PART FOUR

"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."

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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