"Here we are, man." Blair tossed his Fargo hat into the seat before lifting his bulging carry-on to stow above their double seat. "Wow, check out the leg room."

"Not as if you need it, shorty," Jim teased, placing his bag next to Blair's before folding his six-foot plus frame to take a seat next to his friend, roommate and unofficial police partner.

Graciously choosing to ignore the last comment, Blair continued to explore the mysteries of his seat. "Hey, we got foot rests, oh wow... cool!" He pulled a padded extension out from under the seat. "We're living large, Jim!"

"Yeah, Amtrak could give the airlines a few lessons on how to make their passengers comfortable," Jim admitted, settling into the soft seat.

"You know, the railroad had a significant part in forming this country," Blair started.

Jim stopped him with a steely look. "Sandburg, we're on vacation. Now, I know this is difficult for you to wrap your brain around, but could you turn it off... please?"

"What? I'm just making conversation," Blair protested, fighting a grin. "I'm doing my part in keeping your education current, Mr. ESPN."

Jim answered with a quiet huff.

"Hey, we're moving!" Blair softly exclaimed, looking out his large window.

"Didn't you and Naomi ever take the train?" Jim asked, thumbing through a magazine he'd found that depicted the advantages of train travel.

"Sure, but I wasn't very good at catching them... couldn't run very fast over the rocks. Naomi had to kinda toss me. Good thing I didn't weight much... why are you looking at me like that?"

"You're kidding..."

Blair laughed at the horrified look on his friend's face. Shaking his head, he pulled his laptop out of its case. "Getting there was always half the fun, man."

Jim let his head fall back against the padded chair and enjoyed the fact he wasn't driving. Blair's attention was currently divided between his laptop and the passing scenery. Few seats were empty as people roamed the aisle, causing Jim to recall an earlier conversation he'd had with his roommate. Blair had baulked at arriving at the Cascade train station early, but Jim had insisted, already having arranged for Simon to drop them off an hour before the train's scheduled departure. General seating was a gamble and he wanted Blair sitting at his side while they rode the rail to the eastern Washington town of Ephrata, where Blair's adopted `Uncle' Buck would be picking them up later tonight.

A late straggler approached, looking for an available seat as she pulled her wheeled luggage along. She was small, her stature made shorter by her stooped shoulders. Her gray hair was pulled back into a neat bun. Sharp eyes met Jim's briefly before moving on and picking out the last available seat across the aisle. Jim prepared to stand and assist with her rolling luggage, but she seemed happy to leave it in front of her legs, another testimony to the spacious seating arrangements onboard.

The porter, a cheerful man with a goatee, worked his way down the seats, checking tickets and answering questions. Jim removed their tickets from his inner jacket pocket and double-checked the information. They were riding train number eight, the Empire Builder. If they rode to the end of the line, they would end up in Chicago day after next. It sounded tempting; they made good pizza there.

"Tickets, sir." The porter stood next to his seat.

"Here you go."

"Ephrata?" The porter's curious eyes drifted over both the men sitting together.

Jim nodded, long since comfortable with the looks he and Blair drew from others. They were not the typical roommates and friends, unless you considered Felix and Oscar, but that was television. Blair dressed in his normal Salvation-Army style flair; jeans, flannel and oversize military surplus winter coat. His long, wavy hair fell free to his collar, partly hiding a set of silver hoops dangling from one ear lobe. His granny glasses made him appear years younger than his age of twenty-six. A decade older, Jim's own appearance was more subdued. In Blair's own words, he `screamed cop' wherever he went. Short military haircut, tan Dockers, gray cable hand knitted sweater and black leather jacket. The only thing the two friends wore in common was their sturdy hiking boots. Blair's Uncle Buck lived in the remote scablands known as Dry Falls. Wearing anything else was just plain foolish.

"We're visiting a friend," Jim explained.

"Nice area, good fishing," the porter said before handing the stubs back and moving on.

When the man from the dining car arrived to take reservations for dinner, Jim accepted a five-thirty time slot for two. They had fifteen minutes to relax. Having a good view out both sides of the car, Jim could appreciate the vibrant colors of the setting sun over the waters of the Puget Sound to his left and, at the same time, peek into the backyards of expensive homes on his right. Their train moved north, towards Everett; the rails ran parallel to the coastline. In several locations, it felt as if the car was skimming along the top of the choppy waters. The silence of their travel was pure pleasure to Jim's sensitive hearing. If he wanted to, he could easily hear the sounds from the engine at the head of the long line. In fact, he could make out the conversation between the engineer and his assistant.

They were discussing possible snowfall on the pass.

When the announcement arrived for dinner, Jim nudged Blair. The sun was gone, keeping the younger man's eyes on his work while he listened to his music through headphones. Blair preceded him down the aisle as they walked towards the dining car two cars ahead. Walking on a moving train was like walking on a boat, the train swayed gently side to side. When Jim's enhanced sense of touch and hearing picked up a jarring movement at the front of the train, he grabbed Blair's right wrist, putting it on the handrail just in time.

"Whoa!" Blair muttered as the car jerked roughly. A child a half a car length ahead lost her balance and fell onto the lap of a young woman, who helped the red-faced girl to stand with a laugh.

Blair turned and gave Jim a wide-eyed look. "How'd you... ahhh, cool, man."

Jim pointed forward. "Move, taskmaster. We're on vacation, remember?"

Blair eyed Jim with a look that read of future tests - vacation or no vacation.

At the dinner table, set with a white linen cloth and real china plates, they sat side by side as instructed by the attendant, who then escorted a third diner to share their table. Apparently this was common practice on board as several smaller parties were being grouped together to eat. Jim recognized their eating companion as the late arrival sitting across the aisle from them.

"Hi! I'm Blair. This is my friend, Jim. We're going to Ephrata," Blair announced cheerfully, an ease that Jim always envied.

"I'm Stella. Nice to meet you both," the woman answered. "I'm riding to the end of the run."

"Chicago, right?" Jim asked politely, picking up the menu. The steak sounded tasty.

"That's right," she answered glancing over her own menu.

"Jim, we should try the chicken. It's roasted," Blair said, pointing at the selection on Jim's menu.

Jim knew where this was going. "Go for it, Chief. I'm having the steak."

"You should reconsider, young man. I didn't get to my age eating that poison," Stella advised, instantly making a friend for life as Blair graced her with a brilliant smile.

"That's what I've been trying to tell him, Stella. He refuses to listen!"

"We're not having this conversation, Junior," Jim warned setting his menu aside. "So, Stella, what's waiting for you in Chicago?"

She sighed, her face turning sad. "My past, I'm afraid. I'm tired of running from it. I turned eighty last week. I'm going to meet it head on."

Blair leaned forward, eager to find out more. Jim watched Blair begin to work his charm. He was an anthropologist by trade, and during times like these, it seemed to take control. Blair thrived on meeting people, learning what made them feel, hurt, and laugh. This story sounded too inviting to pass up, and, more importantly, it side-railed Blair's desire to control Jim's menu selection.

Jim would have given the woman a rose, if he had one to give.

"Wow, it sounds like you have a fascinating story to tell," Blair said, inviting her to continue.

But it looked like Blair was going to be denied the story. Stella changed the subject. "The chicken does look good. I think I'll order it... so, what do you men do for a living?"

They had a pleasant meal. Stella showed interest in both of their occupations, never once asking what a grad student was doing with a Major Crimes detective from the city of Cascade. Jim suspected they could have admitted to being drug lords on their way to a meet with extraterrestrials and she wouldn't have batted an eye.

He liked her. They continued to chat to their final cups of coffee.

"So, Jim jumps on the skid of the helicopter and handcuffs himself to it. I mean, I thought I was toast, you know? And this nut was convinced he'd totally gotten away." Blair kept his voice low, much to Jim's relief. Blair seldom shared some of the extreme cases with anyone, let alone a virtual stranger.

Stella calmly nodded her head, her eyes turned to Jim, as if assessing him.

Jim wondered if he measured up to her expectations.

"Oh, my. You two do lead interesting lives. I'll bet you've seen a lot." She leaned forward, keeping her own voice low. Their plates held the remains of their meals, waiting for the waiter to return and clear the table. "Have you ever worked on a kidnapping case before?"

Jim nodded, noticing Blair's eyes slide down, suddenly fascinated with his water glass. "We have, actually."

She shook her head slightly. "It's so sad, so much heartache..."

Jim exchanged a quick look with Blair.

"Well, listen to me! Keeping you both for so long." She gathered up her coat and left a few bills on the table. "I'm sure you both have more interesting things to do than listen to me talk. It was nice to meet you both, thank you for sharing your interesting stories, Blair," she said before leaving.

She moved fast for an eighty-year-old woman.

Blair turned to Jim with a puzzled grin. "What was that all about?"

"Who knows?" Jim answered. "I'm thinking cheesecake. You want anything?"

"Oh, man..." Blair moaned, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, I'm thinking a referral for a good heart specialist. You're going to need one at this rate."

Jim flagged down the passing waiter. "Do yourself a favor; don't quit your day job, Seinfield."

Blair could type with the speed of a machine gun when he wanted to. Jim could see he was half way through his second laptop battery and showed no signs of slowing down. Where did he get that kind of energy? They had just finished a long week of all night stake outs. By rights, Blair should be sleeping right now.

The steady clicking of the keyboard never failed to make Jim drowsy. With his seat back and a small pillow for his head, he could easily fall asleep right now. Jim shifted into a more comfortable position and closed his eyes.

The first gasp of pain caused Jim to wake and turn. Stella leaned forward in her seat, her hands clasped to her abdomen, her face pale. The teenager beside her slept on, oblivious to his seatmate's distress.

"Stella?" Jim leaned across the aisle, keeping his voice low. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Blair pause and remove his headphones. "Are you okay?"

She gave him a faint smile. "Dinner... doesn't agree...oh!"

Jim quickly left his seat and knelt next to Stella's chair. Taking her small, frail wrist in his hand, he felt her erratic pulse drum out a weak beat.

This was not a case of indigestion.

"Blair." Jim motioned his friend to join him. Blair was at his side in an instant. "Keep her calm. I'm going to get a porter."

"Right," Blair said, switching places and giving the old woman's arm an encouraging pat. "So, not feeling very good, huh?"

Jim moved quickly and found the porter with the goatee three cars back. After explaining the problem, he used a small radio to notify a second porter to meet them with the first aid kit. Jim was pleased to hear they also carried an oxygen bottle. He led the way back to his partner and Stella.

Opening the last connecting door to their car, Jim felt his stomach drop as he spied Blair, along with another passenger, performing CPR. Stella lay on her back in the aisle. The other passengers watched wide-eyed as Blair pressed down on the frail rib cage and counted to fifteen, his voice low and determined.

Just before they reached the train tunnel at Stevens Pass, billed as the longest such tunnel in the United States, Stella was declared dead.

Blair dropped back into his seat, exhausted; their train trip had lost its appeal. Sudden death had that kind of effect on him. Rubbing a shaky hand down his face, he made a point to keep his eyes diverted from the aisle. The porters had already removed Stella's body and personal effects to some unknown location on the train. Jim had spoken to them briefly, probably giving them a short report of what he'd witnessed.

"Here, Chief."

Jim was back, a plastic water bottle in hand. Blair took it. "Thanks, man."

With a sigh, the cop sat down, sneaking a peek at his friend. "You okay?"

"Yeah, it's just... so sad."

"Yeah. I don't think she suffered very much," Jim whispered.

Blair slowly shook his head. "Eighty years... think of the stuff she witnessed; the first vehicle, miracles of medicine, space travel... two world wars, sinking of the Titanic, assassination of Kennedy..."

"Taking a morbid turn on me, Chief?" Jim asked.

"Yeah... I guess," Blair admitted. "I wonder what we'll see when we get to be eighty."

"Maybe you with a hair cut?"

"Not the hair, man," Blair responded automatically, his heart not in their usual banter.

Buck Stevens waited at the train station. It was late, for some reason unknown to him; the train was overdue by more than an hour. Not an unheard of event, but still... knowing his unofficial nephew was on board, he worried. At least Ellison was riding along.

He enjoyed Jim Ellison's company, although things always seemed to happen whenever the cop was around. For that matter, things always happened when Blair was around. The two of them together certainly made life... interesting, which brought him back to ponder why Amtrak was so late.

Finally, the single headlight was visible in the darkness. The air had a nip in it that promised snow. The winter had arrived, finally, bringing cold weather and a few flurries of white stuff. As was usual in the desert land of Eastern Washington, the snow stayed on, blowing from drift to drift until it would finally melt, sometime around April. Buck stuck his hands into his wool coat and left the protection of the small station to stand in the wind.

As soon as he spotted Jim and Blair stepping off the train, he knew something was wrong. Blair's greeting seemed off. Pain creases lined his forehead. His exuberance was missing, as well as his normal smile of greeting. He knew Blair had been working hard at the University the last few weeks, plus he helped Ellison at the police station. Maybe all the work was too much.

"Buck," Jim greeted the ex-navy seal with a strong handshake and nod before placing his Jags cap on his head.

"Jim, good to see you." Buck waited for Blair to set down his duffle bag before folding him in a bear hug, a tradition that never felt wrong whenever he greeted the only child of Naomi Sandburg. "Hey, runt. What's wrong?"

"Hi, Uncle Buck," Blair muttered into the other man's ear, lingering for a moment before breaking away. "Everything's cool."

Buck didn't push. "Let's hit the road; your ride was later than normal. It'll be after midnight by the time we get to the orchard."

They chatted about the orchard and the college football season as they drove the deserted streets through Ephrata, heading north towards Soap Lake, then beyond to the huge coulee that formed Dry Falls. Blair sat in the back bench seat of Buck's old Toyota Land cruiser, sharing the small seat with their luggage. Buck monitored the rearview mirror, judging the time it would take before Blair nodded off. As soon as the curly head leaned against the upright duffle bag and the blue eyes closed, he broached the subject.

"Okay, spill," he asked Jim, keeping his voice low.

Jim held a hand up, his head tilted as if listening. It was a full two minutes before he answered. "We had a problem coming over."

"What happened?"

"An elderly woman on the train died... heart attack. Blair did CPR. He's taking it hard, we had dinner with her earlier. She seemed fine then," Jim replied.

"Damn."

They turned onto the long dirt road leading to the orchard. The rough ride over the washboard surface woke Blair from of his doze. Buck parked in front of the single story house. The porch light glowed, lighting the path across the bare frozen ground. Unlocking the door, Buck ushered his guests inside. He was proud of the house, constructed from the original stonewalls after employees from a rivaling orchard had burned it to the ground last spring. With help, he had it rebuilt, using the exact floor plan, but upgrading the insulation and added a few perks like a flagstone entry and new wooden floors that glowed in the lamplight.

"Wow, this is nice," Blair commented, looking around the small living room. "You got the floors done."

"Yep, finished it last month," Buck said. "Your room's ready, if you two want to call it a night."

"Sounds good, we'll see you in the morning," Jim said, steering Blair ahead. "Let's see if we can get through the night without burning your house down."

Buck shook his head in response.

Cop humor.

// "Stella, try and relax. You're gonna be fine," Blair said, unbuttoning her collar. "Jim will be right back with help."

A small hand gripped his forearm, surprisingly strong for such a tiny person. "Listen... to me, Blair," Stella whispered, causing the younger man to lean forward from his crouched position in the aisle. "Not Stella, Maude... Maude McVey."

Another spasm of pain flitted across the old woman's features, bringing a gasp. Blair patted her hand, throwing a longing glance down the darkened aisle. Where was Jim with that help? He almost missed her next few words.

"Couldn't do it... went to Seattle, instead. Too beautiful..." The words lost their strength, tapering off to a whisper that needed a sentinel with enhanced hearing to pick up.

Blair turned back in horror. The grip on his arm had relaxed.

"Stella!" He woke the teenager next to her. The youth grunted, his eyes widening in realization. "Help me with her!" Blair ordered, checking for a pulse in her wrist. Nothing.

A heavyset black woman appeared at his side, telling Blair she was a nurse. Together, they moved her into the aisle and began the fight to call back Stella's departing spirit. //

"Blair! Wake up!"

Jim was back, finally! "Jim... she died... help me..."

Another rough shake brought Blair fully awake. Jim was standing next to his twin-sized bed. Weak morning light seeped in the through the window. The room was much as Blair remembered it, knotty pine paneling and an authentic Nez Pierz berry basket hanging on the wall.

"You were dreaming, Chief," Jim said unnecessarily as he sat down on his matching twin bed. He looked half asleep, his short hair spiking in different directions and dark stubble on his square jaw.

"Sorry, Jim. Go back to sleep," Blair invited; tossing his own blankets back and moving to sit up. The room was cool and Blair rubbed his arms briskly.

"Nah, I can hear Buck up. Coffee's on. I'm smelling biscuits and gravy," Jim said, sniffing the air with a happy, anticipating look.

"Yep, that's Uncle Buck. You two are peas in the same pod, man," Blair muttered around a yawn.

"He's Navy, Chief. You can't get much more opposite than that!" Jim declared in his best Army Ranger voice.

"Oh, brother!"

They rummaged through their bags and changed into clean clothes. Wandering through the house to the back kitchen, Blair was struck again at the beauty of the new home. Buck had lived in this spot all his life, the original house and land belonging to his family for three generations. Buck's grandfather built the first structure by hand, no power tools, it boggled Blair's mind. Now, the only original part left standing was the stone foundation and exterior stonewalls. Blair vividly remembered the night they'd been forced to escape through a tunnel in the kitchen.

"Morning, slackers. Ready for breakfast?" Buck called out from where he stood, next to the stainless steel gas range. The kitchen was warmer than the rest of the house. The table looked much like the one Blair remembered from before the fire. In fact, a lot of the furniture was much the same.

"Morning," Jim answered, heading for the coffee pot on the counter. "You gonna offer coffee or what?"

"Get it yourself, foot soldier," Buck ordered, giving Blair a once over. "How you feeling this morning, Blair?"

"Good," Blair answered automatically. "How'd you find all this furniture, Uncle Buck? It looks just like your old stuff."

"I met a... friend, in Ephrata. She's an interior decorator. She found most of this stuff for me."

Blair met Jim's amused look. This was going to be so much fun. "So, you're telling us you have a girlfriend!" Blair said brightly, accepting a mug of coffee from Jim and sharing a smirk.

Buck pulled a large pan of baking soda biscuits out of the oven. He held the pan high with an evil grin. "If you two think you're gonna start in on me about this issue, I will point you in the direction of the nearest restaurant. Gotta warn ya, though. It's a long walk; you may make it in time for lunch."

The sight of the golden brown treats and the thick, country-style gravy on the stove caused Jim to visibly shudder. "Shut up, Sandburg. Don't torment our host," he ordered gruffly, all the evidence of his earlier teasing evaporated.

"Traitor!" Blair accused with a laugh, dropping into a wooden chair at the table. "It must be true what they say about an army traveling on its stomach."

They finished the pan of biscuits in no time, with a small stack of sliced ham on the side. Blair enjoyed his biscuits with honey and homemade blackberry jelly, ignoring the gravy. He fought Jim for the last biscuit, losing the battle, but managing to snag the last thick slice of ham with his fork.

Buck watched with easy tolerance. Thinking back to when he had lived with Buck as a child, Blair remembered the strict rule - no horseplay at the dinner table, one of Blair's first experiences with `house rules'. Buck must be getting soft in his old age, Blair thought to himself with a chuckle. Not that he would say that out loud.

"So, what are we doing today?" Blair asked. They'd made no definite plans this week, just getting out of Cascade was vacation enough.

"There's an auction in Electric City today, wanna join me?" Buck asked.

"Sounds interesting, I'm in," Jim replied around a mouthful of breakfast.

"What about you, runt?"

"Nah, I'm just gonna hang here, if that's okay," Blair said.

"You're gonna work, aren't you?" Jim asked with a shake of his head.

"Just for a bit," Blair insisted calmly. "If I get it out of the way, then I have the rest of the week to goof off."

"Yeah, right..." Jim moaned, wiping the last bit of gravy off his plate with the last bite of his biscuit. "That's `Blair-speak' for more tests, Buck. You've got to save me from this guy."

"Get out of here, you two," Blair ordered, standing and collecting the dirty plates. "I'll clean the kitchen."

After the two men showered and drove off, Blair finished cleaning the kitchen and set up his laptop in the living room. He did fully intend to hammer out a few outlines for his classes, but first he wanted to research the name he'd forgotten. The name Stella had confessed just before she died.

The Internet was a wonderful place, full of facts and trivia waiting for Blair to sift through. First, he found some family trees, built by folks sharing their genealogy. Without a date of birth, Blair scanned the entries. A website caught his eye. He opened it and read an article posted in a `Crime Library'.

"Now, why did this get picked up..." he muttered to the empty house.

Jim held his prize as Buck parked his Toyota. It was mid-afternoon. The auction had been fun and productive. Buck had a shipment of irrigation pipes and supplies scheduled to be delivered next week and Jim was the proud owner of a complete set of `Brains Benton' children's stories, all six hardbacks with dust jackets. They had been his favorite as a young boy, but his brother had traded his books for baseball trading cards without asking. He'd been looking for another set ever since. The trick was keeping Blair from finding out about them.

"Hey, Chief," Jim greeted, entering the house and spying his friend sitting on the sofa. The laptop was opened, captivating all Blair's attention. The younger man barely acknowledged their arrival. That was perfectly fine with Jim; he'd already sworn Buck to secrecy. Now all he had to do was sneak his purchase by Blair.

Blair entered their room as Jim finished tucking the brown wrapped books into his duffle bag. "Jim! Guess what I found!"

"What?"

"Stella was involved in an old kidnapping!" Blair said, waving his hands in the air as he spoke. Buck entered their room, drawn by the excitement in the younger man's voice. "Remember when she asked us about kidnapping... at dinner? Anyway, she was the nanny for this kid. She must have been in her early twenties. The infant was taken right out of his crib, just like the Lindberg baby! And Maude disappeared without a trace."

Jim couldn't take anymore. "Hold it!" he ordered, stopping Blair with a hand on his arm as the smaller man started to pace the floor. "What are you talking about? Who's Maude?"

"Stella! She said she was Maude McVey."

"When?"

"Just before she died. She must have changed her name! What if she kidnapped the baby---" Blair asked, grabbing the front of Jim's sweater and tugging on it in his excitement.

"And you just now get around to telling me this?" Jim inquired, giving Blair a small shake before releasing him and rubbing his forehead.

"Uh... I forgot," Blair admitted sheepishly. "Until I remembered... I mean, I dreamed it this morning."

"Blair, show us what you found on the Internet," Buck suggested.

Jim followed the two men to the living room, walking as if in a daze. Was it possible for the two of them to take a trip without getting involved in something criminal? Blair's ability to find trouble or have it find him was phenomenal.

"See?" Blair asked, pointing to his computer.

Buck and Jim sat side-by-side on the sofa, reading the information. On January 27, 1932, a Chicago man and his wife woke up to find their three-month-old son missing from his crib. The live-in nanny was also gone. Chicago police discovered the missing nanny was having a relationship with George `Machine gun' Robinson, a local gangster. The nanny, Maude McVey was an orphan who grew up in a Chicago slum before meeting Robinson at the tender age of nineteen. The ransom was paid, but the child was never found - alive or dead.

Jim leaned into the back of the sofa. "Sandburg, tell me exactly what she said to you."

Blair dropped into the mission-style, oak rocker. "Okay, let me think. She said `not Stella'. Then she said something about not being able to do something, too beautiful," Blair said, pausing to bite his lower lip, his forehead creased in thought. "Oh yeah, she said she went to Seattle instead."

"Instead of what?" Jim asked.

"Don't know," Blair said with a shrug. "So, you think she kidnapped the baby and took him to Seattle? We've got to find out! I found out the parents are dead, but they had another son. We gotta tell him his brother is alive."

"Sandburg, we don't know that for sure. I'll call the Feds today, tell them what happened," Jim said, standing. "Did you eat? We stopped and picked up some burgers. We brought you a basket of chicken strips and fries if you're hungry."

Blair followed Jim into the kitchen where Buck had set the bags of take-out. "Yeah, that sounds good, thanks. But we're gonna follow through on this kidnapping, right?"

Jim shrugged. "We can give the Feds the website you found and you can type up a statement. We can email it to the Seattle office. After that, I don't see what else we can do."

Blair took a seat and reached for the chicken. He pulled a face and sighed. "I was hoping we could solve the kidnapping. You know, reunite the brothers. Just think about it, they'd be in their sixties."

"If the victim is still alive, I'm sure he has no idea he had been kidnapped as an infant. We may not be doing him any favors," Jim said, distributing sodas and passing out the straws.

"He has a right to know," Blair insisted. "It's not right. He should know who is real parents were."

"Sandburg, he has to be found first, then we can have this argument."

The FBI agent that took the report sounded intrigued, promising to get a team out to Buck's orchard as soon as possible to take a statement. The afternoon passed with ease. Blair returned to his Rainier work and Buck showed Jim the peaceful art of tying fishing flies.

Blair glanced up from his laptop. Jim had made another one of his annoyed sounds. The cop sat at an oak table that reminded Blair of the style found in old libraries. A bright desk lamp directed a small pool of light on the strange looking clamp device that Buck had set up for Jim to practice on. Blair had to laugh at the idea. A sentinel could thread a needle in pitch darkness.

"What's wrong, Jim?"

"I keep crossing the thread," he muttered to Blair's question.

Buck sat his book down and walked over to examine the work. "You might be getting obsessive with the details, Ellison," Buck commented with a wry grin. "You're already doing a better job then I'll ever be able to accomplish."

Blair abandoned his work to take a look. "Let me see."

"Careful, the cement's still wet," Jim warned.

"I won't touch it, man. I just want to look."

The small fishhook displayed in the clamp had been dressed in flowing black feathers forming a long tail. A fine, fuzzy looking black yarn had been wrapped all the way to the eye. Over the top of the yarn, a long feather spiraled and was secured with thin black thread. The amazing part, Blair realized, was the entire fly was smaller than his thumbnail.

"Wow, that's pretty cool. What's it called?" Blair asked, leaning close to peer at the fly.

"A wooly bugger," Jim answered, forced to lean back while Blair got close to his work.

"It's a wet fly, great for fishing at dusk. You just inch it along the bottom of the lake and get ready for a fight. The big boys love `em," Buck said, thumbing through a small spiral book. "Let's get you tying a few dry flies, Jim. With you showing this much skill, you should be able to jump right to the more challenging ones."

Jim looked like a kid being praised for the first time. The happy, relaxed smile made him look years younger. Buck set the open book down and pointed to a colorful fly.

"Okay, this is a Royal Coachman. Let me show you how to form the wings."

Jim squeezed the clamp and let the wooly bugger drop into his palm, which he extended to Blair. "Here, Sandburg. Put this one in your flybox."

"Really?" Blair asked in surprise as he took the small gift. "I get it?"

"Sure, I'll make more. Simon could use a few too," Jim said.

Buck laughed. "We'd better hit the fly shop tomorrow for more supplies. Sounds like you're on a roll."

Blair returned to his laptop, setting the fuzzy imitation bug down carefully on the coffee table. He knew he was grinning like an idiot, but he couldn't stop. For whatever reason, he was ridiculously happy to be the owner of Jim's first fishing fly. No way was he planning on ever using it. It was destined for the small wooden cigar box he kept in his sock drawer.

Blair paused before returning to his outline, caught up in watching his best friend and his childhood mentor working together, both men's strong backs turned to him as they bent over their work. The sun had disappeared hours ago, leaving the comfortable room without benefit of the natural light from the large picture window. Buck had installed a wood pellet stove into the stone fireplace, which kept the room at a comfortable temperature as well as providing a cheerful glow. A floor lamp and Jim's desk light were the only two sources providing light in the room.

Warmth flowed in Blair's chest, growing until it spread through is entire body and down each limb. It stole his breath and made him dizzy for a second, but it was a nice, enjoyable feeling. Blair felt like a millionaire, rich with friendship.

Jim's head turned to pin Blair with an inquiring look, one eyebrow raised in question. Blair flapped his hand back, offering a depreciating grimace and dropping his gaze back to his work. The gesture seemed to pacify the older man and he returned to watch Buck's fingers tie the fly.

`Sheez,' Blair thought. `Get a grip, Sandburg.'

The two FBI agents arrived right after breakfast. A short, heavy-set man in his fifties introduced himself as Dirk Lakers and his partner Pete Wilson, a younger man with glasses and a receding hairline that made Jim realize his wasn't so bad.

Buck invited them into the kitchen, since the living room was still cool from the previous night's low temperatures. Jim had just finished washing the last breakfast dish. The room still had a lingering aroma of cooked bacon. Since the coffee maker had just finished with its second pot that morning, Blair took two extra mugs down from a cupboard and poured coffee for the agents.

"We understand you're a police officer in Cascade?" the older man asked Jim.

"That's right, detective with Major Crimes," Jim explained as he and Blair took positions around the kitchen table. Buck excused himself from the meeting, claiming chores that needed his attention in the barn. Jim nodded to Blair. "Sandburg rides along as an observer with the department."

The older agent studied Blair. "Now, you're the one that heard the woman admit she was Maude McVey."

Blair nodded. "Yeah, I looked it up on the Internet and found the connection with the kidnapping."

"Well, it appears she was telling the truth," Pete Wilson said, removing a file from an expensive looking leather case. "We had her fingerprints compared with the original prints of the kid's nanny taken in the infant's room. They're a match."

"Wow," Blair commented, his eyes wide. "I can't believe she was a kidnapper. Wait, the cops were taking fingerprints in the thirties?"

"Oh sure, the International Association of Criminal Identification was formed in nineteen-fifteen. Formation of the FBI's Identification Division was in nineteen-twenty-four. Then the records of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation housed at the Leavenworth Penitentiary were removed to Washington - among them the core collection of over eight hundred thousand fingerprint cards," Lakers said.

His partner gave him a fond look. "He loves to quote that stuff."

"Any idea where the child ended up, Agent Wilson?" Jim asked them.

"Please, call me Pete. Dirk and I don't stand on much ceremony. One of the perks in working out of the Spokane office," Pete said. "Now, since you're law enforcement, we'll share what we know. `Stella' appeared in Seattle about fifty-eight years ago, went to work for a big department store there. She worked her way up the ladder until she became a buyer... did pretty good for herself. She lived alone her entire life and - as far as we could tell - lived a quiet, clean existence."

"So what happened to the baby? What was the kid's name, anyway?" Blair asked.

Dirk answered, "Hershel Adams. We're checking Seattle's Children Welfare's records to see if any infants were found abandoned or mysteriously appeared on the front steps of a church, but that's going to take some time. Some of those papers are still in boxes."

"What about the boyfriend? The gangster, Robinson?" Jim asked.

"We think the two of them had a falling out, probably over the kidnapping," Dirk said, picking up a report. "He went on to rob a few banks and ended up dying in a botched robbery, appears he wasn't the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree."

Blair tucked a strand of hair behind an ear with a thoughtful look. "Did you guys talk to Hershel's relatives yet? Stella sounded like she was returning to Chicago to make things right. Maybe she contacted them."

"We did let the brother - a Newel Adams - know we had a possible lead on McVey. But he hadn't heard anything. He's Hershel's only sibling, runs a large shipping company headquartered in Chicago," Pete said. "Did McVey say anything else to you, Blair?"

"She muttered something towards the end, but it was too soft to hear," Blair admitted.

"Okay, we'll continue to plow through the records and check out the private orphanages as well. Problem is, back in those days, a lot of adoptions occurred off record. Folks just took in kids without filing paperwork. We may never find out where the kid ended up, providing he wasn't killed," Dirk said as he gathered up his papers.

"I'm betting he's alive," Blair said with confidence. "She was too nice to be involved in killing a baby. I'll bet she felt bad just being involved."

Jim and the agents shared a knowing look. She wasn't that nice, or she would have tried to make it right sixty years ago.

That afternoon, the three friends headed north. Buck knew a restaurant north of Steamboat Rock that served the best T-bones in the state. First though, he promised to let Jim browse around a well-stocked fishing store to pick up more supplies for his new interest in fly tying. The day had warmed up; enough that Blair decided to leave his floppy eared, Fargo hat behind. That way Jim couldn't rag on him about scaring off the locals.

At the fishing store, Blair wandered the aisles and checked the prices on clamps and tools. If Jim continued to tie flies, this place was a goldmine for Christmas presents. He'd have to sneak the money to Uncle Buck and ask the man to mail the gift to Rainier, though. It was impossible to get a package into the loft without `Radar-Ellison' finding it, shaking it and correctly guessing what was inside. He'd have a better shot at sneaking raw meat by a panther.

Long capes of elegant feathers hung on the walls; rows of thread and tinsel wrapped around small spools formed a vivid rainbow on the sloped display case. The back of the store was filled from floor to ceiling with books and videos. The long fly rods stood at attention on rotating circular racks. Blair picked up a small white tag attached to a nearby rod and squinted at the penciled mark.

Seven hundred dollars?

"Wow," Blair muttered, dropping the tag and eyeing the nine-foot pole.

"Yeah, pricey, aren't they?" a pretty brunette said, suddenly standing at Blair's elbow.

"No kidding, I had no idea. I get to fish with a borrowed pole when I go out," Blair explained, noticing the name tag the woman wore: Jessica. "You work here?"

She nodded. "I have to make enough money to supply my awful fishing habit somehow," she said with a conspiring wink. "We call these rods, by the way. It doesn't do to call them poles. The uppity fly fishermen get all defensive."

"Really?" Blair glanced about the store. "Any of them here now?"

"No, you're safe," she admitted with a soft laugh. "They go home in the winter. I don't have to put up with them until spring. But I can always see them coming. They wear enough expensive Orvis clothing to pay my mortgage for six months."

"Fly fishermen have special clothes?" Blair asked. Maybe he could look into writing a paper. It sounded interesting.

"Oh sure, shirts, pants, socks, hats, belts, coats... and that's just for men. Don't even get me started on the women's department."

Blair laughed. "Okay, I won't. I'm Blair, by the way."

"Jessica. So, where do you fish?"

"I live in Cascade, my friend and I fish around there and some in the Puget Sound. We went to North Idaho a few months ago, that was great," Blair said. As long as she didn't get too technical, he felt confident he could hold this conversation without sounding too stupid.

"Oh, yeah. You found my favorite spot. I love the country up there. Fishing's pretty decent around here too. Ever try Dry falls?"

Blair nodded proudly. "My Uncle lives there, he owns the orchard just below the falls."

"Really! God, I'm so jealous!" she said, crossing her arms and studying Blair with frank appreciation. "I caught my first five-pounder there. Rainbow... I love that lake; it's perfect for float tubes."

Blair snuck a peak at her left hand. No rings.

"So, I should call you this spring when I come out? Maybe we can fish the lake together," Blair suggested. Who would have expected fly-fishing to be a means to dating pretty women?

"Yeah, please." She handed Blair a business card. "Just call the shop, if I'm not working, they'll get word to me. We've got some great demos we can use, another one of the perks for working here. I've got to warn you though..."

Blair waited for the wrecking ball to appear and destroy his plans for a dream date. "What?"

"I'm a catch and release girl," she teased with a mischievous look before walking to the back of the shop.

Blair turned to track her exit. "You're talking fish... right?" he called out.

"Ready, Chief?" Jim asked, appearing by his elbow with a small sack of feathers and fur. He joined Blair in watching the woman walk to a back storage room. "You playing nice?"

"I thought I was, man," Blair answered. "Where's Uncle Buck?"

"In the Land cruiser," Jim said heading for the front doors.

They drove north. The steakhouse was less then an hour away. Blair thought it weird to drive so far just for dinner, but Buck had promised the food was worth it. Not that Jim was complaining, Blair noted. The cop had purchased a beginner's manual for fly tying and was busy reading it quietly in the front seat.

A fly tying clamp was definitely looking like a good idea this Christmas.

The first jolt came unexpectedly. They were driving on a long stretch of straight road that paralleled Banks Lake on the left. High cliffs of rim rock formations bordered them on the right.

"What the hell!" Jim shouted, twisting in his seat to look out the back window.

"Here they come again!" Blair cried, bracing himself with both hands.

"Hold on!" Buck ordered grimly.

A black Dodge Durango rammed them again from behind, causing Buck to fight the steering wheel just to keep them on the blacktop. Another identical Durango followed. The attacking vehicle was no match for their small Toyota. The third hit was more of a tap, but Buck had never regained total control after the second hit, so it was enough to send them onto the shoulder, opposite the lake and down a short incline in a full four-wheel drift. Their left tires hit a line of rocks collected from the cliffs above. Combined with the speed of their slide, its high center of gravity and its short wheel base, the Toyota flipped onto its side.

Blair's world became chaos for a brief few seconds. Glass broke, sending square fragments everywhere, the seatbelt dug into his gut, loose tools and miscellaneous items that had been stored behind the small bench seat flew up, some hitting the back of his head and shoulders. Finally, just when Blair was convinced the Toyota was going to end up on its roof, they slowed to a halt. The rocky terrain sloped at an angle and allowed the small SUV to roll back onto its tires again with a bounce.

Before anyone could move, Jim's door was wrenched open.

Jim sat slumped in his shoulder harness, a trickle of blood flowed from a cut over his right eye. Blair could see they were surrounded by several masked men, each holding large automatic handguns.

"Get out!" the nearest man shouted. When Jim was slow to respond, the gunman flicked open Jim's seatbelt and roughly pulled him out.

"Hey!" Blair shouted from the back. There were only two doors; he'd have to wait before he could exit through the front seat. "Take it easy!"

"Easy, Blair," Buck muttered softly as he carefully climbed out through Jim's door. The driver's door had taken the brunt of the abuse. It would take a body shop to get it open again.

Blair followed Buck out, standing on shaky legs. Jim looked dazed, but able to stand on his own. They were efficiently frisked, hands quickly patting them down. They took cell phones and Jim's gun from the holster nestled at the small of his back. Jim quietly allowed the search, not commenting when he was disarmed.

"Jim? You okay?" Blair whispered. Seeing a docile Jim was starting to freak him out.

Jim's eyes seemed out of focus, but he stood without assistance. With a nod in Blair's direction, Jim kept his attention focused on the masked men that threatened them.

"What are you men looking to prove?" Buck asked, calmly sizing up the six masked men.

"Shut up," one of the men ordered. He was taller than the others and acted in charge. "Take him."

Before Blair could protest, two sets of hands jerked him away from Jim's side, spun him around and dragged him back towards the road and the two SUVs on the shoulder. No other cars had passed turning their attack. The area was too remote.

"Hey! Hey, wait a second! You don't want to do this!" Blair blurted out, trying to twist his arms out of their grasp.

Sounds of a fight broke out behind him. Blair fought the hands that held him, keeping him from seeing what was happening with Jim and Buck. He dug in with his heels and tried to shake off the hands. It was like playing tug-of-war with King Kong, not going to happen. Just as he reached front Dodge, a single gunshot sent a flock of birds nesting above in the cliffs into the sky.

"Jim!" Blair screamed, cursing, kicking, and twisting franticly in the men's grasp. "Uncle Buck! Damn it, let me go!"

As hard as he tried, Blair couldn't see what was happening. The masked gunmen were immune to his curses and pleading. It was crazy. None of this made any sense. A red shop rag lay on the floor of the vehicle, just inside the open rear door. The man on Blair's left arm released one hand long enough to snatch it up. Blair cursed again and twisted his head, catching the sickening sweet odor coming from the rag seconds before it was slapped over his mouth and nose.

He held his breath as long as possible before giving in to the dizzy black spots appearing before his eyes. Within a few short gasps, the drug weakened his struggles until his eyes closed and he gave into the blackness.

A warm, wetness scraped across Jim's cheek, feeling as rough as sandpaper. Jim cracked an eye, wincing in pain from the sunlight. A movement of red hair inches from his face caused him to flinch away. The pain seemed to split his head in two and he groaned.

"Ginger! Get away!" A man's voice ordered.

The sandpaper stopped assaulting him and the redhead disappeared, giving Jim the full effects of the afternoon sun. With a groan he brought up a hand to rub his aching head.

"You okay? Try not to move around."

Jim took stock of his surroundings. He was on his back in the dirt, the Toyota close, its passenger door wide open. An older man and his golden retriever knelt by the still form of Buck. The ex-Seal was on his side, the left sleeve of his coat soaked in blood.

"Blair..." Jim groaned painfully, it hurt to move, to talk. "Did you find... a third man?"

The man shook his head. "You two were the only ones here when I stopped. I called the police and an ambulance. What happened? Did you two have an accident? How'd this guy get shot?"

Jim forced himself to sit up, holding his head in both hands before attempting an answer. The pain in his head was somehow attached to the waves of nausea erupting from his stomach. He swallowed hard. "We were attacked, forced off the road. My partner's been taken," he explained. "I need your cell phone."

"I called already, help should be here soon," the Good Samaritan explained patiently, as if talking to a mental patient.

Jim struggled to his knees, then his feet, lurching toward Buck in a drunken stumble and causing the man to pull back in fear. Jim held up his hands and dropped to his knees beside Buck. "It's okay...I'm a cop. I need to call the FBI."

"Wow..." Hands fumbling for his phone, the man handed it over to Jim. "You know who attacked you? Took your friend?"

Jim extended his hearing, relieved to hear Buck's heartbeat steadily thumping. The stranger was doing a decent job stopping the bleeding with a small towel.

"No, but I have a feeling the Feds may have a few ideas."

After being rerouted through several people, Jim got Dirk on the phone and reported the attack and Blair's kidnapping. The agent promised to meet them at the hospital in Coulee City. As Jim handed the phone back, a small green leaf caught his eye. It lay in the dirt in about the same spot that Blair had fought with his kidnappers.

Jim rose painfully to his feet and retrieved the leaf, studying it carefully. He'd never seen anything like it and it certainly didn't belong in the desert land they were in now. The bluffs of the Upper Grand Coulee did not support much in the way of greenery, at least not like he was seeing here. Hearing distant sirens, Jim tucked the leaf into his pocket and returned to Buck's side. The man was still unconscious. Considering the beating they had both received, it was a miracle he and Buck hadn't been killed and left for dead.

The first police units arrived, skidding to a noisy stop on the shoulder of the road. Help had arrived.

If Blair were to write a list of things he hated, waking up after being chloroformed would be very high on that list; right under having your hands tied behind your back, being blindfolded and a cloth stuffed in your mouth. In fact, Blair thought to himself, he was pretty much experiencing that entire list at the moment. He knew he was in a vehicle, probably the same one that had forced him off the road. If the driver of the Durango pulled into a Wonder Burger drive-through, his life would officially suck rocks.

Letting his thoughts drift from his personal `pity party' for a moment, he concentrated on what was happening around him. Voices of the men that had attacked him buzzed in his ears, droning on about schedules and payments. Blair remained still, hoping to hear something useful. He must not be fully free of the drug, he realized as he struggled to listen to what the men were saying.

"...Not supposed to kill..."

"...Fought like a..."

"... Matter, orders are orders..."

"... Him try to do better..."

Blair groaned softly, not caring if they knew he was awake. They were talking about Jim or Uncle Buck. Which one had they killed? He kicked out in frustration, feeling his boots hit the side of the interior.

"Hey, settle down, buddy," a voice said loudly, coming from somewhere near his head. "We've still got an hour's drive before we deliver you."

Blair kicked the wall again in frustration, then realized his error when the smell of the chloroform returned and the damp cloth was pressed over his nose again.

Damn! Stupid, Sandburg! Real stup...id...

Buck scowled at the doctor. He grumbled at the nurse bandaging his arm. He cussed at the sheriff deputy trying to ask for his full name and date of birth. When Jim appeared in the treatment room, he turned his foul mood on the ex-ranger and found it reflected right back.

"Where's Blair?" Buck asked abruptly, relieved to see Jim in relatively one piece. Jim's knuckles were scraped from the fight, and his face sported a fine collection of bruises, one black eye, a swollen lip and a small bandage above his right eye. Jim's fight must have lasted longer than Buck's. His had ended when the gun fired.

"Don't know," Jim answered with a frown of his own. "You done? I'm not going to wait much longer."

"You'd better wait for me, Ellison, or I'll kick your ass," Buck retorted heatedly. "Find me my shirt and coat; these clowns won't bring them to me."

"Mr. Stevens, you've had some serious trauma. A gunshot wound is nothing to take lightly," a young intern explained calmly as he entered the room.

"Thank you," Buck answered grimly. "Did you bring the AMA papers for me to sign?"

Thirty minutes later, the two men left the hospital. The FBI agents offered to drive them to the only car rental agency in town. They made it just before closing, renting a late model Ford F250 Diesel truck, putting the cost on Buck's Visa card. They'd already given their statements to the Grant County Deputies. An APB was out for the vehicles and the men who had attacked them. The license plates of the Dodges had been removed. Buck didn't take much stock in finding Blair that way. It was a big state, and no one had seen which direction the Dodges had gone.

"Okay," Jim said to the two agents as he unlocked the rental. "Let's find a quiet place to talk. I need everything you've got on this sixty year old kidnapping case."

"Wait a minute, detective," Pete said. "What makes you sure your partner was taken because of our case? It's a possibility, but what about your cases in Cascade?"

"We aren't in the middle of anything right now. We just got off a routine stack-out and ended without incident," Jim explained. "Sandburg was the last person to hear Maude McVey's confession; I'm thinking someone wants to know what she said."

It was dinnertime and most of the diners were full. The four men ended up in a large truck stop off the highway. Long combination commercial trucks and expensive RVs lined up for fuel under the oversized gas pumps.

Buck adjusted the sling on his arm as he followed Jim to the rear of the diner and slid into a booth next to the man, the two agents sat across the table. Jim picked up two menus and slid one in front of him.

"We might as well order something. It's going to be a long night," Jim said matter-of-factly.

The agents did the same and they waited until after the waitress had taken their orders before getting down to business. Buck felt restless. He wanted action, not food, but they had no clues. He checked Jim's profile, wondering if the man had a plan. According to Blair, this man had incredible enhanced senses, but would they be enough to find Blair?

It had to be.

Buck wasn't going to let those unknown gorillas get away with this.

"Okay, we haven't learned anything new regarding the kidnapped Adams infant," Dirk said, starting the conversation on a negative note.

"What about the ransom? That was never recovered, right? How much did the family pay?" Jim asked.

Pete fielded this question. "Not a lot by today's standards, only a quarter million. They didn't find the money when Robinson was killed in the botched bank robbery. Everyone assumed McVey still had it."

"If she did, she didn't live on it. Her standards were very modest," Dirk added.

"Has her place in Seattle been searched yet?" Jim asked.

"Yes, a team from the Seattle office went there this morning," Dirk said, pulling a fax out of his pocket and referring to it. "Nothing found of much interest. She had her mail stopped and a neighbor watering her plants. According to the neighbor, she was due to return in two weeks."

"If she was confessing to a kidnapping, she was being very optimistic," Buck commented.

"Maybe she didn't plan on going to the police," Jim mused. "Sandburg thought she was going to set things right... maybe she just wanted to contact the brother."

"What do you two remember about your attack this afternoon?" Dirk asked.

"Not much," Jim admitted. "About half a dozen Caucasian masked-men forced us off the road in two black Dodge Durango. No identifying marks or jewelry. They carried nine millimeters Glocks. I got the impression they were hired mercenaries."

"So far, nothing's turned up on the APBs," Pete said.

Jim pulled a folded tissue out of his pocket, unwrapping the small leaf. "I found this at the scene. It may have come off one of the gunmen. Anybody recognize it? I've never seen one like it."

Buck picked up the small fan shaped leaf, recognizing it instantly. "It's a Ginkgo leaf."

Dirk leaned forward to examine it. "Like the Ginkgo that people buy at the health food stores?"

"Yeah," Buck muttered. "It's not common. In fact, the Ginkgo is the sole survivor of the era of the dinosaurs. It was almost extinct, except a group of Buddhist Monks kept a few alive."

Jim nodded, looking optimistic for the first time since he regained consciousness. He leaned towards the FBI agents hopefully. "Anyway we can find out how many trees like this in the area?"

"We've got a nursery in town that sells these trees, Jim," Buck explained glumly, knowing Jim was hoping for a short list of landowners. "I know where the owner lives."

The food arrived at that moment, pausing the conversation while plates where distributed. Jim and Pete got matching burgers and fries. Dirk started pouring his ranch dressing over a chef's salad. Buck glanced down at the club sandwich he'd ordered, wondering how in the world he was going to manage to choke it down.

`If they keep this up, I'm going to need a new pair of hiking boots,' Blair thought to himself.

He hung between two men. They weren't giving him enough time to collect his fuzzy thoughts together long enough to order his legs to work. The blindfold was still in place, as well as the gag. The latter issue was a real problem.

Blair felt like throwing up.

The ambient air temperature changed, and he heard the echo of footsteps on a stone or tile floor. Judging by the delays of the echoes, they had just entered a large building. He worked at controlling his stomach muscles while they hauled him several more feet, taking unseen turns, until he was tossed onto a springy mattress. A fresh laundered smell drifted up from the fabric under his face.

"Tie his feet."

Strong hands captured both ankles and he was spun until he lay full length on the bed. Blair groaned as the movement caused his stomach to flip. The first convulsion hit without warning. Bile burned his throat.

Oh, God! He was going to choke!

"Remove the gag!" A new, older voice ordered sharply.

Rough hands pulled off the cloth tied around his head, along with several long hairs. The wad of fabric was removed just in time as the first wave of vomit hit with force.

A nearby voice cursed loudly.

If it weren't for the fact Blair felt sicker than a dog, he would have gloated. Serves these guys right, he thought, as several heaves left him curled miserably on the bed, his ear and cheek in a puddle of his own making. The smell was enough to start the process all over again.

"How much chloroform did you give him?" the older voice asked them, his disgust evident.

"He starting fighting during the drive, we had to dose him again."

"Wonderful... get him cleaned up and call me when he's ready."

"Wait... wait a minute, man," Blair protested weakly.

But they ignored him, lifting him easily from the bed and dragging him along. The floor became smooth and the sound of running water told Blair he was in a bathroom. Without warning he was pushed under the cold spray of a shower.

"Hey!" Blair shouted from the shock.

"Shut up!"

A terry cloth wiped at his cheek and pulled his hair. They pulled him out from under the spray, dropping a larger towel over his head and roughly rubbing his head dry, leaving the blindfold in place.

"Untie him for a second. Let's get his coat off."

"Why are you guys doing this? What do you want?" Blair asked. Nothing like a cold shower to help a kidnap victim wake up a little, he mused.

They ignored him. Busy with removing his coat and retying his hands. Blair flexed his fists, pulling against the ropes as much as possible as they tightly tied him. Years ago, his mother had dated a magician. The guy was good. Blair has only been ten at the time, and loved to ask him his secrets. One trick, he had been told, was to expand your arms and legs as much as possible, hoping for some slack when you relaxed.

They cinched the knots down hard. Apparently, they knew that trick too.

A few minutes later he was back on the bed. The ruined bedcover was gone, replaced by the rough feel of a wool blanket under his cheek. They retied his ankles together.

"Mr. Sandburg. This doesn't have to be unpleasant for you," the voice said with an east coast accent.

"Yeah? I don't recall getting much of a choice," Blair said sarcastically. It was weird having a conversation with someone while wearing a blindfold. Only small bits of light leaked in near his nose, just enough to confirm the lights in the room were on. Blair's stomach still rolled with nausea, but he had nothing left to expel. His head pounded and he was in no mood for chatting. "These guys shot one of my friends!"

This must have been news to East Coast. One of the kidnappers spoke, sounding defensive. "We didn't have a choice. I don't think he's dead. They both knew how to fight."

"Go help take care of the vehicles, I'll call you when I'm ready," East Coast ordered, still not sounding happy.

Blair's relief at the news the gunshot may not be fatal was short lived, the mattress dipped as East Coast sat down. Squirming to get as much distance as possible from his invisible kidnapper, Blair's heart thumped a rapid beat against his ribs with fear.

"You were on a train with Maude McVey. All I want to know is what she told you. Then we'll return you to your life and everyone's happy," East Coast explained.

What? All this was about Stella - or Maude?

"You gotta be kidding me, man!" Blair blurted out. "We made a report. I already told the FBI everything!"

"What did she say?"

For the life of him, he couldn't understand what harm it would cause to repeat the dying woman's last message. If it meant Blair got released, it was worth it. "Uh, okay. She said she was really Maude McVey. And she couldn't do it. She went to Seattle."

"What else?"

"Something about `too beautiful'."

"What else?" the man repeated calmly.

"Nothing!" Blair explained, lifting his head a little. The guy was sitting close to him, but Blair felt the urge to raise his voice in an attempt to make himself clear. "That's it! Nothing else!"

"What else?"

Okay, now Blair felt like the only actor in a play without the script. What did this guy want from him? He dropped his wet head down on the bed and pondered the question carefully.

"Is this about the ransom money? Because she didn't say anything about that. I'm telling you everything she said to me," Blair insisted, another shiver running up his spine.

"What else?"

The FBI thought the Ginkgo leaf unworthy of their time. Jim didn't care; he'd rather investigate without them along. The agents left after dinner with promises to look into living relatives of the dead gangster.

They had slim to nothing in the leads department.

"Turn here," Buck said, pointing to a side road.

Jim steered the truck down a dirt drive leading to a spacious single story rambler. The acreage around the house was meticulously landscaped, complete with fountains and waterfalls. Jim picked out two small trees with the same fan shaped leaves in the front yard, most of the leaves already off the branches.

Damn, maybe it wasn't much of a clue after all.

A tall woman met them at the front door, ushering them into her home.

"Buck, good to see you. You said over the phone this was an emergency?" she asked, eyeing his sling. "Are you okay?"

Buck shook his head. "I'm okay, Darcy. I've got a family emergency. I can't really explain it all to you now. This is Jim Ellison; we're looking for information on Ginkgo trees. It's important."

She nodding, not looking surprised at such an odd request at eight PM at night. "A good shade tree. What do you need to know?"

Jim pulled the leaf out of his pocket again. "How many places around here have Ginkgos?"

She took the yellow-green leaf from his hand and shrugged. "Well, you need good sunlight and drainage with regular watering. Most folks around here find them to be too much work, especially if you don't have an easy water source close by. I expect folks along the lakes or Columbia would plant a few. I have two in my yard. They're both young ones, no idea if I lucked out and got both sexes."

"Trees have genders?" Jim asked, surprised with this news.

"Sure, the female Ginkgos produce fruit. The males have cones. It's best to be careful where you plant the females, that fruit can ruin paint. Smells bad too, like rancid butter. It takes about 20 years before they start to reproduce, so I still have a while to go with mine."

Jim raised the small leaf to his nose and took a tentative sniff. Yes! There was the smell of rancid butter.

"Any mature female trees in the area that you know of?" he asked, mentally crossing his fingers.

"I know Western State in Cheney planted a bunch, not sure if they're producing. I heard of some big ones along the Columbia, south of ninety, and Seattle has some at the Arboretum. You might try the Ginkgo State Park out of Vantage. The ranger there is a friend of mine, she knows more about them than I do."

Jim gave Buck an inquiring look. Buck nodded. "Okay, thanks," Jim said. "We'll do that. We appreciate your help." He stepped towards the door, eager to be on the way.

"Wait; let me get Jody's number for you. The interpretive center is closed for the winter, but she lives right next door."

They waited long enough for her to scratch out the number before thanking her again and returning to the truck. Buck awkwardly climbed into the cab, letting Jim close the door for him. They were quiet for a few minutes as they retraced their path towards the main road.

"Jim, we're taking a leap of faith here," Buck complained.

"I know," Jim admitted. "I can't explain it to you, but I've got a feeling we're on the right track. This leaf hadn't been out there for very long. Chances are one of the men had it on their clothing or shoe or something. It's rare enough to check into."

"What about the FBI?"

Jim shrugged, turning the truck towards the road to link them up with Interstate Ninety. "We're not keeping anything from them. We've got their number. We'll call from a payphone if we find anything. You know this Ginkgo Park that she was talking about?"

"Yeah, it's right above the cliffs of the Columbia River just north of Ninety. You can see it from the freeway. It's going to be close to midnight before we get there, Ellison."

"And your point is?"

Blair was beyond `freaked out' and heading pell-mell towards `seriously scared out of his mind'. This guy did not understand the word `no'. He continued to ask the same question until, tired of the game, Blair just stopped answering. They left him alone after that, with his thoughts to keep him company.

What he should do was rest, maybe even sleep so he could be ready to run when the opportunity arose.

Yeah, right, fat chance that was going to happen anytime soon.

Footsteps approached and he braced himself for more questions. But instead, hands began to untie his feet and his heart soared.

They were letting him go! After all, he had been blindfolded the entire time. The kidnappers had worn ski masks. He couldn't identify anyone. They must be convinced, finally, that he was telling the truth. Now they were going to let him go.

Blair's day was looking up.

His lower legs were numb from lack of circulation, but Blair tried to walk as they hauled him by the arms off the bed. A draft of cooler, musty smelling air hit his nose, a garage maybe? Descending three steps to a hard concrete-like floor, they untied his wrists. Blair was turned and guided down, almost gently, into a hard seat.

Okay, this was odd. Perhaps they were parking him here while they cleaned out a trunk. He was willing to brave a few hours riding around inside a trunk if it meant he was getting out of here.

A wide band circled his chest, binding him to the hard back of the chair. This was not looking good.

"Uh, guys?"

Hands pulled at his shoelaces, working them loose enough to slip off his hiking boots, followed by his socks. Blair felt cold metal under his bare feet.

"What are you guys doing?" His words echoed back at him. The room they were in sounded large and empty.

They continued to ignore him. More straps secured his arms to flat wooden armrests, his bent elbows touching the back of the chair. The calves of his legs were tied by rope to a horizontal bar underneath the seat. When they finished, Blair could only manage to move his head, wiggle his toes and fingers and slide his butt a few inches either way in the seat. It was a horrifying feeling. Blair's mind returned to the night in Lash's dentist chair and his fear quadrupled, along with his breathing.

When East Coast's voice spoke, Blair flinched.

"What else did Maude McVey tell you Mr. Sandburg?"

Blair dropped his chin to his chest, taking deep, slow breaths to try and calm his racing heart. "Please... listen to me, man. I've told you everything I remember. She just didn't say anything else to me." His voice sounded pathetic in his own ears, but he was beyond caring.

Cold, wetness touched his heels. Water flowed over his toes, its level rising until both feet were submerged.

What the hell?

"One last time, Mr. Sandburg. What else did she say?"

A stark fear gripped his heart and squeezed. He felt a panic attack coming on. What were they going to do?

"Nothing! She didn't say any--- UURRRGGGGHHHH!!"

Heat coursed through his body, an electrical current so hot and fiery, climbing up his legs and finding each nerve ending, burning him from the inside out. His muscles contracted. He bit his tongue. The straps on his chest and arms dug into his skin as he attempted unsuccessfully to leap out of the chair.

As suddenly as it started, the current was shut off and Blair hung in his bindings, panting hard and trembling.

"That was the lowest setting, Mr. Sandburg. We have nineteen more to try before damaging your heart. So, tell me. What else did McVey say?"

Blair felt moisture build behind the blindfold. He sucked in enough air to curse their stupidity. They were going to kill him. All for a question he didn't know the answer to.

Buck's friend must have called the Park Ranger to warn her they were coming. After detouring to Buck's home to pick up supplies and weapons, they arrived at the Ginkgo Park just after eleven. Traffic had been light, allowing them to make excellent time. Yet Jim felt an urgency growing in his chest that he couldn't explain even if he wanted to. He knew he had to get to Blair soon.

The small modest single story home sat within walking distance of an interpretive center perched on the edge of a high bluff overlooking the Columbia River. A woman stood in the open doorway as they stepped out of the rental.

"Stevens?" she called out.

"Yes, ma'am," Buck answered. "This is Jim Ellison. Can we talk?"

"Come in," she answered with a nod.

Her husband, a silent man with a bullet shaped head and a no nonsense expression guarded his wife from the doorway leading into a rear kitchen. She led them to a tiny living room and urged them to take a seat on a worn leather couch. Shallow shelves lined the walls, filled with polished exhibits of petrified wood and crystals. Books and magazines on rock collecting and natural history filled another bookcase next to a threadbare overstuffed chair.

"Darcy said this is a family emergency."

"It is, my nephew's been kidnapped. The FBI's investigating," Buck explaining, pointing to Jim. "Jim's a police detective from Cascade; he's also my nephew's roommate. The only clue we have is a leaf from a Ginkgo tree. Darcy said you might know if there are any trees in the area."

She gave the two men a startled look. "Uh, I'm afraid there are more than she thinks. I've been selling seedlings each year for the last five years. They're being planted everywhere."

Jim leaned forward. "This tree is a female and has fruit."

"Okay..." she nodded. "That's a different matter all together," she said, standing. "Come back to my office." She led the way to a small converted bedroom. A large topographical map hung on the wall. She flicked on the light. "Now we've had a grove of Ginkgo trees growing along the Columbia for the last twenty-five years. I know the couple that owns the property. They have a winter place in Arizona, they won't be back for four or five months."

Jim held his breath. She pointed a finger to a spot on the map.

"It's about thirty miles south of here. You need to cross back over the Columbia and head south," she said.

Jim zoomed in on the map. Following the topographical lines that indicated the different elevations, he saw she was pointing to a low area close to the banks of the Columbia River. The main road swung to the east, away from the location, but a small dirt track should take them close enough.

"You say the people aren't staying there right now?" Jim asked.

"They've got a property management company that rents it out to vacationers. It's not a mansion, but you still have to come up with some bucks to stay there," she answered.

"Any other places with mature Ginkgo trees?" Jim asked. Although this place looked promising, he wanted to cover all the bases.

"Yes, towards Crab Creek, there's another old homestead that has a grove... um, let me think. There's a place on the west side of the river, below Wanapum Dam too... not a lot of trees, but at least one female..." she said.

Jim felt his chances of quickly finding Blair shrink as she pointed to at least five locations. It would take them all night and most of tomorrow to check them out, providing they had the correct part of the state to begin with. There was still the matter of the Ginkgos in Seattle and Cheney to consider. Jim massaged the skin around his bandaged forehead wearily. What was he thinking?

"Do you have an extra map of the area we can borrow? We'll bring it back," Buck promised.

She did, leaving the room to retrieve it and giving the men a chance to talk privately.

"God, Buck. Maybe this is hopeless," Jim admitted.

"No, wait, Jim," Buck said, stepping near the wall map and pointing to a spot with his good hand. "If we follow this road about half way up this mountain, we'll see four of the five locations. Can you see well enough in the darkness at that distance to tell if there's any activity?"

Jim looked at the road Buck was indicating, just east of the Columbia River, it would take them up the western slope of the Saddle Mountain range. Its elevation was twenty-four hundred feet; giving them a view of the Columbia River, Crab creek, and the area around Wanapum Dam. It could work. Jim read the name of the mountain Buck pointed to and blinked several times.

Blair would call it karma, or fate, or even a sign from heaven.

Buck's finger rested on a place labeled Sentinel Mountain.

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