Wednesday

Captain Simon Banks looked up from his report at the light knock on his closed office door.

"Enter," he barked, annoyed at the interruption.

Detective Henri Brown opened the door. "Sir? Some nut's out here, asking for Ellison."

Simon sighed. He'd asked not to be disturbed and had even closed his blinds to limit the distractions. He eyed the unread reports in his `in box'; still so much to do. "Send him in, Brown."

All irritation evaporated as the visitor entered the office behind a grinning Detective Brown. "Buck! What are you doing in Cascade? H, you didn't say the nut was Buck Stevens," Simon said with a growl.

"Sorry, sir. Couldn't resist." Henri chuckled, obviously pleased with himself. He turned to Buck. "So, how's that roof hanging, Buck? Didn't blow off with the first storm, did it?"

"Nope." Buck slapped the shorter man's back. "Every shingle you nailed is still in place. If you ever get tired of being a cop, I'm sure the construction world is itching to get their hands on you."

Simon rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. I'm going to need my waders in a minute." He eyed his detective knowingly. "You finished with your VUCSA report yet?"

"Ah, nice to see you again, Buck. Maybe we can all go out later for a beer." Henri backed towards the door. "See ya!"

Buck chuckled after the man was gone. "VUCSA?"

Simon headed for his coffee maker, all thoughts of paperwork gone. A fresh brew was just the ticket while they caught up on old times, even though it had just been a month since he'd last seen the man. "Short for `violation of a uniformed controlled substance act.' In other words, drugs."

"Ah, leave it to the government to confound the problem with terminology." Buck wandered over to the wall behind Simon's desk and studied the framed trout poster that hung there.

"So, what's up? How's the arm? Sandburg didn't tell me you were coming to visit." Simon filled the cone shaped hopper with coffee grounds and closed it. Making sure the red light came on when he pushed the button he hunted down a clean mug.

"Arm's good." He leaned closer to the picture, reading the fine print. "This trip to the wet side wasn't planned. I'm making arrangements for a funeral - old Navy buddy," Buck said matter-of-factly. "Nice print, limited addition?"

"Yeah," Simon answered in surprise. "I'm sorry about your friend. How'd he die?"

Buck shrugged. "Actually, I'm not sure yet. He set it up that I be contacted if anything happened to him. Thought I'd take a few extra days and drop in to see Blair. He's not at Rainier and I'm not reaching him on his cell phone, so I figured I'd check with you." Buck wandered away from the print and dropped into a chair.

"Blair's with Jim. They drove over to the airport on a smuggling case." Simon poured a fresh cup of coffee and returned the carafe. "Here you go."

"Thanks.

"How's Blair doing? Any problems?"

Buck didn't have to elaborate; Simon knew exactly what he was referring to. Just before Christmas, Jim and Blair had become involved in a strange case involving a sixty year-old kidnapping. The kidnapper had died of old age, right in front of Blair. Unfortunately, some rather unscrupulous persons believed she had given Blair information as to the whereabouts of the child that was kidnapped. She hadn't. Only the bad guys ended up torturing Blair to learn that.

"He's better. We had a get-together last week - a fellow detective's birthday. Nothing fancy, just dinner downtown. It took some doing to get Blair there. But, once he did, he seemed to have a good time." Simon leaned against the corner of his desk as he spoke, watching the coffee drip.

"Jim told me over the phone he saw a counselor, but didn't go back."

Simon nodded. "Blair has some medical insurance through the university, I guess. But it doesn't cover that kind of stuff. I wanted to request Federal funding, since it was an open FBI case, but the kid wouldn't let me."

Buck sighed and scratched his cheek. "He give you that crap about being in therapy since diapers? Or the one about having a minor in psychology and knowing all the tricks of the trade."

Releasing a dry chuckle, Simon met the man's gaze. "Little of both."

"I don't like it. I've seen men in the military fall apart from less. Blair needs help."

"I agree, Buck, but he's proud. He doesn't have the money and he made it very clear he didn't want me getting involved." Simon pushed off from the desk and filled his own cup before returning to his chair.

"What about Jim? Can't he convince him?" Buck asked after a few minutes of silent coffee drinking.

"You ever have a big brother?" Simon asked with a small smile.

"No, I had a little brother."

"He listen to you much?"

Buck nodded wisely. "Good point."

"Tell you what, let's head out to the airport and meet up with them for lunch," Simon suggested, finishing his coffee.

"Call for back up and stay put!"

Blair watched as Jim left the truck to chase after the man they'd been searching for all morning. After making his appointed call and being assured that police units were on the way, he puzzled over what to do next.

The complex that surrounded the Cascade airport was huge. The far end held the commercial passenger terminals with the large jets and Boeing planes. Jim had parked on the opposite end, where the smaller air companies transported cargo or guided groups on fishing and hunting trips. Single-prop planes waited on grassy strips between asphalt lanes, anchored to the ground with chains.

Blair didn't really want to wait. He would rather keep an eye on his partner. You might say that Jim's order to stay put was actually more like `stay out of the way.' Therefore, Blair could follow, but stay back enough to keep Jim in view and, technically, still be following the basic intent of the order. With his mind made up, Blair left the truck.

The suspect Jim was chasing matched the description of a pilot suspected of smuggling uncut heroin. The police had been tipped off when a local butcher found several packets of white powder inside an Alaskan King Salmon dropped off by a local businessman to have smoked. The businessman had been questioned and released when their suspicion turned to the pilot that worked for the guide company. The police theorized the pilot had been smuggling drugs for some time and had somehow confused his shipments and given the fish filled with drugs to the businessman in error.

Even with the sun shining, the January weather was brisk. The cold air whipped Blair's hair into snarly tangles and stole each vapor cloud that puffed from his mouth. Reaching the end of the long hangar built with thin, ripple metal sheeting, Blair searched the open expanse beyond. He looked over the fields that held the runways. No one was in sight.

Where had Jim gone?

A small plane was landing, its engine chugging lazily. Sharp screeches of rubber touching the surface erupted as the plane bounced a few times before steadying to a grounded roll. Blair tracked it briefly before resuming his study of the area.

Fairly certain the cop had gone left; Blair ran down the taxiway that paralleled the runway. He jogged passed several hangars laid out side-by-side before reaching the far corner of the last metal building. If Jim wasn't visible, he'd make a loop down the length of the last hangar, then double back.

Blair cut close to the corner and had the briefest feeling of `oh, shit' before coming face to chest with the suspect. Both criminal and police observer went down in a tangle of arms and legs. Before Blair could separate enough to break his fall, his head took a painful bounce off the cold asphalt.

When the light show in his head dimmed and the pain dulled to an intense throb, Blair found himself standing. When did he get up? Jim stood ten feet away, his Sig out and pointed at some point just over Blair's left shoulder. Damn, it was hard to breathe. His neck felt as if it was trapped in a vise that was slowly being closed. He clawed at whatever was cutting off his airway as he tried to sort out the odd facts that managed to pierce his clouded mind.

Jim looked pissed.

Something was dragging him backwards.

Jim really looked pissed.

Whatever was around his neck was covered in leather.

Suddenly, like a thrown switch, everything fell into place. The suspect was using him as a shield.

God, this was getting old.

"Back off or I'll kill him!" the man threatened.

"Turn him loose right now and you get to live, Feuer," Jim promised.

"I'll gut him! I swear!" Feuer shouted.

A new fact became painfully clear. The pilot's other hand, the one not attached to the arm that circled his neck, was pushing the point of a very sharp object into Blair's coat, right above his belt buckle.

Blair desperately pulled on the arm, loosening the stranglehold enough to grab a lungful of cold air. "Hey, man," he managed to get out before he was completely lifted off the ground by the neck and shaken hard, the point of knife making a shallow cut into his skin.

"Shut up," Feuer ordered before readdressing Jim. "Listen, cop. We're both flying out of here. Stop me and he dies, right here."

The gun in Jim's hand never wavered.

Blair could see where this was going. No way. Not again.

Blair grabbed the wrist holding the knife that threatened to eviscerate him and pushed it out, away from his gut. "Jim! Shoot him!" he choked out before the vise around his neck squeezed to the point he couldn't move air at all.

The sharp crack of the gun sounded a split second before Blair was yanked backwards. The second trip to the ground didn't hurt as much, thanks to the soft landing the drug runner provided. Miraculously, Blair was able to keep a firm hold on the pilot's wrist.

Jim was beside them in seconds. The knife went flying with a clatter across the asphalt. The arm squeezing Blair's neck fell away. He felt a strong hand on his shoulder flip him off the pilot. Blair managed to catch himself before planting his nose in the hard surface. Pausing for a second, Blair welcomed the returned ability to breathe before crawling clear while Jim expertly cuffed his prisoner. The pilot moaned in pain. A small hole could be seen in the shoulder of his black leather bomber jacket.

Once the prisoner was secured, Jim turned to Blair. "I smelled blood," he muttered as he dropped to a knee and reached for Blair's middle.

"It's nothing," Blair said, unsuccessfully struggling to keep Jim from lifting his corduroy jacket and flannel shirts to expose his stomach. He could feel the sting and prayed he had spoken the truth. "Isn't it?" he asked, searching his friend's face for the truth.

Jim carefully probed with his right hand. "You've nicked your face worse with your razor." He pulled out a clean handkerchief and pressed it over the cut. "How's the neck?" he asked, glancing up to assess for himself.

Wincing a little from Jim's pressure on his stomach, Blair swallowed and nodded. "Okay."

"You called for backup, right?"

"Yeah."

"Good," Jim told him, his eyes narrowing in reproof. "So, you must have heard some of my instructions, right?"

Okay, so he deserved that. Blair looked away from Jim's scowl and saw a long, wicked-looking hunting knife lying nearby. Damn, that looked sharp enough to cut him in two.

"Jim!" a faint call sounded.

Back up? Already? Blair let his eyes close. Unused adrenaline flowed to lax muscles that didn't need it. Arms and legs began to shake.

"Simon! Over here!" Jim called.

Simon? How'd Simon get here so fast? Blair opened his eyes. Two men were jogging towards them. Simon brought Rafe? No, too old to be Rafe.

"We heard a shot!" Simon stated as they neared.

"Yeah, Feuer got cute and tried to take Sandburg hostage," Jim explained. "Buck?"

"What!" Blair lifted his head with a start, recognizing his childhood surrogate uncle for the first time. "Uncle Buck?" he squeaked in surprise.

Buck looked grim as he dropped down next to Blair, seeing the knife and the way Jim was holding the pressure bandage. "How bad?"

"Broke the skin, I think it's shallow, though," Jim reported. He glanced over his shoulder at the pilot. "Single shot through the shoulder. He'll need a medic, sir."

"Okay," Simon answered, pulling out his cell phone. "I'm on it."

Blair continued to stare at Buck. "What are you doing here?"

"Thought I'd drop by and visit," Buck said with a crooked smile. "I see you two continue to have fun wherever you go."

"This is nice work, Jim." Buck examined the fishing fly resting in the palm of his hand.

They had returned to the loft after the trip to the hospital. Buck looked over Jim's fly tying desk while Simon helped Jim put the final touches on dinner.

"Thanks, I tied a few for you, by the way." Jim carried a large platter of pork chops to the table. "I was going to mail them to you, since you lucky dogs get an earlier fishing season than we do. Your trip saved me the cost of postage."

"I thought we were going to drive them over in early April?" Simon protested as he finished tossing a green salad and added the bowl to the table, next to Jim's platter. "I want to try out the flies you tied for me."

"We still can, provided Sandburg leaves my feathers alone long enough for me to complete my fly box." Jim untied the flowered apron and lifted it from his neck. "Let's eat."

"Should I wake Blair?" Simon asked.

"No, let him sleep." Jim pulled out a chair from the table and took a seat. "He tends to get crabby after getting stitches."

"What's he do with your feathers?" Buck asked, taking the chair opposite the men and helping himself to the salad.

Jim tried to fake Sandburg's voice. "Just a little test, Jim. First we blindfold you, then you tell me which feather I'm touching to the back of your neck. Come on, it'll be fun."

Simon choked on his beer, sputtering softly before catching his breath. "You realize I'm getting some very twisted visual images, Jim."

Jim rolled his eyes. "You wouldn't believe some of his tests. He once had me drinking spoiled milk in the name of science." He grinned as he cut into his pork chop and lifted a large bite to his mouth. Sure, Jim could have added that Blair didn't intend for him to drink the bad milk, but this way the story was far more interesting.

"Why does he test you?" Buck asked.

Jim shrugged, chewing his food and swallowing before answering. "He uses the information in his dissertation. But it also teaches me to use my senses better, helps my control, keeps them fine tuned."

"And it works?" Buck said.

Jim nodded. "Sandburg does a lot of things that help. I just wish he'd listen to me when I tell him something."

"Well, Jim. In all fairness to the kid, he does listen. Most of the time," Simon insisted, spearing a tomato wedge with his fork.

"I told him I wanted him out of that apartment building, that time he went in to make contact with Gaines' grandmother. He wouldn't come out," Jim said.

"True, but he managed to organize all the neighbors into a very effective team," Simon countered.

"I told him not to go to `Club Doom'."

"He was fine. He made an important connection between the victims."

"Lash targeted him."

Simon made a face and sighed. "That happened because we let a killer waltz around the station like he owned it. Listen, I agree Sandburg's a little reckless, but he's an effective partner for you. I didn't think so at first, but I know different now."

"He nearly had his intestines dumped on the tarmac today, Simon," Jim told him. Visions of Feuer digging the tip of that hunting knife into his friend's coat would be haunting his dreams tonight.

Buck silently watched the exchange between the two men. "Blair was always doing things without regard to his personal safety. The summer he first stayed with me, I nearly had a heart attack when he jumped into the lake to pull out a drowning kid nearly twice his own size."

"Why does that not surprise me?" Simon asked. "What happened?"

Buck took a sip of beer before he answered. "I got there about the same time the other kid's father swam out. The kid was successfully taking Blair down to the bottom of the lake in his own panic. We had to dive to get to them."

"Wow." Jim leaned back, he knew from experience you didn't get near a drowning victim. Not if you could use something else to tow them back to shore. "I've seen enough pictures of him as a kid to know a strong wind would have knocked him over."

"Yep." Buck went to work on his own meal with knife and fork. "Simon says he's getting better from that adventure before Christmas. What do you think, Jim?"

"I think so," Jim admitted. "He takes it slow. Spends more time in the loft with me than he used to."

"That's not the Blair I know," Buck stated. "He needs to talk about it."

"He knows he can talk to me," Jim replied.

"You may have to pry," Buck said. "Get him to open up some."

Jim's answer was interrupted by quiet murmurs of distress coming from Blair's room. "Excuse me." Jim tossed his paper napkin on the table and stood. He slipped through the French doors into the darkness within in time to see Blair hit the floor, taking most of the impact to his shoulder before rolling over onto his back. His arms swung in the air. His eyes were open, his face filled with fear.

"Sandburg!" Jim whispered urgently, glad the younger man wasn't screaming this time. He caught Blair's wrists easily as he dropped to his knees on the floor. Blair must be back in that damn chair, being electrocuted. He hadn't had a nightmare in nearly a month. "You're home. You're safe. It's just a dream."

"Ohgodohgodohgod. Jim!" He clutched at Jim's upper arms, yanking the cloth of his shirt briefly before reversing direction and pushing away. He scrambled back, propelled on the smooth wooden floor by his feet, kicking out of the blankets that had followed him out of bed, until he was backed against the wall.

"Easy, easy. You just had a dream," Jim explained soothingly. He reached up to turn on his desk lamp.

"No! Leave it, man." Blair was shaking all over. He scrubbed his face while his wild gaze darted around the room. "J-just give me a s-sec."

"Sure. Whatever, Chief." Jim took a second to flip the bedding back up on the futon.

After a few gulps of air, Blair's shivers lessened and he roughly scrubbed his face with both hands as if trying to erase the dream.

"Another bad one?" Jim asked, the dinner conversation still fresh in his mind.

Blair's nod was more of a shudder. "Oh-shit-oh-yeah, mother of all bad ones. Feuer had a gun this time, not a knife. I thought it was a knife, man. When I grabbed his hand, the gun went off and shot you! I shot you!"

Surprised the dream was not about his torture last December, Jim moved in closer. "Calm down, Sandburg. Remember, it was just a dream."

Blair gave one last all over shake and pulled himself up to stand next to his futon. He searched the room with haunted eyes, as if he expected monsters to grow up out of the floor or walk through walls. "I know, Jim. Now I know. But... God, it was so real, you know? Not like some dreams where you know you're dreaming, only you can't stop what's going to happen, so you--" He cut himself off, looking at Jim in panic. "Uncle Buck!" he whispered urgently. "He's still here?"

When Jim nodded, Blair closed his eyes and groaned.

"Relax, I doubt they heard much, you didn't get very far before you took that swan dive. Which reminds me - how's your stitches?" Jim lifted the thermal shirt to check. For once, Blair held still. The three knots that formed a straight line above Blair's waist band looked okay. "Looks like you avoided a trip back to the hospital for a repair job," Jim said.

"Yeah," Blair answered with a shaky pat on Jim's arm as he eased himself down to sit on the edge of his futon. "That's been my plan all along, Jim. Did you see that nurse with the legs that went on to forever and the blond hair?"

"The one I heard telling another nurse she was meeting her fianc at the end of her shift? Yeah, I saw her, Romeo," Jim reported with a smile, aware they had both fallen back to joking with each other. "You hungry? We're having pork chops."

Blair made a face. "Nah, I'm going to take a shower. Maybe I'll have some cereal or something later."

"Okay." Jim opted not to push the issue, for now. "Be careful with those stitches in the shower. Nurse or no nurse, they hurt like hell when you rip one."

"Gotcha." Blair looked up at his roommate. "Thanks, Jim."

Back in the kitchen again, Jim returned to his meal. Simon and Buck had started a conversation about the Mariner's chances of getting a decent pitcher, but he could tell it was half-hearted.

"He's okay, just a nightmare," Jim offered without being asked.

"What about?" Simon asked quietly.

"Today," Jim responded softly. Blair was still moving about in his room, probably gathering up clothes and stuff for his shower. "At the airport."

Blair appeared at his doorway and crossed over to the bathroom with a wan smile and wave to the men at the table. He was dressed in a dark green, terrycloth robe that had seen better days. "Hey guys." Not waiting for any comments, he ducked into the bathroom and closed the door.

By silent agreement, they waited for the shower to start before continuing their conversation. Simon and Buck were each on their second pork chop and the meal was winding down. Four chops still sat on the serving platter. No matter, Jim thought, he could save them for sandwiches or something. Food never sat for very long around the loft, unless they got called out of town or something.

"Does he have many nightmares?" Buck asked, his attention on his plate as he worked his knife and fork to separate the last bit of meat from the bone.

Jim didn't normally talk about such matters. Blair's private life was his to share. But this was probably the only man on planet earth that Blair looked up to as a male parental figure. It seemed natural to talk about this with Buck. His friendship with the ex-seal had grown over the last year. Trial by fire, so to speak.

"Not really. Depends on the situation," Jim replied. "His first big nightmare was after Lash, we told you about that one. But, it only lasted a few days and stopped. Most cases don't seem to haunt him at all. The McVey case was different."

"I'd say. From what you told me, he went through hell in that chair," Simon muttered, pushing his plate away.

Jim had to agree. He shook his head. "I still have nightmares, just from finding him."

They fell silent, each man working on finishing their meal.

"So," Simon finally said with a long drawl. "How long are you in Cascade, Buck?"

The older man shrugged. "Well, tomorrow I'm picking up the casket. I'm going to need to talk to a funeral home and check out the cemeteries. Could take a few days."

Simon rubbed his hands. "You know...the sportsman show is this weekend. I say we get tickets and check it out. I'm looking for a size three fly rod for those upper lakes."

"Actually." Jim pointed his fork at his boss. "I could take a couple days off - since my case got wrapped up today - and help Buck with his arrangements."

Simon looked at his detective suspiciously. "You're not planning on hitting that show tomorrow, are you? Before I can get away? You wouldn't do that to me, would you?"

Jim chose to keep quiet, but exchanged a knowing look with Buck.

"We were a little busy at the time or I would have swung in here," Buck said, climbing out of the passenger seat.

They headed toward a large metal hangar that housed `Olympic Transport and Freight, Inc.' A large white sign with red letters advertised the name of the business, telling prospective customers `no freight was too small or too large.' Inside the office, a long counter built from old plywood and a chipped countertop separated the public area from a grey, metal office desk complete with an ancient-looking computer. Beyond the desk, the building opened up to a larger hangar housing three small airplanes. The nearest plane was in the process of having its motor torn apart or put back together. It was hard to tell.

A pencil-thin man with hunched shoulders stood up from his seat in front of the desk as they entered. He wore fingerless gloves, a watch cap on his head and a thick sweater and quilted brown Carhartt's.

"Can I help you?" he asked, showing teeth stained from too much coffee.

"I'm Buck Stevens. I called this morning about a crate."

"Oh, sure." The man picked up an invoice from a stack on the desk. "I'll need some ID."

When Buck produced a driver's license for inspection, the man flipped up a section of the countertop. "Come on back. I just flew this in last night. It's back in the walk-in fridge."

Jim followed them to a far dark corner. There was only a few degrees difference between the refrigerated room and the interior of the hangar. Jim identified a multiple bouquet of aromas within. The company must fly for hunters and fishermen, he guessed as he made a point of ignoring the fishy and gamey odors drifting out of the many boxes. Hopefully, no heroin was stashed inside. A long pine crate the approximate shape of a coffin sat in the foreground.

"You guys got a truck or something?" the pilot asked. When Jim nodded, he continued. "I'll fire up my forklift and bring this out. You want to drive around to the far side? I'll have the doors open for you."

Thirty minutes later, Jim was driving away from the airport with a dead body in the bed of his truck. Buck had already contacted a mortuary. With luck, they could be walking into the fairgrounds for the sportsman's show in time for lunch.

"So, what's the story with this guy? How'd you end up having to take care of his arrangements?"

Buck was reading the documentation that had been shipped with the body. "We served together. He didn't have much in the way of family. We sort of struck a deal one night, I think we might have been sleep deprived or something." Buck snickered. "Anyway, damn if he didn't follow through with it. I got a call a week ago from his attorney, saying I was the executor of his estate. Part of the deal was to make the arrangements to bury him in Cascade."

"Was he from here?" Jim asked.

"Yeah, along with his parents and grandparents. The family name ended when he did. The letter from the attorney says he died from natural causes while on a trip to California. Heart attack."

"How old?"

"Only fifty-six." Buck grunted and flipped a page. "Guess he owns a boat or something at Pacific Point Marina. He's got it listed as his residence."

"I know it. They have a few houseboats there, maybe he lived on one," Jim said. "Are you going to have a service for him?"

Buck shook his head. "He left clear instructions, didn't want a fuss. I'm supposed to sell his stuff, clean out his bank account and use what I need to cover any expense. The rest is supposed to be divided up between some charities."

They rode together in silence. A heavy feeling settled over Jim, his thoughts turning to his own mortality. Who would handle his affairs when his turn came? His ex-wife? Brother? Odds were high his father would already be gone, but you never knew. Jim could die next week in a gun fight.

What about Blair?

Buck's heavy sigh caused Jim to turn in surprise. They exchanged a look and broke into guilty grins.

"Anyway, let's just take care of the funeral home today," Buck said decisively. "I've got the rest of the week to handle this stuff. Besides, we've got serious shopping to do this afternoon. I plan on bragging to Simon about the great bargains we're going to find."

At the mortuary, Jim waited by the bed of his truck while Buck went off to find an employee. He lowered the tailgate and eyed the box. What a graphic visual reminder. Up until a year ago, he hadn't really cared enough about what happened to his material possessions should he die.

Now he found himself caring.

Jim felt sorry for this stranger. It said something about Buck's character that he took the time out of his life to follow through with an old promise made under less than pleasant circumstances.

Jim fingered the rough wood thoughtfully. When you get down to it, all you really leave behind is what others remembered about you, at least for those without children. Only the physical body is left, and then only for a short time.

Looking back, Jim never figured out what made him do it. God knows, he'd smelled enough death to last a lifetime. But he was curious and he took a sniff, past the smell of the pitch within the wood, the polish of the casket and finally, the smell of what was actually inside the casket.

What the heck?

"Okay, Jim." Buck appeared at his elbow just then. "We need to drive around to the back."

"We've got a problem, Buck," Jim said slowly, with dread.

Buck's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"There isn't a body inside this crate."

Blair blinked, waiting for the punch line.

It didn't come. Jim and Buck didn't add to their incredible story.

"Right," Blair said with a smile. "Tell me another one, guys."

He really wasn't in the mood for games, anyway. His day at Rainier could be summed up in one word: exhausting. It didn't help matters any to know his best friend got to spend the same day goofing off with the one man he secretly wished shared his DNA.

Well, that wasn't entirely fair. Jim and Buck had spent the morning making arrangements for a funeral, which brought him full circle to the joke they were trying hard to pull on him. It wasn't going to work.

"I'm not buying this."

"It's true," Jim said with a slight shrug. "The only thing we found in that casket was sandbags."

Blair set his backpack down with a thud on the kitchen table. "That's sick, man. Where's the body?"

"No one seems to know." Buck ran a hand through hair peppered with grey. He was obviously angry at the situation. "I've called the hospital he was supposed to have died in; Mercy General in Redding, California. They didn't even know what I was talking about. They never had a patient there by the name of Paul Staab. I called the attorney that first contacted me. He's as mystified as I am."

"But, how can that be? I thought there were procedures. Who saw the body last?" Blair asked.

"There doesn't appear to be a body, Chief," Jim said simply. "It boils down to some unknown parties paying cash to fly up a box of sand from California."

"So..." Blair looked back at Buck. "Your friend isn't dead? He's alive?"

"Jim and I spent all day trying to find him. We went to his houseboat, asked around at the marina, searched through his stuff, we found squat," Buck said.

It was too bizarre. Blair couldn't even define the true problem, let alone try and figure out how to proceed. If this Paul Staab was just missing, then who set up the hoax of his death? If he was dead, why hide the body? None of it made any sense. He looked back at Jim, wondering if his friend had a clearer handle on the problem.

Jim leaned a shoulder against the support column in the middle of the loft, arms crossed over his chest. He tracked Buck with his eyes as the other man started pacing back and forth.

Blair sighed. Okay, he just needed to think about this for a second. "Fingerprints?"

"Casket was wiped clean," Jim said.

"Staab drive a car?"

"We found it in the marina's parking lot."

Okay, two strikes. "Just a houseboat? No other residence?" Blair asked.

"Not that we could find," Buck answered this time. "We're going back tomorrow to look some more. Maybe with Jim's senses, we'll find something."

Blair nodded. "I'll come with you. I only have one class. I'll borrow notes from a friend."

The ex-Seal looked over at Blair with disapproval. "You don't have to do that, runt."

Jim huffed. "If you want these sentinel abilities to be in top form, you'd better rethink that, Buck."

Blair blushed. Jim could say the nicest things sometimes.

"Great," Blair answered. "The sofa's nice, Uncle Buck. I don't mind sleeping on it."

Jim smiled to himself. It wasn't that nice. But still, for the price he'd originally paid, it had better be comfortable. It had taken both of them to convince Buck to check out of his motel and sleep at the loft last night. After they'd worked out the shower schedule, he barely noticed an extra roommate.

They reached the start of the pier that sheltered Staab's houseboat. A yellow plastic key opened the security gate to let them down the ramp to the water and the boats beyond. Buck had picked it up yesterday when they'd visited.

Power boats and sailboats rocked gently in the water. The accumulation of the tall masts reminded Jim of a stand of trees after a wildfire had swept through, leaving just the trunks of the pines. The wooden dock rocked as they walked, looking in need of repair or replacement. They took the second left, past the expensive pleasure boats to a section of pier that followed the edge of the marina.

Years ago, someone had sunk large cargo ships to form a bulkhead that protected the marina. It was effective, but unsightly. Shabby looking houseboats were tied up in front of the bulkhead, their sidings in constant need of repair from long exposure to the salty air.

In the distance, a group of seals were calling to each other. Jim picked up splashes that told him the large animals must have found breakfast in the form of a school of salmon. Olympic Point made up the north edge to the entrance of Passage Bay, a wide area of water south of Cascade filled with docks and waterways. A steady flow of marine traffic passed by; long barges pulled by tugs, large cargo ships, military ships, even a few cruise ships stopping over on their way to Alaska. It was considered a working waterway. Pleasure boats shared space with smelly fishing boats and tugs. Sailboats had to watch for floating logs called deadheads that had broken away from their containment areas.

Jim liked it. He was reminded of the days when large clipper ships first explored the coast and started moving goods and trade into the area.

"Which of these belonged to your friend?" Blair asked, following behind Buck and in front of Jim. The pier was too narrow to walk two abreast.

"The last one," Buck answered. He pulled out a key attached to a small plastic orange float.

The boathouse was single story with a flat roof accessible by ladder. It looked recently painted, a nice pale blue with darker blue trim. A lawn chair and small plastic side table sat on the roof, currently occupied by a pair of seagulls. As they neared the door, Jim's vision honed in on the doorknob.

"Buck, someone's been onboard since we were here." He reached out and caught Blair's coat, holding the younger man back as his right hand reached for his gun.

Buck instantly fell back, off to one side of the narrow pier for Jim to go first. "Are they still on board?"

Jim was already checking. His ears picked up only the rapid heart beat of the gulls and the gentle groaning of the boat moving in the water. "No, nothing living anyway. I'll go first."

"Works for me," Blair muttered. He tried to follow as Jim passed, but got pulled behind Buck and ended up last in line.

Jim ignored the soft protest from his roommate and quickly moved onto the deck of the houseboat. He could see the pick marks around the key hole; whoever had been before them was good, only a few new scratches marred the gold finish. He accepted the key from Buck and unlocked the door. Pushing it open with his foot, he surveyed the small sitting area. "It doesn't look trashed."

After quickly checking the kitchen, single bedroom, and tiny bathroom, Jim returned his gun to its holster. Buck and Blair stood by the door, entering only after Jim nodded.

"So... someone broke in and...what?" Blair pointed to an expensive looking CD player on a shelf above the small sofa. "It doesn't look like robbery was the motive."

"They must have slipped in by boat, maybe after dark," Buck said, his gaze wandering around the room. "Either they knew the exact location of what they wanted or they like to clean up after themselves."

The main sitting room was square. The wooden floor had a small area rug in front of the door to wipe your shoes on. A sofa about the size of a love seat sat to the right, under a wide window showing a view of the marina through narrow wooden blinds. A shallow shelf ran just below the ceiling, filled with books and the CD player. A much used leather recliner was in the far corner. This is where the owner of the houseboat must have spent much of his time. The leather was cracked and worn in the seat cushion and along the arms. More books were stuffed in shelves behind and alongside the chair. Books were stacked in crooked towers on the floor.

Other than the little nest built around the recliner, the rest of the house was clean and sparsely furnished. Surfaces had a light coat of dust on them, but the place held a smell of lemon cleaner and furniture polish. No houseplants that needed watering, no signs of a woman's touch, the place spoke of a bachelor who liked to come and go as he pleased. The entire living quarters could easily fit in the ground floor of the loft.

"So, do we call the police? Report the break in?" Blair asked, standing with curled fists resting on hips.

Buck shook his head. "What's the point? Paul's not here to tell us what's missing. What do you think, Jim?"

"I agree. I didn't notice any prints on the door. I say we look around, maybe we'll see something that might tell us what they were doing here," Jim suggested. "Buck and I will look for something out of place compared to yesterday. Sandburg, why don't you start in here with these books? They don't look disturbed."

Buck started searching in the small kitchen while Jim took the bedroom. The man's bedroom was in the far back of the houseboat. A small door opened up to a postage-sized back porch, beyond that, a nice view of the entrance to the marina. Jim took a second to watch a large sailboat enter the opening in the breakwater. The two people on board were bundled up like explorers heading to the arctic. It made sense. The breeze over the water was frigid. Turning away from the view, Jim sat on the edge of the twin bed and started pulling out drawers from an oak dresser.

After nearly an hour, Buck joined him.

"Anything?" Jim asked, looking up from his search under the bed.

"Nope. You?"

"Nope." Jim stood, dusting his knees with both hands. "And I don't see anything missing from yesterday."

Buck shook his head. "Me either."

"Hey, guys?" Blair called out. "You're not going to believe this!"

Jim followed Buck down the short hallway, past the door to the bathroom and back into the living room. Blair was sitting on his butt, surrounded by books. "What?"

"Uncle Buck?" Blair ignored Jim to ask a question. "What did you friend do for a living?"

"Retired from the shipyards. Why?"

Waving a hand at all the books surrounding him, Blair wagged his eyebrows at the two men standing over him. "Because I think he was a writer! Look, these are all arcs."

"I thought they were paperbacks," Jim commented.

"Advanced Reading Copy, Jim." Blair opened one of the soft covered books and handed it up. "Look. See the notes? He was making changes in them, editing it."

The book was more like a cheap, over-sized paperback with heavy paper for a cover. Jim thumbed a few pages, glancing at the notes. It did look like writer's comments, complete with questions penciled in the margins. Jim turned to the front. "Peter W. Stanton... I've read this guy's books. He's pretty good."

Buck took the book from him. "Paul Staab. Peter Stanton. Could be a pen name."

"Sure," Blair said, unfolding his legs to stand. Jim reached down, holding out a hand that the younger man used to pull himself up with ease. "Thanks, man. Lots of writers use an alias. That way they can keep out of the public eye. So, Jim, he's a good writer?"

Jim nodded. "I think so. I've read most all his books. It fits, actually. The stories are action-adventure stuff. I got the feeling who ever wrote it used some personal experiences to draw from. The author has a flair for making it real."

Buck snorted, his head down as he read. "I'd say, this chapter is very similar to a mission we had off the coast of Cuba. I think you're right, Blair."

"That's so cool!" Blair started, then stopped, his face dropping the wide smile. "But, we still don't know what happened to him. Why would someone fake his death?"

"He may be dead for all we know," Jim said turning to look at the room. "How far did you get in here, Sandburg?"

Blair shrugged. "I think I got all of it. He didn't have much in the way of worldly possessions. But, man! He has an awesome collection of first editions! Some are signed!"

"You know, we haven't found any letters from his publisher, if he is this Stanton guy," Jim said. "Buck, did his attorney have any information about a safe deposit box?"

Buck shook his head. "No, just the copy of the will and a letter to the marina office to get me the extra keys to this place and his car."

"Okay, we're missing something." Jim frowned. Where did the man keep his personal papers? If he was a writer, he basically had two lives. They hadn't found anything to lead a person to the writing part of his life, except these rough drafts. There should be letters and contracts somewhere. Was this what the unknown persons that broke in here last night were looking for? Did they find them and take them away?

"Does a houseboat have a hull?" Blair asked. "Maybe he's got a hidden compartment somewhere."

"Good idea," Jim said.

They found the trap door under the leather recliner. It opened up to one of the side pontoons that kept the building on top of the water. Jim had to lie on his stomach to reach down into the large metal pipe. A large waterproof box was waiting for them inside. He set it down on the floor while Buck closed the trap door and the chair was returned to its position.

"Okay, let's see what we have here." Jim opened the box. He gently pushed Blair back out of the way. "Let's let Buck do the honors, eager beaver."

"Sure, Wally," Blair quipped, gracing Jim with a mischievous smile.

Buck accepted the handful of letter sized envelopes from Jim. "Yeah, these have return addresses from a publishing company. I wonder if these are what those guys were searching for last night."

Jim dug into the bottom of the box, pulling out a manila file folder and opening it. "The only thing left is this. Looks like some medical reports from the VA hospital." Jim handed the file over.

Buck scanned the papers. "They're just patient's copies. Dated just before New Year. Looks like normal check ups and stuff."

"Why keep them in the box?" Blair asked.

"It's got his social security number on them." Jim pointed to the top of the form. "It's a good idea to keep that secure."

Buck handed the file back, turning to study the letters from the publisher again. "You know, I wonder if Paul touched a nerve with one of his stories." He looked up at Jim. "We had a few top secret missions, if he wrote a scene that was a little too real, he could have made a few enemies."

Jim didn't like the direction this conversation was heading. "Government?"

"For starters," Buck answered.

"Oh, wow," Blair said softly. "Secret spy stuff?"

"Oh, gross!" Blair closed the book in his hands and tossed it onto the coffee table.

"What?" Jim was stretched out on the other sofa, one arm curled under his head, the other holding a book a few inches from his nose.

"Leeches, man. Yuck!" Blair stood, using both hands to pull his hair back from his face. His skin was crawling with imaginary blood sucking bugs clinging to his legs. He stomped both feet. "They freak me out. I'm getting a beer... anybody?"

"I'll take one," Buck said from his position in the chair. He laid his book face down on his knee. "What about leeches?"

"Oh, the story had the hero wading through a muddy swamp. He gets to the other side and feels them on his legs, uses his knife to remove them." Blair shuddered en route to the kitchen. Opening the door to the fridge, he grabbed two longneck brown bottles. It was no surprise to Blair that Jim wasn't having one. The cop usually waited until after dinner. It was only two in the afternoon.

"It's not so bad if you get them off right away," Buck commented as he accepted the beer. "Thanks. The thing you don't want to do is let them sink their mouth into -"

"No, no! No more!" Blair waved his empty hand in the air as he backed away. "I'm telling you, I seriously can't deal, okay? Bugs, snakes, even spiders - no problem. But. No. Leeches."

Jim watched silently from his position on the sofa, his own paperback resting face down on his chest, wearing a look that predicted teasing in Blair's future.

Beautiful, yet another arrow in the sentinel's quiver of weapons, Blair thought. He should call Carolyn and get some serious dirt on the man. Taking a long pull from his drink, Blair dropped back down on the sofa with a sigh. "I'm not finding anything. `Course I'm not sure I'd know a potential motive if I'd read it. What about you guys?"

"I recognize a few missions that we did together, but he was real careful to keep any confidential information out." Buck rubbed his forehead. "I could use a break, though. When's Simon picking us up?"

Jim swung his long legs over the side and sat up, rooting under the coffee table for his shoes. "Anytime now."

"I feel guilty going to a sportsman show when your friend is missing," Blair informed the two men.

Buck shrugged. "There's nothing much we can do right now, Blair. We've gone through his home, his car, looked through these books, his own attorney is stumped. We don't even know if he's in trouble. Maybe he's behind this ruse because he wants to start a new life somewhere."

"Still, I think I'll just hang out here. Do some more reading." Blair avoided looking at either man as he spoke. He picked up the book he'd set aside, sipping his beer as he tried to find the page he'd stopped on.

"I'm going to use the john," Buck announced, leaving Jim and Blair alone.

"Sandburg."

Blair looked up, hoping to keep any emotion off his face. Somehow over the last year, the cop had become too damn good at reading his mind, to a level not even Naomi had accomplished. The only other person that was close to pulling it off just went into their bathroom.

Jim finished donning his shoes and moved to sit on the couch next to Blair. "Come with us."

"Gonna pass, man," Blair said softly.

Jim gently grasped Blair's right hand by the wrist and removed the beer bottle he'd been holding, setting it on the coffee table.

"Coaster, Jim," Blair said. He could care less about the loft rules at that particular moment, but he might sideline a discussion he had a feeling was coming his way.

Without breaking stride, Jim moved the bottle over to set on the TV guide, then turned Blair's hand palm up and opened the younger man's fingers until Blair's hand was flat, his face solemn and determined looking.

He tapped Blair's palm. "How's your hand?"

"Jim, you know it's fine. All healed, remember? You had me changing the bandages twice a day."

Jim released the hand, his head rocking up and down in a gentle nod. Reaching out, he tapped Blair's flannel covered chest, right over his heart. "When are you going to let the rest heal?"

"You promised..." Blair whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. He turned to make sure the door to the bathroom was closed. "You said you wouldn't push, man."

Both hands rose in mock surrender. Jim leaned back, his expression pure innocence. The man was good, very good and Blair felt the once sturdy ground under his argument begin to shift.

"I'm not pushing. But I don't see you getting over it, Chief."

"I went to Lockwood's birthday party."

"True, it's a start. Now take another step, come to the show with us. It will be fun."

Part of Blair wanted to go, the part that could sometimes manage to forget about those hours strapped to that chair, feet in the cold water, the blindfold around his head. It was the part that convinced him Rainier was safe. The university was his place. No one could say he wasn't on the road to recovery. If they tried, he'd just point out that he went to work each day - and he still backed up Jim when he needed him.

Everything was back to normal.

Except.

Except when he wasn't at Rainier, when he wasn't at the station working with Jim, he longed to be here in the loft. The place where he could turn his back on shadowy corners without fear.

God, he was pathetic. Jim was right.

"I guess I could wander around the fair grounds for a few hours," Blair muttered.

"So no luck with those books, huh?" Simon asked as he accelerated his sedan up the freeway onramp.

Buck sat in the back next to Blair. "We managed to skim over most of them. We didn't find anything."

"Is it possible it's a story he hasn't published?" Simon asked. "Did you guys find anything he was working on?"

Blair sat up straight. "You know, one of those books on his shelf was an instruction book for Microsoft's Word program. Did you guys find a computer?"

Jim shook his head, turning sideways in his seat. "No, it wasn't in his bedroom. In fact, I didn't find anything to suggest he even owned one."

"Maybe it's a laptop, like mine. You can keep everything you need in a briefcase and carry it with you," Blair said. "Did you see anything like that yesterday when you were there? Maybe it was out of sight and that's what was stolen last night."

Buck looked doubtful. "We looked the place over pretty good yesterday. We would have seen a computer case, even those mini ones like you carry, Blair."

"I agree," Jim added. "I think we would have spotted it."

"Well, he has to write his books on something. I can't believe he does it by hand, though some writers still do," Blair muttered.

"Simon, any luck calling that publisher?" Buck asked.

"He's vacationing, somewhere in Europe according to his secretary. He's not due back for a few weeks. She doesn't even know how to reach him," Simon reported.

"That's convenient," Buck said dourly.

They arrived at a large field being used as a parking lot for the show. Even though it was early, the lot was a sea of pickup trucks and SUVs with a few sport cars mixed in for variety. After finding parking, they made the long trek towards the main gate. Admission paid and through the turnstile, they were inside.

Jim monitored Blair's heart rate. His friend was nervous, but doing a decent job of hiding it. They stood for a moment off to the side from the flow of people, mostly men. The fairgrounds were large. If you didn't know your way around, it was easy to become lost.

Simon stood, unlit cigar in mouth as he studied a flyer advertising the events and locations of the different exhibits. Long barns were lined up side-by-side, a constant flow of people moved in and out. Tent trailers, campers and small trailers were parked along the wide paved walkways, luring prospective buyers. The smell of smoked meats and Seattle's Best Fudge drifted in the cold air.

"What do you guys say to checking out the fishing barn first? They're having a demonstration right now on fly casting," Simon said, reading from the paper in his hand.

Jim exchanged a look with Buck. He could see his own doubt reflected in the older man's eyes. Blair was holding his own out here in the open, was it too soon to go into a crowded building?

"You and Buck go on," Jim suggested. "I want to check out the Ford trucks. See if they've got this year's models. We'll catch up."

"Great, I get first shot at the good stuff," Simon gloated as he rolled up the paper and stuck it into his coat pocket.

Blair stayed at Jim's side as the other two men walked off.

The Fords were in the back of the fairgrounds, under large blue tarps. A middle-aged salesman spotted them as they arrived and fell on Jim like a starved barracuda. Two months ago Blair would have bounced on his toes with a twinkle in his eye, instead, he stood at Jim's side, looking pale and withdrawn, his gaze busily flitting from stranger to stranger.

"Hello! Are you interested in taking one of these beauties home? Great for hunting," the salesman said eagerly.

Jim shook his head. "Just looking right now. Thanks anyway."

Disappointed, but still smiling, the man nodded as he offered a card. "I'm Larry. We're in Puyallup. Look around, climb inside. If you have any questions, just ask."

Left alone, Jim headed toward a red Expedition model parked off by itself. He looked over the sticker taped to the inside of the window.

"You really thinking about a new vehicle?" Blair asked.

"Nah, I just like to look," Jim told him. "How you doing?"

Pointing a finger up at Jim's nose, Blair blustered. "See, I knew you were just..." He waved a hand in the air.

"Sue me, Chief," Jim said calmly. "It doesn't hurt to take a second to adjust. We'll catch up with Buck and Simon when you're ready."

Blair snorted, jamming both hands in his back jean pockets. "Yeah, right. How are we going to find them in this crowd?"

Jim chuckled as he opened the driver's door and climbed in. This really was a nice vehicle. He ran an appreciative hand over the leather covered steering wheel. "Even if I wasn't a sentinel, Sandburg, we could always fall back on using cell phones."

"Oh," Blair answered, flashing a shy grin as he stood in the open doorway. "Yeah, true."

After Jim effectively drooled over the vehicle and pictured himself sitting in a blue model, he sighed and climbed out. There was nothing wrong with the truck he had now.

Yet.

"Come on, man. You are to cars what Imelda was to shoes." Blair yanked him by the arm with a grin, pulling him away from the Expedition and `Larry the Barracuda'. "Let's find the guys."

They threaded their way through the crowds. Blair did look better; he was holding his own and walking boldly, even taking the lead. Jim was proud. Once inside the barn, though, he fell back with a nervous glance at the pressing crowd.

"You mind?" He pointed out to the mass. It was worse than outside. The place was packed with exhibitors selling outdoor equipment, their booths stretching down the full length of the barn in multiple rows. Shoppers wandered down the aisles looking over everything from waders to fly reels.

"Stay close, partner," Jim teased, stepping out. "I'm going in."

"Got cha back, Hoss," Blair responded. "Hey, we can even make this a test. I'll time how long it takes you to find--"

"Done." Jim pointed at a roped off area ahead where Buck stood alone with a fly rod in hand.

"What's he doing?" Blair asked.

"Casting," Jim answered. He spotted Simon off to the side wearing a bemused expression and forged a path to join him. "What's up, Simon?"

Simon removed his still unlit cigar from his mouth to answer. "We get here. Buck gets recognized by one of the experts that's supposed to be doing a demo. Next thing I know, he gets pulled into the casting pit to show off his cathedral cast."

"His what?" Blair asked, turning his body sideways to press in close.

"Cathedral cast," Simon said. "Watch."

Buck flicked the fly rod out in front, causing a smooth roll down the line. A tanned man with red hair was standing off to one side with a microphone, explaining each of Buck's actions to the gathering crowd. Jim had to admit, he would be hard pressed to go on display like this, yet Buck looked totally at ease. The red-haired man explained that the cast was perfect for times you found yourself fishing with a brushy bank at your back and were afraid you'd snag a bush or tree limb.

Buck lifted his rod tip as if starting a normal cast, but ended it early, the tip stopping at the twelve o'clock position. He paused a second, then brought the tip forward again. The bright red fluff of yarn tied to the end of the fly line never went beyond Buck's head. Once it got directly overhead, the line flicked it back in a lazy loop to land in front again.

A smattering of applause broke out from the observers.

"And that, ladies and gentlemen, is a cathedral cast," the red-headed man said. "We're lucky Buck Stevens happened by. Don't let him fool you; even though he makes it look effortless, you need to practice this cast to perfect it." He accepted the fly rod from Buck. "The guide world lost a real natural when you retired, Buck."

"Uncle Buck, you used to be a fishing guide?" Blair asked after Buck joined them on the sidelines.

"It put the food on the table for a few years," Buck admitted, draping an arm around Blair's shoulders. "Come on, I'm smelling BBQ."

Jim and Simon trailed behind.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Simon asked.

Jim nodded, making his eyes squint like Clint Eastwood as he looked at his boss and slipping into his Bonanza accent. "Uh huh. We got us a free fishing guide. We need to rent a boat."

"Exactly," Simon exclaimed, rubbing his large hands together happily.

Buck turned to grace them both with a wicked smile.

The sportsman show didn't offer the wide selection of foods typically found during the time of the county fair, but there were a few choices. Blair talked Simon into trying the Thai food stand, while Jim waited in line with Buck for BBQ chicken. They found an empty table in a less crowded part of the group of picnic tables and sat down to eat.

"Where did you guide, Buck?" Simon asked as he twirled his plastic fork in the mound of soft noodles.

"I was licensed for a while in Montana, Idaho, as well as Washington," he replied. "I worked for a friend that owned a guide service. You've met him, Jim; he opened that campground in northern Idaho."

"Sure, he's the guy we helped out. Blair and I built that porch and stairs for him," Jim said, frowning briefly at his food. The chicken was good, but the BBQ was a little too sweet for his taste. He used his fork to scrape most of it off. "So, Buck, you can show us all the hot spots?"

"What do you want to catch?" Buck asked.

"Steelhead," Simon said without hesitation.

"Oh, yeah." Jim nodded in agreement. "Sweet."

"Can we keep one?" Blair asked. "I love smoked steelhead, man."

Buck chuckled. "Okay, okay. I get the picture," he said, wiping his hands on a napkin before picking up his cornbread. "We'll need to find a couple of drift boats. Maybe float one of the rivers on the Olympic Peninsula. We should pick a weekend."

"When?" Simon's face lit up in pleasure.

"Whenever," Buck told him. "They have runs all year."

"How about spring break?" Jim asked, glancing over at Blair.

"We could do that," Buck said. "Send me the dates and I'll get us set up. We can rent a cabin out in Forks and share the cost."

Simon set his fork down and rubbed his hands together as he grinned at his eating companions. "Our own fishing guide. I think I've died and gone to heaven."

They finished their meal and tossed the disposable plates, napkins and cups in a nearby garbage can. By agreement, they headed back towards the vendor barns. Jim wanted to look over the fly tying equipment and Simon was still comparison shopping for a new fly rod. Jim kept a discreet eye on Blair as they reentered the crowded building. But Blair seemed okay, so Jim relaxed while he looked over the different booths.

The barn offered a smorgasbord of toys for the outdoorsman; folding boats, crab pots, fishing poles, hunting coats, high powered binoculars, and archery equipment all crowded together in long rows, plus anything remotely related to hunting and fishing from artwork to jewelry. Visa cards and cash could be seen exchanging hands everywhere.

The crowd prevented them from walking more than two abreast and in some places they formed a single line to snake through a particularly popular booth. At one point Jim found himself in the lead as they passed between booths selling saltwater fishing equipment and hunting gear along with a variety of self-defense equipment.

Both booths were popular and filled beyond capacity. The spillover crowded the aisle. Just as Jim passed between an elderly man holding a salmon pole and a young woman pushing a stroller, he heard the familiar sound of a tazer being activated. The loud, snapping sound of electricity was close enough for the small hairs on Jim's neck to stand out.

Annoyed that some idiot would be so stupid as to fire a tazer within a crowded room, he started to search for the culprit. A soft gasp from directly behind startled him.

"Blair!" Buck called out in alarm.

Jim turned to see Blair pulling out of Buck's grasp, eyes wide, face bloodless, and hands out as if to ward off the devil himself. He bounced off a heavyset man and fell into a tall stand of fishing poles on a turnstile. The stand fell with a loud crash onto a table holding fishing reels. People were yelling, a woman screamed. The crowd shifted and surged as they responded to the unperceived threat in their midst. The situation turned ugly as several of the vendors started yelling in outrage. Jim pushed forward with a shoulder, moving toward where he'd last seen Blair fall out of his sight. Simon was busy helping a young woman desperately trying to keep her young son from being trampled while maintaining a stroller that looked ready to be knocked over.

Buck's head suddenly appeared. Jim could see he had Blair in his grasp. The younger man still looked lost in his day terror and fought to break free. Seeing Jim over the tops of the strangers around them, Buck raised his voice over the screaming melee.

"I'll taking him outside!"

Jim nodded. "Go, we'll find you."

It took some doing and the efforts of the off duty county police hired by the show and a few other level-headed men before the crowd calmed down. It was a common phenomenon, usually seen at large concerts or when a people became trapped in an emergency, like a fire, but it had the potential to seriously harm and even kill. Simon joined Jim in time to hear the man owning the booth with the tazer talk to the police officers.

"What the hell happened?" Simon asked in a low voice.

Jim pointed at the short man with the red face. "This guy sells tazers, someone activated it and Blair heard."

"Damn." Simon's forehead wrinkled with displeasure. "In this crowd? What was he thinking? Someone could have been hit."

"That's what the deputies are telling him now," Jim added. "Listen, I've got to find Sandburg. Buck took him outside, he looked ready to bolt. Can you handle this?"

Simon looked around at the mess a few short moments had created. Several fishing poles lay snapped in pieces on the ground, clothing was scattered about, damaged by muddy shoes and boots. "Yeah, I'm on it. Go check on the kid."

Jim pushed through the surrounding crowd that had stayed to watch the cops deal with the fallout. Outside the building, he ignored the folks standing about, excitedly talking to their friends about the fiasco. Buck and Blair were nowhere to be seen. Jim closed his eyes and concentrated on his hearing, searching, filtering out those voices he didn't want and searching for the one he did.

He found a familiar voice.

"Stop it, Blair."

Jim opened his eyes and broke into a fast trot towards an empty covered arena. He slipped through the metal bars that circled the sawdust riding area and took a short cut through the middle, continuing to listen.

"I just..." Blair voice was rushed.

"Stay put. Running isn't helping any."

Jim spotted them as he left the riding arena. Both men were several hundred feet away, standing between empty barns used to house livestock during the fair. Buck held Blair by his upper arms and was backing him towards a bench. He firmly pushed the smaller man down. Neither had seen him yet and Jim held back, suddenly reluctant to intrude. After all, Buck seemed to have Blair under control at the moment.

"Talk to me, runt," Buck said, squatting down in front of Blair.

Even from this distance, Jim could see Blair was miserable. "God, Uncle Buck. I'm such a screw up."

"That wasn't your fault," Buck told him.

Blair shook his head. "Simon's going to pull my ride-a-long."

"Bullshit," Buck said calmly. "You know better than that."

Blair hunched forward on the bench and Buck caught a shoulder and roughly pushed him back. Jim's fingers tightened into a fist, but he stayed put.

"What's really going on inside that head of yours? And don't give me any crap about what someone else might do," Buck ordered.

"But it's true," Blair started, then stopped when Buck's fingers tightened on his shoulder.

"Blair. I know Simon and Jim are both good friends. I've seen too much to believe different. Now stop this nonsense and tell me the real problem."

"Y-yes, sir." With his head still ducked low, Blair gripped the edge of the bench with both hands. "I'm still... ah, nervous."

"About?" Buck asked.

He shrugged and released one hand to push back his hair being blown across his face. "Rainier's okay, and the station, too - if Jim's there - but anywhere away from the loft and I get..."

"Scared."

"Yeah."

Buck sighed and moved to take a seat next to his `nephew.' His voice took on gentler tones as he spoke, "Look at it this way, mentally, you're ready to move past that night Snipes had you in the chair, but your body needs more time."

"Time? It's been a month." The anger in Blair's voice was clear enough to carry to where Jim stood waiting and watching.

"So? So, you need more than four weeks. Big deal. It's not something you can just will away, Blair. You, of all people, should know that. Why aren't you seeing someone, anyway?"

Blair wiggled a little on the bench, as if trying to find a softer part in the wood. "I went to a doctor when we got back."

"Just once?"

Jim watched Blair nod his head once.

"You know one time barely gives the doctor a chance to know you. Why didn't you go back?"

Another shrug. It was weird watching Blair being so nonverbal, not natural at all. In fact, Blair hadn't done one of his marathon lectures in a long time now. How had Jim not noticed this shift in character?

"Blair, I'm waiting for an answer," Buck said.

"I don't have the money."

"Isn't there ways around that? I understand the justice system has resources available for these types of situations."

"I guess."

"So why aren't you letting Simon and Jim help you?"

Buck was not going to let Blair dodge the question and Jim was glad. He'd been wondering the same himself. Simon had made enquiries and even provided the proper forms. Blair had been adamant; he'd flatly refused to return to the counselor.

"Blair?"

Blair's shoulders sagged as the tension left them; he leaned back against the bench and scrubbed his face with both hands. "Uncle Buck, those findings become official, the defense can subpoena them. Or the Fed's can use them in the prosecution. You know what the first question that guy asked was? Guess."

"I don't have a clue, son," Buck said. "Just tell me."

"He asked me, `How do you feel about your mother?' Can you believe that? I'm too freaked out to leave the loft except for school or the police station, and he wants me to talk about Naomi. Like some guy dressed in a suit is going to understand my mother. He's going to label me as a bastard son of a drugged out hippie and that gets splashed all over the trial. Simon and Jim aren't going to want anything to do with me."

"They've met Naomi."

"Yeah, and she was her charming self. She freaked out about me working with Jim, but she settled down." Blair drew his knees up to his chest, his feet on the edge of the bench seat. He circled his legs with both arms and rested his forehead on his knees. "I've seen shrinks like that before. He would have had a field day with Naomi, getting into my childhood, making assumptions, conclusions. I just... no, no more. I'm not going to risk it. I've got to get over this on my own."

God, so that was it. Jim leaned against the fence. Blair's brain must be scrambled to worry about that sort of shit. No wonder he'd been dead set against seeing a doctor about his torture. Snipes' trial was months away. From what he knew about the case, the Federal prosecutor had lined up so many charges in a row, the defense needed a shopping cart at the arraignment to carry the complaints away.

Jim knew the prosecutor was hoping to roll the hired gunman, get him to turn over the identities of those men that called the shots. Newel Adams, the man that had hired Snipes and ordered Blair's torture was dead, but he had associates that the Feds would love to get their hands on.

Sounds of someone approaching caused Jim to turn. Simon was heading his way. He held a finger up to his lips and slipped through the fence to meet him in the middle of the arena.

"How's Sandburg?" Simon asked.

"He's okay, he's talking to Buck," Jim answered. He nodded his head back at the building Simon had just left. "What sort of damage are we looking at?"

Eyeing the `no smoking' signs posted nearby, Simon patted his chest unhappily. "Are you kidding? When I got finished with my enraged Police Captain act, the tazer owner couldn't apologize fast enough. He's apparently got insurance to help cover the damaged fishing tackle. We're in the clear."

"God, Simon," Jim said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "You are one handy guy to have around."

"Don't you forget it, either." Simon preened under the compliment. "So - if it's okay with you - I'm thinking I've had enough of the sportsman show this year. I'm going to mail-order my fly rod. I say we gather up our fellow cohorts of disaster and leave."

Blair was having a horrible, terrible, very bad day; just like Alexander from a book he remembered reading when he was little.

They were back in the loft. It was late. Simon had gone home an hour ago and Buck was going through the box of letters from the houseboat. Jim had started laundry. The TV was on, tuned to a perfectly groomed man and woman taking turns reading local news stories.

"I'm going for a walk," Blair announced to the room at large.

That brought Jim down the stairs from where he'd been folding whites. "I'll join you."

A less tired man might ask his best friend not to come, but Blair wasn't that man. He felt exhausted and out of sorts, too tired to think and too antsy to rest. He shrugged into his coat and headed out the door with a nod to Buck. Jim had to jog to catch up. Once out on the street, Jim zipped up his jacket and tucked his hands into its deep pockets.

They walked toward the water in silence, which Blair appreciated. He knew Jim was worried about him. The episode at the sportsman show had demonstrated to the entire world he was a nutcase. Hell, there was no denying it now. He'd been so careful not to lose it. It just took a simple sound to shatter weeks of effort.

Surprisingly, it had helped when he'd talked to Uncle Buck today. Blair hadn't wanted to, but he'd learned long ago you didn't disobey the man. Maybe what was true with burdens was true with fears, once shared they became half the size.

The walk led them down by the marina, the streetlights lighting the way and keeping the criminal elements at bay. Other folks wandered down the boardwalk, enjoying the cool evening of no rainfall.

Blair snuck a glance up at Jim, wishing he had the courage to tell the man what he'd said to Buck. Jim must think he was nuts. Of course, he probably realized how nuts Blair was the first week he'd moved into the loft. How many discussions had the sentinel overheard? Blair couldn't help talking to himself. It just seemed like the thing to do when working through a problem.

Wait a second, what's to say Jim hadn't listened in at the sportsman show?

Blair looked up at Jim again.

"You heard," Blair said.

Jim's face remained the same, but he met Blair's gaze and nodded.

"Crap."

"Sorry," Jim said.

"It's okay." Blair crossed his arms over his chest and turned toward the wooden railing. It ran the length of the boardwalk to keep folks from falling down to the rock jetty below. He leaned his elbows on the top railing and studied the water lapping gently at the rocks, catching the light from the streetlamps and reflecting it back. It looked as if God had removed the salt water and poured black ink into the ocean.

Jim was too tall to get his elbows on the railing, instead he kept his arms straight, palm down on the rough wood. "No, it's not okay. But it will be."

"I'm not going back to that doctor, Jim."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

Jim shrugged, gracing Blair with a quirky smile. "Okay, no doctors."

"Uh... I expected you to argue with me."

"Nope, I'd like to ask you something, though."

"What?"

Jim released the railing with one hand and turned to face Blair. "What were you thinking just now?"

Blair didn't expect that question. He actually didn't expect Jim to ask any question at all. Jim was more of a `see problem, fix problem' kind of guy, not a `let's talk about the problem' guy at all.

"Thinking?"

"Yeah, we just spent fifteen minutes walking. What was on your mind?"

"I don't know," Blair answered. It sounded lame, even to his own ears. He looked out at the lights of a passing ship. "Stuff."

"What stuff?"

"Today, what happened, that stuff."

"Okay, next question."

"You get two questions?"

"Yes, I do," Jim told him firmly, tempered with an indulgent look. "Next question. What are you feeling?"

"Feeling?" Blair pushed away from the railing and turned to face Jim head on, legs spread in a firm stand. "Why are you asking me this stuff? You going over to the dark side and becoming a shrink?"

"Well, if you don't want to talk with a professional, why can't you talk to me?"

Blair wanted to get angry, but he couldn't. Jim was really reaching out, being very un-Jim. Blair was frankly too amazed to get pissed. He shrugged and turned to look out over the dark water again. "Well, before I stepped into the twilight zone here, I guess I was feeling..."

"First thing that comes to mind. Spit it out."

"Empty. But in a good way, I think." Blair lifted his chin. Why did it feel good to be empty? What was missing? He gave it some thought. "Ever since I went to see that doctor and he asked about Naomi," Blair started. "I knew I had to be careful. I guess that's why I didn't want to go anywhere unless I had to. I figured if I kept it together until the trial, I wouldn't screw it up, give the defense anything to use to discredit my testimony. Then today, I lost it. It felt like a big spring was coiling up inside me and that thing with the tazer let it out."

"Tension."

"Yeah."

"What if the spring's still inside? Waiting for you to start coiling it up again?"

Blair made a face. "Thanks, man. I didn't want to go there."

Jim chuckled. "Listen, Sandburg. I think you're blowing this out of proportion. You've been through some pretty shitty stuff, so I'm not surprised. Your testimony is important to the Fed's case, but you won't be the only person with an eyewitness account, remember? Buck and I were there when they took you. We have the doctor's testimony of your injuries. The Feds found plenty in that garage. Yeah, you're still the star witness, but any episode like today's isn't going to hurt the case."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. If you want, we can talk to the Federal prosecutor tomorrow and he can tell you."

"Tomorrow's Saturday."

"So?" Jim said. "When he finds out it's you, I'm betting he'll give up a few hours of his personal life."

Blair had to chuckle. "So, you're saying I'm a star?"

"Great, I suppose I'm going to have to go find a Hollywood star to put on your bedroom door." He slung a long arm around Blair's shoulder and turned him toward home.

That empty feeling was starting to fade. Uncle Buck was right, no big shocker there, he did have good friends. Even if he was a few sandwiches shy of a full picnic at the moment, Jim wasn't kicking him out the door. He didn't act like someone too ashamed to have him around, even after breaking up an entire display of fishing equipment. Which reminded him.

"Jim, how much damage did I cause today?"

"Don't know, Simon took care of it. The guy selling the tazer had insurance, so it's not our problem."

"Cool."

The walk back to the loft was over before he knew it. Blair's feet felt lighter somehow. He yawned. The idea of sleep actually appealed to him.

"What?" Blair asked when his partner stiffened at his side.

Jim pointed towards the parking lot. "Buck's Land Cruiser is gone."

And it turned out, so was Buck.

They quickly searched the loft for a note, but found none.

"I'm telling you, man. This isn't like Uncle Buck," Blair said for the fourth time as Jim searched between the cushions, for what, Blair had no idea. "I used to get into serious trouble as a kid if I left without telling him. First time I ever got grounded, man. He just wouldn't do this. Something's wrong, Jim."

Jim stood, his eyes narrowing as he swept his gaze over his home.

"God," Blair exclaimed, smacking the post next to him. "Why doesn't he carry a cell phone? Everyone carries one now! He's so damn stubborn sometimes."

Jim was moving now, still silent. He picked up the cordless and dialed. "Simon? Buck is gone and so is that box of papers we found in the houseboat."

Blair's heart stuttered. His chest chilled him from the inside as he rushed over to check. Yes. It was true; the metal box that Buck had been going through was gone. Buck had set it next to the coffee table. He dropped onto the sofa, knees wobbly.

Jim was still talking to Simon. "Blair says he wouldn't just leave and I agree... yeah, on his Land Cruiser. Ah, light blue, seventy-six. Five, oh, eight, Henry, Ida, Lincoln. Yeah, Washington. Thanks, sir. I appreciate this."

Jim hung up.

"We're going to go looking for him, right?" Blair asked, making an effort to stand again.

But Jim shook his head. "Simon's ordering an APB, we'll have to wait. Put your cell on charge, in case he calls."

"We can't just stand around here doing nothing, Jim." Blair glanced over at the door, wondering if he could reach it before Jim stopped him.

"Blair, it won't do any good driving around the city. We don't have a clue where to look," Jim said, his voice far too pacifying for Blair's liking. "I agree something's wrong, even if he had left a note, I doubt I'd believe what it would say."

That got Blair's attention. "Why? What did you find? Something with your senses? What?"

"Just a smell," Jim said, waving his hand in the air. "It's one of those cheap brands of cigarettes that always give me headaches."

Blair took a deep breath, but didn't smell it. Oh, shit! Someone had come in while he'd been playing the brain-damaged victim walking the streets of the city. He wanted to scream. He made do with kicking the kitchen chair. "Damn it! God! Damn! It!"

"Sandburg." Jim was as his side immediately. "Keep it together."

Blair shrugged the hand from his shoulder. He didn't deserve Jim's concern. "If anything happens to Buck..." Shit, he couldn't even finish his own threat.

Saturday

The call arrived a few minutes after three in the morning. Even though Jim was out of the chair and moving the second the phone sounded, Blair beat him. His roommate snatched up the handset and turned sideways, left arm straight like a quarterback with the ball, keeping Jim back.

"Hello! Oh, Simon... yeah, he's here - but..." Blue eyes grew wide in alarm. "Why? Nonono, tell me. Damn it, Simon!"

It took a half lap around the kitchen table and a brief show of power, but Jim managed to wrestle the instrument away.

"Simon?" Jim asked, keeping an eye out for a last minute counterstrike to recapture the phone. He hoped no one was watching them at that moment. The blinds were open. He knew from experience it was easy to see in from the buildings across the street. Two men running around, fighting over the phone, what a sight they had made. Never a dull moment in the Ellison loft.

"Jim, get a pen and paper," Simon ordered wearily.

"Okay, hold on a sec." He made writing motions in the air with his free hand, sending Blair scurrying to retrieve a pen. A few seconds later, Jim tucked the phone against his shoulder and prepared to write. "Go ahead, Simon."

"I-Five southbound, take the Smokey Point off ramp. Head west, at the first fork, stay left. The road goes all the way to the coast. Follow it south and you'll see the emergency vehicles. I'm on my way there now. I'll meet you there."

"What are we looking at here, sir?"

Jim could hear the man take a deep breath and hope sank. "It sounds pretty bad, Jim. State Patrol got the call of an accident. They called me when they ran the plates and found our APB."

"How bad?"

"Bad enough, I'll know more when I get there."

Since neither of them had gone to bed, all they had to grab was their coats from the hall hooks and lock up. Jim fished his gun out of the drawer. Neither man spoke until they were in the truck, racing for the freeway. Blair had followed wordlessly, uncharacteristically silent. Jim knew it wouldn't be for very long.

"Jim?"

"An accident, Chief. Simon will meet us there."

"Oh, man," Blair moaned softly. He hugged himself tightly and fell quiet again.

Jim kept his speed at no more than eight miles an hour over the limit, not enough to risk being pulled over by even a gung-ho state trooper. He knew the coastline they were heading toward. A friend of Carolyn's lived nearby and the two enjoyed sea kayaking together. Jim's job had been to pick them up on days they didn't want to double back to their starting point.

"Shouldn't we be going to the nearest hospital? Why waste our time at the accident scene?" Blair blurted out, voice unsteady with traces of doubt.

"I'm sure Simon's on scene by now," Jim said. "He would have called us."

Around a curve, the horizon ahead came alive with flashing red and yellow lights. The road crested over a low hill, blocking the source of the lights. Soon the accident became visible. Several police cars, both county and state, were parked alongside the road. A yellow fire truck dominated the scene, blocking the north-bound lane. A ghostly column of steam rose from the remains of a burnt vehicle crumpled against a telephone pole.

Jim parked behind Simon's car. He caught the sharp chemical tang of burnt plastic and the foul smell of charred meat. Jim slammed down his sense of smell. Blair wordlessly scrambled to release his belt and wrenched open the door.

"Wait, Sandburg," Jim said, opening his own door and climbing out.

Blair wasn't listening; he rushed towards the smoldering vehicle - only to be caught by the arm as he tried to get by Simon Banks.

"Hold it, Sandburg," Simon ordered roughly.

"Lemmego!"

Jim hurried to help, knowing Blair's tricks. Before he could get around his truck, Blair went limp and Simon's grasp relaxed.

"No! Hold him, Simon," Jim called out, breaking into a sprint to reach them.

But it was too late. Simon doubled over with a grunt after having an elbow sunk deep into his gut and Blair was off and running again. Jim poured on the speed. Memories of burnt bodies flashed through his mind. Hair and skin totally gone, gruesomely exposed muscle patterns, the ends of the arms and legs missing, the rib cage visible. It was beyond horrible, there was no way in hell he was going to let Blair remember Buck that way.

Blair screamed in outrage as his hair and coat were snagged from behind. Troopers and firemen turned in shock at the sudden outburst. Jim ignored them. He had his hands full at the moment.

God, Blair's little display of anger back at Saint Sebastian over Brother Marcus' fake death was mild compared to this. Blair fought like a rabid dog, complete with snarls. Jim couldn't tell where the punches ended and the kicks started. This was a case of closer being better and Jim hugged his friend tightly, stealing some of the power from Blair's attack. Hopefully, Jim wouldn't be sporting teeth marks.

"Blair, stop," Jim ordered calmly over Blair's curses. "Calm down... oomph. Shit, Sandburg!" That one was going to leave a bruise.

Uniforms headed their way. Before they could get too close, Simon intercepted, leaving Jim free to concentrate on containing Blair. He managed to pin both Blair's arms. They were standing by the rear of the fire engine, near the back platform the firemen stood on to reach the hose beds above. Jim fell backwards to land with a solid thud on his butt, yanking Blair along. The brief fall confused the younger man, allowing Jim to quickly pin Blair's legs between his knees and hold him still. Blair was caught sideways in a human `Jim' trap with arms around his upper body and Jim's legs encircling his own.

Blair gave one last tremendous attempt to break free, causing neck tendons to stand out from the effort. "Jim, let me GO!"

"Sandburg, calm down," Jim ordered. "I mean it, right now."

"You have no right! I need to know," Blair shouted, churning in Jim's hold.

"I'm not letting go until you settle down."

Blair sucked in a lungful of air causing Jim to adjust his mental controls, expecting another sonic blast of cursing. Blair could turn the air blue with the best of them when he set his mind to it. But, to Jim's surprise, it didn't happen. Blair suddenly and unexpectedly relaxed.

"Listen to me," Jim whispered, feeling Blair shudder in his arms. Blair's hair was tickling his nose and Jim took a second to fight the urge to sneeze. "You don't want to see this. I'm sorry. I'm just not going to allow it."

A single, violent sob wracked the smaller body, nearly causing Jim to lose his hold. Blair wasn't giving up, but the fight was waning. Using his head as a weapon, Blair moved it sideways, each arc ending with a painful thud against Jim's chest. Jim tightened his hold with his right arm and used his left to catch the mess of long hair and hold Blair's head still.

Jim hated this. They'd often joke about who was stronger, just clowning around. Even though Jim knew he had the superior strength, Blair was no wimp. Having to use force on his partner left a bad taste in his mouth. Jim closed his eye's and waited as Blair's entire body vibrated with emotion. He could sense Simon standing off to one side, guarding their privacy, such as it was. Finally, Blair became still.

"Jim," Blair whispered softly. One syllable, yet it spoke volumes.

"I know, partner," Jim answered quietly. "I'll go. Promise me you'll stay here with Simon. I'll check this out."

Taking the slight affirmative nod as his word, Jim unwrapped his arms and freed him. Blair tried to stand but faltered. He sank down on the tailboard and hugged himself tightly, head tilted down, looking miserable.

"Simon, watch him?" Jim stood up slowly. "I'll be right back." He squeezed Blair's shoulder briefly and moved to the side. Simon slipped into his place, taking a seat on the wide bumper.

"We'll be here, Jim," Simon told him, his eyes sending a silent message.

This was going to be bad.

Jim approached the destroyed vehicle with dread. He already knew the person inside had been badly burned. He'd smelled it getting out of the Ford. The ruined vehicle was crumpled, but he recognized the Toyota Land Cruiser easily. The rear bumper was relatively unscathed and he could see the license plate was Buck's. The body of the car was burned down to the bare metal. All the upholstery and padding was gone. The only things left of the seats were metal frames and springs. Buck had changed to a soft, vinyl roof after the incident last December when they'd been forced off the road next to Banks Lake. That had burned away, giving Jim a clear look at the remains in the driver's seat.

A tear fell from his eye, surprising him. He swiped at it angrily as he forced himself to study the body. The height was about right, although the way fire caused a body to bend and contort, it was hard to be sure. There was no way to make a simple ID by looking at the face, so Jim didn't try. He glanced down at the chest; the driver had definitely been a male. It was going to take dental records to be sure this was Buck.

A glint of something shiny on the metal floor, directly under the body caught his eye. Jim moved closer to look. Melted silver, enough silver from the cast of a belt buckle, like the one Blair had given Buck last Christmas.

Shit.

He returned to the rear of the fire truck. Blair hadn't moved. Jim exchanged a miserable look with Simon before he laid a hand on the bowed head.

"I'm sorry, Blair," Jim said.

"No," Blair whispered.

"We'll need dental records to be sure, but I think it's likely that Buck was driving."

Blair rose, knocking Jim's hand away with a wide sweep of his arm. "No!"

"Sandburg," Simon started then stepped back when Blair turned to glare at him, his face contorted in fury.

"No! No! NO!" Blair repeated until he was screaming.

Jim flinched. Blair's pain was so real Jim felt it pierce his own heart, like a red hot iron rod from a blacksmith's fire. "Chief, please." Jim knew better to try and touch.

Blair was not accepting any comfort. With a look toward the remains of the Toyota, he stumbled a few steps back, into the street, his eyelashes heavy with moisture.

When Jim moved to follow, Blair held out both hands to keep him back. "N-no, just give me... let me... I gotta get out of here."

Jim understood. Hell, part of him wanted the same thing, and he'd only known Buck mere months compared to Blair's years. But still, Jim didn't like the idea of Blair going off alone. The moon was full and bright, the place was mostly deserted. He quickly cast out his hearing, not picking up anything but the soft sound of the ocean waves, which gave him an idea.

"There's a trail a few yards down. It goes to the beach. I'll come get you when we're done here, okay?" Jim bent down to see Blair's face, making sure he understood. Blair seemed to be following the conversation. "Just stay on the beach. No one will bother you."

With a hasty nod, Blair stumbled across the road. He found the wide trail and disappeared into the trees.

"You sure that was a good idea, Jim?" Simon asked. He pulled out a cigar and bit off the end, spitting the small bit of tobacco into the gravel near their feet. He sounded calm and professional, but Jim noticed his hands were shaking as he reached for his lighter.

"Yeah, I'm sure. He needs time." Jim dropped his head forward and pressed his thumb and forefinger into his closed eyelids for a moment before sighing. "Shit, Simon, what a mess."

"Yeah." Simon paused to puff deeply on his cigar before continuing. "The troopers didn't find any skid marks. Buck must have been flying when he hit that pole."

Jim turned away to avoid the bright flame. "I'm going to look around."

"For what?"

"That box of papers is missing. It didn't look like it was in the Toyota," Jim said. "Buck didn't leave the loft willingly, sir. I'm sure of that. I'm going to find the persons responsible for this."

"You're telling me he was murdered?"

"You just said there were no skid marks," Jim pointed out. "You know him, Simon. Buck didn't drink and drive. This isn't a suicide. Of course he was murdered."

"Easy, Ellison." Simon removed his freshly lit cigar from his mouth, jabbing the smoldering end in the air as he spoke. "Just remember, this is a state highway. We're out of our jurisdiction and we've got squat in the way of proof."

"Then I'll find it."

Blair tripped over something, a root or a rock. It didn't matter.

Nothing mattered.

Why couldn't this be a nightmare? Something he could wake up from.

The surrounding darkness pulled back and Blair found himself hearing water, no, waves. He was on the beach. The moon reflected off the wet sand around him.

He stumbled forward. Cold water splashed over his tennis shoes, soaking his socks and toes. Whoa, too far. He backpedaled. God, it was hard to navigate when your vision was all blurry. His heel caught a mini boulder sticking up from the sand and he fell backward onto the sand. Great, now his jeans were wet. So, he thought dourly, he didn't care. It hurt too much to care about the condition of his stupid clothes. With a defiant act, he flopped on his back in the sand.

Something was wrong with his chest, though. He wondered what it was. It was almost as if the oxygen had bled out of the air around him, starving his lungs. Someone finally used one aerosol can too many and punched a hole through the ozone. That must be it. That was why his chest was burning. A sudden snort broke from his lungs and he clamped a sandy hand over his nose.

Too close, back off.

Blair rolled over onto his side, oblivious to the wetness that attacked his light jacket and started in on his outer shirt. Sand dug into his scalp and coated his cheek. He wanted to laugh. He was lying on the beach, gasping for air like a fish out of water.

That was so backwards, man. He was a mammal, not a fish.

Although, being a fish sounded pretty good to him right now. Hadn't Naomi told him once, when he was little, that fish didn't have feelings? So it didn't hurt the fish when the hook pierced them?

God, what a delicious thought; to have no feelings.

Blair moaned, curling into a fetal position as he worked to suck the remaining oxygen out of the atmosphere around him. He wished he were a fish. He wished he'd listened more to Naomi. She'd been the wise one all along. She'd warned him about getting too close. How many boyfriends had he been introduced to? She'd always take him aside, even when he was too little to understand, and tell him not to get used to having this one around.

And when she'd come back after he'd stayed with Buck that first summer. Oh, man. She'd really had a heart-to-heart with him. But for the first time, he'd gone ahead anyway and let himself get close. Buck wasn't her boyfriend. Hell, he didn't have to be nice to Blair just to get close to Naomi. Buck was his friend. Not Naomi's friend. Not another one of her conquests. Man, they all loved Naomi. She didn't even have to try and the guys would fall all over themselves just to stand next to her.

But not Buck.

Buck had enjoyed being with Blair. He'd taken the time to talk. He'd tried to teach him to fish. That was a laugh. He'd driven him to the library in Moses Lake once a week. Taught him to do an oil change on the old GMC truck he used to own.

A caustic sob burned his throat.

No, no, no. Blair fought for control, pushing the pain back before it tore out his heart.

Lying perfectly still, he closed his eyes and listened to the waves. Being a fish sure sounded good right now and Blair wondered if the tide was going out or coming in.

"Damn it, Blair," Jim muttered, jogging toward the still form curled on the beach. Dawn was still an hour away, but he had no difficulty finding his partner. He had followed the heartbeat from the trail and easily spotted him once he'd left the scrubby trees behind.

Blair didn't move when Jim laid a hand on his forehead, finding the skin cool to the touch. Maybe Simon had been correct, Jim thought, second guessing his decision to send Blair down here. He gently hauled Blair up to a sitting position by one arm. "Come on, Sandburg, time to go home."

Blair remained silent as he was manhandled to his feet, moving like a zombie back to the truck. His shiny eyes open, emotionless and dark. His clothes were wet and he reeked of rancid seaweed. Simon was waiting patiently by his car as they emerged back onto the two-lane road. The fire truck was long gone. A single trooper remained behind to supervise the removal of the wreck.

"He okay?" Simon asked as Jim neared with his partner in tow.

Jim nodded curtly. "We're going to catch a few hours of sleep. I'll be in this afternoon. Thanks for going to bat on this one, Simon."

The captain answered with an identical nod, his eyes flicking over to take in Blair's condition. "No problem. It won't be the first time we've had a joint investigation with State Patrol. I'll toss together some notes in a file and assign a case number to it. Right now, we'll go with a simple breaking and entering at your loft, until we get positive ID."

"Good idea," Jim said, opening the door and guiding Blair into the passenger seat, making sure Blair's seatbelt was secure before closing the door. "Let's keep the Feds out as long as possible. The troopers know we're looking at a homicide, right?"

Simon tilted his head. "They agreed. That brick you found in the bushes was obviously used to hold the gas pedal down. They'll send the remains to Dan. Maybe his department will have something for you by the time you get in this afternoon."

"Catch you this afternoon," Jim promised. "Thanks again."

Once back on the road, Jim waited for the motor to warm up before turning up the heat. Blair showed no interest in the warm air pouring from the vents. He sat, tilted against the passenger door, as if sitting straight wasn't an option. The silence stayed with them the entire trip back to the loft where Jim had to guide him out of the cab and up to their home.

"Okay, let's get some sleep," Jim suggested gently.

Up until now, Blair had walked trance-like at Jim's side. But once through the French doors, he stiffened. Jim saw the problem immediately. All of Buck's stuff was set out with military precision on the side table, a duffle bag waited on the chair. Jim pivoted Blair quickly, taking him back out into the loft.

"I think we'll switch beds tonight, Chief."

Upstairs in his own room, he turned the comforter down. "Go ahead and strip. I've got some sweats you can sleep in."

As Blair dutifully started peeling off the wet clothes, Jim located an older set of sweats that had shrunk a little from multiple washings in hot water. He could have gone into Blair's room to find something of his own to sleep in, but Jim was too tired. Blair would be fine in Jim's.

"See how these fit." Jim draped the sweats on the bed.

Blair had managed to peel off his shirts. His arms were white and waxen looking, he wasn't shivering.

Crap. Jim recognized the early stages of hyperthermia. Looks like he would be making an extra trip up and down the stairs after all. "I'll be right back."

Quickly locating an electric blanket in the utility closet downstairs, Jim climbed back up the stairs two at a time. Blair stood like a wind up toy with a dead spring, still in boxers, blankly contemplating the floor.

Okay, first things first. Jim tossed the blanket on the bed and snatched up the sweatpants. "Climb in, Sandburg."

It was too weird; having Blair respond to direct instructions like this. Jim took the sweatshirt next and pulled it over Blair's head, noticing the condition of his hair. Another trip down the stairs and back and Jim toweled the hair as dry as possible, then draped it over a pillow. He tossed the comforter off the bed, letting it settle to the floor for a moment and snapped out the blanket. It floated down to the bed. The blanket was left over from his married days. Carolyn had complained of the cold in winter and he'd bought it to appease her.

Jim lifted up a corner and took Blair's arm. "In you go."

After Blair was settled between the sheets, Jim returned the comforter, plugged in the blanket, and dialed the control to five. He would check Blair later and see if he was okay. Jim gathered the wet, sandy clothes into his arms. He'd need to clean his room up after this, noticing the seaweed smell had followed his partner home. Clean up and air out.

Blair's eyes were opened, unfocused, staring dully at the ceiling. Jim doubted he even knew he was home. "Go to sleep, Blair."

After tossing the clothes into the dirty hamper in the bathroom he returned to Blair's bedroom. If he was going to have any chance at sleep, he needed to remake the bed with the fine cotton sheets he preferred to the cheaper ones on Blair's bed. Jim looked again at Buck's belongings. Damn, he was going to miss the man. Returning the personal items back to the duffle bag, Jim tucked it away in the closet for now. They could deal with it later. He helped himself to a clean set of his sheets and quickly remade the futon. The sheets were too large, but he tucked the excess under the mattress. The futon was hard and lumpy compared to his bed upstairs. How could Blair stand sleeping on it? Of course, at the time it was only going to be a few days. Maybe it was time to look into a new bed.

God, he was rambling. Jim sighed and dragged a hand down his face. He was exhausted. His watch told him it was nearly six. If he was lucky, he'd get five hours of sleep in before going into the station.

After double checking the locks on the door, he climbed the stairs one last time. Blair's eyes were closed now, thank God, his face relaxed in sleep. Jim took a second to study his friend, not looking forward to the next few days. Buck had been like family to Blair. He wondered if he should try and locate Naomi.

Nah, let Blair make that choice.

Jim headed down the stairs and climbed into the narrow bed. Dialing down his sense of touch to compensate for the mattress, he immediately fell into an exhausted sleep.

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