttered.

Blair didn't have time to scream as he was pushed into the dark room. The chair tilted at a sharp angle as it rolled over the first step, throwing him out and pitching him into the air. He landed hard, rolling down a long flight of wooden stairs and hitting the basement with enough speed to knock the wind from his lungs. His leg was on fire with pain, his shoulder felt broken. The wheelchair hit him hard in the back, adding to his multitudes of injuries, causing him to cry out again.

Jim parked the Explorer in front of a small modest home. Annie and her parents lived behind the Safeway store on a small street lined with single story homes looking about ten years old. The front yards were filled with kids' bikes and assorted toys, depending upon the age of the child living in each house. Franks reached the front door a step ahead of Jim and knocked on the door.

"So, you and Blair up for Mandarin tonight? You've got to try this cook's cashew chicken," Franks said as they waited for the door to open.

"Yeah, I tried to reach Sandburg, but his cell must be off. I asked Rosy to deliver a message, he's at the bookstore," Jim explained. "As long as you're treating, we'll be ready."

"Least I could do...Hi, I'm Assistant Chief Franks... this is Detective Ellison," Franks said as the door was opened by a rotund man wearing a white pair of coveralls covered with paint.

"Sure, come on in. I'll get Annie."

They settled down on a comfortable but worn sofa for the interview. Both the girl's parents sat nearby as Jim asked his questions.

"We're just talking with all of Ben's friends, Annie, normal routine for this type of investigation," Jim said, noting the girl's hands as she twisted a cheap looking ring on her right hand.

"I wasn't really...a friend of Ben's," Annie said, giving her parents a guilty glance. "I'm not even sure why he asked me out."

"We've just moved to Port Townsend six months ago, Detective," her father explained. "My wife and I met Ben briefly when he picked up Annie for dinner. He seemed nice at the time." His face darkened as he spoke.

"Thank you for helping Annie, officer," the wife added. "She told us what happened."

"It was my pleasure." Jim turned back to the scared looking girl. "So, do you know any of Ben's friends? Or anyone who might want to hurt him?"

"No, I work at a gallery on Waterfront Street. I met Ben when he came into the shop."

Jim asked her a few more questions, then thanked the family for their time. Back in the car, he shook his head. "We may have to start rousting the transients if we can't track down a lead here."

"Yeah, no luck with Ben's folks?" Franks asked as he snapped his seat belt in place.

"No, but I want to talk with his mother, alone. She didn't get a chance to say two words during the interview yesterday."

"Not unusual. Sanderson never gave the floor up without a fight, still doesn't. You know, he's with the chief at the budget meeting, she might be alone. Want to give it a try?"

"Sure. Sandburg is probably knee-deep in dusty books, having the time of his life. He'll keep."

When the pain finally diminished to a point that Blair felt his head was no longer missing the back of its skull, he opened his eyes. Sam had dragged him across the basement floor after pushing him down the stairs. He was tied hand and foot. Sam stuffed a gag into Blair's mouth and left, probably to return to the bookstore above. Blair lay on the hard, cold ground listening to the water lap at the foundation outside, unable to see much in the windowless, empty room under the shop, except for small pinholes of sunlight breaking through the cracked mortar between the bricks.

Memories of a warehouse haunted his thoughts. Lash.

Blair closed his eyes, refusing to return to that particular nightmare. He had enough on his plate already, without dredging up the past. He couldn't be sure, but he didn't think his shoulder was broken. It may have dislocated and then popped back into place when Sam moved him, but it was hard to think clearly through the pain. His bullet injury was throbbing, worse than before, after falling off the stool. Blair rolled onto his side, relieving some of the pressure from his bound hands.

How much time had passed? Jim should be picking him up soon. Sam had no idea who he was up against. Jim was not just an out of town cop. He was a sentinel. All Blair had to do was stay alive until he showed up. Jim would have no problem hearing him down here, no matter what lie Sam told him. How long could a single interview take, anyway?

Blair shivered, suddenly realizing his clothes were damp. The floor was wet? The tide was coming in. The foundation must have lost its ability to keep the high tide from entering. No wonder nothing was stored down here.

Blair closed his eyes; another shiver ran through his body. Okay, Jim, hurry...

Susan Sanderson was home alone when Jim and Franks arrived. She invited the men in, choosing the kitchen for the unexpected interview. The kitchen was small, furnished with expensive, stainless steel appliances next to a turn of the century kitchen queen and old oak drop-leaf table. Still, she looked at home in the room. Several bowls sat out with fragrant mounds of rising sourdough under clear plastic wrap.

"Have a seat. I hope you don't mind talking back here." Susan indicated a set of antique ladder-back kitchen chairs with cane seats.

"This is fine, Mrs. Sanderson. I'm sorry to bother you two days in a row, but we had a few more questions," Jim explained.

Franks sat at the end of the table, letting Jim take control of the interview. Susan returned to peeling a potato. "Go ahead."

"Do you know of anyone that would wish your son harm?" Jim asked gently.

Susan's eyes were red and swollen with grief, but her mouth was set in a firm line that seemed to say she was finished with crying for now. "I know he was receiving letters that upset him, but he never showed them to me."

"Did he show them to your husband?" Jim asked.

She seemed to lose her train of though for a moment, the peeler still as she gazed out the window. After a few seconds, she nodded. "I think he did. In fact, now that I think about it, my husband may have received one himself. He was burning a piece of paper once when I walked in the room. He looked angry and refused to talk about it."

Jim leaned forward, his face hopeful. "Do you think we could look at your son's room? We promise not to take anything without showing you first."

She set the potato back in the blue bowl. "Certainly."

She led them outside, towards the carriage house. The second floor was a roomy studio apartment, complete with a small kitchenette. The men were left to search the room in peace. It was a spacious room, with high ceilings. The circular window on the north wall gave a nice view of the water. A plush mattress, looking too soft for Jim's taste was decorated with designer linen in black and silver colors. The handsome desk and chair looked old. A fancy `state of the art' computer sat in the center of the desktop. A large screen T.V. was placed in the corner, easily viewed from a leather recliner. The room was clean, almost immaculate.

"You take the desk, Jim. I'll start with the books," Franks suggested, heading for a low bookshelf.

"Be prepared to find porn," Jim warned as he sat down in front of the desk.

They searched for more than two hours. Finally, when Jim was about to give up, he found a torn half sheet of paper between the mattress and box springs. Holding it carefully at the corner he set it down on the desktop and called Franks over to see it. Franks walked out of a large closet and they read the note together.

It was written by hand. `I know the truth about you, and your family. Your wealth came from the suffering of others. There is a higher law than our courts. You cannot hide from your sins. EX21:23.'

"Certainly reads like a threat," Franks muttered.

Jim removed a baggie from his pocket and slipped the note inside, sealing it tight before picking it up. "I recognize this handwriting, Martin."

"From what?"

"I'm not sure, but I've seen these `Y's and the capital `I' recently," Jim muttered, trying to remember as he handed the note over for Franks to view.

"Let's send this off to the State's lab. Maybe we'll be lucky and get a print. What is this last part about, ex twenty-one, twenty-three," Franks mused, returning the note to Jim.

"Easy, that's Exodus, chapter twenty-one, verse twenty-three," Jim explained as he headed for the door.

Franks followed, close on his heels. "The bible? Any idea which verse that is?"

"Yeah, actually I do. My dad's housekeeper used to read verses to my brother and me. I think this one is the part about `an eye for an eye'," Jim said as he descended the stairs to the main floor.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Blair."

Blair was too busy to answer, even if he didn't have a gag in his mouth. It took all his energy to stay face up in the cold water, his butt bumping the ground occasionally as the water rocked him with each filtered wave. A hand latched on to his collar and Blair found himself being towed again, moving him easily through the water.

"Another interesting fact about this building, Blair, is it was used for shanghaiing," Sam commented as he sloshed through the knee-deep, dirty salt water. "It has a hidden boat house that allowed the sailors to bring a small boat from the clippers ship's - called a gig - to enter town in the dark and take their `recruits' back to the ship."

They were in a smaller, equally flooded room now. Blair felt strong arms under his back and knees as he was lifted up and rolled onto a hard surface that rocked when he landed. A heavy tarp was thrown over his body.

"Nnnnuuuuughhhh," he shouted ineffectively through the gag. If Sam took him out of town, how would Jim find him? He shivered in his wet clothes. The metal floor of the boat was as cold as the water had been. So why did he feel colder now than when he was floating in the water?

"Easy, Blair," Sam's voice murmured from somewhere above.

The boat rocked hard, Sam was getting in. Strong light filtered through the tarp and Blair heard the sounds of oars splashing in the water. God, he was doing it. Sam was moving Blair out of the building, out of town, as if he was being shanghaied. The loud horn of a distant ferry reached his ears. Blair rolled, his shoulder on fire as he twisted. A heavy foot landed on his side, stilling his motions.

Blair tried rubbing the cloth off his cheek, trying to work the gag off. But the floor was smooth and Sam had tied the gag too tight. The floor suddenly vibrated as an outboard motor roared to life and he felt the small boat surge forward, the water hitting the bow as it leaped in the waves. Each small bounce jarred Blair's bruised body

"Jjjjjjjjmmmmmmmmm!"

"What the hell!" Franks shouted as he was thrown sideways into the passenger door.

"I got it!" Jim said, sharply cranking the wheel; the Ford fishtailed on the wet street.

"For crying out loud, Ellison! If anything, your driving is worse than when I worked with you!"

"Sorry, Martin," Jim said with a wry grin. "But I just remembered where I saw that handwriting. It was in that place Sandburg and I had lunch yesterday."

"The Cellar?" Martin asked, pulling out his cell phone and dialing.

"Yeah, on the shanghai display." Jim tried to edge around a large motor home lumbering down the road. For some reason he had been feeling edgy all afternoon, and the feeling was getting stronger.

"Relax, Jim. I'm calling the owner. We can ask him who did his display," Franks said, then closed the phone with a grimace. "It's busy. Just try and get us there in one piece, okay?"

Jim fell back behind the motor home with a frown, not able to get a clear path to pass. "Where did all this traffic come from?"

"The ferry must have docked," Franks noted.

They arrived in front of the underground deli without incident. Jim left the Ford double parked as they trotted down the outside stairs leading to the restaurant. The owner was busy cutting a block of dark chocolate fudge into small servings for the glass display case. As Franks went to talk with the owner, Jim headed for the back, holding up the threatening note he'd found next to the index card taped to the glass.

It was a match.

Franks appeared at his side. His voice was quiet as he shared the information he'd learned. "Sam Wah, the guy that works at the Charles Franklin bookstore? He's a local historian who moved to town about three years ago, real quiet guy. Are you sure the handwritings match?"

Jim nodded. "I'm not an expert, but I think so. Take a look at...WHERE did you say he worked?" Jim spun on Franks with a horrified look on his face.

"The bookstore," Franks answered.

"Oh, shit! That's where Blair's at!"

Jim ran for the Ford while dialing the number to their hotel room, cursing softly when there was no answer. He jumped into the driver's seat, his hands shaking as he started the engine. Martin wrenched his door open and jumped in before Jim had a chance to pull away.

"Damn it, Martin. I sent Rosy there to give Blair a message about dinner tonight. What if she and Blair started chatting about the case?" Jim said, spinning the Explorer in a tight circle.

"There's no answer at the bookstore," Franks said as he flipped his phone shut. "We don't know if Sam has anything to do with Ben's murder, Jim."

"You don't know Blair. If there's a killer within twenty miles, he finds them," Jim said with a dark look.

They arrived at the bookstore within seconds, parking directly in front of a fire hydrant. Killing the engine with a deft twist of his wrist, Jim jumped out of the vehicle and pounced on the front door, Frank at his side. The door was locked. Jim shaded his eyes with a hand as he looked through the window.

"Look," Franks said pointing to a small paper taped to the inside of the glass with a message scribbled in pen, the handwriting painfully familiar.

`Family Emergency. Closed.'

"I'm breaking it down," Jim announced.

"Wait," Franks ordered as he turned to a small metal box bolted into the brick wall. Taking his keys out of his pocket, he opened the box and removed a small set of keys from inside. "This is for fire emergencies, but I don't think anyone is going to complain," he muttered as he unlocked the door.

Jim slipped into the room first, gun drawn and ready. Moving silently, he stalked the aisles of bookshelves, afraid of what he might discover. Finding nothing among the shelves, Jim entered the back room with Franks close behind. The room was filled with the scent of Blair's shampoo.

"Where does this go?" Jim asked, pointing to the other door.

"A basement, it floods at high tide," Franks explained as he followed Jim through the door and down the steps. "Sam lives on board a sailboat and used a small skiff to go back and forth. I don't even think he owns a car."

Jim paused on the last dry step. The water lapped at the walls of the room. The only light came from the open doorway at the top of the stairs; Jim's eyes quickly compensated in the dim light and spotted the broken wheelchair half-submerged underwater. Stepping into the water and shuffling over to the chair, Jim lifted Blair's wet backpack up for Franks to see.

"Damn," Franks cursed softly.

They searched the flooded basement, soaking their shoes and pants; no boat, no body. Jim reached into the cold water and recovered Blair's glasses from the floor. He scanned the basement one last time; a dull pain was growing in his chest. There was nothing more to find. They returned to the main floor, dripping water as they walked.

Franks called Rosy to have the department's marine unit bring the boat to the back and start calling in the off duty officers. They reached the bookstore owner to notify him of their need to search his shop. Then they called the Coast Guard, State Patrol and county police giving out APB's. Soon, the bookstore looked like a temporary command post.

Jim kept his senses set on high, trusting his anger to keep him from zoning. Uniforms had been sent out to search Sam's sailboat. Business owners on the street were being interviewed as possible witnesses. There was nothing left for Jim to do. He wandered away from the front of the store and stood in the small office, tilting his head and scenting the air. He could pick up another familiar smell. After a few seconds he had it. The smell of Ben Sanderson's expensive cologne was in this room. Tracking the smell to a loose brick low in the wall, Jim squatted down to carefully pry it out with his fingertips, exposing a small cloth bag.

"What have you got, Jim?" Franks asked as he entered the office.

"Saw this brick sticking out of the wall a little," Jim lied, opening the bag and dumping the contents into his palm. A man's gold ring rolled out, diamonds set in an `S' pattern.

"Wow. Unbelievable," Franks said in a shocked voice. "Sam would be the last person I would expect."

"What about friends? Who did he hang out with?" Jim asked.

"Rosy," Franks decided with a nod. "Sam was a real loner, but I know they're friends. I'll get her here right away. I came in to tell you my men have searched Sam's boat, no sign of Blair or Sam."

By the time Rosy arrived, the light was beginning to fade. Jim was frustrated with the lack of progress. They knew who the killer was, that was all. Now the killer had his best friend and no one knew enough about the quiet bookstore clerk to provide any clues where to look. They could be anywhere. Visions of Blair, floating face down in the freezing waters of Puget Sound kept popping up in Jim's mind. Each time, he swatted his fear away like a persistent wasp, refusing to believe that Blair was dead. He'd know it. Jim could feel his friend's presence. He didn't care if it was a sentinel thing or not, he trusted it. Blair was still alive.

Rosy was teary when questioned by her supervisor. "He asked about the investigation, but I didn't say anything. I know procedure, Chief."

"No one says you did, Rosy," Franks told her gently. "What did he say exactly?"

"Um...just asked what's new. I said nothing much, still in the early stages of investigation. And he asked who was working the case since Gloria was on leave. I said the Cascade detective ...that wasn't a secret, was it?" She looked at the men, horror dawning in her eyes, causing her face to pale.

"No," Jim said firmly. "You didn't give anything away. What else did he say?"

"Nothing much...just that he'd met you and thought you were okay. I asked him to give Blair the message about dinner and left. That's it, I swear."

Franks led her over to a stool to sit. "Rosy, we didn't bring you here to accuse you of doing anything wrong. You're the only person that I know of right now that may be able to help. What do you know about Sam, other than he works here?"

Rosy seemed relieved by her boss's comments. She sniffed softly and tilted her head in thought. "Well, he has a history degree and he's working on being a teacher. I think he's taking classes with the Peninsula College extension course they started here. He's not dating anyone. We've gone out to dinner with friends, but just casual. He doesn't have any family, I know that. I think that's so sad. He's always talking about Port Townsend's history, he's really obsessed, you know?"

"He lives on a boat, right?" Jim waited for her to nod before continuing. "Where does he like to go?"

"Oh, he goes all over. Sometimes he sails to Silverdale or further if he has the time. He works with the state parks around here on history stuff, doing research for them. He did the display at `The Cellar', did you see that?"

"Yeah." Jim wanted to learn more about the possible locations Sam may have taken Blair. "What did he do in Silverdale?"

"He buys his supplies and stuff there, I think," Rosy said.

"What about other friends?" Franks asked,

Rosy thought for a second, shaking her head slowly. "I can't think of anyone in particular, just a few of the regular customers that come into the shop."

Jim's eyes strayed to the wet backpack on the floor. How could they possibly find Blair when they had no idea which direction Sam took in his boat? It wasn't like you could put up a roadblock. There were too many places, too many coves and inlets to search.

"Okay, let's go over this again, Rosy," Jim said slowly. "Sam liked to go to Silverdale, right. Now, where else?"

Blair had stopped shivering. Somewhere in his muddled thoughts, he knew this was a bad thing. It was dark now; a dense fog had rolled into the coastline. Sam had drifted for a while with the engine off, probably to save gas. The tarp remained, giving Blair some protection from the wind. Any muffled attempt to get Sam to remove the gag had gone ignored. Then without warning the engine started up and they were moving again. After a while, Blair felt the boat hit the shore and the tarp was removed.

Blinking in the darkness, Blair could feel the cold breeze on his damp clothes. He really should be shivering. Was he starting to get hypothermic? Probably. The conditions were certainly prime for it. Blair knew the waters of the Puget Sound remained about the same cool temperature year around, too cold for Blair's taste.

After untying Blair's feet, Sam pulled him out of the boat. Blair couldn't stand. Between the lack of circulation and the re-injured leg, he fell hard, cracking his knees on the rocks. Sam hoisted him back up with a grunt and pulled him towards a low bank at the edge of the shoreline. The lighthouse on Point Wilson flashed a long white, followed by a shorter red light. But it was a long way away, just barely lighting up the surroundings.

"Come on, Blair," Sam said quietly. "It will be warmer where we're going, I promise."

Sam draped Blair over the bank, his upper body crushing the wet grass as his legs hung off the edge. He left Blair for a second, returning to the small boat to pull it further up on the shore. He began breaking off leafy limbs from trees and bushes and building a camouflage blind. Before Blair could recover enough to try and run, Sam was back, pulling him up, onto the bank and into a standing position again. They walked into a tree line, out of sight from the water. Sam half dragged, half led Blair down a narrow path.

"This is a cool place; the army built it back during World War One. It protected the seaports from attack, you know? All that ship building going on. Just think, all those years, waiting for an attack that never came," Sam explained as they walked.

Blair was having a hard time keeping his head up, his right tennis shoe dragging in the dirt as he was towed along. Sam seemed oblivious to his condition, though, continuing his monologue as if Blair was visiting friend and Sam was the tour guide.

"It's so amazing to read the history of this place, the military has all the records saved, just waiting to be organized," he continued. "Okay, here we are."

A rusty sound of metal on metal caused Blair to jerk his head up and look around in alarm. A large cavern-like blackness was waiting to swallow him whole. He resisted for a moment, but was easily dragged into the blackness. Their footsteps echoed off unseen walls, sounding very close, almost like a tunnel. Sam moved in the darkness like a bat using radar, causing Blair to wonder if he had enhanced vision. The ground was sloping upwards at a gentle angle. Then, suddenly, the echoes took longer to bounce back and Blair was being lowered down to lie on his side on a musty smelling ground. It gave under his body like a thin mattress, the type you see in a homeless shelter. He felt Sam at his feet again, swiftly tying his ankles.

Blair tried kicking, but had no strength left. Sam patted his knee before standing. The sound of a striking match was heard and the features of a strange, windowless, completely concrete room became visible. Sam touched the match to a half used emergency candle sitting on the floor.

"Okay, that should keep the rats away. Sorry I can't stay... I never wanted to hurt you, Blair. But I can't let you tell your friend what you saw on my computer." Sam held up a CD case. "I saved all my research. I'll call the police in a few days and tell them where you are."

As Sam turned to go, Blair cried out against the gag, twisting his body on the mattress in a panic. Sam bent down to steady his prisoner. "Calm down. You'll be fine. I was just kidding about the rats."

Blair raised his head off the mattress, working at the gag with his lips until finally, Sam pulled it loose with a warning not to yell.

"What?"

"Pl.." Blair coughed hard before continuing. "Please don't...I'll be dead in two days...I'm freezing," he managed to get out between his chattering teeth.

"Yeah...I know you're cold, but it's a little warmer in here. You'll be fine."

"NO! No, man. Come on, d-d-don't to this. I'll help you, with the c-c-cops."

Sam shook his head. "I can't turn myself in, Blair. I didn't just accidentally kill Sanderson. I've been planning it for over a year. I want them all dead, they deserved it."

"Because of your g-grandfather?"

"My great-grandfather," Sam corrected with a nod. "Yeah, that bastard, Sanderson, killed over twenty men when he ordered the `cargo' thrown overboard. My great-grandfather wasn't even a real immigrant! He had his papers and a business in Port Townsend. But he went home to China to visit his sick father. While he was away, the white citizens passed a law prohibiting any Chinese from coming onto their precious United States' soil. Even the legal immigrants had to jump through hoops to return home. My great-grandfather had a wife and child in Port Townsend. He paid for illegal entry just to save himself the red tape of Customs." Sam's spat out the last few words.

"I'm sorry. B-but that was over a hundred years ago, this isn't the same country anymore..." Blair whispered. The cold was penetrating his body, making it hard to think.

"I'm not so sure, Blair," Sam said sadly. "Save your strength. This part of the park is remote, hardly anyone ever explores this far out. No one's going to hear you."

Blair's eyes had closed without him realizing it. He jumped a little when he felt the additional weight on his body. He opened his eyes to see Sam's jacket. Before he could get over his surprise, the man was gone.

"Chief Franks!" A uniform burst in the door of the office where Franks and Jim were working with the shop's computer. The owner seemed to think he might be able to recover some recently erased files. "We've got reports of a serious sounding boating accident off Point Wilson. The Coast Guard is en route. They say a large pleasure craft hit a small skiff in the fog. The injured guy and the skiff matches Sam Wah's APB we sent out.

"Get the marine unit to pick us up on the beach. We'll be there in five." Franks turned to Jim. "Get a coat, Jim. The water's cold. I'll meet you on the beach where we pulled Sanderson out."

It was dark now; the lights from the old fashioned street lamps made the cars parked on the street look strange, like they didn't belong. After running to the motel room, Jim quickly stuffed a tote bag with Blair's coat and a blanket, donned his own coat and headed for the beach. He arrived just as the police boat was pulling up. Franks jogged towards them with high-powered binoculars in one hand and a two-way portable radio in the other.

"What's the latest?" Franks asked as he climbed on board after Jim.

"Coast Guard is still en route, the fog is starting to lift some. The wife of the owner says her husband is holding the injured guy on their swim platform, but they can't get him all the way in. They're holding their location. We should be there in a second," the man at the wheel shouted as he gunned the powerful boat and took them around the small point of land. Soon the long spit with the Point Wilson lighthouse was visible in the darkness.

Jim grabbed the railing as he stood near the back. "What about the skiff? Any other people on board?"

"Don't know!" the officer shouted back over his shoulder.

The police boat had powerful search light. It cut through the thinning fog. A bright red flare burned in the distance. Jim zoomed in on a gray haired man kneeling beside the still form. The yacht owner's wife was handing down a blanket to cover the man while holding the flare in her other hand. The wind was kicking up; white caps broke all around them in the water as they left the shelter of the point and entered the open inlet that led out to the ocean. Within a few moments, they were rafted alongside the larger boat. The two marine officers scrambled over the side with their emergency equipment. Franks stood ready with a radio, updated the incoming coast guard units.

Jim could see that Sam looked bad. Blood coated the white platform under his head, flowing freely from a deep gash in the side of his neck. The yacht owner was frantically trying to stop the bleeding. Judging by the white pallor of the skin, Jim guessed the man had already lost too much blood. He was definitely unconscious and in no condition to answer any questions. Jim smacked his fist on the railing as he searched the water for any sign of Blair. A few items bobbed nearby, a throw cushion and pieces of Styrofoam.

"Was he alone? Did you see anyone else in the boat?" Jim shouted to the yacht owner over the noise of the engines.

The old man heard him, looking up with haunted eyes. "I don't know! He was running without any navigation lights, I never saw him ..."

Jim had a moment of compassion for the older man. Even though it was clearly not his fault, he would still have to live with this accident. Jim's eyes turned toward the shoreline barely visible a few hundred feet to the south. He tried to recall the map that Blair had shown him the last night in the loft. Blair had been so excited about the trip. With his typical enthusiasm, he'd gotten on the Internet and found aerial pictures of the area to study.

"Martin, isn't that Ford Worden?" Jim shouted at his friend.

Franks nodded. "Yeah...wait a minute, Jim." He turned again, cupping his ear around the radio as he talked to the Coast Guard.

Jim eyed the coastline carefully. The tide was lower now, not reaching the tall bluffs that tapered to a short bank to the west. Jim remembered his military history. Fort Warden was part of the triangle of defense during the world wars. Invisible from the water, the fort was manned with large guns that could sink enemy ships if they tried to attack Seattle, Tacoma or any other seaport working hard to supply the war efforts. Rosy had said Sam was working with the state parks, helping to document its history. It stood to reason in Jim's mind that Sam would know the layout of the park in detail. What if he'd hidden Blair somewhere in the park? Jim clung to the new idea like a rock climber holding on to his last piton.

A red and white Coast Guard `Dolphin' helicopter appeared low in the sky from the west, moving fast with its gas turbine engines. It hovered over the two boats, lighting up the scene with strong searchlights as it dropped a man wearing a wetsuit into the dark water. A Stokes basket was lowered on a strong cable. With the help of the marine officers, Sam was loaded for transport. The diver attached himself to the cable, straddling the basket as both men were lifted back to the chopper. The entire operation was over in minutes. Jim's mind briefly flashed back to the last time he'd witnessed a helicopter rescue.

"Martin, drop me off at the shore!" Jim shouted, pointing to the south.

Franks turned to Jim with a shocked look. "What?"

"Blair's there, I know it," Jim insisted.

Franks' expression softened. "Jim, Blair was probably in the skiff with Sam. He's gone!"

"No, trust me. Just drop me off with the radio. I need to look." Jim's voice was suddenly too loud with the absent helicopter.

"Listen, it's too dark. We'll take a team in at first light," Franks said wearily.

Jim gave him his best glare, the one that used to cause Generals to worry and privates to wet their pants. "You take me to land now or I'm swimming. Either way. I'm going."

"For crying out loud..." Franks tapped the officer at the wheel on his shoulder. "Leave Anderson on the yacht for a second, we're dropping Ellison off on the beach and coming right back."

With a nod, the man untied and told his partner was happening. Soon, Jim found himself standing alone on the rocky beach, tote bag in one hand, radio in his pocket. Once the police boat was gone, Jim began to prowl the shoreline. After ten minutes of walking, he extended his vision ahead, down the beach where the high cliff dropped down to meet the beach. A stand of small trees was damaged, several branches were missing. In less than five minutes, he was standing by the earthen bank, sniffing the air and smiling as he noticed the flattened grass.

Blair had been here.

Running along a faint trail, he followed two sets of footprints in the soft dirt. Jim flashed back on his times in the jungle with the Chopec, only he was hunting his guide this time, not meat for the tribe. Blair's footprints were scuffed into the dirt. Jim spotted a rusted metal door in the hillside, a shiny new padlock securing the handle in place. All his senses sharpened to crystal clarity as he heard the voice of his friend through the old door.

"...Rats in here, man. Ouch! Sam said he was just kidding. So that shadow is just a - Oww - f-f-figment of my imagination..."

"Blair!" Jim called out as he looked for something to use on the padlock.

"J-Jim?"

"Yeah, buddy. Hold on a second!" Jim spotted a large rock, the size of a watermelon. With both hands high over his head, he smashed the handle, breaking it off the door entirely. Jim yanked the door open. The tunnel ran about seventy-five feet long, tilting at a twenty degree incline. The sidewalls curved into a low overhead arch. A soft light flickered at the end.

Moving carefully over the slick concrete, Jim ducked low and followed the sound of his friend's voice. A pair of healthy looking rats darted into the dark holes in the wall as Jim entered the underground room. Blair was sitting on his butt, hands tied behind his back, ankles lashed tightly. He sat with his back towards the tunnel, holding his bound hands over a small burning candle.

"What are you doing, Sandburg?" Jim said as he watched the flame reach up and lick Blair's thumb.

"Trying to - Oww!"

"Well, stop, before set yourself on fire," Jim demanded as he knelt down next to Blair. Moving the candle away, Jim started to work on the rope around his feet. "Are you okay?"

"C-cold," Blair moaned. With the rope off Blair's legs now, Jim switched to the wrists.

"I know...you hate that, don't you?" Jim said, letting a little sympathy color his voice. "How's the leg?"

"Not my fault this t-time, Jim," Blair babbled, his words rushing as he explained. "Sam pushed me d-down the stairs...I couldn't...oh, thanks, man."

Jim checked Blair's forehead with his palm. Oh, yeah. Blair was more than just a little chilly. Unzipping the tote bag, he pulled the jacket out first. "Here, Chief. Put this on."

As Blair started to work his arm into the sleeve, Jim noticed the dampness of his clothes. "Wait, take off your shirts first," he said as he helped. "How'd you get so wet?"

"Tide...fl-flooded the basement," Blair's teeth were knocking together, beating out a rapid tattoo that softly echoed in the old bunker.

After his flannel shirt and Henley were removed, Jim quickly dressed him in the jacket, noticing the swollen shoulder and bruises from Blair's trip down the stairs. Jim picked up the large jacket on the floor; shook it off and had Blair put that one on over the top. Without warning, the candle died out, pitching the room into darkness.

"Jim?" Blair reached out blindly.

"I'm here." Adjusting his vision to compensate, Jim snagged a flailing hand and held on. "Can you stand?"

"I'll try, man. I just want out of here...did you see the size of those rats?"

"Yeah, they'll have to find another meal tonight, let's go."

It was starting to rain as the two emerged from the old tunnel. Jim used the blanket like a poncho, draping it over both their heads as he supported Blair down the trail. The police radio hadn't worked inside the bunker, but he got an immediate response from Franks once they were outside. By the time Jim got Blair to the beach, the police boat was waiting for them.

"Jim, you dog! Hey, kid." Franks met them on shore with a broad smile of relief. He moved to Blair's side, helping Jim support him over the rocks.

Blair's feet barely touched the ground between the two other men. "Hey...did I miss much?"

"Nah, just the usual," Franks quipped as they lifted the smaller man into the boat.

Blair huddled low in a corner of the open boat, the blanket around his shoulders, his white fingers clutching the edges. The police boat throttled up and backed away from the shoreline. They were tossed around as they crossed the small breakers near shore, but the ride smoothed out once they reached the calmer water. Franks reached for an extra wool blanket.

"How the hell did you find him, Jim?" Franks whispered as they wrapped Blair up tightly in the blankets.

Jim studied Blair's face. His friend's face was white, fine pain lines on a wide brow, dark circles around his eyes, his hair a snarl of long curls that flipped around in the breeze. A knitted stocking cap was thrust into Jim's hand. He quickly pulled it down over Blair's head. "It's like Sandburg said, Martin. He's my partner. You go where your partner goes."

As the boat neared the city marina south of old town, Blair yawned. He sat next to Jim on the boat's floor, both men leaning against the sidewall, out of reach from the cold wind. Jim had an arm around Blair's shoulders, tucking him close to his side. Blair watched sleepily as people moved around, scurrying to tie off lines, holding the boat fast in its slip. Two medics approached the boat, rolling a gurney between them. The marina looked busy with activity for such a late hour; cop cars, a fire engine and an ambulance parked above, visible over a low metal railing that edged a parking lot. Red lights flashed, lighting up the falling rain and traces of fog.

Suddenly, Blair was overcome with exhaustion, knowing what would happened now, another trip to a hospital. He buried his face in the fabric of Jim's coat.

"What's wrong?" Jim asked in a low voice.

Blair's throat was tight, making conversation difficult. "Nuth'n'"

A large hand patted his back briefly before he felt Jim gather his legs under him to stand. "It'll be okay, Chief. You're just cold. Let's get you warmed up, I promise it'll get better," Jim whispered close to Blair's ear.

Trust Jim to have a plan.

Careful of his injuries, Franks and Jim helped Blair over the side, onto the pier, where the two medics made him lay down on the gurney. Jim gave a brief medical history to the medical crew. A third blanket covered Blair before straps crossed his chest and knees. Blair let his mind drift, not sure whether to give into to the exhaustion or stay awake. He never noticed when they lifted him into the back of the ambulance, although he did enjoy the blessed warm air on his face, warming the tip of his nose. With a sigh, he decided to give in to the pull of sleep...

Only to be awakened by angry shouts including Jim's angry voice. Blair heard Franks bellow overriding all the noise, instantly reminding him of Simon.

"Let him ride in the back!"

The medic unit bounced as several people climbed on board. Recognizing Jim's hand on his knee, Blair grinned to himself. Yeah, try and leave a sentinel behind, see where that gets you.

The buckles were unsnapped and hands started pulling off blankets.

"Let's get the rest of these wet clothes off, Chief."

Before he could summons up a protest, the pants and boxers were gone, the two coats he wore, removed. He started shivering again, even in the closed, heated aid unit.

"J-j-jimm..."

"Here you go, Chief." A warm cotton blanket covered his body, more blankets were added.

Ohhh...the heat was incredible. Blair didn't even care when his arm was wrapped in a blood pressure cuff and a hard plastic cone was pressed into his ear. He did yelp however, as he felt air on his legs, his left knee was raised and a slimy, cold thermometer was carefully inserted into his rectum.

"Easy...just relax."

Blair's eyes opened and he was looking into the pale blue eyes of his friend. Jim smiled warmly as he distracted Blair from the medic's administrations. "Your body core temperature can't be assessed very well except by a rectal reading. It will be over in a minute."

Blair's retort came out garbled, a cross between a groan and a curse. But the warmth from the blanket wouldn't allow any ill will to take root. God, it had been so long since he'd felt this warm. He realized with a sigh he didn't care what they did to him. Besides, Jim was here, there was nothing to worry about anymore.

"Sandburg, stay awake."

Blair didn't.

The Jefferson County general hospital staff was no stranger to hypothermic patients. Without fuss or questions, Blair's dangerously low body core temperature was carefully elevated back to normal. Hours later, Jim sat next to the hospital bed with a current issue of `Deep Sea Fishing'. He listened to Blair's snores while turning the pages. The sun was up, in fact, lunch had come and gone and Blair continued to sleep.

Just as Jim was considering taking a subscription out for this magazine, a light knock on the door distracted him from his reading. The door opened revealing Martin Franks; compete with `get well' balloons, a white bag with a McDonald's logo and a small brown sack.

"How's he doing?"

"Not bad," Jim said, eyeing the McDonalds sack. He broke into a broad smile when Franks handed the bag over with a sigh. "Thanks, I'm starving."

"Yeah, I figured. I would have gotten here sooner but I had a few loose ends to tie up." Franks set the rest of his load on a side table as he carefully looked at the man sleeping on the bed. "So, he's okay?"

Jim bit into the Quarter-Pounder. Not bad, if Jim couldn't find his Wonder Burger, this was always a close second. After taking a quick taste, he answered, "his leg is infected from the garbage in the basement, but the doctors hit him with some strong anti-biotics, it should be okay. The right shoulder is inflamed; he'll wear a sling for a few days. Minor concussion, second degree burns to his wrists...don't ask... lots of bruises - the usual after taking a header down a flight of stairs. At least his core temp is back to normal. But I wouldn't talk about thermometers for a while in front of him if I were you." Jim fished out the order of fries and shoved three into his mouth.

Franks sighed again as he pulled another chair over to sit next to Jim. "God, Jim. I thought you were kidding back at the pub when you said you handed the `trouble magnet' title over to him."

Shaking his head, Jim removed the lid from a large container of coffee; steam rose into the air, filling the room with the fragrant scent of roasted coffee beans. "Nope, totally serious. He makes any scrape I used to get into look like child's play."

Frank looked like a believer. "Well, we found the bunker Sam left him in. If you hadn't found him, he have died from exposure."

"No." Blair's eyes were still closed, but he spoke clearly. "Sam said he'd call..."

"Hey, partner," Jim said quietly, transferring the food off his lap so he could stand and lean over the hospital bed. "How you feeling?"

"Like crap," Blair groaned, opening his eyes and blinking. "I can go home, right? The doctor said when I woke up, I could leave."

"Right. But just rest a bit first. I need to finish the lunch Martin brought me." Jim gave his friend a pat on his uninjured shoulder and sat back down, scooting the chair closer to the bed.

"Okay, but I'm not falling back to sleep, so don't try anything. Hey, Martin."

"Hi, Blair. I brought you some malt balls, Jim said you liked them." Franks picked up the small brown bag by the bed and set it on the blankets.

"Cool, thanks." Blair fumbled for the controls to raise the head of the bed, which Jim quickly found and set in his palm before picking up his burger again. Blair popped a malt ball into his mouth and spoke with his left cheek poking out. "Anyway, Sam didn't leave me to die, man. He was going to call for help."

Franks looked at Jim, getting a nod to break the news. "Blair, Sam Wah died early this morning in Seattle."

"What? How?"

"After he left you, Chief, his skiff was run over by a yacht," Jim explained.

"Oh, man..." Blair said, looking sick again.

"Somehow, Jim knew you weren't onboard," Franks said, giving Jim a serious look. "He was convinced you'd been put to shore. It wasn't more than thirty minutes before he radioed that he'd found you. So, you never did tell me how you did that, Ellison."

"Sam told me he killed Ben," Blair blurted out before Jim answered.

Frank's attention swung off Jim and returned to Blair. "We figured that part out, but not why."

Shifting into a more comfortable position, Blair related what Sam had told him. Jim finished his lunch and helped himself to the bag of malt balls while his roommate talked. The room grew silent when he finished the story.

"Unbelievable, murdered because of something his Great-Grandfather did over a hundred years ago," Franks said. "Rosy said Sam was brilliant, helping out with research for free. Hell, he was well liked by everyone he met! Why throw all that away for something that happened so long ago?"

Blair shrugged. "I guess when some people start studying the past, they get lost there." He caught Jim's eyes and smiled. "Sometimes, though, you find a part of the past in the present, those people are the lucky ones."

Jim felt his face grow warm, matching the feeling in his chest. He growled at his roommate, his face stern. "All I know is, the next time you start griping about loft-fever, I `will' handcuff you to your futon, Junior."

Blair snorted, rolling his eyes. "Jim, you get me back to the loft tonight, man and I promise not to come out of my room for a week!"

end

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