Archive of Our Own ^beta

Blair Sandburg made a quick inventory of the materials he needed to stuff into his briefcase. His intense blue-eyed gaze swept the office, a slight squint showing his level of concentration. As a newly hired professor a month into his first semester, everything needed immediate attention. The long library table pushed against the wall was piled with student homework, but he'd plowed through most of that during office hours. Those he could leave. He sifted through the other piles on his desk with one hand, munching on an apple with the other. He'd skipped lunch to squeeze in some extra work time around his student appointments. He should know better, but the flood of students after the first test always caught him by surprise. The day had been packed.

The grant applications went in. The article he was supposed to review - that had to be done this evening. First he needed to find the thing. If memory served, it was on the desk - somewhere. What else? Grayson's book, he needed to review the case studies before teaching his graduate seminar. Blair turned on his heel, scanning his office, looking for the volume in question. Jim was right, he really did need a better filing system.

The thought of Jim Ellison brought a smile to his face. Everything about Jim, including the Sentinel Institute, still in its infancy, was Blair's pride and joy, and a complete surprise. His life was rapidly dividing into B.J., before Jim, and A.J., after Jim.

When he'd completed his dissertation project four years earlier, he'd reluctantly accepted the apparent reality; a modern sentinel, with all five enhanced senses, did not exist. He'd moved on, literally and intellectually, first to Borneo for field study, then to a teaching position in Michigan. His return to Rainier University had produced the miracle which had eluded him five years earlier. By random chance or divine intervention, Dr. Blair Sandburg and Jim Ellison, police detective turned successful businessman, were placed in each other's path. Against all possible odds, Sandburg had found his sentinel.

The discovery was not without its problems. Jim Ellison considered his sensory abilities a curse which brought him only pain and disappointment. Overwhelmed by overly acute senses beyond his control, he'd been driven into seclusion, isolation his only respite. His police career had abruptly truncated in full disability. For years, only his boss, Captain Simon Banks, kept him in touch with the outside world. Confused and desperate, Jim made a leap of faith and carved out a new, albeit precarious, life in property development. His intent was to create an environment where he could survive. That he made money, and a lot of it, had been a shock.

Blair savored those first moments of discovery. What was a little job oriented paperwork compared to watching a good man reclaim his life? For Jim Ellison, being able to return to the world was beyond price, and he'd been adamant. He would allow Blair help him only if it didn't endanger Sandburg's academic career. To Jim, that tradeoff was paramount. To ensure the relationship remained productive for both of them, Jim had committed half million of his own money for the initial endowment, founding the Sentinel Institute. Blair's advisor and mentor, Eli Stoddard, bless him, came out of retirement to handle the administration, leaving Blair to concentrate on the research.

Blair caught himself in the pleasant daydream and hastily checked the clock. He was meeting Jim to do some testing in their spanking new auditory laboratory, and he wanted to make sure everything was running smoothly. He hated wasting Jim's time by being unprepared. Now that office hours were over, he could hustle over and get busy.

"Dr. Sandburg, I'm here."

Blair jumped, startled by the voice, and half turned to look over his shoulder at the student in his doorway. He searched his memory for a name, not that he'd seen her much in class. Ah, yes, Tracie "with an ie" Patterson. Even with her miserable attendance, the young woman was striking enough to make an impression. Most of his freshmen showed up in jeans or sweats. Tracie walked in as if she had just dropped by after a fashion shoot. She smiled brightly. "Did you forget? We're supposed to go over my test."

"Actually, Tracie, office hours are over at two thirty. Your appointment was at one. Did you forget the time?"

The subtle reprimand made no impression. "Oh, I know, but I got here as soon as I could. I had something really important come up."

I, on the other hand, have nothing important to do. Blair restrained himself. "I was just on my way out. Would you like to schedule another time?"

"Well, you said you wanted to see us this week, and I'm leaving town this afternoon. I'm sure it won't take long." She held out her blue book, smiling confidently.

"So you were planning on missing class tomorrow?"

Tracie tilted her head just slightly, with a surprised look. "We aren't doing anything important, are we?"

Of course not. Blair sighed. Some instinct told him it would be better to deal with this now. He took the exam and returned to his desk, slowly turned the pages of the blue book, trying to remember the gist of the comments he'd made. Of the eighty or so students in his Anthro 101 course, it took something special to make an essay stand out in his memory. This particular effort came back to him, painfully so. In fact, Tracie's exam might go on record as one of the top ten awful essay exams of all time. He had a momentary recollection of reading a couple of sentences while Jim laughed hysterically. He put his reading glasses down on the desk and looked at Tracie, who was curled comfortably in the chair on the other side of the desk, apparently examining her manicure. Considering her score, which was a resounding 'F', she didn't seem terribly concerned. Blair hesitated, hoping to hit the right balance of brutal honesty and encouragement. He wasn't sure what to tackle first; her attendance, or rather lack thereof, her study skills or the dreadful exam.

"Really, Dr. Sandburg, I was a straight A student in high school." Her statement snapped Blair out of his internal debate. "When I got the grade, I was sure there'd been some kind of mistake. I can't possibly have gotten an 'F'. I've never had a failing grade in my life. Maybe you just missed part of my answer."

Okay, so maybe they'd need to go a little heavy on the honesty.

"Tracie, maybe it would help if we went over a couple of the questions. For this first question, you were supposed to discuss the difference between a scholarly journal and a popular article in anthropology. Have you reread your answer like I asked you to?"

"Oh, sure. The question said you should mention articles you've read, and I did that." She smiled brightly and shifted position, leaning forward as if whispering a secret. "That's what I mean, about the grade being wrong. I used tons of examples, so how can I get such a low score? I figured it was just because you were new and all." Tracie smiled again, obviously forgiving him for the transgression.

Thanks for enlightening me. Be calm, Sandburg. He pulled a copy of the exam out of his drawer and handed it to her. "I want you to reread the exam question."

Tracie seemed miffed, but managed to glance at the question. "Yeah. Okay, it says 'magazines', right there."

"What kind of magazines?" Blair asked, hoping to sound gentle and patient. He really wanted to get on his way. Still, it was possible she really didn't understand. "Your first writing assignment was to read an article about anthropology from a popular magazine and summarize it. Remember, I left samples you could read and use in the library? Then the second assignment you did the same thing with a scholarly journal. Those were on reserve for you as well." There was a dead silence. "Tracie?"

"Oh." Tracie pulled on a lock of her blonde hair. "Well, the question is confusing, then. It said magazines, and I talked about magazines," she said defensively. "You should have written the question more clearly."

Oh yeah, we're really having fun now. For all her outward sophistication, could she really be this clueless about academics? "The question asks you to compare and contrast between the popular articles and journal articles. You didn't even mention a journal article, so you couldn't do any comparing and contrasting. That was the whole point of the question."

"I wrote two pages, and I worked really hard on it. I should at least get partial credit," she said in an injured tone.

"Tracie, you could have written ten pages, and if it doesn't address the question, it doesn't count. An in-depth discussion about the perils of rehab in Hollywood just isn't going to work, no matter how many articles you talk about." Blair struggled to keep a straight face and an even tone. He might yearn for a moment of sarcasm, but it wasn't very professional.

The confident smile had evaporated. Tracie sat up in the chair, an edge in her voice, clearly offended. "Well, it's not my fault the question is confusing. I can't believe you won't even consider half credit. That's so unfair."

A pretty girl in a righteous huff. And how many times this has worked for you?

"Tracie, an exam conference is to help you improve, not to renegotiate your grade. Maybe if we went through the process, it would help you understand it better. What journal article did you read for the writing assignment?" She didn't answer. Angry tears were on the horizon. On a hunch, Blair flipped open his grade book. The square for the journal assignment was blank. "Apparently you skipped the journal assignment." He checked a little further. "In fact, you skipped both assignments."

The tears began in earnest. "Dr. Sandburg, they were in the library, and that was a football weekend, and my best friend broke up with her boyfriend, and..."

And we're off. Blair risked a quick look at the clock on his desk. His plans for the afternoon were a distant hope.

&&&&&

Jim Ellison was laughing hard enough to make his tea spill. Eli Stoddard was positively cackling. With his unruly shock of white hair and weather-beaten face, he looked the kindly, absentminded grandfather. He was dressed in what Jim considered his uniform - battered khakis and a cotton button-down rolled at the sleeves. His rumpled appearance concealed a razor wit and a brilliant mind.

"I tell you, Jim, I haven't had this much fun in years. When your department is a line item in the budget, you can't sass the Chancellor with impunity. Outside funding makes me a free man."

"I think you're enjoying this a little too much," Jim said, still chuckling. He and Eli had tap-danced around the Chancellor's office when he set up the endowment for the Sentinel Institute. Having met the woman, he was certain Eli had Chancellor Edwards overmatched and she didn't have the sense to know it. "And here I thought you professor types were above this kind of thing."

Eli's joyful expression faded to a rueful smile. "Guilty. Sorry to disappoint you, but we're all just more intellectual about our scheming than most. There is nowhere more political than a university, and that woman pushes all my buttons. Someone like Edwards..." He stopped, leaned back in his chair and shook his head. "I suppose I shouldn't be so critical. She just has a different approach."

"Such as?"

Eli considered his answer for a moment. "Let's just say Edwards would be happier with a winning football team than a Nobel laureate on the faculty. She's especially passionate about lazy freshmen with seriously wealthy parents." He sighed. "In fairness, she's done well with the budgetary side of things, particularly cultivating donors and alumni. Our endowments are up."

"So she's self-serving." Jim grinned crookedly. "I thought I was a large endowment. Is there a difference?"

"If you look beyond the check, of course you are. You didn't trade your largesse for prime football tickets, or a free pass for an errant child." Eli's demeanor changed completely, the grandfatherly joking vanished. "I know of at least two cases where grades were changed based on the financial influence of donors. Referrals to the disciplinary committees disappear into the woodwork. Ethics just isn't the woman's strong suit, and she's in a position to wield a great deal of power where it doesn't belong. Intellectual integrity is critical to a university. The woman's a menace in that regard."

"Looks like I hit a sore spot," Jim said mildly. "Sorry."

"As if you should be the one apologizing," Eli said, suddenly seeming weary. "Here I am, raising my voice, losing my temper. This nonsense with Edwards was the primary reason I retired. I didn't need the irritation. Rest assured, Jim, there really is no comparison. What you've done enhances the mission of the university. You're supporting academics. You're not trying to use your money to shave corners for personal gain, or get your idiot firstborn through English 101."

"I don't know," Jim said, tugging on the sleeve of his flannel shirt. "I could argue that the primary beneficiary of the Sentinel Institute is yours truly. That's pretty personal."

"Supporting research you care about is a far cry from getting inappropriate consideration for a family member." Eli leaned forward, his eyes riveted on Jim's fidgeting hands. "Forget Edwards. You're uncomfortable. Tell me what's wrong."

"Has Blair been prepping you?" Jim asked. These anthropologists were as bad as detectives, always noticing the little things. He stopped momentarily, and then rubbed his arm again. "I'm fine."

"Maybe, and that little deflection isn't getting you out of answering me. If that shirt's bothering you, take it off."

Jim hesitated. Finally, he set down the tea and shrugged out of his flannel shirt, exposing the cotton short sleeved tee underneath. His wrists were red and irritated, and a splotchy rash spread up his arms almost to his elbows. "I've always liked this shirt. I had it from before - you know. I've been wearing it again once in awhile. I guess today it was a little overambitious." He tossed the offending shirt onto a nearby chair, looking thoroughly embarrassed.

Eli frowned, clearly concerned. "Am I remembering Blair's notes correctly? Wasn't this one of your original symptoms? Skin irritation from clothing?" He left his desk and slipped into the chair beside Jim. "May I?" He gently rotated Jim's hand, looking at the underside of his wrist. "That isn't 'fine' by anyone's definition. How long has it been like this?"

Jim hated to be scrutinized, but he knew Eli's concern was genuine. "I stopped by Major Crime today before I came here. I started to notice it just before I left. I didn't want to take the time to go home and change. I thought I could keep it under control. Lately - well, never mind."

Eli Stoddard was the only person who had access to Blair's original notes on Jim's sentinel journey, including the interviews with former commander, Simon Banks. The version Blair had presented in his scholarly articles were heart wrenching, but sanitized. The unedited version of Jim Ellison's suffering, as reported by Banks, had moved Eli deeply, and provided much of his motivation to come out of retirement to direct the Institute. He knew only too well how much agony Jim had borne in stoic silence before meeting Blair Sandburg. He was certain Jim was hedging.

"Jim, it's only the two of us here. What's been happening lately that you don't want to talk about?" Jim started to shake his head in denial. Eli wrapped his gnarled fingers around the offending wrist. "Fine then, I'll tender a hypothesis. Some of your original difficulties are resurfacing, and you haven't said a word to Blair. How close am I?"

Jim's face went completely blank. "Is this how you anthropology types work? Guess and go?" Jim said, biting the words off as he spoke.

Eli noted the anger and decided to proceed gently. If Jim was frustrated and in pain, the social niceties weren't his primary concern. "You could call it that. Intuition is important in cultural settings, since much of what defines a subculture is unspoken. So humor an old man. Guessing or not, how close am I?"

Jim blew across his tea and took a long sip. "As much as I hate to admit it, your instincts are just fine."

"Go sit over at the table. I'll be right back." Eli disappeared into the reception area. Jim could hear a muffled conversation with Meredith, the administrative assistant, and consciously shut down his own hearing. He could feel things spiraling out of control, and the last thing he wanted to do was have a meltdown in Eli's office. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the special breathing Blair had been trying to teach him. He wasn't making much progress when Eli returned with two damp towels and a plastic bucket of ice chips.

"Good idea to try the breathing," Eli said. "Put your arms out flat on the table." He placed the damp towel over Jim's inflamed arms, followed by a layer of ice and another towel. Jim sighed, and Eli took that as a good sign. He waited for a few minutes, relieved when the tension in Jim's shoulders eased a bit.

"That's better," Jim whispered. "I should have thought of that. Thanks."

"You won't ever think of it as long as you're more concerned about looking silly than your own discomfort." Eli put gentle pressure along the surface of the towels. "It's amazing what a little ice will do for inflammation. Now just close your eyes, concentrate on that breathing for a few more minutes, and we'll see if we can lick this thing. And yes, I'm always this bossy. Age has its privileges."

"I'll try," Jim said, resigned to his fate.

"Does Blair ever use pressure points with you?" He noticed how Jim flinched slightly when he spoke.

"Sometimes," Jim whispered. Eli was now certain he was still struggling. If quiet voices helped, he could take the hint.

"Okay, I'm going to try a couple of the points in the back of your hand. Try to ignore me."

After another few minutes Jim's breathing smoothed out, and he seemed to be in less distress. Eli stayed in his seat and reached for a notepad. Blair had copious notes on Jim's episodes, but it never hurt to add new information. He noted the time and scribbled all the details that seemed pertinent. He was so absorbed that, when Jim spoke, it startled him.

"You and Sandburg. Always with the notes."

He set down the pen. "Occupational hazard, I'm afraid. Better?"

"Yeah." With downcast eyes, Jim dumped the ice from the towels into the trash and rolled up the towels. "About the notes - please don't tell him right away. It's really no big deal."

Eli hesitated, tore the hastily written notes from the pad, and placed the sheet in his desk drawer. It wasn't really his role to mediate, but now he was concerned. "Jim, if you want me to keep this in confidence, I will, of course, honor your wishes, but I'm a little puzzled. Believe me, I spend enough time with Blair to know how devoted he is to you. You're more than a research project for him. Is there some reason you haven't confided in him? Has there been some breach of trust between you?"

"No, that's not it." Jim ran his right hand across the underside of his left arm and stopped himself. "Let's not start that again." He abruptly grabbed his elbows, the effort showing on his face. "Blair's great. He couldn't be more willing, and he's never done anything to make me doubt his sincerity."

"Then what's the problem, Jim?"

"It's just not that important," Jim said.

To Eli, Jim's face looked calm, completely unemotional. If he hadn't read Blair's notes, he might almost buy it. "I beg to differ. Blair would put discomfort like that, and your general well-being, is at the top of his list of priorities. Don't kid yourself. If he finds out later, he'll take it badly and assume this was all his fault. And I guarantee he will find out. Is that what you want?"

"Damn. I know you're right. I should just talk to him, I guess." Jim started to pace. "He's still staying with me, and I have a pretty good idea of how he organizes his time. He's working his ass off already and the semester's barely started. I don't want to give him more to worry about. He doesn't need even one more thing to do. You and I - we talked about this before I cooked up this whole institute idea. The whole point was to make sure Sandburg didn't spread himself too thin, trying to get funding and publish and teach while he was helping me, too. And I do want his help. I need his help." Jim glanced at the clock. "As a matter of fact, he was supposed to be here by now."

"Right," Eli said, snapping his fingers. "He called Meredith while I was out there getting the ice. He's stuck with a student. Apparently this girl showed up after office hours and was a bit of a problem. He didn't want to keep us waiting, and said you should just go on home, with his apologies. Actually, Meredith said he sounded quite upset."

"See what I mean?" Jim said.

"Yes," Eli said, with a touch of sadness in his voice. "I suppose I do."

&&&&&

Jim decided not to go home. Instead, he left Eli's office at the institute and trekked across campus to Hargrove Hall, where Sandburg had his office. If the student was still there, she'd taken enough of Blair's time. Jim figured he still had enough cop in him to intimidate a coed, if necessary.

Blair had inherited Stoddard's old office on the third floor. He'd just been getting settled in when Kincaid and his Sunrise Patriots had trashed the place. University paperwork had slowed the process of repair. Blair had started the semester without his office. He was still moving things from Jim's apartment, where he'd been working in the interim. Organizing the work space amounted to just one more thing in an already too-full schedule.

Jim took the stairs. The elevator in Hargrove had a high-pitched squeak that, apparently, only he could hear. The thing drove him nuts. Despite the fact he'd had a miserable afternoon as far as his senses were concerned, Jim turned up his hearing. He picked up a female voice, and heard Sandburg's name mentioned. She didn't seem to be talking with him personally, and Jim didn't hear another voice. In fact, she seemed to be on another floor. Maybe she was on a cell phone. In any case, she had nothing nice to say. Jim was tempted to get in her face, and thought better of it.

Blair's office door was closed and the lights were off. The office beyond the frosted class window was dark. Jim could hear someone, presumably Sandburg, moving around the room. He knocked, and the shuffling abruptly stopped. Jim knocked again, and called out softly, "It's me, Chief. The enemy has departed. I did the recon."

The door jerked open. "Oh man, I'm sorry. I was trying to hide out, in case another student showed up. Come on in." Blair flopped into one of the upholstered chairs. "Man, I'm so sorry about missing our appointment. I hope your afternoon was better than mine. Any more days like this, and I'm going to get you to guard the door, preferably with a howitzer."

"Howitzers are way too bulky. I recommend grenades. You can keep them in your top drawer." Jim took the chair opposite Blair. "We need to work on your hiding skills, if this is the best you can do," he said, grinning.

"Hey, it would have fooled most people. You're a special case." He noted Jim's skeptical look. "That bad, huh? I just wanted to get out of here without another problem."

"I think I may have heard your problem coming up the stairs. I thought you charmed all your students, Sandburg. She sounded seriously unhappy with you."

Blair blew a lock of curly hair off his forehead, clearly frustrated. "Well, that's probably okay, because I'm seriously unhappy with her. Remember that test answer I read you?"

Jim's blue eyes danced. "The one I thought was comedy? Britney Spears and Lindsey Lohan as anthropology? Oh, yeah, I remember. She's the one?"

Blair rolled his eyes. "Miss Patterson is drop dead gorgeous, and I suspect she's used it previously to good advantage. She was very disappointed in my attitude. I mean, how could I possibly expect her to be in class every day, or do those dreary assignments?"

"Not exactly a meeting of minds, I take it," Jim said. "I seem to remember some suspect interrogations that went down like that."

"She's having a bit of a problem understanding that the 'F' on her test matches her level of effort." Blair covered his face with his hands. "It would have been less painful to pound my head on a rock. What a total waste of time."

"Let me guess, she wasn't exactly open to suggestions for improvement." Jim nudged Blair's outstretched leg with his foot. "Don't take it too hard. From what I overheard, since she didn't walk out of here with an 'A', you're one step from an axe murderer. Nothing else would have made her happy."

"Great. Just great." Blair's mouth drooped a little further. "You should never get that way with a student. I should have handled it better."

"Let's see, I bet you told her the truth, with plenty of examples, and she didn't like it. Sorry, Chief, but I think it's out of your hands. You couldn't lie to her."

"I'm supposed to help her," Blair retorted.

"And I would have liked to rehabilitate every perp I ever hauled in, but it doesn't work that way. She has to meet you halfway, at least. She's an adult and makes her own choices." Jim waited until Blair finally looked at him. "I suspect you know this," he said softly.

"Yeah, you're right. But there's a difference between what I know and what I hope. I want them all to do well." He sighed and pushed out of his chair. "You didn't have to come all the way over here. I'm sorry I messed up the afternoon. Let's just get out of here. Let me finish gathering up my stuff."

"Did you forget you were going to look at apartments tonight?" Jim asked.

"Oh, crap. What is the matter with me?" Blair whirled to check the clock. "I can still make it." He grabbed his briefcase, clearly intending to stuff more items in as quickly as possible.

Jim intercepted him. "Hold up, there, buddy. What's the one thing that you absolutely have to do tonight, if you have to pick just one thing? No cheating now, pick one."

"One? As if." When Jim shook his head in reproof, he took a moment to consider. "I really need to finish the peer review of that article I was telling you about this morning."

"Then pick that up, and let's go. Leave the briefcase."

Blair spread his arms wide. "Jim, look at this place. I can't..."

"You can. I've got the truck. We'll grab some takeout and hustle over to the meet the real estate agent." Blair looked completely unconvinced, and started to argue. "Trust me, Chief." Blair started to protest and Jim cut him off. "I kind of need some time to talk to you."

Blair's eyes went wide. He grabbed the article off his desk and followed Jim out.

&&&&&

"You can't be seriously considering that place, Sandburg. It has rats. I heard them."

"Jim, it wasn't that bad. Besides, the warehouse I lived in during grad school had rats the size of puppy dogs and I survived."

"We are talking about the one that blew up and nearly killed you? Now that's a fine recommendation."

"This from the man who bought the property and now lives there." Jim grinned slyly and kept driving. "Hey, it's about priorities, and rats don't make the list. One, I can afford it. Two, I liked the kitchen."

They were back in Jim's apartment, which occupied the top floor of Cascade's newest housing development. The apartment search, as far as Jim was concerned, was a total failure. "Explain that to me. It had a room called a kitchen, but I didn't see much to like. You want a beer?"

"God, yes. The appliances were pretty new."

"New as in post-1950? Those years in the jungle warped your perspective."

Blair nearly spewed his beer. "Excuse me?" he said, laughing. "And how long did you spend in the jungle?"

"Not long enough to forget modern conveniences. The stove was disgusting and I bet the fridge doesn't work. You don't want to know what I could smell under the sink. It was a crappy apartment. Admit it."

Blair sighed. "Okay, I admit it. I've gotten spoiled, hanging out with you." Both men settled in the living room. "This is great furniture," Blair said, relaxing into the soft leather of one of the couches. "I'm going to enjoy this while I'm here. Somehow I don't think they sell this stuff at IKEA."

"Is that the big warehouse place? Please say you're not considering it. I'd last two minutes in a place like that."

"Hey, IKEA is the temple of the young, mobile and poor. With your aversion to shopping, how did you get this stuff, then? Not that any of your stuff came from IKEA, obviously."

"Long process. Fabric trapped odors and dust that drove me crazy. Don't get me started on down and fiberfill. I had my old place cleaned out to the floor and walls. I finally figured out good leather gave me fewer problems. Did you know the manufacturers rate different kinds of leather for how breathable it is, or how soft? I found a manufacturer that would send me samples I could test out, including the foam. It was all trial and error, with lots of error. After I picked the materials that seemed best, I let Bev do the rest. She thought it was great fun."

"You miss her, don't you," Blair said, sipping his beer thoughtfully.

"Yeah, but how could she turn down an offer from the attorney general's office, even if it meant leaving Cascade? Our relationship was great, but neither of us expected it to be permanent."

Blair turned to face him directly. "If you don't mind me asking, why not? I thought you were great together."

Jim sighed thoughtfully. "I'd already screwed up in the marriage department once already. So had she. Neither of us wanted a rerun. We had a great relationship with limits both of us accepted. Besides, it's a great job for her. With a couple of years of experience at that level, she'll have lots of options. Did I tell you I sent her a marble nameplate for her desk? Beverly Sanchez: Chief Criminal Prosecutor. She loved it. We talked about visiting, but she's pretty swamped."

"It's not the same," Blair said. "Jim, you're a handsome, wealthy, four-star catch. You're doing pretty well now. You could get out, try to meet someone."

"No," Jim said wistfully. "Not many women are willing to accept all the restrictions I have on my life. Bev was a special case, and, even then, it was really difficult at first. Everything, even little stuff, is so complicated. I'm not sure I want to go through it all again. I thought I might ask Bev up for Thanksgiving, though, when she has more time. That seems a lot easier than starting over with someone from scratch."

He looked off in the direction of the harbor. The windows gave a spectacular panoramic view of the downtown skyline and water beyond. Blair started to add to the conversation, and then stopped. It didn't seem the time to press Jim on the issue.

They sat silent for nearly ten minutes, each man with his own thoughts, music playing in the background. Blair was content to sit still for a moment after a very long day, while Jim quietly relived many of those awkward, embarrassing moments with Beverly Sanchez. He and Bev hadn't been strangers to begin with, and she was a remarkable woman. No, it just wasn't feasible to think about dating again. Jim finished his beer and took the bottle back to the kitchen. He noticed that Sandburg was dozing off, the beer teetering precariously. He shook the man's shoulder gently. "Don't you have a paper to read, Chief?"

"Oh, man, did I drift off?" Blair yawned, and blinked a few times. "Thanks for waking me."

By that time Jim had settled on the other end of the same couch. He nodded toward Blair's beer, now safely upright in his hand. "Finish that and I'll take it for you. Aren't you glad you brought only one thing to work on home tonight?"

Blair yawned again. "At this moment, yes, but I'm going to regret it tomorrow. What a disaster of a day. Nutty students, awful apartments. We missed our testing on top of everything."

Jim shrugged. "We can test anytime. Give yourself a break. You can only do so much, Sandburg."

Blair leaned forward with both elbows on his knees. "I don't know what I'm going to do, Jim. My to-do list is on steroids. I sold my old car in Michigan, and I haven't had the time to replace it. I can't stay here forever, and you saw my real estate luck, not to mention the time it takes to look. I really wanted a place near Rainier, but it's just not matching up with my budget. I could afford some small place out in the suburbs, but I really wanted to avoid the commuting and all the TIME that sucks out of your life. Add it all together, and I just can't keep up, much less make progress. I'm drowning."

Any thoughts Jim had of discussing his own difficulties disappeared. His arms were driving him crazy, but that was just tough. Blair needed to get on with business, not fuss over him. He took Sandburg's beer bottle and stood up. "Well, go read your paper and get that done. Get a good night's sleep, and go in early if you want. I'm going to turn in and do some reading myself. I have some proposals to look over."

Jim sat on the edge of his bed, listening as his temporary roommate gathered his materials and retreated to the guest room. With a sigh, he stripped off the long-sleeved flannel shirt. He'd put it back on to avoid answering any questions Blair would certainly have asked. Without a doubt the apartment hunting would have been cancelled. Now he was going to pay for it. The rash stretched to the inside of his elbow. His hands were swollen and it was difficult to bend his fingers.

Jim stretched out on the bed, tucked his legs under the sheets and placed his arms extended across his body. If it got chilly, he'd live with it. The brush of fabric across his skin would be more than he could take. Considering how he felt, sleep was a long way off. He dialed up his hearing. Sandburg was reading short passages aloud, muttering comments as he added them in to the manuscript he was editing. Normally, the click of computer keys could be mildly annoying, but tonight Jim welcomed the distraction.

He closed his eyes, hoping to drift away from his own pain.

&&&&&

Simon Banks needed to make a decision, and the irony of the situation did not escape him.

That very afternoon, Jim Ellison had been sitting in the Major Crimes conference room, reviewing evidence from cases that stretched back several years. Unfortunately, it was an election year, and election year politics had a life of their own. The current district attorney, running in a tough race for re-election, needed to catch a few headlines. He called the mayor, the mayor called the chief, and the chief called his captains. The message was succinct. Document improvement, or generate some quick solves the D.A. could point to with pride. The more headlines the better.

Major Crimes didn't have any easy cases to boost the stats with, and Banks definitely didn't have extra personnel drinking coffee to put on cold cases. Their workload was heavy as it was. After several tense telephone exchanges with the "powers above", the handwriting was scrawled all over the proverbial wall.

Banks loathed having to pull his detectives off active cases to cater to the whims of some politician. He decided to reach outside the department to someone he knew and respected; Jim Ellison. Not that he'd expected some sort of a sentinel miracle, but rather that Jim had always been a fine investigator with great instincts. He'd invited Jim in, hoping a fresh pair of eyes would notice something, anything, that the rest of them had missed.

Jim had agreed immediately. They'd spent nearly three hours together, reading case files and reviewing evidence. Of seven cases, Jim had suggestions for three of them. Simon considered the afternoon a success based on that alone. Jim had seemed really into it, but when Simon quizzed him about coming in regularly, the message got a little blurry. Jim hedged, without volunteering an explanation. Their session ended on a friendly, but uneasy, note.

Just before he left, Jim commented that two of the murders, in particular, bothered him. Nothing specific, just a feeling. Both victims had been shot with 22 caliber pistol rounds at close range, but no one interviewed in the area reported hearing shots. Forensics indicated the shells hadn't been fired from the same gun, but other elements seemed similar. It was just a thought.

Fate was a strange mistress. Now, barely twelve hours later, Simon was at another murder scene, the victim shot at close range with a 22. Nothing overtly tied this shooting to the ones they had discussed, but sometimes you needed to follow up on your hunches.

Banks checked his watch. One thirty in the morning. He decided to dial Jim's number anyway, and hope his friend would forgive him for the late call. Most of all, he hoped Jim would agree to come.

&&&&&

Jim caught the phone on the second ring. He'd been lying awake for hours, eyes closed, trying to ignore his pain and will himself to sleep. He checked the clock; nearly two. Simon's low growl was unmistakable.

Jim? I know, it's late...

"Or early, depending. I wasn't asleep. You must be dying for my company. What gives?"

Those cases we talked about? Wild coincidence, but I have another one. Solo victim, no witnesses, looks to be a 22. Can you come?

Jim hesitated. They'd discussed this. Banks wanted him to ease into a more active roll with the PD. When his story had been released to the press, the PD had invented a title to fit his unique situation: Special Consultant for Forensic Investigations. The invitation had been left open, without a lot of pressure on either himself or the department.

Then, out of the blue, Simon had called. It was bittersweet walking back through the doors of Major Crime, but overall it had been a pleasure. Maybe once you got police work in your blood, it stayed there. Still, when Simon had opened the door a little wider, he'd avoided giving his boss and friend a straight answer, mostly because he wasn't sure himself. The sensory flare-ups he'd been having made him uneasy. He didn't want to make a commitment he was incapable of fulfilling. If only he'd been able to discuss it with Sandburg.

Unable to decide, he deflected. "Why are you out at this time of night, Simon? Who's working it?"

I'm filling in. I guess it's mine to keep.

"You're working the street?" Jim sat up on the bed, realizing the implications. "Since when?"

Since I have three guys out with the flu. Since I'm short handed and I have crazy politicians breathing down my neck. So sue me. You coming or not?

Simon's irritated growl went straight to Jim's gut, back to times when a summons from his captain was routine. He'd been one of the best before his senses took over his life, crushing his career. Jim felt the pang for what he'd lost. Then there was loyalty to his friend. When things were at their worst, Simon had always come when he'd called. He pushed his own reservations aside. "Give me the address. I'll get there as fast as I can."

The phone clicked in his ear. Same old Simon. Not a man to worry about the niceties of phone etiquette.

Jim flicked the light on. The skin on his arms was still angry and raw. His immediate problem was finding something to wear. What if things got worse while he was out on a case? He rejected the jeans of the previous day and went to the closet for some dress slacks. Not really appropriate, but the loose fit was a better bet than the relatively close-fitting jeans. Deciding on a shirt was problematic. He scanned the closet, rejecting most of the fabrics. He opted for a long-sleeved silk T-shirt, which he hoped he could tolerate. Silk was usually pretty reliable. He grabbed a loose fleece pullover to pull on later. He quietly crossed the hallway and peeked into Sandburg's room. He wanted his company badly.

Blair was propped up against the headboard, still in his clothes, with papers strewn around the bed, the laptop still glowing by his side. He'd obviously fallen asleep in the middle of reading. His reading glasses drooped from one limp hand, his head lolled back at an angle against the pillows. Jim shook his head. No way was he dragging an exhausted man out in the middle of the night. Sandburg wasn't his unpaid babysitter. He shut the door ever so softly.

He was about to grab his keys and thought better of it. After hearing how overscheduled Sandburg felt, he'd planned on giving him an early lift to work. What if he took the truck now and got delayed? He didn't want to create any more complications in the young professor's life. He scribbled a note and left it with the truck keys in the middle of the kitchen counter, next to the coffeemaker where Sandburg would be sure to see them. If Cascade PD needed Jim Ellison so badly, they could send a cruiser to pick him up and bring him back home.

&&&&&

He watched. It was part of the drama. Not really a ritual. That would make him a freak. He wasn't a freak. The watching was innocent, like reading a book to the last page. Who would want to leave off the last chapter of a fine story?

Especially if you were writing it yourself.

He'd done a good job, he'd decided. It was better than a book. Maybe as good as a movie.

The couple who'd found him - oh, how he wished he could record their faces, their shock. That's why you had to savor these moments, to memorize them, to keep them. That's why he needed to watch. They'd stood there waiting for the cops; the guy trying to act brave, the woman sobbing like it was her sister or friend lying at their feet. The cops were so predictable; arriving in a rush, rolling out their yellow tape, asking questions, taking notes.

He liked to wait for the detectives if he could, when he had a really good, really safe vantage point. Detectives were cool. The guys in the uniforms always stepped back a pace, as if royalty had arrived. He'd like that, to be all efficient and detached. This time, this detective, he was special. A tall black man, his topcoat swirling out behind him like a cape, a real important dude. Just like a movie, better than a movie! He scrunched his nose under his thick glasses, trying to see every detail played out on the dimly lit street below him.

Yeah, this was his best one yet.

&&&&&

The headlights of the cruiser briefly played across Simon's face. Jim hopped out and thanked the officer for the lift. Simon waved, ducked under the yellow tape and walked toward him. Jim waited. He hadn't worked a crime scene in years. He hated feeling so unsure, so vulnerable.

"Thanks for coming, Jim," Banks said. "I hope I didn't drag you out for nothing."

"What have we got?"

"Male, three shots, close range. Remember those things you noticed when you were in? I took one look and it sent chills up my spine. If we hadn't been reading those case files today, it never would have caught my attention."

Jim shifted uneasily. Despite his best efforts, he felt like he was sitting on the sand with the tide coming in a little higher each time. Each wave of smells and sounds mounted on the ones before. From the diner down the street came wafts of rancid grease and long-spilt beer. Tendrils of rotting fruit from the dumpster. The stench of urine from the darkened alley. He could hear snippets of at least ten different voices, all jumbled together in an unintelligible tangle. Simon's customary growl might as well be the roar from a cannon. The fleece pullover he was wearing wasn't meant for rain, and drizzle was running down his neck, not serious, but another cold, icy distraction.

Jim swallowed hard, trying to hold it together. How had he ever imagined that he could do this? His eyes flicked to Simon's face and the question written there. Simon, who could have justifiably deserted him years ago, still waiting, still hoping for Jim to "get better." He couldn't face the disappointment in those dark eyes if he failed again.

Another thought produced a twist of fear in his stomach. If he blew this, he wouldn't be able to face himself either. Sandburg had awakened all his deepest hopes, and he couldn't turn back. In an act of supreme concentration, Jim ducked under the yellow tape. His long stride crossed the damp expanse of pavement quickly. The body lay sprawled at his feet.

The victim was young, male. Long strands of damp hair draped across an unremarkable face that had been barely old enough to shave. Jeans too old to be fashionably "distressed". The denim jacket was frayed and looked too small. The jacket was pulled off one shoulder to the elbow. The cotton button-down was ripped and torn across the front. Maybe their victim had fought back, or tried to run away. The white t-shirt underneath showed three distinct circles of blood.

Blood. The scent of slowly congealing human blood rolled over him. Jim reeled back a step, frantically grasping for some logic to overrule what couldn't possibly be true, that he was sinking, drowning in the blood of the dead.

Another step back and he was falling, Simon's voice echoing from far away.

&&&&&

"Sandburg! Sandburg, are you here?"

With a jerk, Blair sat up in bed, scattering objects in all directions. In the dark, it was confusing. He groped for his glasses and the light simultaneously, nearly sending the bedside lamp crashing into the existing jumble of books and papers.

"Sandburg!"

A vaguely familiar voice was shouting from the direction of the kitchen. Whoever it was he was in a hurry. Blair scrubbed his face, trying to get oriented, stumbling from the bed into the hallway. "Who's there? What is it?"

"For God's sake get out here!"

Blair was finally awake enough to match the baritone with a name, but why was Simon Banks yelling for him in the middle of the night? And why the hell was he here anyway? Still half asleep, Blair made it into the main living area of Jim's apartment about the same time the lights came on. Blair managed a strangled, "Shit!" before he hurtled across the room.

Banks had Jim half in, half out of the elevator. Jim let out a short cry and curled into the floor, shielding his eyes. "Douse the lights!" Blair ordered. "And quit shouting, you idiot!"

In the darkness, Blair went to his knees and crept to Jim's side. The moans were mostly incoherent, but Blair could identify a pleading, "Stop...please stop." Blair tried to shift Jim's weight to his own lap without banging the man's head onto the floor. "Easy, Jim. We've got you." A feeble hand latched onto his own. At least Jim knew he was there.

"Simon, I've got him," Blair whispered. "Work your way into the kitchen and turn on the light above the stove. Give us a little light to work with." He could hear Banks fumbling in the dark, but he found the right switch. Pale blue light flooded the apartment. At least they could navigate. Jim rolled slightly, completely burying his face against Blair's thigh.

There was no mistaking Jim's distress. This was major sensory overload, and Jim was in real pain. Blair tried to prioritize and form some sort of a plan. In the softest voice he could manage, he spoke to Simon. "Check Jim's nightstand. There should be an eyeshade in the drawer." Simon disappeared in the direction of Jim's bedroom, feeling his way along the wall. Blair stroked his fingers along Jim's temple, wishing there was a simple, straightforward way to deal with this. "Take it easy, man. I know you're hurting. Try to relax, and look for the dials if you can." He looked up as Simon returned, eyeshade in hand. Blair slipped the shade over Jim's brow, settling it into place.

"What now?" Banks asked. Jim winced at the sound of his voice. Blair shook his head and put a finger to his lips.

"Turn the lights on," he whispered. "We'll move him to the music room and get him comfortable. Then you can tell me what happened."

It took a long time to accomplish such a simple task. Jim shrank from their touch, but he whispered a stoic, "Go ahead." The music room, as Jim euphemistically called it, was actually an isolation room. By trial and error, he'd designed the room to minimize sensory input. In fact, the soundproof room with its other amenities had been Blair's first clue that Jim Ellison was the sentinel he'd searched for.

Together, with minimal help from Jim, Blair and Simon maneuvered the stricken man into his sanctuary. They eased him down onto a thick mat Jim kept on the floor. "His clothes," Blair whispered, motioning Simon to take care of Jim's shoes. "From the way he reacts to touch, his skin has got to be hurting him. We need to get him out of these clothes."

Blair went to work on the soaking fleece pullover and the t-shirt underneath. He shook his head at the long-sleeved silk shirt. Jim invariably chose this garment when his skin was acting up. Jim must have been having problems before leaving, and hadn't said a word. Jim groaned as Blair worked the close fitting fabric over his head. Blair hissed at his first glimpse of Jim's arms and chest. His arms were a solid mass of angry red, his chest marred with irregular welts. "Simon, look," Blair said, motioning the other man to look. Simon frowned and raised his hands, shaking his head. Jim obviously hadn't said a word to him either.

"Time for the chair, Jim. Can you make it?" Blair asked. Jim nodded feebly and pushed up on his elbows. With an assist, he made it to the leather covered lounge, the only piece of furniture in the room, and dropped back into the comforting embrace with a groan. Blair placed his hand on Jim's inner arm, then on the heaving chest. Heat radiated from both areas. "I'll be back," he said, motioning Banks to follow, shutting the soundproof door behind them.

"Get some of the bottled water out of the fridge. I'll be right there," Blair said. He detoured to the bathroom, grabbing a stack of Jim's fluffy cotton towels from the shelf, and joined Banks in the kitchen. "What happened?" he asked briskly. While Simon described how he'd summoned Jim to the crime scene, Blair filled the sink with cold water, and added every cube from the ice maker.

"He didn't say anything, Simon? No mention of having any problems?" Blair asked.

"Not a word," Banks said, a bite of anger in his voice. "I never would have asked him to come to a crime scene if I'd known. Do you think I'd do anything I thought would make him sick like this?"

"Easy, Simon." Blair kicked himself internally. Banks was worried and frustrated, and Blair needed his help. There wasn't any gain in alienating Jim's oldest friend. "I wasn't implying anything. I just need to figure out if this was something that happened at the crime scene, or started earlier. Did you notice the shirt?"

Simon's brow furrowed. "Now that you mention it, yeah. I bought it for him, years ago. He always says silk was one of the easiest things to wear."

"And he hasn't been wearing it lately, because he hasn't needed it, and he wasn't wearing it this afternoon. So I'd like to know if it was just a coincidence that he chose that particular shirt tonight, or whether he needed it." Blair sighed. "I'd ask him, but I don't think grilling him is a good move right now.

Simon nodded, getting the drift. "He seemed fine when he came to Major Crime, and..." Banks broke off in mid-sentence.

"What?"

"Maybe - now that I think about it, when I asked him about coming in regularly for the next few weeks, he kind of hedged. He'd seemed so good when he arrived, and then he got kind of quiet at the end. Do you think - it never occurred to me. Damn."

"I didn't notice anything either," Blair said. "Not that Jim isn't capable of covering up when it suits him." He dunked the towels into the cold water in the sink. "I guess we can sort it out when he can actually tell us. Right now I just want to make him more comfortable. Grab the biggest pot you can find down in the cupboard."

They loaded the dripping towels into the kettle. "His skin's hot to the touch," Blair said. "These should help. See if you can find some chicken broth in the cupboard. If we can get some water down him, I want to try some of that. Something on his stomach might help." Simon located the containers of organic, low salt broth. "Zap it. Bring it in with the water, okay?" Blair said. He grabbed the pot with its load of towels and headed for Jim's side.

Jim's breathing seemed a little less frantic, but that wasn't saying much. Blair hadn't seen him this bad since the night they met. "Hey there. You find the dials?" Jim shook his head. "Don't worry. I'm going to put something cool on your skin to start with. I wanted you to know what to expect." Much to Blair's dismay, Jim's shoulders hunched a bit tighter. Not what he was hoping for. "I don't think it will hurt. I'll go slow," he said, hoping to reassure his friend.

"Worked - afternoon - with Eli."

Blair's head snapped around, but the automatic questions died in his mouth. With Eli - when? Jim was with Eli before coming by his office, and he hadn't said anything. Just another unanswered question that would have to wait. Blair shook his head, wrung out the first towel and unrolled it, inch by inch, across Jim's chest. Jim shuddered.

"Sorry," Blair whispered.

"Cold. Better."

"Okay. I'll keep going." Slowly, carefully, Blair wrapped each arm. Jim started to shiver, and Blair searched the cupboards built into the wall. Before they'd met Jim frequently slept in this room, fleeing his senses the only way he knew how. Soft cotton blankets were stored close at hand. Blair tucked one around Jim's legs, another over his upper body, covering the damp towels. Simon arrived with two bottles of water tucked under his arm and a mug of steaming broth.

"Got something for you to drink, buddy," Blair said. "Let's work on those dials while we're at it." Jim downed the water eagerly, and managed half of the broth before the tension in his body relaxed. All the while, Blair coached him through the routine, Simon a silent observer at the door.

"Can you rest?" Blair asked. A silent nod, but yes. "I'll check you in a bit." He and Banks retreated to the main living area, shutting the door to the music room. "It's soundproof," Blair said. "We can talk normally now. What happened?"

Simon slumped onto the couch. "We had a shooting that - well, we've got these unsolved cases that Jim looked at, and something about this one just rang a bell. He said he'd come, and asked for a cruiser. Did you notice the note in the kitchen?"

"What note?"

"He left a note for you with the keys to the truck, in case he didn't get back by morning. He wanted you to drive it to Rainier."

"He did? He offered to give me a ride to the University, but I've never taken the truck without him. I wonder why he did that?"

"It sounds to me like he was planning on staying, or at least considered it. Doesn't that indicate he was feeling okay?" Simon asked.

"It might," Blair admitted. "Or it just might mean he wanted it to be okay. How did he seem when he got there?"

"Normal," Banks answered quickly. "Well, maybe not quite the old charge-in-and-damn-the-consequences Ellison. He didn't say much, but Jim usually worked alone, so I wasn't expecting a lot of conversation. He was never real chatty at a crime scene."

"Tell it to me exactly as you remember it."

Simon leaned forward slightly, concentrating. "Got out of the cruiser. He stayed right there, and I went over to talk with him."

"Did he seem stiff, or relaxed? How were his shoulders?"

Banks threw him an "are you crazy?" look. "His shoulders? What do you mean, his shoulders?"

Blair pulled on a strand of hair, still wild from when he was dragged out of bed, and launched into an explanation. "When Jim's really concentrating to manage his senses, he gets tense through the shoulders and neck. If it's bad, and he's hurting, his shoulders are hunched up to his ears."

"They are? You're sure?" Banks asked.

Blair nodded. "Positive. It's one of the first things I watch for. You don't read Jim's face or his eyes, you read his body."

Simon looked thoughtful, then pained. "I've never noticed. All these years, from the really bad days in the beginning, and I didn't know that? What kind of detective am I?"

"It's an anthropology thing, Simon. We're both trained observers, but we're looking for different clues. Put it aside for now. Then what happened?"

"We talked for a minute, went over to the body. I was behind him, and when he got up close to the victim, he took a step back into me, like he'd stumbled or something. Next thing I knew, I was picking him off my shoe tops. He was in pain, Sandburg. He was all curled in on himself and could hardly talk. They had an ambulance at the scene, and I got the EMT's over there pronto. He begged me not to send him to the hospital."

"What did the EMT's say?"

"They finally agreed. They couldn't find anything wrong. His vitals were way up, but his heart was strong. He was coherent enough to convince them he was better off on his own. We came back here." He put a large hand to the side of his face and took a slow deep breath. "This is all my fault. What if he loses all the ground he's gained with you over the last few months? I never should have called him."

"Simon, you can't think that way," Blair said firmly. "He obviously wanted to go, and intended to go and stay. If someone's to blame it's me. He said something about Eli. I'll just bet he was having trouble earlier, but I didn't notice, and I spent the whole evening with him." Blair stood up. "Look, you did the best thing, bringing him here. All I can do now is make him comfortable and hope he sleeps. You go back to your murder, or home, or whatever, and I'll call you first thing in the morning. Promise. I have your cell number."

The two men walked together to the elevator. "Tell him I'm sorry, will you, Sandburg?"

"Yeah. It'll be okay. We both know how much he'd like to go back to his old life." The doors to the elevator opened, and Simon whisked away into the night, leaving Blair with his own doubts and worries.

&&&&&

Jim sat at the kitchen table, barefoot, clad only in a pair of cotton sweats, morning sun brightening the room. The high-tech blinds adjusted automatically and kept him from reaching for sunglasses to shield his eyes. He didn't have the heart to close them completely, even if it would have been easier on the eyes. The sun felt blissfully warm on his skin.

He was bare from the waist up. Broad streaks across his chest and the undersides of his arms were a pale pink. His current situation was vastly improved from the screaming pain the night before, but he wasn't up to a shirt, even one of his silk tees. Jim fought through a smothering wave of depression. The memories of sitting in his old loft, his skin throbbing, trying to choose between staying warm and wearing clothing had come to life again. After meeting Sandburg, he'd hoped never to feel this way again, physically or emotionally.

He struggled through the last few bites of the eggs Sandburg had scrambled for him. Thanks to the night's shenanigans, the young professor looked more exhausted than ever, but he'd insisted on making breakfast for both of them before leaving for the university. Despite his obvious fatigue, Blair had meticulously coached him through some relaxation drills while he cooked. Jim had finally finished the second piece of toast and most of the eggs. His sense of taste was off, and every element of breakfast tasted like warmed sawdust. He'd only persisted to placate Sandburg, who had insisted that a decent meal would make his day easier.

Why couldn't he have left it at that?

Sandburg had tried to quiz him about yesterday, and he'd been resistant. To be honest, he'd been rude bordering on abusive. A complete shit. Here the guy was trying to help him, and he'd completely lost it. He'd let his temper and frustration get the better of him, and lashed out. Blair had been apologetic at first, but he hadn't backed down either. For once Blair's patience had dissolved as well, and they'd gone at it hammer and tongs. Their angry exchange still rang in his ears.

Great, just great. Tick off the one person who could actually help him, all over a little misplaced pride. Why was it so easy to see that now, less than ten minutes after Sandburg had stormed out? Not to mention that his senses were settling out, just like Sandburg had predicted.

The reprieve didn't cheer him much. His lack of sensory control might be smacking him between the eyes, but his real distress was elsewhere. Arguing with Sandburg was just a dodge, a way to avoid the truly painful reality. Such a coward. Hadn't he learned better?

Okay, so he would face it. His first try at investigation and it had been a disaster. He could hardly bear the thought of facing Simon. And what about Sandburg? All the time and energy he was investing, only to result in a spectacular Ellison meltdown? His stomach rolled and he fought the impulse to bring up what he'd just managed to eat.

Not that Sandburg hadn't been encouraging this morning, or at least he'd made the attempt. Jim had choked down his food and herbal tea while Blair questioned and suggested one optimistic interpretation after another. It was fatigue, or a stretch of over-sensitivity. One setback wasn't permanent. Crime scenes were stressful by nature. They could practice, do more tests. There was no reason to give up. They'd find a new approach. Jim hadn't believed a word. In the heat of their ensuing argument, he'd told Blair to just get out and leave him alone. Blair had finally taken the keys to the truck and driven over to Rainier. Jim hadn't missed the hurt in his eyes.

Now, sitting alone with his thoughts, his sense of shame was overwhelming. He wondered if he could really keep up the fight. He hadn't felt this hopeless since the time Simon had brought disability paperwork over to the loft on Prospect for his signature. Embarrassment and failure were a grim tandem, and the black maw of depression raced up to swallow him whole.

After an hour of soul searching and solitude, Jim thought he had it worked out. Anger was just a form of denial. Sandburg and Banks were his friends, and that friendship was clouding their judgment, making them overly optimistic. He needed to stop this before any more damage was done.

Reluctantly, he picked up the phone and called Simon. Delaying wasn't going to make the conversation more palatable. After the first few sentences of apology, Simon cut him off. Banks wasn't in a warm and fuzzy mood. He didn't want to hear it. Get off your ass, Ellison. End of story. He'd see Jim tonight, with the crime scene results, and they'd get on with investigation. Jim started to argue, and then realized he was talking to the dial tone. Vintage Simon Banks.

He hung up the phone and watched dust motes swirl through the sunlight. Okay, so maybe he could do that. He owed Simon. If he couldn't handle the street, he could at least look at the evidence, give opinions, help analyze. Certainly he could pull himself together that much. He'd just have to get through the day as best he could. Without enthusiasm, he made a few more calls, changing some face-to-face business meetings to teleconferences later in the day. The thought of dressing up in a suit was more than he could face. He wasn't up to another wardrobe struggle.

By mid-morning, the business end of things was under control. He thought about calling Sandburg and decided against it. Actions were more important than some empty apology. He took the notebook Blair had left on the table and retreated to the music room. Sandburg wanted a list of any troublesome sensations he'd experienced for the last week, in detail, with no omissions. After all the hassle and angry words, it was the least he could do. He picked up the nearest pen and began to write.

Immersed in the task, Jim dropped the barriers. What good was it to put up a false front? He wrote it all down as best he could. Every time he shrank away from the task, he forced himself back. The results were cathartic. He desperately wanted Sandburg to have all the right answers, but it wasn't fair to expect instant results, especially when he was withholding information. To be honest, last night had been a setback of his own making. He'd been through worse. Would things be better if he drove off the one person who could help?

Abruptly, he set the pen down and leaned back in the recliner specially designed for this room. This room was his sanctuary, carefully planned as a retreat when his senses ran wild. A few months ago, his apartment and the music room, in particular, was the future he'd accepted. He'd rarely ventured outside. His diet consisted of fewer than a dozen reliable items. Sandburg had opened the world again, and that had risks. How dare he be angry, much less take it out on Sandburg.

Okay, so Jim Ellison didn't like feeling dependent, and it was time to get over that, too. Realization dawned, and a faint smile crossed his face. Why not get it in gear and give something concrete back? Even up the balance sheet a bit? Certainly he had more to offer than a temporary roof, an occasional ride and tagging along while Sandburg looked for a place to live. He might not be a cop anymore, but living space was something he did understand. All he needed was a phone.

&&&&&

The headline was amazing. He crushed the regional section of the Cascade Times against his chest. He'd never managed a headline before. He'd keep it, storing it with his other treasures, in case he needed to refer to it later.

So the Captain of Major Crime had been the man in the overcoat? Carefully, he clipped his gem from the rectangular sheet of newsprint, savoring every word. Placing the article on the table in front of him, sat at his computer and began to type. He wanted to capture every moment, every detail he could remember. At first he just let the memories flow, making no attempt to keep them in order. The images were what mattered. Nothing surpassed reality.

The walls of his grubby apartment melted away. This was his destiny. This one would be perfect.

&&&&&

Blair Sandburg drew a series of symbols on the white board and turned to face the students in his graduate seminar. He loved teaching this group of six men and four women, but today's lesson was going to be a struggle. It took every ounce of professionalism he possessed to leave Jim alone in the loft and conduct class as planned.

"One of the keys to understanding an ancient culture is to understand their writing. Can anyone recognize these?" he asked.

"They're hieroglyphs, aren't they?" Lisa Daly said, asking more than answering.

"Okay, not a bad guess. There are two groups. What can you tell me about them? Are they the same, different? What are your impressions?"

The room was silent for a moment. "The ones on the left look like actual objects," Derek Kline said hesitantly. "The three on the right look more abstract or something."

Feeling a little braver, a two or three more class members contributed. Blair smiled. "Not a bad start. The ones on the left are Egyptian; the ones on the right are Mayan. The Egyptian system had over 2000 symbols, the Mayan fewer than 800. He handed a stack of booklets to the nearest student. "Hand those around. We're going to start with Mayan."

"We're going to read Mayan?" Kendall Peters asked apprehensively. "Doesn't that take years?"

"Well, not read," Blair said. "What we want to do is understand their structure and how it compares with our own language. Our alphabet letters represent sounds. In Mayan, the symbols represent syllables, so they have a syllabary, not an alphabet. Let me show you how it works."

An hour and many giggles later, his students split into pairs, making simple combinations and translations. He stopped them, explained the project he had in mind for them, along with web access to resources. They could work in teams or alone, and he was canceling the next week's classes to allow them more time to work. As they filed out of the room, Blair's mind was already on his two intro anthropology classes. He always included some type of research project in his course. He usually waited a little longer in the semester to begin, but Jim needed him now. He could get them started today and free up the rest of the week.

&&&&

Eli Stoddard climbed into the passenger seat of Ellison's Ford truck. He looked fondly at the young man across from him. He still saw flickers of the precocious sixteen year old freshman, the restless energy, the fine intellect. He didn't miss the worry creasing his protégé's forehead, either. "I take it you haven't purchased a vehicle yet?" he said with a grin.

"No, and I won't be anytime soon unless someone gift wraps it and delivers it to my door. If I had a door, that is. I haven't found a place to live, either." Sandburg shook his head and turned the ignition key. "I swear, Eli, my clueless freshmen have got it together better than I do. At least they can stumble to their own dorm room. I get farther behind every day."

"You're too hard on yourself," Eli said, hoping to reassure his distracted colleague. "You'll make things worse by fretting over what isn't done." He looked around the interior of the old blue truck. "How old is this thing, anyway? With Jim's bank account, I'd expect something a little more upscale."

Blair smiled. "I don't know the year exactly. It runs fine. You know, the first day I met Jim, I said about the same thing. Classy penthouse, and a vehicle rent-a-wreck wouldn't take."

"So what's the story?"

"I guess Jim likes it more than he likes car shopping. He said the 'new car' smell bothered him."

Eli looked surprised. "For what Jim could afford to spend, any car dealer in town would roll down the windows on a vehicle for a couple of months so he could look at one. Has he ever asked?"

Blair shrugged. "That assumes Jim would openly discuss a sensory problem, which is pretty much why we're here." He checked the address he was carrying and continued driving. "I've really screwed up, Eli. Jim's really in a bad way. Worse, we had words this morning, and I didn't handle it very well. I view him as a friend, but he deserves some professionalism from me. Something must have happened at that crime scene. I can't help him until I understand it. He needs me, and I owe him better than I've been giving."

"So that's why I'm here?" Eli asked. "At the risk of stating the obvious, I'm not a sentinel expert, Blair. You are."

"I need your objectivity," Blair said. "I'm missing something, big time, and I'm hoping you can help me see it." The early morning sunshine had given way to the next cold front, and it started to drizzle. Jim's truck was too old to have intermittent wipers. Blair let the wipers go through a couple of cycles and then turned them off. "Like I told you, last night he was in such agony, as bad as I've ever seen him. Simon said he was like that when his senses first came on line. It - it was just awful to watch. He was doing so well, and now, this seems like a total relapse. I've really messed up, and Jim is paying for it."

"Have you talked with him?" Eli asked gently.

"Not so I got any insights. Like I said, we didn't part on good terms this morning. I've already arranged to stay somewhere else tonight. Hell, I may have to buy a tooth brush. He may be angry enough to not even let me back in. I feel like a total shit."

"Uhm - I see."

Blair looked at him expectantly, but all he got was a raised eyebrow. Blair recognized the look. It meant that Eli wasn't going to do his work for him, and would wait as long as it took. The ensuing silence was worse than any scolding Eli could have given him. Time to dive in, and quit looking for the easy way out.

"Eli, last night, when Jim was almost incoherent - well, I got the impression that you'd seen him yesterday."

"I did, and I encouraged him to speak with you."

Blair gave him another sideways glance. "Translation being, he did and you're not about to spill the beans." He banged the flat of his hand against the steering wheel. "How can I help him if he won't talk to me?"

"Why do you think he didn't discuss it? Obviously you're making some assumptions, that it's just a privacy issue, or misplaced pride. What if it isn't?" Blair gave him a blank look. "Well, at least you're thinking. Do you realize how much Jim worries about you? Worries about taking too much of your time and interfering with your career?"

"He what?" Blair squawked. "How - he can't - whatever could he be..."

"As I live and breathe, Blair Sandburg speechless. So get the hint, my boy. You have some work to do. Isn't this the address we wanted?"

Blair pulled the truck to the curb, still sputtering fragments of thought while he pulled the keys out of the ignition. He lowered his head to the steering wheel, his shoulders sagging. Eli patted him gently on the shoulder. "No one promised you it would be easy. An error isn't unforgivable. How you respond to the error is what matters. Now let's take a look around."

The two men stepped out into the light drizzle. Blair looked up and down the street, which looked bleak even in daylight. Eli wandered across the street to stand at a dark splotch which marred the cracked cement sidewalk. Blair walked to the end of the block, turned back and joined him.

"So much blood," Blair said in a hushed voice. "It must have been awful."

"I'm sure Jim's seen more than his share of gory crime scenes," Eli said. "Don't look at it from your viewpoint, look at it through his."

Blair pushed his hands deeply into the pockets of his leather coat. "Of course. He came here expecting to function as a cop. He'd know what to expect, how to react. He's done it a hundred times. He just didn't expect to come here as a sentinel."

"Or he thought his ingrained responses as a detective would take precedence," Eli suggested.

"I'm not a sentinel," Blair said. "I can't experience it as he did."

"But you've studied. Jim understands being a sentinel primarily from being overwhelmed and fighting his way back. He can't always be objective or analytical, because he's just trying to keep from drowning. You're the observer, and you've walked the area. What would you anticipate?"

Blair's eyes widened. "There are at least two restaurants I could smell before I saw them. That means dumpsters, garbage, rats." He looked upwards at the shabby brick facades. "These places are apartments. There would be people, conversations. Add in the sirens, the cops, bystanders. And the blood. The smell of blood must have been overwhelming." Blair spun on his heel, looking over the area in all directions. "Eli, I..."

An amused half-smile touched the older man's face. "You know, it's a bit much to keep an old man out in the rain like this. You really don't need me here, do you? Just drop me at the University." Blair followed Eli as his mentor walked briskly back to the truck.

They completed the short trip in silence. Blair drove with a grim expression, angry with himself for not seeing what seemed to be so obvious. When he pulled up to the courtyard in front of the Sentinel Institute, he started to apologize. Eli promptly cut him off. "Jim probably panicked. Before you go and point that out to him, you might spend a moment or two thinking about how productive you are when you're racing from one thing to the next. Flitting from flower to flower only works well for honey bees."

"Eli, you know how much I have to do. My students, classes..."

"Panic is an equal opportunity experience, don't you think?" Eli asked mildly. "Comes in a lot of flavors and forms, yes?" Just before shutting the door to the truck, he added, "What's good for the goose, Blair. Stop by tomorrow or the next day and we'll have coffee."

Blair watched him all the way to the doors of the building. "Damn, Eli. You always did have a way of cutting to the chase."

&&&&&

Jim looked up from the contracts he was studying. The elevator had just left the first floor. The only two people who had the code for the elevator were Sandburg and Banks, and it was too early for Simon to be arriving. Actually, it was too early for Sandburg. Jim double-checked the time. Blair should have been in the middle of his last lecture.

The elevator opened, empty. Jim was about to step in, ride down and investigate when his phone rang. Annoyed, he snatched the receiver, and barked out, "Ellison."

"Hey, Jim. Can I come up?"

Sandburg's tone, almost hesitant, replaced Jim's irritation with confusion. "What? You live here. Of course you can come up."

"Well, I started to, and then decided to call. This morning ...you know."

"Yeah, I know. Forget it, okay? I'll send it back down. See you in a sec," Jim said and disconnected. He waited anxiously as the elevator made the journey down and returned.

"Hey, man, how are you feeling?" Blair's tentative smile warmed him despite his worry. The leather jacket glistened with a few raindrops. Blair shrugged out of the coat and hung it by the door. To save time, he'd dressed down this morning, heading off to the University in a light green turtleneck and jeans. He was carrying two mesh bags stuffed with groceries.

"Must be raining," Jim said.

"Just barely, eagle eyes." Blair dumped the groceries on the counter. "You made it into a shirt. That's progress."

Jim plucked at the hem of his knit polo. "I guess. Not exactly a great achievement. No long sleeves. My arms still prickle." Jim started peeking into the bags, finding mostly vegetables.

"You stayed here?"

"Yeah. Wasn't too bad. Changed some things around, did some conference calls. What's with the truck farm?"

"We are cooking tonight," Blair said, already washing his hands at the sink. "Grab a knife. I'm going to put you to work."

"What do you want me to do?" Jim asked. His stomach gave a sympathetic growl.

"Didn't eat, did you?" Blair asked, already chopping red and yellow peppers.

"It didn't seem worth the effort. Besides, I wasn't very hungry."

Blair's mind flashed back to the nearly gaunt Jim Ellison he'd first met. Erratic sentinel taste buds had forced Jim to limit his choices to the tasteless and reliable, mostly white rice and a few bland vegetables. Jim's self-imposed dietary restrictions had taken a lot of pounds off his once muscular frame. Only in the last month had he really started to fill out again. They didn't want to go down that road again. "Having your system shut down because of stress isn't exactly the same as not being hungry. You need some food. We're going to go pretty conservative here."

Jim eyed the other ingredients Blair was dumping onto the counter. "I don't know, Chief. I was sort of thinking rice for tonight. You know, just go back to what I know works. I don't have the energy for another bout of crazy senses."

Blair stopped chopping. Jim was a proud man, and he had a pretty good idea of what that quiet admission cost his friend. If Jim were a 'hugs' kind of a guy, now would be the time to give him one. "Ah, Jim, I know you had a crappy day, and last night was definitely no fun, but I don't think we need to retreat back to white rice and carrots. Start slicing these mushrooms, okay?"

"You're the boss."

When he finished the mushrooms, Blair promptly put some zucchini and yellow squash under his knife. His eyes widened when he noticed Blair was pulling onions out of his treasure trove. His alarm must have showed, because Blair happened to look up and smile.

"No, I'm not crazy," he said, peeling the crispy outer layers off the onion. "These are sweet onions, and if you must know, I've tested you on different kinds. These will be easy on your palate." He picked up a knife with a flourish. "However, you don't need to stand on top of me while I slice. Go get that journal I asked you to do and meet me in the living room. And take your time, or just wait until I call you."

In the quiet of his music room, Jim followed Chef Sandburg with his ears, surprised at how automatic the action had become. Maybe Sandburg was right. He was using his hearing without it going haywire. He backed off when Blair switched on the fan over the stove. Even with the commercial restaurant equipment, he could smell the onions cooking. Actually, it smelled delicious, and his stomach growled again in sympathy. Apparently Sandburg was right about the hunger thing, too.

"Okay, Jim, come on in." Blair was already settled on the couch, and traded a bottle of water for the notebook. "How are you doing so far?"

Jim unscrewed the cap and took a sip. "Is that ground beef I smell?"

"Yes, in its cholesterol-laden glory." Blair donned his glasses and skimmed through the pages. "Good job, Jim. I can tell you were trying to report honestly."

"Try?" Jim said irritably.

"Try in the sense it goes against the grain, and you made a conscious effort. Here, where is says 'one sip, coffee', tell me about that."

Jim sighed. He dearly loved coffee, and so far working java back onto his approved list had been unsuccessful. "You know Simon and his coffee. Well, maybe you don't. His coffee is his pride and joy. He's always trying new gourmet stuff. He keeps a special pot in his office, by invitation only."

"And you couldn't resist. Since it said 'sip', I assume it wasn't a success."

"Bitter. Way bitter." Jim blanched. "But it smelled so good."

"Don't fret over it. Did he serve you right away?"

"Uhm - no. I'd been there for a while."

Blair grabbed a pen and flipped to a fresh page. "I want you to tell me the whole sequence, from the moment you stepped off the elevator."

"How picky do you want to be?" Jim asked, and then smirked. "Don't answer that. I already know." He closed his eyes and retraced his steps, Sandburg scribbling all the while. It seemed silly, but he pressed on. "Went to the restroom, came back..."

"Stop. Stop right there. Did you roll up your sleeves when you washed?"

"Did I what?" Jim snarled. "Listen here, Sandburg, there are some areas that..."

Blair ignored the outburst and looked at him over the top of his glasses. "We're not talking personal hygiene here. You were wearing that old flannel. It's a 'before' shirt, and you lost weight when your senses came on line. Even though you've put some back on, it's about half a size too big. You haven't filled it out in the shoulders yet, and the sleeves are a little long. So did you roll the cuffs to keep them from getting wet? You do it all the time, you know."

"You noticed this?" Jim asked, incredulous.

"Did you roll?"

"Yeah. Okay, I did. Walked back to the conference room, and picked up where we left off."

"Did you roll them down?"

Jim rolled his eyes, still a little annoyed. "What are you, the fashion police? No, I guess I left them up. My hands were still damp. The industrial grade paper towels the city buys felt like sandpaper."

"Fine. You went back, sat down, started looking at folders, writing, pushing stuff around?"

"Yeah."

"So your forearms were on the table?"

Jim looked confused. "I guess. Yeah, I was writing stuff, taking notes, that sort of stuff."

"Excuse me a sec. I need to stir." Blair disappeared, returning with a white, kitchen-sized garbage bag. "I made a detour. I bagged your clothes from last night. I need to test a theory. Hold out your arm." Jim complied. Carefully, Blair exposed the underside of the cuff and pressed it to the inside of Jim's elbow.

"I swear, Chief, this is nuts."

"Quit arguing and pay attention to what you feel."

Jim blinked in surprise. Thirty seconds passed, then a minute. "Heat. It feels hot." Blair waited another half a minute and then pulled the flannel away. A small patch of skin was turning pink.

"That's enough. Follow me." Blair led the way to the bathroom, filled the sink with warm, sudsy water, and grabbed some towels. "Scrub. We'll do it a couple of times and drain the water in between."

Blair left a couple of times to stir his masterpiece in the kitchen. After the final wash, he smeared the area with an aloe Vera cream they'd used before. "You tell me if that gives you any trouble, any at all."

Jim followed him back to the living room. The offending shirt was gone, but Jim noticed the plastic bag was resealed and sitting by the elevator. "So why does my skin suddenly hate flannel?"

"It doesn't. I went to Major Crime today, and quizzed everyone."

Jim groaned. "Great. Just great. I'm sure Simon was thrilled to have you prowling around." He stopped, doing a double take. Blair had a full schedule. What had happened to all the other stuff that usually filled his day? Blair's continuing monologue grabbed his attention again.

"Simon was no problem. Actually, it is great. Your colleagues care about you, Jim, and they were really helpful. We have Rhonda, in particular, to thank. I swear, we should elect that woman mayor or something."

Jim's expression darkened. "Well, I wouldn't disagree. The mayor is a twit."

"Sophisticated political commentary, a la Ellison. The networks will be beating down your door." Blair smiled cheerfully at Jim's withering look. "Rhonda happened to mention they had a little episode in that conference room a couple of days ago. Vice brought up a guy they wanted to question on a joint case and the guy went ballistic during questioning. They pepper sprayed him."

"I'll bet Simon was happy," Jim snickered. "He expects his officers to have better control than that. Rack up another strike against the vice guys. The current bunch are arrogant idiots."

"Simon didn't know. Rhonda got the cleaning crew in there, and decided she didn't need to aggravate Simon over it. She said it was a real mess. Are you following me here?"

Jim's brow crinkled. "But they cleaned, right?"

"Problem is, they didn't clean it for a sentinel. You come back, and drag your shirt cuffs and bare wrists all over the table. Damp forearms and wrists, I might add, all the better to absorb anything on the surfaces."

"Shit," Jim said, realizing the implications. "That's when they started to hurt."

"And not knowing any better, you left and buttoned your shirt back down, continuing the exposure. And rather than tell me, you tough it out while we run all over Cascade looking for apartments. That stuff was on your skin for hours." Blair gave him a long measured glance. "Instead of dealing with it, you just kept turning the dials down. Tell me I'm wrong."

"Busted," Jim said, looking sheepish.

"I thought so. Plus you didn't take the shirt off, because then I would noticed, and asked questions. With the cuffs buttoned, the flannel would work those little molecules of pepper spray into your skin just like sandpaper. You didn't shower. You went straight to bed."

"Okay, so I should have showered. I get it, Sandburg," Jim said irritably.

"I beg to differ. By then, the damage was done. Your system was already going crazy, and then you polish it off by going out on a case." Jim's face went blank. Blair could only imagine what was running through his head, from frustration to embarrassment.

"Quit beating yourself up, Jim. I went to the crime scene. It would have given you a challenge under any circumstances. The point is, you didn't have a fair chance. Your system was under assault. The next thing, no matter what form it took, was going to be the final straw."

Jim swirled the last of his water in the bottom of the bottle. "I'm not sure this makes me feel any better."

Blair shook his head sympathetically. "I'm guessing, but I think you spent all day convincing yourself that you'll never be able to do street work again. I don't think that's true. You got blindsided by something that was unrelated. Since when is pepper spray an ordinary occurrence?"

"For a cop?" Jim said skeptically.

"Even for a cop. If you were back in Major Crime every day, of course you'd know there had been pepper spray in that room. You would have adjusted. Avoided the room, or made certain it was cleaned more thoroughly."

"But I'm not there every day."

"So? You think Rhonda and the others won't have an eagle eye out? Nothing's changed Jim. All isn't lost. We ran into something unexpected, didn't recognize it, and didn't react appropriately. It was hell, but put it in perspective. Every mistake means we'll do better next time."

"You really think that was all that was wrong?" Jim's voice said the rest; it was too much to hope for.

"I'm sure of it. Now let's eat." Jim followed his friend into the kitchen. Blair pointed silently at a chair, and Jim took a seat. Blair slid a plate of warmed French bread, sliced and accompanied by a saucer of olive oil and balsamic vinegar. The butter dish joined the bread. "The olive oil's better for you, but if you want safe, start with the butter. Let's get something solid in your stomach." Jim munched in silence, wary at first, then thoroughly enjoying the crusty slices. By the time Blair returned with the main course, he was downing his second slice.

"Smells great," Jim said, but his tone was wistful.

"You don't think you're going to be able to eat it, do you? Quit cooking white rice in your head," Blair said, sliding their plates onto the table. "Italian is the ultimate comfort food."

"What's with the curly stuff?" Jim asked, poking at the plain noodles piled in their own dish, separate from the sauce.

"It's rotini. Spaghetti is too awkward for what we're going for," Blair said, settling into the chair across from Jim. "Take a couple bites of plain pasta. When your palate is settled, dip the noodles into the sauce first."

"Okay." Jim stabbed at the curls of pasta. "It might have saved you a lot of trouble to just go with the rice for tonight."

"Quit worrying and eat," Blair said firmly, digging into his own meal.

"Oh, well, the noodles will be okay." At the first taste of sauce, he winced and swallowed hard, following the attempt with half a glass of water.

"Don't give up. Readjust and try again," Blair said in a calm, encouraging voice.

Bite two wasn't a success, bite three tolerable. Before long, Jim dumped the pasta into a separate bowl of sauce and stirred it together. Blair smiled without comment and handed him the parmesan.

The second bowl was even better.

Simon Banks arrived with the dessert, a carton of premium vanilla ice cream, and the forensics reports. Jim's brow had lost its pinched, worried look. Blair dished the ice cream while the other two men discussed the evidence, smiling in satisfaction. Jim's mood improved dramatically with a full stomach. If only they had been able to nip the entire crisis in the bud.

"What prompted you to call Jim on this one, Simon?" Blair asked, handing each man a heaping bowl of vanilla.

"The shoes."

"What about the shoes?" Blair asked, looking totally confused. "Everybody has shoes. Were they ruby slippers or something?" Both men glared at him. "Sorry. I'm not trying to downplay a serious crime."

Simon shrugged. "It seems silly. Jim noticed something in the photos yesterday, from the old unsolved cases. Some of the victims had elaborate knots tied into their shoelaces, or something unusual with their shoes. Until you had the crime scene photos side by side, it wasn't something you'd note. Our new victim had the left shoe on the right foot, and the right shoe on the left foot."

"That seems like something you'd definitely notice."

"You got it, as long as the murderer did the same thing every time. We can't be sure it's connected at all. One of the victims had his shoes unlaced, with the laces dangling, another had double knots."

"Double knots?" Blair said. "As in a little kid's double knots? You'd have to notice."

"Sure," Jim said. "But the cases were months or years apart. They weren't assigned to the same detectives. I would have noted it at the time, but that's all."

"I know, weird," Simon agreed. "But after Jim pointed it out that afternoon, I noticed the shoes on our victim last night and got a little excited. There doesn't seem to be any substantial connection. I shouldn't have called."

"Jim and I were just talking about that," Blair said, and launched into an explanation of his residual pepper spray theory. As predicted, Banks interrupted the narrative with a few scathing remarks about vice personnel in his bullpen. Despite his irritation, he seemed relieved.

"You mean it wasn't the crime scene?" Simon asked. "Well, that's great!"

"Well, it was the crime scene, but that wasn't the only factor, or even the primary factor. Just promise me, next time, you make sure I'm there," Blair said firmly. "At least until Jim gets his bearings back."

"Sandburg, with all due respect, I'm not sure you want to be traipsing around crime scenes. It can be pretty gory." Simon looked to Jim for support, who nodded in agreement. "Besides, you're a civilian. It's against policy."

Blair overrode the objection. "So make new policy. My focus will be on Jim. Just trust me on this."

Simon looked to his ex-detective for confirmation. After a moment's hesitation, Jim nodded again. "I think we should try it Blair's way, at least for a time or two. That is, if you want to try again."

"Thanks for the heads up," Jim said, escorting Simon to the elevator. "Call you tomorrow?"

"Do that," Banks added emphatically, smiling as the doors closed.

Blair met him with a glass of juice. "I think we need to talk."

Jim accepted the juice, but wasn't interested in this conversation. "I thought we had this all straightened out. Safety tip for the day, stay away from pepper spray."

Blair gave him an indulgent look. "Nice try. I'm more worried about why you didn't tell me in the first place."

"Look, Chief, it wasn't that bad..."

"Jim, don't defend your position. Just don't. It was bad." Blair's attempt at a neutral, reserved air crumpled. Misery poured from his vivid blue eyes. "News flash, Eli kicked me in the butt. He didn't betray any confidences, so don't worry. He just called a few things to my attention, and I filled in the rest. I need to be exceptionally clear about this." He pulled a chair close so he could look straight at Jim, their knees barely touching. "You kept it to yourself because you thought I was too busy." Jim's uneasy silence was the only answer needed. "I am busy, but I'm not too busy for you. I can't force you, but I hope you believe that. I desperately need you to believe me, in more than just words." Jim started to answer, and Blair waved him off. "I made some adjustments to my schedule today, and I've basically cleared the next few days, and most of next week, to spend some uninterrupted time with you. No, don't worry about how. Just suffice it to say, it's done."

"Absolutely not," Jim said adamantly. "You have a brand new job to worry about. You can't just blow that off."

"You're right. I just needed to get that out in the open, so we can approach it rationally, and not just ignore it until the next crisis. To tell you the truth, I was going to suggest we turn in, and discuss this when we're fresh. Sound okay?"

Jim noticed the unspoken plea, nodded and said goodnight. Dr. Sandburg was trying to let him off easy, at least for now. When his back was turned, and Blair had shuffled off towards the guest room, his face broke into a wide grin. Sandburg wasn't the only one who had put the day to good use. Whatever Blair's thoughts on the matter were, he'd done a little reorganizing of his own. Some creativity and timing, and he could put his plan into action.

&&&&&

Three o'clock and all's well. This is what happens when you have a guilty conscience, Sandburg. Blair turned on the bedside light, pushed his pillow against the headboard and sat back. If he wasn't going to sleep, he may as well do some thinking.

What was it Eli said? Flitting was only good for honeybees? Well, that hurt, but only because it was true. Eli had scolded him more than once during his days as a student, when double booking dates and midnight crams were de rigueur. Here he had been cruising along, with his tenure track position, feeling all mature, and in reality, it was the same old Sandburg.

And then there was Jim.

Blair pulled the blankets up a little farther, but the chill that made him shudder wasn't really temperature. Jim had placed himself at risk in an effort to spare him. The consequences had been awful, and certainly could have been much, much worse. What if a really severe sensory episode caused permanent damage? Jim needed his help when things came up, not when it fit into some academic schedule. They needed to talk about that, and he would need to present a supremely convincing argument. What was he going to say? As Eli had so deftly pointed out, his schedule was a mess. How could he fault Jim for taking notice, and trying to help the only way he knew how?

Jim was a smart guy. A few empty reassurances weren't going to be good enough. Jim would see right through it. If he wanted Jim to change his outlook, Professor Sandburg needed to get his act together first. Promises he couldn't keep were a bad idea. In his own way, Eli had pointed out the obvious. The old Sandburg strategy of doing more, and doing it faster and longer, wasn't going to work.

Blair sighed, turned off the light and flopped back into the bed. He pounded the pillow a few times for good measure. He was going to have to get organized. There was no help for it.

Damn.

&&&&&

This was so cool. Fabulous. Brilliant.

The tiny apartment was as dingy and filthy as ever. Takeout boxes and stained coffee mugs littered the room. The small garbage bin in the corner overflowed. None of it mattered.

He snatched pages as they churned off his ancient printer, reading feverishly. It was the best he'd ever done, hell, it was the best anyone had ever done.

He smoothed the pages lovingly, thrilled beyond words, imagining the future. The success, the book signings, the fat checks that would be coming his way, it was all going to be his.

It was just a matter of getting the proper inspiration. He looked at the photos he'd taken the night before. Even the shot taken from a distance, the police captain, with his swirling overcoat had turned out great.

And he'd captured every minute.

&&&&&

Blair awoke to the smell of cooked bacon and fresh coffee. He expected to find Jim in the kitchen. Sometimes the other man surprised him with an early breakfast, but today the only sign of Jim Ellison was a note.

Blair poured himself some coffee. It must be sheer torture for Jim to serve coffee to someone else when he hadn't managed it himself. Taking a piece of bacon to munch on the way, he headed for the shower. Whatever Jim had in mind, he might as well be ready to go.

The shower was a blessing to his bleary-eyed state. He couldn't shrug off a sleepless night the way he used to. No flitting today. He'd be all business, nothing but ruthless organization. Blair grabbed a mouthful of water and spit a stream across Jim's shower tiles. Who was he kidding? Linear organization was absolutely not his strong point. How could someone just think their way out of a lifetime of doing? Abruptly a smile broke across his face. Come to think of it, he might know someone who managed to reinvent himself. Some observer you are, Sandburg. You could ask him over breakfast.

Breakfast was still waiting for him. Jim was waiting as well, calmly drinking from a bottle of water, which wasn't a good sign. Jim had fresh squeezed juice and buttermilk doughnuts delivered every morning. If he was drinking water instead, things must not be going well.

"Having trouble with taste?" Blair asked, taking a long sip from an abandoned glass of orange juice. He watched Jim's face closely, hoping to get a reading on the man's distress. As usual, Jim's expression didn't reveal much.

"Not actually that bad. I just didn't feel like messing with it. Are you up for my surprise?"

Blair took a bite of warm croissant, leaving the doughnuts for Jim, who never tired of them. "If we can talk first."

"Look, Chief, I'm sure you're all a-twitter over some new checklist or something, but I don't want to do hours of sentinel analysis today."

Blair recognized the Jim Ellison version of "I'll think about it tomorrow." He could sympathize. "Actually, I had something else in mind, but it is pretty analytical. Bear with me. You know one of the things I really admire about you? When the chips were down, and nothing worked, and you didn't understand why, you threw out the old model and got on with the new."

Jim raised one eyebrow in response. "Not like I had many choices. I don't find desperation very admirable."

Blair snickered. "Know what, Jim? I am desperate right now, so we're a good pair. Eli pretty much spelled it out for me yesterday. If I don't get a handle on my schedule, I'm sunk. Whenever I got bogged down before, I'd just pull an all-nighter and get caught up. Work frantically for a couple of weeks and then business as usual. I could multitask my way out of anything."

"Yeah. So? As far as I can see, that's about what you're doing now."

"Well, to put it mildly, it's not working now. I need a new approach, and I need your help."

"I don't know anything about being a university professor."

"Because you're everything I'm not. Organized, disciplined. You think linearly, I think globally. I want you to analyze this like a business project. Help me figure out what to do. If you help me, then maybe you'll let me help you."

Jim choked on a swallow of water. It was a mild shock that Sandburg's thinking was running parallel to his own, but he didn't want to reveal his surprise. He tried to recover, forcing a bit of the tease into his reply. "I've seen your office. You could just have a fire and be done with it."

"Ha ha. Are you encouraging arson? Or are you going to help me out here?" Blair matched his mocking tone, and Jim relaxed a bit.

"We're different people, in case you haven't noticed," Jim said, all joking aside. "Like you said, we don't think the same way. And for God's sake, you're brilliant and a PhD. What could I possibly tell you? "

Blair tore another croissant in half with irritation. "I swear, Jim. What you've achieved is not accidental. I lived in this neighborhood four years ago. It was borderline scary. You've turned urban blight into the hottest neighborhood in Cascade. You bring all kinds of resources to bear in a master plan. That's a hell of a lot more complicated than arranging a schedule. Apply your skills, man, because I just don't have them."

"You're serious. Now I am worried. I wouldn't know where to start," Jim stammered, now clearly flustered.

"Hey, you started somewhere. What did you do? Actually, you should probably tape this and write a business strategies book. Those things make millions, you know. Come on, now. Share with the ignorant. Start at the beginning."

Jim shrugged. "I don't know, exactly. I guess it's a military model. Define the objective, recon, plan the operation. I needed a place to live. I knew the things that drove me crazy. I looked for a place that didn't have particular smells and sounds." He tapped the now empty water bottle on the table edge. "I guess I'd tell you to prioritize what you need. Can you do that?"

Blair shrugged, his dismay clearly written on his face. "Therein lies the problem. I need everything at once, and they all require time. They're competing and mutually exclusive."

"Explain that."

Blair frowned. "Well, obviously, I can't look for an apartment and see students or give a lecture at the same time."

"I'm not jerking you around, Chief. If you can state something, you're a long way toward picking it apart."

Blair sighed. "Okay. I think I get you. I need a car and a place to live. I need to furnish said place. I still need to organize my office. My office has always been a mess, but I usually can find stuff. After the move from Michigan, and getting my office wrecked, I really can't find a damn thing. Stuff got moved around too much for me to keep track. I waste time looking for stuff I never find. It really slows down the preparation for my lectures. It slows down everything."

"That can't be all there is to it," Jim said shrewdly.

Blair sighed. "You do manage to cut to the heart of things, Jim. The real issue, to paraphrase Eli, is I don't finish a task before I start another one. My classic Sandburg multitasking isn't bringing the ship into port."

"What's most important?"

"They're all important. That's the problem," Blair said, his voice rising a bit. "This is so frustrating. I feel so stupid."

Jim placed the water bottle flat on the table, flicked the end and sent it spinning in circles. He gave his friend a sly look. "Well, how about we do my surprise, and then go from there. Finish eating while I make a couple of calls."

"Hey, wait a minute," Blair called in the direction of his retreating back. "What did you eat?" He shook his head in futility when Jim didn't answer. Giving in to hunger, he polished off another croissant. When Jim returned, he gave no clues as to the nature of the "surprise", other than that travel was required.

Blair allowed himself to be herded into Jim's truck for a circuitous drive with no obvious destination. Even though they seemed close to the University, Blair was unfamiliar with the area. No amount of teasing or prodding produced any response from Jim, so Blair finally settled for casual gazing without really paying attention. Whatever Jim had in mind would run its course. Lost in thought, Blair was caught unawares when the truck pulled to a stop. "We're here," Jim said cheerfully. "What's the matter, Chief? You lost?"

"Where are we exactly?" Blair asked, hustling to catch up. Jim held open the door to a small bakery. "Welcome to Collette's. Smell those buttermilk doughnuts." The shop was tiny, and the woman behind the counter broke into a smile. "Detective Ellison, how nice to see you! Do you want your usual? I just made a batch fresh this morning. Are you staying or on the run this morning?"

"To go, with two coffees." Blair glanced over, his concern showing. Jim leaned over to whisper in Blair's ear. "They have great coffee here. If I can't handle it, I'll give it to you."

Blair nodded. After Jim's limited attempts to eat, he was happy to encourage the show of willingness. Even in the best of circumstances, not every attempt to extend Jim's repertoire of food was successful. Jim yearned for coffee. It would be a red-letter day if a cup of java was a success. He looked around the shop. It was old, but cheerful. "Why not just eat here, Jim? Take a minute and quit starving yourself."

"Places to go, things to do," Jim said cryptically. "No more questions. You'll spoil my surprise. Hey, thanks." He accepted a white pastry bag and handed over a ten. He promptly buried his nose in the bag and sniffed. "Food for the gods. Keep the change, Millie," he said cheerfully. He grabbed a handful of sugar packets and headed for the door. Blair took the two coffees, smiled at the beaming cashier and followed him out.

Jim was a man on a mission. Before Blair knew it, they were chugging up three flights of stairs, and he was struggling to keep up. Jim was taking them two at a time. Blair was forced to take it slower unless he wanted hot coffee all over his hands. On the last landing, Jim was out of sight, but a door was open. "In here, Chief." Blair shrugged and followed the voice.

The high-ceilinged space was basically empty. Blair realized that Jim was standing on a small balcony. "Come check out the view, Sandburg." Still carrying the coffee, Blair joined him. A couple of pots with long dead plants cluttered the end of the balcony, but the view was amazing. The bay sparkled in the morning sun.

"Wow. This is gorgeous. Almost as good as your place."

"Well, maybe the view is." Jim took one of the coffee cups and ducked back inside. Blair found him at an island in the small kitchen, gleefully emptying packets of sugar into the cup with one hand, and eagerly munching a doughnut with the other. "The place has some drawbacks. The water heater's small. Half the time the elevator doesn't work, the fridge is a relic, and the furnace runs like an old Sherman tank. Okay, moment of truth." Jim blew across the surface of the coffee and took a tiny sip.

"Dials, Jim, dials. Concentrate on the sweet first, then let the coffee follow. Take it slow."

"Yeaaah," Jim said slowly, and tried another sip. He rolled it across his tongue and tried again. "He shoots, he scores." Another sip. "Today is a good day."

"Is it really okay? After the last few days, that's great!" Blair said, smiling. He handed Jim another doughnut. "Go for the full meal deal." He chuckled as Jim rolled his eyes in apparent bliss.

"So what do you think?" he asked around a mouthful of doughnut.

"What do I think about what?" Blair asked. "The dangers of processed sugar? The fact that we need to get you a coffeemaker with all the bells and whistles?"

"No," Jim said in a disgusted tone. "What do you think of it? The place?"

Blair frowned, clearly not quite catching on.

Jim waved to the surrounding space impatiently. "Sandburg, you have a PhD. Don't you get it? You've keep fretting about staying with me and not having a place. You have zero time to look for one, because you spend every spare moment helping me, nurse-maiding clueless freshmen, teaching, getting the Institute running and God knows what else. I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner."

"Think of what?"

"I own this place. Welcome to 852 Prospect. I used to live here, and now it's yours."

Blair dropped his coffee and barely caught it, sloshing hot liquid over his fingers. He was too distracted to do more than yelp, "What do you mean, it's mine? Whoa. Wait a minute!"

"Don't you like the place?' Jim asked, his bliss fading into disappointment.

"Like it? Of course I like it. It's great, but -"

"But nothing." Jim smiled with absolute enthusiasm. "Do I have to spell it out? It's empty. It's free. It's close to Rainier, and you can get to my place in less than ten minutes. I'll never be able to live here again, but I never could bring myself to sell it. In fact, I own the building. We can have you set up here in a week. What could be more efficient?"

Blair just stood there, stunned. But here was Jim, grinning, totally pleased with himself, waiting for an answer. "For starters, I can't afford it."

"Not an issue. We can write up a contract if it makes you happy."

"Jim, you're not thinking logically. I've been apartment shopping, remember? I have a vague idea of the local market. You know this. You heard the realtor, looked at the other places. Even if you were talking a bargain basement deal, it's totally out of my price range." He gestured wildly toward the high ceilings of the loft. "I can realistically afford a pup tent in the hallway."

"You don't know what I have in mind," Jim said, his disappointed face softening into a smile. "Are you willing to listen?" Jim's expression didn't waver under Blair's skeptical expression.

Blair sighed and gave in. "Fine. I'll listen. But I can't freeload this place off you. That's a nonstarter."

"Not what I had in mind, Sandburg," Jim said firmly. "This is a business proposition, not charity, which is why you don't need to worry about the asking price. Come look." Blair trailed him back into the kitchen, trying to make a quick calculation of his assets. He was sure Jim would be more than fair, but his own resources were still limited. "Remember I told you the shopping plaza and the condos weren't everything?" Blair nodded, remembering that particular late night conversation. "I've had this idea on the back burner for a while."

"What idea?" Blair said, leaning against the kitchen island.

Jim joined him, obviously comfortable with the familiar space. "When I bought the land for the gym, I was operating on a shoestring, but I got the land cheap. No one wanted it."

"I'm well aware, if you recall," Blair interjected. "It was my place that blew up, thanks to that stupid drug lab."

"Why you were ever living there is beyond me," Jim said. "What matters is that when the gym took off, I kept buying land when it was offered, usually at fire sale prices. I needed to invest, and everyone wanted to get rid of those places. Things sort of snowballed before I realized it. I own a lot, well most, of those old commercial buildings to the west and south. 852 Prospect, this building, anchors the northeast corner." "I had no idea," Blair said. "All that?"

"Well yeah, not that I advertise it. The point is, this is the city I was a kid in. I love Cascade; that's why I came back here after I got out of the Army. I'm not interested in leveling everything for miles. I want to renovate the city, not tear it down." He gestured toward the sleeping area. "I want this to be a demo of what can be done. Make it a place for lots of people, not just singles with more money than sense. I want families, kids, working class people, people just starting out; a real community, right in the heart of Cascade. Think of it. No mindless commuting to the suburbs, wasting gas and resources and time. Here, take a look. I have drawings." He opened the fridge and took out a roll of architectural plans.

Blair laughed. "They're so hot they need to be iced?"

Jim laughed. "Nah, the fridge has been off. I just needed somewhere to hide them, so it could be a surprise. Look." He spread the diagrams on the island. "You're not a fussy kind of guy. You could move in or wait until the big stuff is done."

"What big stuff?" Blair looked around the spacious room. "Jim, this is better than anywhere I've ever lived. There's no big stuff to do."

"No, no, no. Just basics. Replace the windows, upgrade the bathroom and kitchen, some of the wiring. Refinish the hardwood floor. Put in a few good pieces of furniture. You dig out all your artifacts, and then I wan to turn you loose. Give it an international look. That's the trade. You put some personal style in, live in it, and then let me use it to inspire people. Get the project off the ground."

Blair stared at him as if he'd grown a second head. "Jim, I don't have a style. If you stretch, my apartment in Michigan was done in Early Goodwill. You need to hire a decorator. Professionals do this sort of thing."

"No way, Chief," Jim replied, setting his jaw. "I hire a decorator and I get the inside of a magazine. I don't want a bunch of chrome and fru-fru. This is a real space and I want a real person to live here."

Blair looked from the blueprints to his friend and back again. The scope of the project was immense. The enormity of it drove him to minutiae as a cover. "Jim, it won't work. You've seen my office. A real person works there, but it looks like a landfill."

Jim grinned. "What was that speech you gave me about it being completely organized, but you had your own system."

"That was the truth!" Blair protested. "I can find everything, but only paper recyclers would call it inspirational."

"You're missing the point, Sandburg. You have all kinds of things in there, the little clay bowls and the masks. You've got boxes overflowing with stuff."

"Oh, that. You go on expeditions and people give you things. That's just anthropological junk."

"Hey, you showed me that 'junk' and it got me thinking, how great it'd look in a space that showed them off. All you'd have to do is steer someone in the right direction."

Blair looked thoughtful. "You mean like shelving and lighting?"

"Exactly. I know how busy you are. You wouldn't do the nuts and bolts, just give some outlines. Look at that wall," Jim said, pointing to the vertical expanse of brick before them. "You could run bookshelves clear to the ceiling if you wanted to. What would it be like to work in a place where your books were right there in front of you, instead of buried in one of six boxes?" Blair walked forward a few steps, his head tilted to the side. Jim gave himself a personal high-five. He considered Sandburg's lust for books his ace in the hole.

"There's so much space," Blair said dreamily. "I could have a library table, really spread out."

"Imagine it. Acres of space for you to spread the blue books on. No more towers. Come on, Chief. Say you're in. Some weekend, we send in a photographer and use the pictures for marketing. We can work out a schedule so people can come through when you're not here. Then you get a great place, and I get the ball rolling."

"I - I don't know what to say."

"Say yes. Y. E. S."

Blair's throat contracted around the words he desperately wanted to say. After all this time, the vagabond years with Naomi, the rootless college apartments, the years in Michigan that never had any permanence, he was going to have a home? And all he had to do was say, "Yes", and it would be his? The wave of emotion erupted into a huge smile.

"O. K. A. Y."

"Smartass."

"Then yes, conditionally. Gratefully. Why don't you show me around? I still don't believe it."

The tour was short and sweet, but Blair loved it. Touched by Jim's generosity, he found it all a bit overwhelming. "It's awesome, Jim. I don't need much. If you let me borrow your truck, I can get some second hand stuff and be set up in no time. You just have to let me pay rent, man." Blair was still turning slowly, taking in every inch of the place. "I can't believe it. It's too good to be true. Okay, I'm in."

Jim practically pushed him out the door. They had to come back for the doughnuts.

&&&&

Eli Stoddard was laughing so hard he had to take his glasses off. "You're kidding. He had everything all arranged?"

"Completely," Blair said, gesturing with his hands spread wide. "I was like a kid in a candy store. We went from the loft to the architectural firm Jim uses. He had this portfolio with these pictures, you know, like sample rooms. 'Now this is a view from University of Chicago library. How do you like this?' How do I like it? I kept wondering which vital organ I'd need to sell. I could hardly answer."

Blair was seated in an armchair across from Eli's desk in the Sentinel Institute. His elbow was propped up on the arm, holding his chin. His brow furrowed as he gazed into the distance. "The guy keeps going on about floating shelves, and whether we should use cherry or mahogany. I always just hoped my shelves would stay up. Forget floating." Eli cackled again. "I'm serious, Eli. I haven't owned shelves that weren't out of cinder blocks and particle board, and I usually scavenged those. This isn't my reality."

"Why don't you relax and enjoy it, my boy. Jim's done remarkable things already, and I'm sure this project will be no exception. How many developers would be worried about playgrounds and community parks? Just last week he was talking to me about getting Rainier students to work as tutors in a drop-in center for kids. He has a strong sense of civic responsibility. His generosity towards you isn't out of step with his other activities. He has long term goals. He doesn't make gestures frivolously."

"I know, Eli." Blair sighed. "It - I just feel overwhelmed. It's all so great, but it's like a tidal wave."

Eli looked at him thoughtfully. In some respects, Blair was still the eager sixteen year old hanging on every word in Anthro 101. Few of his instructors or peers ever had any hint the brilliance and energy sheltered a fragile spirit. Blair had once confided that, during his childhood, his most important possessions were always packed, ready to leave at a moment's notice. Permanence, in situations or relationships, seemed to be a foreign concept to him. His mother's restless ways left a lasting mark. For all his easygoing exterior, Blair Sandburg didn't trust that any good thing could last too long. No wonder he was struggling to handle all this.

Eli knew his protégé better than anyone. Some before-and-after changes were subtle. The jeans weren't patched anymore. The hikers were new instead of handed-down and worn at the sole, the cotton shirt under the vest was pressed and crisp. Despite his success, Blair still seemed a little surprised and unsure, as if his vagabond childhood could return at any moment. "You sound as if you're waiting for something to go wrong," Eli said gently.

"Maybe I am," Blair said. "It just seems like a fairytale."

"Life isn't an accident, Blair. You and Jim may have met by chance, but how both of you progressed beyond that point is far from random. Do realize how very similar the two of you are?"

"Oh, come on, Eli," Blair protested. "We couldn't be more different."

"Respect the wisdom of the ages, you whippersnapper." The broad smile on his face negated the scold in his voice. "Neither of you trust your own success. Down deep, both of you sell yourselves short, as if anyone could do the same things. You give that some thought. Meanwhile, let's break Jim out of jail and look at his test results."

Jim was already emerging from the new auditory lab. "Not so bad. How did I do?"

Blair was already pulling up the data on the computer. "Come see for yourself." Jim settled into a chair by Blair's left shoulder. Eli rested his arms on the back of Sandburg's chair, taking a look for himself.

Blair was opening up dated files from earlier testing, talking as he worked. "If I do this right, we can superimpose the results over a range of frequencies. The blue and yellow lines are the old data. The red is today. That's interesting. You're definitely spiking, but not across the board, only on specific frequencies."

Eli pointed to the screen. "That pattern is consistent. Every time you had a tone in this range, your sensitivity went way up."

"Were you aware of that during the testing?" Blair asked.

Jim studied the screen. "Not really. It's weird to see it on a graph. I know the test varies loudness along with frequency. I expect different combinations of high, low, loud and soft. Then every once in awhile, it was like someone turned the volume to max." He shook his head. "I guess I was so focused on the volume I didn't notice the bad ones were the same tone."

A thought suddenly occurred to Blair. "Jim, I want you to think. That's not what happened when you were at the murder scene, was it?" he asked.

"Now that you mention, no. No way. That night, it was like everything was unbearably loud. Not just certain things."

"Jim, if you can stand it, I think it would be worth repeating this for a few days in succession," Eli added. "I think Blair would agree. Your episode may give us a unique opportunity to follow your senses longitudinally."

Blair was nodding enthusiastically. "If this represents the aftereffects of a bad episode, it might change according to a pattern. Wow. If certain tones are more sensitive every time, we could maybe tune the white generators to compensate."

"Well, it didn't really hurt," Jim said hesitantly. "I guess I could do it. Shift my schedule around."

Blair looked sharply over his shoulder. "How do you feel right now? Don't minimize."

Jim shrugged. "A little bit of a headache. Tired. How dumb. A bunch of sounds shouldn't sap your energy."

"It's processing the sound that takes the energy, Jim. I think we may have stumbled onto something. Your taste results are giving us the same pattern. This could really help us."

Jim pushed his chair away from the computer screen and stretched his legs out. "I guess I don't see the significance."

"Oh, man, this could be huge," Blair said, slipping into the chair next to Jim. "We - I - was assuming that a sensory episode is like an impossibly loud siren that slowly fades away. If that's not the case, and certain sounds or smells stay at elevated sensitivity, we might be able to shorten your recovery time by specifically addressing those."

"You mean each crash wouldn't take days?" Jim considered the idea, and nodded slightly, but still seemed skeptical. "In the beginning, when things got bad, the only thing that seemed to work was to take everything to zero. No sound, no taste, sometimes no clothes. I guess if manipulating a few things would work just as well, that would make things easier."

"Think of this. I can go one better." Blair got more animated as he tried to explain. "Let's take sound. What if those frequencies that stay elevated are actually triggers as well. We might be able to use the white noise generators to damp them. Make them not just recuperative, but protective. Avoid the whole thing completely."

Jim sat in stunned silence, considering the implications of what Blair was explaining. "If that's the case, suddenly testing tomorrow seems a little more attractive." He straightened in the chair. "Actually, it sounds a lot more attractive."

"Don't get me wrong," Blair said hastily. "I mean, I'm really excited, but it might not turn out so cleanly, but we can hope."

"As in don't get your hopes up. I get it, Chief." Jim answered soberly, and checked his watch. "We've done three of five senses. Is that enough for today?"

A guy didn't need a PhD to realize Jim was at his limit. A fourth round of tests would escalate the headache from minor to screaming. Blair smiled ruefully. "Yeah, we've done enough for today." He gestured toward Jim's watch. "You got a hot date, Jim?" he teased.

Jim tapped the watch and shook his head. "No, you do, and Eli's a co-conspirator."

&&&&&

"Oh. My. God."

"At least you're not spelling again. Is that all you have to say, Sandburg?"

"You're lucky I can say anything. You two did - this?"

Eli and Jim chortled in unison. The hodge-podge of piles, folders, half-opened boxes - in short the entire landfill of Professor Sandburg's office - had been moved, unpacked and spread out on tables in one of the classrooms. Sheets of 11 by 14 paper adorned the walls, labeled with a rough organizational system. Two senior anthro students and a woman Blair didn't know were hard at work amid the chaos, laughing and talking as they sorted.

"Quit laughing!" Blair protested. "This is serious."

"Of course it's serious," Jim said, still smirking. "You are seriously an organizational disaster, and we're seriously bailing you out. Eli supplied the system and the academic knowledge. Meet Kathleen Rafferty." Blair exchanged greetings with a striking, dark haired woman in her forties who had risen from her computer. "Kathleen organized my files when the business got to the point I couldn't do it alone anymore. She's a genius."

Rafferty had a firm handshake and a bright smile. "I'm so happy to meet you, Dr. Sandburg. Don't panic. We're cataloging and cross-referencing. You'll be able to look everything up on the computer and find it. Everything's going very smoothly."

"How can that be?" Blair asked. "I'm a filing disaster. I have acres of this stuff."

Ms. Rafferty smiled confidently. "You know, that's what everyone thinks. The really bad ones have absolutely everything in a shoe box. You, on the other hand, are very consistent about assembling related items into folders. You just have no system for organizing what you've grouped. Trust me, this is a piece of cake." She nodded to Eli. "Dr. Stoddard, I have to compliment you on your choice of assistants. They're excellent."

The two students beamed. The young man, a tall gawky redhead, chimed in. "Hey, I consider this great experience. I'm going to go home and do the same thing with my own stuff. Someday, when I actually get a job, I'll know how to organize an office." The young woman, one of Blair's seminar students, elbowed her colleague in the ribs. "Sure, Jason, like that's going to happen. Honestly, Dr. Sandburg, you are the worst. We're finding stuff from your undergrad days." Her dark eyes twinkled. "We're keeping the love notes in a separate file."

Blair's protests were buried under a chorus of catcalls.

&&&&

"I can't believe you talked me into this. You do realize that this stuff is in the negative numbers in terms of nutritional value?"

"Shit, Sandburg, what did your mother feed you growing up? Twigs and low cholesterol berries? Mac and cheese is classic comfort food."

Blair rolled his eyes and speared a chunk of elbow macaroni onto his fork, holding it up for inspection. "You might as well eat white bread with a coating of plastic. And when you talk about Naomi and her theories of child rearing, you'd better sit down and take a Valium. I think it would be too much for you."

"That bad?" Jim said, calmly scooping another helping in to his bowl. "I really need to meet this woman some day, Chief. I wonder if we should have made two boxes."

"Puh-lease. That box should have served a family of refugees." Blair gazed across the table in mock sternness. "You're only getting by with this because you were such a good sport today about the testing. How's your headache?"

"I'm fine. Quit hovering. Do you want another beer?"

"Not right now. I feel kind of guilty drinking one when you're not." Jim's initial attempt at savoring a brew had failed. His dinner was being accompanied by ice water.

"Don't worry about it. Today's a lot better than yesterday. I can't complain." Jim hesitated for a moment, turning serious in the midst of the banter. "You're not mad at me, are you? For butting in on your personal life?"

Blair shook his head. "What kind of an ingrate do you think I am? I asked you to help me get organized, and the next thing I know, you're one step ahead of me. We're talking the Taj Mahal of organization."

"It's still sort of intrusive. I guess I got a little excited and just ran with it. When I called Eli, he was in with both feet after the second sentence."

"Eli," Blair snorted. "That old fox. You made his day. When the two of you team up, I just need to lie down in front of the steam roller."

"Is that the way you feel?" Jim asked. "Steamrolled?"

"Only in a good way. No worse than the way you feel after Eli and I coerce you into three plus hours of testing."

"I have another test I want you to run," Jim said. "I've been thinking about it all day, and I really want to do it. We're kind of on a roll, you know."

Blair hesitated. Jim had that look whenever he considered something near life and death. Whenever he saw that expression on the sentinel's face, he paid very close attention. "Whatever you want," he said. "What do you have in mind? Touch or taste?"

"Neither. I want you to take me back to the crime scene."

It was the last thing Blair had expected. The only answer he could manage was a small nod.

&&&&&

It was nearly eleven before they managed to get downtown. Blair had refused to go before Jim was dressed warmly, which took nearly an hour of trial and error. It was raining again, and Blair pulled the hood up on his Gore-Tex jacket. Jim seemed oblivious as the drizzle pelted down on his bare head.

They retraced Blair's route down the block and up the other side, taking it slowly. Twice, after watching Jim struggle to recalibrate his senses, Blair suggested they call a halt. Jim just shook his head and plowed on. In the end, they devised a system, walking side by side, Blair's hand fastened firmly on Jim's elbow. Each time Jim's pace slowed, Blair noted the non-verbal cue and began quiet verbal coaching. Before they made the complete circuit, beads of sweat stood out on Jim's forehead, joining the raindrops to form long trickles of moisture down his temples and cheeks.

"Jim, enough. Please. You can't force this."

"It's okay. The body was here. This is where I lost it. Stood over the body and lost it like a damn rookie."

"Shit, Jim. You're being too hard on yourself. No ordinary rookie ever had these kinds of obstacles." Blair felt a shiver go through Jim's body. He shifted, putting his outside hand on Jim's elbow, and placing his near hand flat between Jim's shoulder blades. "Easy there. Translate for me."

"I can still smell the blood, but it's more than that. Like - I - don't know - like I can smell fear. That's not right. I don't - I just feel it."

"Circle. Work out from the center. Don't be analytical. Just process, and try to narrate for me as we go. Go where your senses take you."

Every few steps, Jim closed his eyes, scrunching them in concentration. The street was deserted, and the rain continued. No cars, no foot traffic disturbed them. Jim was speaking so softly, Blair could hardly hear him. Blair pushed his hood back to lean closer. Most of the time Jim's eyes stayed half-closed or shut, depending on Blair to steer him away from disaster. After ten minutes, Blair realized that Jim's circling was no longer symmetrical. Their lopsided spiral was drifting into a nearby alley. They were at least thirty or forty feet from their original location when Jim came to an abrupt halt.

"Here. He died here." Jim looked around, his voice and stance communicating his confusion. "Why do I think that? Why here? I smell blood, but there couldn't be blood after the rain." He moved cautiously, examining the pavement, to an area sheltered by an overhang. "It's here, along the wall. Faint, but Luminol will show it up." Jim ran his hands along the brick surface. "I think he was shot up against this wall. There are bullet-sized pits in the surface of the brick. I can feel them." Blair stepped back, but hovered close, trying to give Jim enough space to work through things on his own. He watched intently as Jim stepped back to a spot close to the curb and squatted, studying the pavement intently. Jim reached into his jacket pocket and pulled his hand out in disgust.

"Some detective I am. Not even an evidence bag. Chief, you have a sheet of paper or something?"

Blair pulled out a small notebook he always carried and tore out a sheet, not really understanding what was going on. Jim folded the sheet into a rough funnel and scooped something off the pavement. "See this?" he asked.

"Jim, I can't see a damn thing. What have you got?"

"Oh, right." Jim retreated a few steps to the corner and the nearest streetlight. "See?"

"A button?"

Jim carefully folded the paper around his prize. "You didn't look at the crime scene photos. The victim had some buttons torn off his shirt. I think this one is a match. If he was shot here, he was moved quickly, and bled out over there on the street." His face, illuminated by the streetlight, was a mixture of surprise and concentration. "I think I need to call Simon."

&&&&&

"I never had any idea police work was so cold and wet." Blair looked at Jim, who seemed oblivious of the continuing drizzle.

"I thought anthropologists thrived on field work. You complaining, Chief?" Jim asked without annoyance. He gave Blair a faint smile. "I think you've achieved drowned rat status, so I can't really blame you."

"No, not complaining, just making an observation," Blair said.

"You're cold. I can hear your teeth chatter. Why don't you climb in the cruiser and warm up?"

"Not a chance, Jim," Blair said emphatically. "Where you go, I go, cold or not. And I'll thank you to keep your ears to yourself. Teeth chattering ought to be a private matter."

"I'll work on it." They continued to stand, shoulder to shoulder, watching from a distance as the Forensics Unit of the Cascade PD worked over the area Jim had identified. Initially, the technicians weren't thrilled and had protested. Their comments had been brutally uncomplimentary. Blair was surprised that Jim didn't take a swing at them, but Jim had remained silent. Simon Banks had stepped in and insisted, proceeding on Jim's word alone. So far, they'd found two shell casings and enough trace evidence to keep them going. No one was grousing any more.

One of the technicians broke away and approached their threesome. After a wary look at Jim, he spoke to Banks. "Captain, I think we've got what we can. I'd like to take this stuff back and start processing."

Simon glanced at Jim, who gave a slight nod. "Fine. I want a full update on my desk before eight A.M."

"Yes, sir. We hear you, loud and clear." The man started to walk off, then turned and looked at Jim. "Detective, I owe you an apology. I don't know how you did it, but this is fantastic. I was out of line." Jim said nothing, but managed another nod.

Simon clapped him on the back. "Tomorrow. I'll call. Get some sleep." Jim made no move towards his truck as the others went their separate ways. "Jim?" Blair asked softly. When Jim turned, Blair couldn't be sure, but his friend's eyes seemed full, near to tears. Maybe not. It could have been the light, or the rain.

"No one's called me detective for a long time." Abruptly, without another word, Jim set off in the direction of the truck.

&&&&&

Three o'clock and all's well. No chimes, but weren't you here last night, Sandburg? Same time, same channel?

Blair rolled to his side, still unable to close off his thoughts and rest. Despite the blanket-laden bed, his body, and soul, for that matter, remained chilled. What a wild couple of days. His emotions had been like one of those silly paddle balls from his childhood, whipsawed from high to low on the thinnest elastic cord. Yesterday had been so promising, and then the crash.

The ride back to the loft had been completed in near silence. Jim's face, barely visible in the half light of the side streets, had been blank and closed off. Any attempt at conversation died in one monosyllabic reply after another until Blair had given up. Upon reaching Jim's apartment, the man had disappeared into his bedroom, barely saying goodnight.

What could possibly be wrong?

Blair revisited his memories of Jim walking the crime scene. He'd struggled, yes. At times he'd even seemed in pain. Most of the time, he seemed hesitant, perhaps, but determined. Jim's performance had been amazing. With more practice and training, imagine what he might be capable of? He would have expected Jim to be pleased, thrilled even. Why retreat into uncommunicative neutrality? Blair thought he'd come to know Jim as a friend and as a man. It just didn't make sense.

Or did it? What was it Eli had said, that both of them distrusted success? Could that be it? Jim Ellison had been an exceptional police officer until his sentinel senses had driven him into another reality. His success as an entrepreneur was a shadow compared to the career he yearned for. Jim mourned his life as a cop, as one would mourn a death. To even taste that passion again would be as water in a desert. What if it was too much for Jim to hope? That rather than be crushed by future disappointment, it would be easier, less painful for him to reject it now, before it seemed real.

Blair closed his eyes in despair as much as sleepiness. If all his efforts had only brought Jim more pain, he'd never be able to forgive himself.

&&&&

Blair sipped the orange juice, savoring the fresh-squeezed taste. He had to admit, when Jim arranged his living environment, he hadn't missed much. Having fresh juice delivered every morning from the organic juice bar was a stroke of genius, and you didn't have to be a sentinel to appreciate it.

After years of battling his sentinel senses, Jim had designed and completed the Cascade Towers project. The top floor of the main housing project was Jim's suite. The surrounding commercial development included a juice bar. As part of his occupancy contract, the owner routinely sent up fresh juice each morning in a variety of flavors. Jim never knew which, if any, he could tolerate on any given morning. With Blair's help, Jim's sense of taste was more manageable, but he hadn't discontinued the service. While Blair had been staying with him, he routinely picked one of the rejects for his own breakfast.

On this particular morning, orange, grape, and the cranberry-raspberry combo were still available, so Jim must have chosen the apple. That meant Jim was having some problems, but not to the point he was forced back to water. According to the note left by the juice, Jim was at the office he maintained at his health club, meeting with his banker at until ten. He wanted to meet Blair at the University. Translation: Jim was doing better, returning to some of his routine, but not completely recovered.

Blair frowned. He really wanted to talk with Jim, but he wasn't willing to interrupt a business meeting. Jim was an equal partner in sentinel research, not a lab rat at his beck and call. They'd talk when Jim was ready. Blair munched his way through cereal and toast and checked his calendar. He had one meeting today for new faculty, late in the morning, that he could skip, but probably should attend. Next, he checked his email. All but one of his seminar students had emailed Part 1 of their Mayan alphabet project. The results from the intro class weren't as encouraging, but at least two thirds of them had sent in their outlines. He could send a quick email to prod the procrastinators, and start reviewing the ones he had in hand. He worked steadily at the computer for another hour before the phone jerked him out of academic mode. Caller Id indicated Cascade PD, so he went ahead and answered.

It was Captain Banks. "Morning, Dr. Sandburg. Is Jim there?"

"Sorry, he apparently left early. He's at the Health Club office in a meeting. You could try his cell."

"It's off. He usually does that when it's important business. Did he say when he would be finishing? I really want to talk to him."

"The note he left mentioned meeting at the University later. Should I have him call you?"

"Absolutely. Damn, I hate to wait."

Something in Simon's voice piqued his curiosity. "Sounds serious. Are you sure you don't want me to go over to the office and ask him to call? Or is it something you can't tell me?"

"Not a state secret, Sandburg. Forensics found a partial bloody shoe print this morning, tucked back where the rain didn't wash it away. With the other trace evidence, we're sure Jim found the site of the original assault last night. In fact, they think they have a reasonable reconstruction of how the shooting went down."

"Wow. That's great."

"That's not all. The shoes our guy wears have a distinct wear pattern - a heavy leather shoe with a slash across the sole. We have a match with one of the other cases Jim looked at. This is huge. It may be the break we've needed all along. He'll be fired up."

Blair hesitated, then decided to go ahead and ask. "Captain, you've known Jim a lot longer than I have. Did he seem a little - I don't know - subdued, even upset, last night? He should have been ecstatic, but he hardly said a word. Did I miss something I should know?"

There was a long pause. For a moment, Blair wondered if they'd lost their connection. Finally, Banks said, "Has Jim discussed anything about his family? His farther, in particular?"

"No. I didn't really expect him to. You told me yourself they were estranged."

"There's a reason Jim gets like that. His dad, well, let's just say he wasn't father of the year material. He was definitely not a touchy-feely kind of guy. Displays of emotion weren't encouraged. Feelings were something you closed off and kept to yourself. To do otherwise was a display of weakness."

"Oh, shit."

"You heard the comment about being called a detective again? That's as close to baring his soul as Jim's going to come, and you can tell because the mask came down. Which, of course, means he puts it back up just as quickly."

Blair groaned inwardly. Had he pushed on, trying to get Jim to open up, it could have been disastrous. "Thanks, Captain. I'll keep that in mind. I'll make sure Jim gets in touch with you as soon as I see him. I was planning on heading over to Rainier to meet him shortly."

"Great. I'll keep you posted."

Blair powered off his computer and gathered his things. He spent the entire bus ride to campus considering all the things he didn't know about Jim Ellison, and, with the best of intentions, all the other mine fields he might blunder into.

&&&&

With Blair's approval in hand, Jim wasted no time. The preliminary planning and financing had been initiated months before Sandburg arrived on the scene. Planning and Zoning had signed off. It would take no time at all to ramp up and start the sawdust flying. The Prospect Project, as Jim had tentatively called it, was officially launched.

After the financial people departed, he started working down the list. His primary contractor could arrange for the permits. The construction crew would be rolling on the initial demolition and the windows by the afternoon. Plumbing and electrical crews would be in first thing in the morning. Jim had assembled a good team, and new he could count on them. All in all, a very productive day so far, and he felt ready to take on the world.

Ramp it down, Jim. It wasn't the building that really had him going, and he knew it. Last night - well, it was stupid to get his hopes up. No point in being disappointed. He'd lived with the slow collapse of his career after the Switchman case, and nothing was going to change that. The disability papers had been signed and filed for years.

The sparkling intensity of his blue eyes faded as other thoughts overtook his concentration. He couldn't help but wish. Wish that Sandburg would have quick, easy answers. Wish that there'd be no more setbacks, no more screaming senses sending him into isolation. Wish that any day now he could go in and claim his badge that still sat in the corner drawer of Simon's desk.

Nope. Don't go there, Jim. Keep it calm. Keep it practical. The memory of signing his disability papers, bringing his career to a close, still brought bile into his mouth. He couldn't go through that heartbreak again. If Jim Ellison didn't have the life he wanted, at least he had the life he could manage.

He checked his watch. Time to get over to Rainier and meet Sandburg.

&&&&&

Blair picked up his mail from the Anthro office. The plan was to stop by and go, grab any new paperwork and then head over to the Institute to set up a new round of experiments for Jim. Dare he check on the progress of his office? So much had happened since yesterday afternoon, he hadn't given the organization project another thought. The classroom was just down the hall. Unable to resist, he knocked, opened the door slowly and peeked in, calling, "Mrs. Rafferty?"

"Dr. Sandburg. You have perfect timing. Come on in, and please call me Kathleen."

"Only if you call me Blair," he said, returning her warm smile. It was impossible not to like this woman. "I didn't want to upset anything by barging in - wow. How did you do this? Yesterday this looked hopeless! Did you give up and throw it all away?"

The boxes and cartons were empty, piled neatly against the walls. The sorting tables were almost clear. The transformation was shocking.

"Of course not. You just saw it at the worst possible moment yesterday. In fact, Jason is busy moving everything back into your office. Why don't you come down and see your office, and I'll go through the basic scheme with you.

Blair's office was on the other side of the building. As they strolled, he listened attentively as Kathleen described the basic categories for the files. "I hope you'll be pleased," she said. "As I said, you really had a lot of it done for us. You just didn't know what you had."

He followed her in, and then halted in the doorway. Even when Eli, a relative neatnik as anthropologists go, had inhabited this office, it had never been so clean. Every work surface was sleek and bare. "You're kidding? This isn't my office. It can't be."

"It's amazing what the right storage arrangements can do." Kathleen motioned him to follow.

"This stuff is new. It's all new except the desk. Where...?"

Kathleen grinned. "You're not allowed to ask, or your coach will turn into a pumpkin. The old table and other file cabinets went to some deserving grad students. Consider the new stuff fairy godmother material. Now, Jim mentioned you were a 'spreader' rather than a 'stacker', so we selected half files. That way you can have the work surface on top as you can see, with textbooks above on shelves. The file cabinets are arranged by function. Everything for the Sentinel Institute is in the first one. The next two are teaching, then one for university or institutional materials, and lastly two by the wall for reference. This way you can pull out a file and work with it right here."

"Wow. I always just put the stacks of files in and shut the drawers."

"I know," Kathleen teased, rolling her eyes. "We're going to break you of that habit."

"Jim did explain that I'm organizationally challenged, didn't he?"

"He mentioned it, so we're taking it out of your hands. Material to be filed goes in those two baskets. Whenever they fill up, I'll send one of our clerks over to take care of them. Even if you don't call to tell us they're full, Mr. Ellison gave strict instructions to send someone over at regular intervals whether you call or not."

"Where did all these file cabinets come from?" Blair asked. "Around here, people stake out file cabinets like they were gold claims."

Kathleen shook her finger at him. "You've been warned once. If I told you, I'd have to kill you. Mr. Ellison's orders. It's not all new. The desk was excellent, but we added some drawer organizers. Amanda and Jason were placing bets on how many separate boxes of paperclips they would find."

Blair grimaced in shame. "Yeah. I do tend to grab another box rather than find the ones I already have."

"You're a busy person, and organization takes time." She waved him over to the desk. "Well, take a look now. Office supplies are to the right, and everything you need is in the top two drawers. Your grade books and such are on the left."

Blair opened the drawers, appreciative of the thought that went into how items were stored. "Jim was right. You are an organizational genius."

"It was very interesting. It's so much more fun to sort through your things than a bunch of dry financial documents and memos. Oh, I consulted with your departmental secretary and she is ordering you an electric stapler-whole punch combination, a shredder, and a printer that can scan and receive faxes. There are still some things you need to do yourself, but basically you're ready to go."

"I'm overwhelmed. I can't thank you enough." Blair sank into the desk chair and opened all the desk drawers again. "Everything's so neat I'm afraid to touch it."

"Don't be silly. This is time consuming if you work on it piecemeal. It goes much faster to have someone do it all at once. You just take care of Mr. Ellison for us." Blair looked at her in surprise. It seemed an oddly personal comment from the business-like woman. "We're very fond of him, you know. I worked for him years ago when he first started, building the health club. There was no mistaking how ill he was. It seemed so unfair. I always assumed exposure to some horrible chemical during his military service was the cause. I didn't know what was wrong until he gave those interviews a few months ago. I don't pretend to understand it, but anyone who spends time with him can see how much better he is this last few months."

"I didn't know. Thank you for telling me."

"Now I'm going to kick you out, so I can finish up," Kathleen said. "I'll be loading some documents into your computer about how to locate specific items using the catalog, and place the rest of the files. It will be ready for you tomorrow." She bustled off to her next task.

Blair took one more long look around his office and shook his head. It was a far cry from his days as a grad student in the basement. He sure hoped someone appreciated that old table. Along with the uneven legs, that old relic had history. He still kind of miss it.

&&&&&

Jim leaned his head against the steering wheel of his truck. Damn it, why couldn't he just have used some common sense? He rubbed his sweaty palms across his face. His whole body was shaking, and he clenched his hands together, trying to still the muscles. He'd felt like this once before - when? Peru. At the time, from the chills and fever, he'd assumed malaria, or some kind of dysentery. The memory of panic, stranded out in the jungle away from western medicine, was still vivid. It had turned out to be a bad intestinal infection. Incacha had treated him with one herbal concoction after another, and slowly things had returned to normal. For days he'd thought he was dying.

He was pretty sure he wasn't sick now, not with some germ or virus at least. It had to be something from the loft, something from the construction. The loft project was a winner, both as a business proposition and personally. Leaving the loft on Prospect had been an "event", right up there with signing his disability papers. When he'd closed the door for the last time and moved into quarters at the health club, he was admitting that his old life was over forever. He truly missed the place. The thought of having Blair living at the loft, making it alive again, soothed a little of his profound regret.

His own anticipation had gotten the better of him. He'd taken a little side trip to the loft on the way to Rainier, just to check on the progress. He'd dashed up the stairs two at a time, just like the old days, without much thought. Why couldn't he just have left well enough alone? But no, it just wasn't good enough to get a progress report over the phone. The shriek of the skill saws he'd managed, and then something else had rolled over him. Wasn't really a smell, or maybe it was. One minute he was talking to the foreman and the next minute he was hanging onto bare wall studs, gagging and choking, struggling to catch the next gulp of air. His hasty retreat obviously hadn't been fast enough.

A group of raggedy teenagers walked past and stared at him through the truck window. He tried to ignore them. It had to be the icing on the cake when someone with a safety pin through his lip thinks you're the one who's weird. Maybe next time he could find a better place for a sensory meltdown than the parking lot of McDonald's.

Jim forced himself to take three deep, controlled breaths. Sandburg swore by breathing, and breathing was better than barfing in the truck. Again. And again. Finally, the uncontrolled shivering stopped. He glanced at the clock. Ten minutes at least. Why did he have to be such a mess?

He started the truck, not really sure he was capable of driving. He damn sure wasn't going to sit there and wait for those kids to come by again, and treat him like the latest reality television. He swallowed down another wave of bile and headed for Rainier, opting for the side streets rather than the freeway. It would take longer, but at least he could crawl along at his own pace.

&&&&&

Blair counseled himself for the tenth time to be patient. If he'd known this orientation meeting was going to be this bad, he would have skipped it. It wasn't as if he'd never entered grades before. Why did Rainier have to treat all new faculty members as though they were barely trainable?

He felt a subtle tap on his right elbow. He glanced to the man seated to his right. Tony Herbig stared intently at the PowerPoint presentation on the screen, and shoved a yellow legal pad Blair's direction.

BORING! Break for the door

They can't catch both of us

You go 1st

Blair stifled a laugh and responded in kind.

Ten more minutes

and you go for the

computer cables

They sat for a few more minutes. Tony scrawled awkwardly with his left hand.

And they took attendance

for this crap!!!!!

You have time for coffee after???

Blair hesitated. He was on a tight schedule, considering that Jim was coming to the Institute for testing. Tony must have sensed his indecision, and added to the note.

Need to talk

Blair was torn, but Tony was a good friend. He nodded back to Tony, vowing to keep things short. The moment the presentation finally ran down, they both bolted for the door.

"Do we really have to sit through four more of those sessions?" Tony said as they raced each other down the steps of the Admin building. Like Blair, he was a former graduate of Rainier and had been a TA. They had used the grading systems and registration procedures for years, and things hadn't changed much while they had been off at other institutions. "The least they could do is let us opt out if we know the system."

"No such luck," Blair said as they pulled up, a little breathless. "Do you think we've escaped? We didn't do the 'required' evaluation."

"It's only required if they catch you," Tony said, laughing.

"So what's up? I love to kick back and catch up, but I need to get to the Institute. Where do you want to get coffee?" He waved a hand across the quad. "The S.U.B.'s close."

"The stuff in the S.U.B. they call coffee should be outlawed. Could you stand some from my office? I'd kind of like you to read - well, I can't really explain it." Tony's cheery demeanor seemed a bit forced. "Just come, okay? As a favor?"

They changed direction, and headed toward Tony's office in Higginson Hall. The walk across campus was pleasant, and for a gregarious soul, Tony had gone strangely quiet. "What's up, man?" Blair asked. "It's not like you to be so serious. Were you lying to me about your great coffee?"

"My coffee is the best kept secret in Higginson. Don't go blowing my cover, or I'll be fending off the masses. Trina in the division office makes coffee like a bad chemistry experiment." He shrugged, and held one of the double doors open for Blair. "Maybe I'm overreacting. If I try to explain - well, it'll just be easier if you see for yourself. This way, up to the third floor. I'm at the end of the hallway." Tony unlocked his office door and motioned Blair in after him. The small area was typical for a new hire, small and cramped, the kind of digs Blair had expected to inhabit. Only Eli's initial intervention, and now Jim's, were responsible for his relatively palatial office in Hargrove.

Tony had decorated the space with his usual flair, but stacks of papers covered almost every surface. The blind on the tiny window was up, revealing a small but pleasant view across the park-like Rainier campus. "Coffee coming right up," he said rummaging for a mug. "I've promised myself that if the papers get over the window sill, I'm opening the window and letting them blow away. They can't blame you for an act of nature."

Blair accepted the steaming mug. "It's your own damn fault you majored in Rhetoric. You teach writing, you grade writing."

"I know, I know. Ten years of freshman comp before I ever see the light of day." Tony wheeled his desk chair over so they could sit side by side. He grabbed a paper from his desk and handed it to Blair. "Just read that."

Blair's brow furrowed as he read. It was a classic introductory writing assignment for a remedial class. "Comp 50, right?"

"You got it. Fondly known as English for the Willfully Clueless. I know, I know, not nice. That kind of talk would spoil my rep as a compassionate humanist. Forgive me if I lust for a literate sentence, much less a literate paragraph."

"I hear you. We all have the same secret thoughts. This is the assignment right after 'tell me about yourself''?" Blair got halfway through the second page and looked up, aghast. "This is - I don't know what this is. Pitiful? Awful? A joke?" Blair glanced at the name on the paper, wondering if he was teaching the same student. The name wasn't familiar. "Does the kid have a learning disability or something?"

"I wish. That would be easier. Not a kid, not a disability, not the typical entering freshman, period. This guy is older, and he's enrolled before, although I can't get anyone to admit they taught him. I checked the transcript. Can't spell, can't punctuate..."

"Can't write a coherent thought," Blair finished. He handed the paper back to Tony. "Does he pick out random big words from the dictionary? I thought my kids were bad. This looks like third grade." He looked at the paper again and shook his head. "Actually, that's an insult to third graders. I wouldn't know where to start marking it."

"I know! Problem is, he thinks every instructor doesn't understand. He has a brilliant future as an author, you know, if we'd just get with it. When his stuff gets marked appropriately, he comes in and argues for hours."

"Oh man, that is such a pain. I don't suppose he actually listens to your corrections. Doesn't that just make you nuts?" Blair was completely ready to empathize. Everyone had a few nightmare students to darken their days. It was normal to indulge in a little group whining. He related his most recent encounter with Tracie "with an ie" Patterson. Suddenly, he realized that Tony wasn't joining in for the usual banter. "Tony? Are we talking something else here?"

"I guess," Tony said, frowning at the bottom of his chipped coffee mug. "I don't know. I - I think I'm scared."

"You're kidding. Man, it's just the usual sour grapes." Blair stopped, taken aback by the anguish on his friend's face. "Tony, did this guy threaten you?"

"Not really. I can't explain it. I tried to feel some people out about him, and didn't get anywhere." Tony shifted uncomfortably, looking off into the distance.

Blair tried to reassess the situation. Something just wasn't fitting together here. Tony was too good, too experienced a teacher to be this unnerved if there wasn't something to it. "All of a sudden my whining freshman princess doesn't sound so bad," Blair said. "What do you mean, not really?"

"He gets angry, I guess."

"Tony, we've all had angry kids," Blair said reproachfully.

"I don't know. There's you're-being-unfair angry, or I-want-you-to-fix-it angry, but this is different. It's nothing specific. I can't really explain it." After another silence he continued. "I talked to security."

"And?" Blair asked, seriously getting worried.

"They told me to put their number on my speed dial."

"What's that supposed to accomplish?" Blair blurted out. "Assuming they manage to get there before Christmas."

"It gets better - or worse, depending on your point of view." He handed Blair some more papers. "Take a look at those. They're in the order he turned them in." Blair set his coffee mug on the desk and skimmed the sheets. His expression was more distressed with each page.

"I'm not crazy, am I?" Tony asked. "Each one gets more extreme."

"Bizarre. This guy is seriously disturbed or something." Blair set the sheets in his lap. "How can anyone come up with so many excuses to talk about blood, gore and violence? Are they all like this? Haven't you gone to your department chair?"

"Of course I went to Dr. Turner. That's the problem. I suggested the possibility that the guy has mental health issues, and Turner didn't want to go there. Apparently the fact the class is directed toward fiction, rather than writing a research paper makes a difference. According to him, sometime in the distant past they got into all kinds of trouble questioning a student's writing under those circumstances. He doesn't want to touch it."

"So what are you supposed to do?"

"He told me to just keep copies of his work, mark them minimally and hope he drops. No big deal. He's more worried about whether the guy would sue the University than if he freaks me out every time I see him. That's what you're reading, one of the copies."

"But you don't feel comfortable with it? Like you should be doing more for him?"

"I suppose I should, but not really. He wants validation, not improvement. When I - I don't know, Blair - the guy just scares me. I've never been scared of a student before, not like this. Something is just not right."

Something in Tony's voice caught Blair's attention. This was no joke. His old friend was really scared. "Can you go to the Dean? Or someone in student services?"

"Sure. I can go around Turner. And that's going to be remembered fondly when Turner reviews my application for promotion to Associate Professor and tenure track. I'm a probationary employee, just like you." Tony swirled his coffee around the chipped blue mug he held in his hand. "What do you think? I just don't know what to do."

"Ask me an easy one, T," Blair said, regressing back to a nickname from years past. "Everyone has their share of problem children, but I see your point. This doesn't exactly fit the annoying but harmless category. All the same, Turner would probably be pissed if you went around him to the Dean."

"It freaks me out, Blair. I'm awake nights, worrying about this. Every time I return work, he gets a little more hostile. This is a technology enhanced course, so they send me their papers by email, and they're returned that way. They're supposed to read the online comments, revise and send it in again. If the work is below a C, they're supposed to schedule a paper conference. I just sent a graded paper back to him this morning. I keep expecting him to show up any moment, pitching a fit. Seriously, I'm half scared to go to class and see him in person. I cancelled my office hours. What should I do?"

Blair thought for a moment. It was a dilemma. The position of any new assistant professor was precarious. To disagree with your Department Chair was perilous at best. "I'd pull his schedule and email his other instructors. Maybe see if he has an advisor who might have some insight. Maybe have someone go with you to class. If it's okay with you, I'll ask Eli. He's never steered me wrong."

"Would you? I'd really appreciate it. It would be a blessing to have a senior faculty member act like this was serious." Tony pushed back his chair and took a deep breath. "I know you need to go. I really value your opinion. Thanks for coming."

Blair checked his watch and winced at the time. "I do have to go, but I'm not forgetting this. When do you have class again?"

"It's a night class, so next Tuesday. Tuesday, Thursday, seven to nine."

"Then you'll hear from me before Tuesday. Hang in there, bud. We'll figure something out."

&&&&&

From his secluded seat on the concrete, Jim looked back toward the parking lot where he'd left his truck, then toward the doors of the Sentinel Institute. It was about a hundred yard whichever direction, so it didn't really matter which he chose. The more pertinent question was whether he could get to either one of them without falling on his nose. At least he'd found a place to sit, sparing himself the embarrassment of dropping in a heap in the middle of the sidewalk.

When his senses went berserk, it usually meant the fast track to a pounding headache. No headache this time, but he might as well have been spinning in midair. His balance was a mess. Damn, he should at least have had the pleasure of a party to be this unsteady. Calling Sandburg from here was an option, but he'd just as soon not. It might be blind pride, but he ought to be able to get from one place to another without a babysitter. Jim could almost hear Sandburg's voice telling him to take one sense at a time, isolating and controlling each in turn. He could at least try before giving up and resorting to the cell phone.

Eyes closed, he traced a finger around the beveled edge of the concrete bench. He forced himself to concentrate on touch, the grainy feel of the cement, the cool temperature, the slight dampness from the last rain. What did he hear? The landscaped area behind the bench included a huge sequoia, its craggy branches reaching out over his head. The long needles brushed against each other in the wind, almost like a sigh or waves rolling over the sand. He flinched and then adjusted to the shrill chatter of a squirrel. Think I'm invading your space, little guy?

There wasn't much of a breeze, but it was enough to chill him. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. Staying still for a minute seemed to be helping. He wouldn't mind getting out of the breeze, but he didn't feel quite ready to try walking just yet. Maybe - he started checking his pockets and came up with a treasure - a Snickers bar. Another one of Sandburg's theories in action; that a little boost in blood sugar seemed to settle his senses. Not one to let a theory go untested, Blair had invaded his wardrobe and seeded his clothes with candy. At the time Jim had thought it amusing, but at the moment, as he wolfed down the chocolate, it might as well have been manna from heaven. A check of his suit pockets yielded two more bite-sized morsels.

He crumpled the wrappers and stuffed them into his pocket. Damn if Sandburg wasn't right.

He stood up slowly. So far so good. The remaining distance to the Institute didn't seem so impossible to cross. The squirrel chattered, and Jim managed a grin. Got the message the first time, you little tree rat. You can have the neighborhood to yourself.

He actually felt pretty steady by the time he opened the doors of the institute. He forced a smile onto his face when he saw Meredith, sitting at the reception desk. "Hi, Mr. Ellison, you're here! Dr. Stoddard has been out every five minutes looking for you. He's so excited." She bounced up from her desk to take his coat. Jim rolled his eyes and handed it over, no longer forcing his grin. Meredith treated him like visiting royalty, no matter what he said. He'd come to realize she did it joyfully, and just had a knack for making simple situations and actions seem like fun. The young woman might do the clerical work to perfection, but she was prized at the Institute for her ability to generate smiles under any circumstances.

"Waiting in anticipation, huh? Should I be flattered?" Jim asked. "Is it me, or does the good doctor have some new toy?"

"Got it in one," Meredith said cheerfully. "He showed me the new gizmo-smizmo." Her forehead scrunched over a wrinkled nose. "It's a box that makes little squeaks, as far as I can tell. And I ask you, this is exciting? Now a gift certificate to Nordy's? That's exciting." She put a hand on Jim's elbow. "Don't you think we should get him counseling or something?"

"Eli at Nordstrom's; now there's a picture." Jim joined Meredith's delighted giggle. This was a running joke, dating back to Meredith's first days on the job. The spunky, fashion-conscious Meredith wasn't the least intimidated by all the fancy academic degrees and teased the two anthropologists unmercifully. They responded by relating every jewelry and clothing choice she wore to some tribal ritual in Pango Pango. Both sides tried to recruit Jim to tilt the scales in their favor. He tended to side with Meredith, based on a simple reward system that featured her killer homemade chocolate chip cookies.

"Is that Jim I heard?" Eli head popped around the doorway. "Good to see you, my boy. Blair's still at some ridiculous required training seminar, but we can get started without him." Classic Eli. The professor emeritus vibrated with excitement.

"Not so fast, there," Meredith said. "We've already talked. Mr. Ellison agrees with me," she said, pointing to herself emphatically. "No boring squeaks and squawks today. We're considering a road trip."

"A road trip to where? The mall? Meredith, I keep telling you, this is a scientific institute," Eli said, feigning a serious tone. "We have no time to waste. Research forges on. Now do go back to your desk and shop online or something."

"I tried to save you," she said, looking at Jim and raising her hands in resignation. She started toward the desk, her shoulders slumped. Before she sat down, she looked at Jim, put her hand over her heart. "I'm here for you," she said dramatically. "You know I am. I can always smuggle you out under my coat."

With a straight face, Jim answered her gesture with his own hand over heart. "For God and Country. I shall return."

"You're a menace, Meredith. An absolute menace," Eli said, ushering Jim into the lab area. "The girl is irrepressible. I should consider adopting her."

"You adopt us all, Eli," Jim said wryly. "So what's the new toy?"

"It's an add-on to our sound system. Now we can blend tones in combination. We're not ready for full experimentation, but I thought you and I could work on learning the control system. Instead of everything being outside, there's also a panel in the booth. You can modify things yourself, or cut tones off completely. No delay while we clueless investigators figure out that you're hurting."

Jim nodded, and settled in beside Eli. As long as his senses held out, he could allow the older man to set the pace.

&&&&&

"Sorry, Captain. We're just coming up blank."

"There's got to be something, Rafe. Something we've missed."

Rafe looked over at his partner. Henri Brown, sitting in the chair next to him, shrugged his broad shoulders. "We've gone through all the evidence ten times. We've spent two nights trying to find someone who saw or heard something. We've got nothing. We don't even have a positive ID on our victim."

"We have the shoe print Ellison found," Banks said, correcting him.

"With all due respect, sir, that shoe print potentially links two murders years apart. It doesn't give us a suspect or motive. We've been working basically round the clock. A little extra pay is nice, but this much overtime I don't need. Do we keep at it or not?"

Simon studied his two detectives across the desk. Both men needed a good night's sleep. If memory served, Brown was in the same shirt he'd worn the day before, so chances were good he hadn't even been home. Rafe was still in his suit but without a tie. Rafe without a double Windsor at the neck was a red flag of epic proportions.

"Give it one more night, guys. If nothing breaks, go home and sleep late. I'll talk to Chief Warren and take the heat. There isn't any more you can do."

"Sorry, Captain," Rafe said. "We - I mean -"

"I stand behind my men. You have nothing to apologize for. Now go, get something to eat, and take a break for a couple of hours. I'll talk to the guys on the night shift and get someone who's down there to help."

His dispirited team trooped out the door. Simon looked at his row of angels, gently fingering one of his favorites. A little angelic intervention would be a blessing right now.

&&&&&

You've got mail.

Finally, my paper. See if that asshole Herbig has anything to complain about this time. Over-educated jerk.

He opened the attachment eagerly. Seconds later he smashed his fist down on the rickety table. With clenched teeth he scrolled through the document. He couldn't even remember the meaning of all the different colors and editing symbols, and it didn't matter.

His professor hated his writing. Again.

It wasn't fair. Just because he wasn't some freshman cutie pie writing ditties about her little preppy life. They were automatically prejudiced against part-time students who were older. It wasn't his fault these academics were too prissy to appreciate real life.

Set up a paper conference? Yeah, right. And talk about what? That I'm paying big bucks to take this stupid class over again? That I still can't take a real writing class until I pass it? That another idiot in a tie thinks I'm not good enough to be a writer? That the fucking university just as good as steals my fucking tuition money?

Yeah, I'll conference you, up close and personal. And then I'll write about that, too.

&&&&

Jim leaned back against the padded seat in the sound booth. He was starting to feel sick again. He wanted to just call it quits and tell Sandburg he'd had enough. He took a deep breath through gritted teeth. No way. It was so damn hard for Blair to get these things set up. He'd fight through and keep at it.

A light on the console flashed red, signaling another sound combination. They'd settled on a ten second lag between warning and test to give him a chance to settle. He suddenly realized he had no idea of the time. How long had they been at this? From his seat at the console, he couldn't see a clock. The console area was soundproofed to keep background noises out, but it also cut him off from environmental clues he was used to. Was it night...

The fleeting distraction did it. He recoiled as the test shrilled in his ears, his hearing spiking beyond endurance. He lunged at the cutoff lever, pushing it away so hard the whole console shuddered. He cried out in agony, ripping the headphones away. He pressed the heels of his hands against his ears.

"Jim! What happened - oh, shit!" Blair was at the door, trying to pull him out of the booth and soothe him at the same time. They ended up in a tangle on the floor. Jim kept one hand pressed against his temple and reached out blindly with the other.

Sandburg grabbed his hand and wrapped the other arm around Jim's shoulder. They were both on their knees, but as far as Jim was concerned they were spinning in space. The vertigo was back with a vengeance. His ears were still screaming, echoing even though the sound equipment was silent.

"Jim, find the dials! Pick another sense! Squeeze my hand! That's it, man."

Jim burrowed his forehead into his friend's collarbone, fleeing his treacherous hearing. Sandburg's typical musky scent rolled over him, and his wool sweater scraped against Jim's cheek. His whole body convulsed as the first wave of nausea swept up from his gut. He fought down a second wave, and then a third.

Fortunately, Blair read the cues correctly. By the time Jim lost the battle, Blair had a trash can in place to spare him from complete humiliation. The retching left him gasping and spitting.

"Oh, God. Sorry."

"Here. Water. Rinse your mouth." Blair pressed an open water bottle into his hand. A wad of paper towels followed. "Don't be sorry. I'm the one who's sorry. It's okay. It's okay."

Still panting heavily, Jim rinsed and spat twice. He rubbed grimly at the residue on his lips. Since his senses came on line, the misery associated with vomiting had taken on a whole new dimension. "How embarrassing," he mumbled.

"Forget it. What did we do wrong? Do you know?"

"Kinda - I thought - I just got distracted." Jim settled back on his heels. "Up to that last moment, I had things under control."

"Had what under control?" Blair asked. He was rubbing a hand up and down Jim's spine. "Damn, Jim, you can tell me. These aren't endurance sessions. If it starts to get tough, we quit."

Jim shrugged wearily. "I wanted it to be a good session."

"Drink some more water," Blair said gently. "Could you eat something? Some chocolate? Or tea?"

Jim shook his head. "One of Eli's peppermints sounds good. Didn't you tell me that peppermint works for nausea?" He closed his eyes, but could track the sound of feet into Eli's office and back. In a matter of seconds two red and white striped candies were pressed into his palm.

"Is touch helping? How's your hearing? Your stomach?" Blair asked anxiously.

"Better."

Eli was wordlessly tying off the trashcan liner, and disappeared out the door. Jim was grateful when the offending smell was removed. After a few minutes, he struggled to his feet. Blair caught him as he listed to the right.

"Whoa, let's not crash and burn." Jim accepted Blair's help and slowly made his way, step by careful step, out of the lab area.

Blair refused to deconstruct the disaster. Any scholarly interpretations could wait. Instead, Jim surrendered his keys and they went back to the penthouse immediately. Swearing the dizziness was almost gone, Jim opted for a shower and fresh clothes. Everything he had on reeked from the smell of vomit. Blair was reluctant to leave him alone for fear he'd crash to the floor and hurt himself. It took some convincing, but finally Blair retreated to make some soup and warm up some bread. Jim piled his clothes out side the bathroom door and carefully made his way to the walk-in shower, holding onto the wall as he went.

The master bath had a soaking tub he could have sat down in but, at that moment, a soak wasn't what he had in mind. The shower had jets from every direction, including overhead. Jim sank gratefully onto the teak shower bench and let the flood sluice over his skin. He kept the temperature a bit cool and turned his face into the jets. Afraid to risk a zone-out, he traced the mosaic tiles of the shower floor with one foot, then the other.

Eventually, he felt steadier. He stood up, bumped the temperature a bit warmer and lathered the hypo-allergenic glycerin soap over his body. Sandburg had recommended it, and the clean, neutral scent drove away the remnants of his vomit. By the time he stepped out and toweled off, he felt fairly normal.

He peeked out of the bath, prepared to embark on a clothes search in his birthday suit. It wasn't necessary. Sandburg had whisked away the offending clothing, and left a pile of clean clothes by the doorway. The sweat suit was one of his favorites, warm, loose and comfortable. He sat down on the padded bench in the dressing area to pull on a pair of thick cotton socks. Before he left the bathroom, he took the time to thoroughly brush his teeth. By the time he ventured out to the kitchen, he was feeling almost back to normal.

Blair was tossing a stir fry with a vengeance. "Pretty fancy," Jim commented. "I thought we were going for the soup."

"I changed my mind. We're going for partial Ellison comfort food. The white rice is almost ready."

"Mmmm. Back to white rice. I'm officially a basket case."

"Cut it out, Jim. My screw-up does not make you a basket case. I've heard just about enough of that shit from you."

Jim blinked at the rare display of temper. Blair had braced both hands on the counter, looking down at his toes. Jim could just barely see the set of his jaw behind the hair that sheltered his face. When Blair finally looked up and made eye contact again, there was no mistaking it. The immensely patient Dr. Sandburg was seriously pissed off.

"Why can't I convince you that every waking moment is not a test? Get a clue, Jim. All the rest of us fail every day. Every fucking day. Consistently, at multiple intervals. It's an equal opportunity sport. You set up these impossible standards for yourself, refuse to let me know when you need help, and then self-flagellate every time it doesn't work out."

"I don't lie to you, Chief," Jim snapped.

"Of course you don't," Blair snarled, smacking the stir fry spatula on Jim's granite countertop with a resounding splat. "You just refrain from mentioning. Shit, Jim, how am I supposed to help you?"

"I don't want a babysitter," Jim yelled, and promptly winced at his own noise.

Blair's entire body language changed. His clipped words matched. "Dear God. We're not talking about babysitting, you idiot. By your definition, telling the doctor you're having chest pains in the middle of a heart attack constitutes babysitting."

"I - that's not the same..."

"I can see it now. Yeah, doc, I took a couple of bullets today." Blair leaned over the counter, eyes blazing, and shouted, "But don't BABYSIT me. How did you ever survive?"

"Don't talk to me about surviving," Jim raged, and then the words died in his throat. In an instant, he saw afresh sentinel survival before Sandburg. Remembered being sprawled out on the bare floor of the darkened loft, Sig P232 clutched in his hand, moments from accepting a bullet in the mouth as the only release. No one knew how close he'd come. His shoulders crumpled.

"God, I'm sorry," he whispered. "I can't do this again. Not again."

&&&&&

"We don't have to do this, Jim. You don't have anything to prove."

"I wish I really felt that way, but I don't," Jim said. Across the dimly lit interior of the truck, Sandburg's eyes looked almost gray. Their color matched the rest of the day; his own grim mood, the incessant Cascade rain misting down, the fog building up on the inside of window. How long had they been sitting here before Blair had spoken up? Jim realized he'd lost himself for a bit, watching the drops coalesce and build into translucent beads on the glass in front of him.

"I'll quit stalling, Chief. I really want to do this. What have the last two days been about, if not this?"

"The last two days have been about finding balance, Jim. I understand why you'd feel something special about visiting your loft, but you were walking into a construction zone. That's not as simple as visiting your old home."

"Most people don't need a master plan to stop by their old place."

"You know, I have idiot freshmen that aren't this hardheaded. Let's go through it again." Blair drew a design with his finger on the passenger window. "You're pushing your self-prescribed boundaries. That's good. You've run full speed into at least two situations - in close succession - that tested your coping skills. The results weren't ideal."

"That's a nice spin on things. They teach you those things when you get a PhD? And that window's going to streak now."

Blair gave him a withering look, leaving no doubt as to his opinion about cranky sentinels and pristine vehicle windows. "You're losing sight of overall forward progress. We're retuning, refining, whatever you want to call it. Give yourself a break. Why don't we do this on another day?"

Jim opened the door, answering the question. Sandburg popped out the passenger side. "We don't go charging up there like last time. Jim, are you listening to me?"

"Yeah." He held the door open, and followed Blair into 852 Prospect. "Stairs or elevator?"

"Stairs," Blair said firmly. "That will give us more control, and I want a running commentary as we go. All senses, no exclusions."

And so it went. First floor: the Jags game on someone's television. Second floor: baking bread, the dull roar of a vacuum, and what Jim tentatively identified as the odor of an ammonia-based bathroom cleaner. Half way between the second and third floor he stopped suddenly. Blair was on the step below him, and quickly placed a hand on his elbow. "What?"

"God, that smells awful." Jim blanched. "Faint, but sickening."

"Try to describe it. Caustic, like bleach or acid? Is it a paint smell? Or like a solvent of some kind?"

"Maybe. No. I - I think it's kind of like glue."

"Elmer's or super?"

Jim snorted. "Smartass. Super."

"Okay, then we're talking solvents of some kind. Can you find the dial and turn it down?

"Don't know. I'll try." Jim was acutely aware of pressure at his elbow. Between one moment and the next, the smell abated to nothing. "That worked. Why couldn't I do that the first time?"

"Were you on the elevator?"

"No, I hate waiting for the elevator. I just ran up the stairs - oh, ran..." Jim looked at Blair sheepishly, who was calmly leaning against the stair rail.

"Let me guess, two at a time, at a dead run. Then you don't need my input, because you already know what happened. You blasted past the warning point so fast you didn't have time to adjust. Now, go the rest of the way, but stop every couple of steps."

Jim walked the remaining steps and through the entry hall like he was on eggs. He unlocked the door to 307 and let the door swing open. After getting an encouraging nod from Blair, he stepped inside.

"I think I'm okay." He shrugged. "Maybe they just aren't working on the bad stuff anymore."

"Could be," Blair said. "When I checked with the foreman, he said they were setting tile and prepping the hardwood floor when you were here. Either of those could have had strong odors. It could have been a combination."

"Why did it stay with me for so long? I got out as fast as I could."

"Jim we're just starting to sort out how this all works. I think we can be sure of a couple of things at least. And don't look so disgusted."

"Why the hell not?" Jim asked. "I thought I was getting better." He shoved his hands deep into his pants pockets, wishing he didn't sound like a petulant child.

Blair perched on the edge of some packing boxes. "First off, you're going to have to stop thinking of 'better' as equivalent to losing your sentinel senses. We're trying to manage them, not erase them. Second, you've gone from a very sheltered life to one that's more open." He raised his eyebrows as Jim continued to scowl. "Come on, Jim. You leave your home. You move around pretty freely. You can buy food and actually eat it."

"Okay, but everything's still a mess," Jim protested.

"Correction - everything's not perfect. When you attempt more, you're going to find obstacles, or combinations that you can't handle initially. What did this little trip teach you?"

Jim's temper rose until he realized Blair wasn't jerking him around. The professor was calmly waiting on him to think. "I'm not sure I learned anything," he said hesitantly.

"Think harder. I'll give you a hint - running up the stairs."

"Oh. Go slow, I guess."

Blair pulled absently at a lock of hair that had strayed toward his eyes. "Expand on that."

Jim shrugged. "Uhm, so I go slower, and then I pay attention."

"Give the man a cigar. You are not a giant on-off switch. Your senses can and will adjust, given time. You may need to retreat and try again. Remember our first lesson, with the roses at the faculty house?"

"Yeah, I remember." Jim joined his friend on the packing box. "Okay, so I get the message. Do you think it will ever be normal?"

"Jimmm," Blair said reproachfully. "That's like the runner who won gold in the Olympic 1500 meters wondering if he'll ever jog like everyone else."

"You know what I mean."

"Then I'd say probably not, but I think eventually, you'll really like where you are." Blair gave him a soft punch in the bicep. "Pick any sport you want and tell me how many times the simplest skill is practiced. Does Kobe shoot free-throws every day? How many putts does Tiger try? Then explain to me why you're so pissed off with your progress."

"I sort of hate it when you're right, Chief. Thanks. Since we're here, you want to look the place over? See if you're still willing to move in?"

&&&&&

Jim woke the next morning feeling pleasantly refreshed. After a quick tour of the loft and Sandburg's enthusiastic approval, they'd come back to the penthouse without incident. Blair had coaxed him into some special blend of herbal tea and he'd slept soundly the entire night. Jim smiled at the ceiling. Maybe things were looking up.

He showered, dressed and was waiting at the elevator when breakfast arrived. He downed the usually safe apple juice while slicing some melon and sticking French bread into the toaster. The shower in the guest bath started up, so Sandburg was up and at 'em. Jim munched a slice of fresh toast and scrambled some eggs. It dawned on him that he was cooking pretty regularly now. Blair was right. Things were better.

Blair was toweling his hair dry when he appeared in the kitchen. Jim suppressed a smile. Compared to his own short hair routine, his house guest invested a lot of time into taming his wild curls. "Morning, Chief. The score looks to be Sandburg zero, Hair one."

"I know. I know. Quit teasing. I look like some crazed refugee. This is what happens when I go a couple of days without conditioner." The moment the words came out, Jim could tell Blair wanted them back.

It didn't take a genius to figure out what was going on. Blair showed a sudden interest in the silverware drawer, but Jim wasn't in the least deflected. "Sandburg, quit messing around and go put whatever glop you need on your hair. I'm not going to keel over dead."

"Jim, it's no big deal."

Jim tilted his head slightly. "Did you know your heart rate just went up?"

"My what - you were listening to my heart?" Blair eyes went wide.

Jim looked a bit puzzled and then shrugged. "I didn't know I was, but then the sound or the beat changed and I realized what I was listening to. That's kind of weird."

"You're serious. Can you hear it now?"

"Yeah. Maybe I can hear it all the time. I never paid attention. Oh, no, the eggs!"

The conversation was temporarily suspended while Jim rescued breakfast and Blair set the table. Jim dished out the eggs. "Hold it right there, Chief. No food until you go use your conditioner or whatever." He waved off Blair's protest. "Don't even start, because you're busted. I had a couple of bad days and you were babying me. Well, crisis over. Go."

Blair took his banishment with grace and returned with his hair tamed into a more manageable style. "Check your sense of smell, Jim. I don't want to sit down and ruin your meal."

"We're fine. Now eat." They ate in silence for a few minutes before Jim asked, "Do you think my hearing is getting better?"

"I'm not sure. I think we would have picked that up with our testing," Blair said. "I'm going to have to think about it. If I were going to make a wild guess, I'd say that your acuity is the same, but you're getting better at sorting and processing different sounds. You may be semi-aware of background noises that used to be part of the overwhelming roar. That would be cool if you could tune them in and out at will."

"Cool, huh?" Jim said, his voice laced with exaggerated curiosity. "What if I told you the polygraph people say an increase in heart rate indicates anxiety, like when people lie? Like when you were attempting to bullshit me about the hair stuff." He grinned slyly. "I might think you were trying to put one over on me. What would you say to that?"

Blair gave him a stern look. "I think I'd tell you to keep those sentinel ears to yourself, right after I explained the social value of obfuscation."

"Hmmm," Jim said, enjoying the banter. "I'm not sure law enforcement and anthropology agree on the definition of that term. Perhaps we should discuss it. Look it up, like true scholars."

"Not with me you're not," Blair said briskly. "This true scholar is escaping while I have the chance, and you can keep the dictionary to yourself."

Jim was still chuckling when, ten minutes later, Blair bolted for the University and safety.

&&&&&

Jim leaned his head back and rolled his shoulders, trying to stretch out his aching neck. Three hours with the architects, approving blueprints and studying specs had been productive, but long. He checked his watch. He had about twenty minutes between meetings, enough time to call Sandburg at the University and Simon at Major Crime.

He called Simon first.

"Banks."

"Good morning to you, too, Simon."

"Jim! Sorry, it's been that kind of a morning. I hate budgets and bureaucratic crap."

"Not much better on this end, if it makes you feel any better. I've got some new projects rolling."

"Hey, I can take a few minutes. Let me tell Rhonda to hold my calls."

In the background, Jim could hear his former Captain open the door and bellow his instructions. God, he missed the place.

"Okay, I'm back. We're still getting more information from the shooting. That was fine work, Jim, really amazing."

"But are you getting anything from it? Who's on it?"

"Rafe and Brown, and no, the case hasn't broken yet. I ran those two ragged trying to find an eyewitness. I had to call them off last night. The damn budget won't take any more overtime. I'll keep you posted. So what are you working on? Brighten my day to hear about progress, even if it isn't mine."

"I've started on the new housing I told you about. The best part is, we're starting at the loft. You'll have to come see it."

"I'd love to. Wow. I didn't think you'd ever give that place up, not that your new digs aren't first rate. You okay with it, Jim?"

"Better than okay, I found the perfect solution. I'm giving it to Sandburg. Kind of like having your cake and eating it too."

"Whoa...what did you say?"

"About the loft? It's mutually agreeable. When it's complete, I get to use it for the marketing. In return, he gets his own place. It's perfect."

"I don't know what to say. I'm stunned. Wasn't he looking for a place?"

"That was the theory. I went with him, and it was hopeless. First of all, he has no time. Second, he has no money."

"Jim, the man has a job."

"Do you have any idea what they pay a starting assistant professor, Simon? It makes a rookie officer's pay look like luxury. Plus, he has student loans, and he didn't bring anything from Michigan except his clothes."

"I guess if you're happy, I'm happy."

"As far as I'm concerned, I'm getting a great deal. Be honest, Simon, where would I be without Blair? He can't look for a place because he spends time helping me. As for cash, I can't pay him directly, he wouldn't have it. This kills two birds with one stone. I had to talk like a trooper to get him to buy off on this."

"Okay, you've convinced me."

"To tell you the truth, I feel great about having him there. I loved that place. This is like pumping new life back into it." Jim chuckled. "You'll never guess how I convinced him."

"Let me see. If it were Daryl, it would be a pool table, or a big screen television. With Sandburg, I have no idea. What do short anthropologists lust after?"

"Some detective you are. Books are the man's Achilles heel. I mentioned shelving, and his eyes glassed over like we were discussing the gates to paradise."

&&&&&

Blair flung his hands toward the ceiling in absolute joy. He'd had the most productive morning that he could ever remember. His newly reclaimed office was amazing. His grading was done, his prep for the next two weeks of class was done, even his dreaded university paperwork was done. All he had left to do was read email, and then he could get to the Institute. He wanted to retest Jim's hearing. Listening to heartbeats, indeed! What if he really could sense changes in heart rate?

Blair shut his word program down and opened his email. As part of his new organization plan, email, the great timewaster, came last. He clicked through the first twenty messages and deleted most of him. Then the message from [email protected] scrolled up.

Tony! How could he have forgotten? Well, there was an answer to that, but he still felt guilty. He'd promised to speak with Eli and promptly forgotten. What kind of a friend was he? He breathed a sigh of relief as he plowed through the message. Tony hadn't heard anything from his problem child.

Thoughts of Tony were sobering. Blair considered his own situation nearly golden. He was working with people he knew, and his department chair had been very supportive. For some reason Chancellor Edwards made him extremely uneasy, but maybe that was picked up from Eli. In any case, Blair was well aware that the winds of approval in academia were fickle. Without tenure, any serious incident, regardless of responsibility, could derail a fledgling career.

Tony was a good friend and deserved his help.

Blair called Tony's office, and got his voicemail. He left a brief message and packed up his laptop. He wanted to speak with Eli, face to face, as soon as possible.

&&&&&

You've reached the office of Blair Sandburg. Please leave a message, or dial zero to speak with the Anthropology Department secretary.

Damn. He'd missed Sandburg again.

Jim left his office and decided on a short walk before going to the health club. It was a bright fall morning, with clear blue sky and a crisp breeze. The leaves of the vine maples planted along the walk were just changing to their vivid yellows and reds. Jim thought back to the morning, almost a year ago, when the landscape architect had raved about how beautiful these trees would be in the fall. The guy hadn't lied. The effect was spectacular.

He settled on a bench near his favorite piece of public art, a bronze of leaping salmon at the base of a cascading fountain. Early on, he'd discovered that the sound of running water allowed him to block out more objectionable noises. Despite that, before Sandburg had shown up in his life, he could enjoy this quiet corner of the developmental only available at night, or in the very early morning, when it was very quiet. He settled back to enjoy the view during the day, a treat that was no longer rare.

It was striking. The City of Cascade had nominated the space for some community development award, praising the green spaces left for public enjoyment. It would be a major embarrassment if said public knew how selfish he'd been. More than anything, he'd needed a buffer of vehicle-free open space to keep the noises and smells of the city at bay. The public's oasis was in reality the oasis of his sanity.

Two young women, with two toddlers and a baby in a stroller were winding their way through the grass-lined pathways. Their shopping bags told Jim they'd been enjoying some of the shopping in the boutiques on the far side of the project. One of the little boys broke away, gleefully splashing his hands into the water. Jim grinned as his mother followed in hot pursuit.

Go for it, kid. It's here for you, too. If he could pull it off, the Prospect Project would turn out like this smaller park, a place for families to thrive and be happy. Financing for a project this big was always dicey, but he wasn't risk averse. Just how far was he willing to go?

The little guy reached out for a floating yellow leaf, teetering precariously. The young mother grabbed her son by the seat of his pants just as his head ducked under the water. He came up laughing, his red shirt soaked to the waist. His laughter died as mom spun him around and scolded him thoroughly. Then she reached down, pushed a soaked curl back into place on his head and hugged him. They walked back to their companions. Jim saw her shrug and say, "Boys will be boys," without heat. Way to go, lady. Give him a joyful childhood.

Jim pushed other dark thoughts away before they could come. The Ellison home wasn't built around loving forgiveness, but that was another life, left behind long ago.

Sitting back, he realized the exchange settled another question, the one he'd really come out here to solve. He wanted ball fields on the southern edge of the project, built and ceded back to the city of Cascade. His banker had blanched at the cost; the amount of land, the cost of building a top-notch facility. They'd argued, and left the decision open, but now Jim's mind was made up. He'd risk a little more and build his fields.

From that perspective, the arguments, the long hours in planning, all the negotiations, decisions and worry seemed worth it. Not police work, to be sure. Not the satisfaction of getting real evil off the streets. But if that life was closed to him, this wasn't a bad second.

&&&&&

The place didn't take long to find. He stood beside the mailbox, sneering at the press-on letters that spelled out, "Herbig." It would be nice to know if he lived alone, but there were ways of finding that out. He strolled up to the door and knocked, the mythical Survey of Community Preferences fastened securely the clipboard he carried. That hadn't taken long either. A little cut and paste, and the sheet looked official, complete with a logo pirated from the City of Cascade homepage. He'd dummied in names and addresses, just in case someone was home while he worked his way down the street. The good professor was in class, and he wasn't going to run into many folks in the middle of the day anyway.

Satisfied that no one was home in any of the nearby houses, he ducked down the alley, hopped the fence and took a little stroll through the neatly bagged trash. He found mail addressed to Herbig and one Alicia Nelson. He'd need to find out more about Alicia. A girlfriend was a great way to mess with someone's head. Feeling bold, he slipped through the tiny yard onto the back porch. The lock was a piece of shit. The window over the kitchen sink was open just a crack as well, so there might be lots of options, should he need them.

A pretty little tabby cat, just out of kitten-hood, emerged from the shrubbery. He wiggled his foot, and the brave hunter crouched in excitement and promptly pounced. He knelt and drummed his fingers against the weathered boards, prompting another pounce. He offered a crooked finger, and the tabby rubbed against it, purring, begging for more.

Hello sweetheart. Aren't you a pretty little thing? I'll come back and see you again. Yes, I will.

&&&&&

Jim waved to Joel Taggart as the big man ambled into the door of the health club. Joel's visits were as regular as clockwork. When the club had first opened, Joel had been one of the first customers in the door. Knowing full well that Taggart wasn't a workout fanatic, and could have easily used the PD's gym, Jim accepted the gesture gratefully. Excluding Beverly Sanchez, Joel had hustled more business for him in the early days than anyone else. The navy and red sweat suit was a bit snug around the waist, but Joel still moved with an athletic grace. He handed a garment bag to the desk clerk, which Jim knew contained his working day suit, shirt and tie.

"Hey, Big Guy. You're early. I see you've changed already."

"Hey, Jim. I've been helping out in the bomb squad, but it was my lucky day. The sessions were supposed to go through this afternoon, but I managed to wrap up early and took advantage."

Jim's smile faded. After a long stint as Captain of the bomb squad, Joel had gone through a crisis of confidence. His struggle peaked at about the same time Jim had taken disability. The difficulties had brought the men closer. At Simon's suggestion, and with Jim's enthusiastic support, Taggart had retired from the bomb squad and moved into Major Crime, slipping into Jim's vacated detective spot. "I thought you were out of that crap, Joel. You aren't thinking of going back, are you?"

"Not in the least. They were just stretched a little thin, so I stepped in to do some training for them. Training's a far cry from deciding which wire to cut with a timer running. I'm happy being a detective. Actually, I've been working on that homicide Simon called you out for. I was impressed, Jim. Without you, we'd have nothing to work on at all."

Jim shrugged. "The first try wasn't too impressive. I'd feel better if the trace evidence had generated a suspect."

"Don't be so hard on yourself. You gave us a gift, and we're grateful. Now it's our job to run with it. So what do have planned for the poor old body today?"

"Enough chatter, huh? I've got the bench all set up for you."

"Slave driver."

They laughed and joked while Joel worked out on the weights. Taggart cheerfully took the teasing about packing a few extra pounds, but he was far from being a bowl of Jello. When they'd first started working out together, Jim had been astonished at the raw power Joel could generate. He could push more weight than a lot of younger guys posturing in their muscle shirts. Occasionally, they'd trade off and he'd spot for Jim.

After forty-five minutes they called a halt, showered and retreated to Jim's sparse living quarters at the health club. Conversation after the workout, under the guise of re-hydrating with a sports drink, was part of the ritual.

"Ah, sweet relief," Joel said, collecting the Gatorade Jim was offering. He collapsed into one of the chairs. "I thought you might use this room for something else now that you have your new place."

"I suppose I could, but sometimes I still need to escape. I like being here, seeing guys when they drop by, and I still have to bail every now and then."

"Simon mentioned you were having a few problems. He thought you were pretty down about it. Sandburg isn't pushing you too hard, is he?"

"It's not Sandburg," Jim said, shaking his head. "I'm my own worst enemy, unfortunately. Maybe I did let it get to me. I keep telling myself to be patient."

"Not a Jim Ellison strong point, if I recall. You look great, Jim. You've lost that gaunt, hollow look you had for the last few years. I notice it even more when you're out of street clothes. You've added some weight to your lifts, too." Joel polished off the Gatorade and reached for one of the sandwiches Jim always had delivered. He took a bite and chewed for a minute, studying the man across the room from him. "Can I offer a bit of advice, Jim?"

"I'd be a fool to turn it down. You've been a good friend, through everything."

"I'm older than you, lived another generation. When Simon and I joined the PD, people of color weren't exactly welcomed with open arms. We had to fight for every step forward. I'm no sentinel, but I do know about struggling to get ahead. I know how it feels to lose ground you thought you'd gained. You have two choices. You can concentrate on what you don't have yet. Be miserable and bitter. Or you can keep pushing, but take pleasure in the progress you make. You can drive yourself to the point of depression."

"I can't just give up, Joel," Jim said quietly. "It's a really scary place when you give up."

"I'm not talking about despair, Jim, or even complacency. I'm just talking about giving yourself a break. Personally, I think what you've done with this professor is damned near miraculous."

"Funny you should bring it up," Jim said. "I've been having this particular conversation with myself for the last few days."

"Then I hope you're listening. I used to have a Booker T Washington quote in my locker, 'Let our opportunities overshadow our grievances.' When I became a so-called big-shot, I put it in my desk drawer. I think it applies to you as well."

"Thanks for sticking your neck out to say it. I know I'm not always receptive." Jim looked a bit embarrassed. "Actually, my attitude lately has sort of pissed off the good professor. When I hear the same thing from both of you, I'd best pay attention."

Joel chuckled. "Well you can't mess with me. I'm too big to take a poke at. Some day, I'd like to meet him. Offer a few Ellison safety tips."

Jim considered that, rather relishing the idea of Sandburg and Taggart meeting. In some ways they were both old souls. "You said you had the afternoon free. Would you like to come by the Institute with me for a couple of hours?"

"Hmmm. Let's see. I could go to my office and do more paperwork."

"Is that a yes?"

"That's a yes."

&&&&&

Joel followed Jim to the Institute, and they met in the parking lot. "There it is, the brick one on the right. Eli Stoddard, you'll meet him today, by the way, came up with the building. The chemistry and physics people had just moved into a new facility, and there weren't any firm plans for the old structure. We took one wing of the first floor and did some fast remodeling."

They walked into the reception area. Taggart noticed the contrast between the main hallways and these offices. No faded linoleum tiles, toothpaste green walls or dingy fluorescent lights in this part of the building. When Jim did something, he did it right, and then some.

Of course, he met Meredith. Watching her interaction with Jim, Taggart marveled at the transformation of the man who'd stomped into Major Crime with an earring and an attitude. Jim had been known to run roughshod over support personnel, repeatedly and thoroughly. Even on good days, he'd taken little time for chitchat. The battle with his senses had smoothed away many of those temperamental rough edges.

Meredith, for her part, was obviously a charmer. She was wagging her finger at Jim. "Mr. Ellison, every time you show up with someone from the police department, they are tall, gorgeous hunks, and they can wear a suit without using a clip-on tie. Now why am I not getting date referrals from this?"

"Meredith, I'm shocked. Joel here is very taken," Jim said, "and Captain Banks is too scary for a sweet girl like you."

"Duh, completely not the point. Obviously, you have resources you aren't sharing." She gestured at Joel. "There have to be more where he came from."

Joel laughed, more than willing to play along. "You're absolutely correct, young lady. Jim used to be a regular matchmaker in Major Crime." He smiled cheerfully at Jim's 'I'll get you later' glare. "He's been holding out on you."

"I knew it." Meredith leaned toward him, whispering conspiratorially. "Spill. There are cute, smart, young ones over there. Tell me I'm right."

"Quit encouraging her, Taggart," Jim said. "I'll never hear the end of it." He motioned Joel toward the inner offices.

Meredith put on her patented wounded look. "No fair! Don't take him now. I was just about to get information from him. I haven't even broken out the cookies yet."

"Trust me," Jim said, trying to hustle Taggart along. "There is no one in the cop shop fashionable enough for you. They're all ..."

"What did you say?" Joel said, stopping abruptly. "Jim, you're not using your head. Young? Smart? And dare I say, fashionable?"

Jim gave him a quizzical look, and then caught Joel's drift. "Ah, you mean?"

"Who else?" Joel said, grinning.

They said it together. "Rafe."

&&&&&

"They're having a great time," Blair said. "Eli's finally found someone who isn't a techno-geek to talk to and enjoy his toys."

Jim and Blair had retreated to one of the conference tables, content to watch Stoddard show Taggart through the lab. Joel's working knowledge of electronics made him an appreciative audience. "Who knew the anthropologist and the bomb expert would hit it off?" Jim said.

"Haven't you figured it out yet, Jim? If you're going to understand a culture, it helps to talk to the natives. An anthropologist can talk to anyone."

"You got that right. Look at you," Jim said, giving Blair a good natured nudge. "Sorry if I set testing back another day."

"Are you kidding?" Blair said. "Joel's already made some suggestions we wouldn't have thought of. He's got a unique overlap of skills. I'm glad you invited him." Blair didn't add that the visit was totally unexpected. Up to this point, Jim had been extremely reticent to mix his law enforcement life with his sentinel life.

"Joel's a good guy. He had a tough stretch when he decided to resign as Captain of the Bomb Squad. A lot of guys would have bailed, but he worked through it. Did you know Joel took my spot in Major Crime?"

Blair tried to keep the surprise from his face. Jim was rarely this open. "I had no idea."

"He works out with me once a week at the gym. Has since I first opened the place. He actually pointed out a few things today that maybe I've been overlooking."

Jim looked thoughtful, but not upset. Blair decided to take the risk and ask. "Want to share?"

Jim gave a tiny smile, apparently a little amused with himself. "He suggested that I might be a tad impatient. Can't imagine where he got that idea."

"Jim, if this is too hard..."

"Chief, the Army was hard. Peru was hard. Lying on the floor of my loft wanting to die was hard. This is not hard. Not really."

Jim's voice was quiet, his face empty, his body tense. Only the piercing blue eyes carried the anguish behind the words. Blair started to answer and found the words strangled in his throat.

"So what was Joel telling you? So I can understand it too?"

Jim shrugged a little.

He wanted to answer. Blair could see it in his eyes. Words just weren't his medium of choice. "Did he mean that little things are important?" Blair guessed, hoping to God this was the right thing to do. "That every step up the mountain is as important as the summit?"

Jim's shoulders relaxed slightly and he gave a tiny nod.

Blair accepted the response as the major declaration it was. He'd need to adapt his approach. Jim was an individual driven by success: the completed mission, the solved case, the profitable venture. His lifetime focus was the end result, not the process.

Blair considered this new epiphany. Jim rarely offered such an intimate glimpse into his soul, and it was critical to utilize the opportunity. This wasn't the familiar observe and record territory of anthropology. Blair's cultural study of one had just gotten a lot whole lot more complicated.

Blair was still holding Jim's intense gaze, struggling for a response, when a voice startled him. A clearly apologetic Taggart was standing a few feet away. "Sorry. Simon just called. He couldn't or wouldn't elaborate, but he needs both of you down at the station."

"Did he say why?" Jim asked.

"You know Simon. He was only specific about the timing, as in yesterday."

Jim gave him a rueful half smile. "Hurt your ears when he yelled, huh, Joel? Come on, Dr. Sandburg. You've only seen the tame version of Captain Banks. We'll introduce you to the real Major Crime."

&&&&&

Blair, inured in the chaos of university freshmen, assumed he could sail through any chaos. The bullpen of Major Crime gave him a new definition of bedlam. The small space was packed with detectives in every available space. Blair could pick out Henri Brown, whom he'd met previously, but most of the faces belonged to strangers. The air hummed with a multitude of different, obviously intense, conversations. Blair came to an abrupt standstill, trying to take it all in.

"It gets this way sometimes, Chief," Jim said, steering him by the elbow through the crowd. They followed Joel's broad back through the crush to the office marked "Captain Banks".

The door slammed behind them, cutting down most of the noise. Blair did a double take, realizing what had just happened. "Jim, the noise! Is your hearing okay?"

Jim looked a bit surprised when he answered. "I guess it is. I dialed down. I'm not sure if I could take it for long, but at least I got in. How about that?" He turned his attention to the occupant of the desk, who had just slammed the phone down in disgust. "What's so urgent, Simon?"

"Gattins, Foster and Wilton were supposed to plead out on the kidnapping charge today. They reneged on the deal."

Blair realized the names had significance to the other men in the room but not to him. The look on Jim's face kept him from interrupting to ask. Besides, Simon was still talking.

"The D.A.'s office was caught flatfooted, but the Sunshine Patriots were not. They launched a so-called spontaneous, 'Free the political prisoners' demonstration right in the courtroom. Do not ask me how they got in there in the first place, but when we figure it out someone's going to barbecue. When officers moved in, somehow, they set off the building's security system. The panic to evacuate turned into a stampede. To spice it up, the bastards called in bomb threats to half a dozen public buildings. We've got people running around like headless chickens. Joel, can you..."

"Got it," Joel said, already out the door. "Just fill them in."

"What the hell is the D.A.'s office doing?" Jim asked angrily. "It's their job to keep these things moving. Bev promised me this was a done deal, and it was all going to be handled quietly. It was a better plea deal than they deserved. They were caught dead-to-rights, for God's sake."

"Apparently a few wheels fell off when Sanchez went to Olympia. The price of complacency, I guess. In any case, they're trying to salvage things with a show of force. They're reinstituting the full charges, which is why we need the two of you here."

"That was not our agreement!" Jim burst out angrily. "No way! I don't trust a single one of those idiots."

Blair raised both palms in confusion. "Guy's, slow down a bit. I'm lost. Who is Gattins and...whoever...and why does this involve me, or Jim for that matter?"

"Kincaid masterminded your kidnapping to get to me, Chief, but these were the guys who actually did the deed. Bev cut a deal with them so we wouldn't have to testify to that fact publicly."

Blair felt his own anger rising. "Why am I just hearing about this now? Why shouldn't I - of course I'll testify and make them pay the full penalty. Did you arrange this? Without even asking me?"

"I suggested it and Bev agreed," Jim answered hotly. "We did it to protect you. You don't understand these guys, Sandburg. The plea deal kept your name out of the papers, and you were never associated, at least in the media, with the failed kidnapping. You go on the stand, in an open trial, and you'll be fodder for every quasi-legal night-time talk show. It will be a circus. The Patriots would put you in their crosshairs forever. You'd never be safe. Not to mention the time it would take from your actual job." Jim turned his attention back to Banks. "You tell the D.A. it isn't going to happen. He can find some other way to salvage this screwup."

"Sandburg doesn't have a choice, Jim," Simon said firmly, rising to stand behind his desk.

"He's not doing it," Jim shouted back.

Blair, still appalled and irritated, waded into the fray. "Jim, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but this is not really your choice."

Faced with opposition on both sides, Jim got even angrier. He bellowed, "No way. Not now, not later. I'll blow the case up. I won't corroborate his testimony. I'll lie on the stand if I have to."

"Stand down, Ellison. That's enough," Banks shouted, matching Jim decibel for decibel.

"Neither one of you have a right to decide this," Blair said, standing himself in an effort to be heard. If the two other men noticed, they ignored him. It was like trying to deflect two charging water buffalo. Simon was moving from behind his desk. Blair stepped forward, interjecting himself between the two taller men.

The office door slammed again. All three turned as one.

"Hello, boys. I see we're still playing nicely with others." Beverly Sanchez, wearing a beautifully tailored crimson suit, set down her briefcase by the door and helped herself to the nearest chair. "God help me, you'd think this was elementary school. All three of you sit down, and I'll tell you how we're going to do to this."

&&&&&

They convened in Judge Alexander's chambers. It was trench warfare at its best. If so much weren't at stake, Jim decided he might have enjoyed it.

Jim sat behind Beverly, who was well into her presentation. Cascade's District Attorney, Lucas Irvine, resplendent in his ready-for-camera Armani suit, was seated to her left, with Blair to her right.

Jim relished the fantasy of simply reaching forward and snapping Irvine's head off. In Jim's opinion, the entire situation was Irvine's fault. He was certain the politically ambitious Irvine would put place personal interest ahead of Sandburg's long-term safety. Bev concurred with his fears. She used her contacts from the Governor's office, pulled every string possible and benched her former boss. Irvine was present in the room for form's sake only. Bev argued he would do less damage stuck in a spot where they could keep an eye on him.

Beverly's position was simple. Kincaid was a convicted terrorist, and had previously succeeded in threatening public safety despite his incarceration. Special protections were in order. Judge Alexander had questioned Sandburg briefly to acquaint himself with the particulars of the kidnapping. The lawyers representing the Sunrise Patriots feigned disinterest, but anyone familiar with a courtroom could tell the young professor would be a star witness. Jim had also answered a few questions, confirming the conditions of the actual rescue. Both men confirmed their identification of the kidnappers unequivocally. Despite numerous objections from the opposition, they were unshakable.

Any reasonable defense counsel would have been scrambling for a plea. Bev argued that in rejecting the plea agreement, Kincaid was once again operating behind the scenes. A lengthy trial with full media coverage would generate the publicity Kincaid needed to keep his movement alive while he himself was behind bars. A trial, even one that ultimately found his underlings guilty, would set Sandburg up as a high profile target. He could be struck down later. Terror would beget more terror. Sandburg, as the victim, deserved all the protection the court could provide.

Judge Alexander seemed sympathetic. He pressed the defense to accept the original agreement. They refused. As a last resort, they were hammering out details, closing the courtroom, barring cameras, keeping Sandburg's name out of court papers when possible. They were winning most of the battles, but not all of them.

&&&&&

"Jim, this is ridiculous. It's your home. Seriously, I could stay with friends for a couple of days."

"We've been over this an hour ago. I'm leaving, you're staying."

"It's not up to you to have the last word on this."

"We don't have to have words at all, either way. It's no big deal. Besides, Simon is worried. Didn't you listen at all today? He considers this place is safe, which is the only reason we aren't under police protection, or sitting in a safe house. If you go somewhere else, he'll have a fit. Actually, I would have a fit. Let's not taking any chances." Jim continued to tie his shoes, behaving for all the world that the issue was settled.

Blair planted himself in front of the elevator, hands on his hips. As far as he was concerned, he and Jim had multiple issues to iron out. "And what makes either you or Simon think that I agreed to this?"

Jim didn't answer immediately. He was busy gathering his keys and coat. When he discovered Blair blocking his departure, he finally spoke. "Because you're misreading this thing with Bev. There's no reason for you to leave because of some misplaced sense of gallantry. I asked her to come here and she turned me down. Beverly needed space for a temporary office, and set up at in a great suite downtown. I'm going to see her there. So please, stop."

"It's been months since you've seen her," Blair protested. "I feel like the pesky younger brother sent along to chaperone."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Sandburg, relax. I don't have a curfew. I can come home late, if you get my drift. So like I said, take off your matchmaking hat and stop worrying." When Blair didn't move, he waved the fingers of one hand to the left. "If you'll excuse me?"

Blair threw his hands up in exasperation and stepped to the side, letting Jim dart into the elevator unmolested.

He wandered around for a bit, still irritated with Jim's stubborn attitude. Reluctantly, he settled in Jim's spacious living room with a cup of tea and his work. After a wasted thirty minutes, he admitted he lacked the concentration needed for grading. He broke out his laptop, and started composing essay questions for the next Intro exam.

At eleven, he took a call from Simon, and assured him that all was well. Deciding to head for bed, he showered, taking time for an extra long soak. While toweling off, Blair realized that in all the excitement, he'd never called Tony back. Damn. He bolted for the guest room, but according to his alarm clock, it was nearly midnight. No way could he call so late. He would just have to doubly apologize when he finally reached his friend.

Frustrated with the entire day, he stripped off his clothes and dumped them in a pile by the foot of the bed. He slid his boxer-clad legs between Jim's five hundred count sheets, and rolled to his side, facing away from the clock. If he was going to lie here and fret before getting some sleep, he didn't want try track time while doing it.

&&&&&

"Good evening, Mr. Ellison. Ms. Sanchez left a message for you. She expected to return shortly." Jim accepted an envelope from the night manager. He selected a chair in the opulent reception area and opened the envelope to read.

He found the suite at the same moment room service arrived. He tipped the waiter and checked the cart. Classic Beverly Sanchez fashion, she'd kept his senses in mind. Rather than a single meal, she'd ordered all kinds of finger food, allowing him to pick and choose. A bottle of chardonnay was chilling, along with several bottles of the spring water that he preferred. The food could wait. He grabbed a water, and wandered to the windows, enjoying the view of the city at night.

He was grateful for the time. He wasn't entirely sure how he felt about seeing Bev this way.

During his years of isolation, Beverly had gotten past his defenses to become a treasured friend, and more. Their romance, if that was the right word, had been a shared pleasure rather than a passionate love. Mutually burned by previous relationships, both were content with a relationship limited to friendship and mutual physical attraction. They'd parted on excellent terms, and kept up active contact by email and phone while Bev had settled into her new job in Olympia.

He was thrilled to see her. In the few moments today that weren't all business, she'd seemed equally enthusiastic. Her invitation, however brief, had been warm and heartfelt. So why did it feel so - off?

One moment the door was opening, the next Bev was bounding across the room, wrapping him in an enthusiastic hug. "I waited all day to do this," she cried. Both of them laughed as he swept her off the floor and they spun joyously. After a warm "hello" kiss, she pushed him back at arms length, looking him up and down.

"My God, Jim, you look fantastic!" She ran her hands down his shoulders and biceps, and grasped at the elbows. "You look so healthy. You've put on weight, you look...oh, damn it." She hugged him close again, snuggling into his chest. "How embarrassing. I sound like I'm evaluating a prize steer. You just look great, like your old self. This thing with Sandburg - it seems like a miracle." She pulled with both hands and directed him to the sofa. "I want to hear every single thing. Absolutely everything. All the stuff you can't put in the damn emails."

Damn, he'd missed her. "What do you want to hear first?" he said.

"Let me get our food." She popped up from the sofa to bring their meal to the coffee table. "I hope there's something here you can eat."

"I'll play it safe to start with." He held out one of the small plates. "How about a couple of those rice balls, and those roll-up things? Room service must have thought you were nuts."

"I couldn't care less what room service thinks," she said, filling her plate with shrimp and settled close to him. "Simon told me you came out on a crime scene and were a wonder."

"I don't suppose he mentioned they practically carried me away from the scene in a basket?"

She popped a shrimp in her mouth and smiled. "Don't focus on the negative, Jim. Live and learn. What matters is that you went back and took another crack at it. It takes a lot to impress the infamous Captain Banks, and he was impressed. Thrilled, to be honest."

"I'd feel better if we had a suspect." He added some soy to the rice balls. So far, so good.

She reached for some vegetables with dip and added some to Jim's plate at the same time. "You know better than anyone that cases don't always break on schedule. What I want to know is how it felt to be back in the saddle."

"Pretty shaky, to be honest. I'm not entirely sure I should keep trying."

"Oh, I absolutely don't agree. I don't win every case, but that doesn't mean I should quit being a lawyer. You, and only you, found a link back to a cold case. That's gold, Jim, and you know it."

"I don't know. I guess I could stick to the in-office stuff. I got a kick out of reviewing the old cases. It felt really good. I don't necessarily have to go out to the scene."

"Now see, that's what I mean." She swung her legs across Jim's lap. "Simon told me you caught the thing with the shoes. That's good police work. Don't sell yourself short. You'll find the right balance."

Her joy was infectious. As they talked and ate, Jim recognized this as Bev's great gift to him. In her presence, he relaxed, and felt like a normal person. Jim recounted it all, the ups, the downs. She told him about Olympia. There was no doubt she was flourishing. It was wonderful, easy and genuine. Time slipped by unnoticed.

She clapped her hands in delight at the news Sandburg would soon be installed in the loft. "What a stroke of genius, Jim. I always loved that place, and it seemed so sad when you had to let it go. What a perfect solution."

"I thought so, too. I have a tough time convincing him that letting him stay with me is a favor to me, not to him. Tonight was classic. I damn near had to tie him down to keep him from sleeping in some park under a newspaper."

Bev laughed gaily. "Somehow, I can see him turning it into something unexpected and adventurous and wonderful. Leading the homeless in camp songs, complete with four part harmony. I don't know, do they do such things on expeditions?"

Jim laughed so hard he nearly dropped his water. "Like I would know. The guy lived in trees, so anything is possible. I never know what to expect."

"I've missed you so much. This is like stepping back in time, like I never left," Bev said, her expression fading to something serious and a little sad. "I just want this to go on and on, but I ...I have to say this."

Somehow, Jim knew before she formed the words. "I will always treasure you, and this - this is so hard, but I've met somebody. I think he might be the one."

&&&&&

Blair woke to the buzz from Jim's intercom. The system allowed someone without access to the elevator to contact Jim's living area on the top floor. Jim protected his privacy so vigilantly few people even knew it was available. As a result, it was rarely used.

Blair stumbled out into the main living areas blindly, still nearly half asleep. He did a double take when he realized Jim was a few steps ahead of him. "Yes," Jim said briskly pushing the button on the speaker. "Who is this?"

"Mr. Ellison, it's Lucas." Lucas, who owned the juice bar and bakery in Jim's retail project, was a regular visitor. He delivered juice and Jim's treasured buttermilk doughnuts at eight AM every morning, and had a special code for the keypad to access the elevator. While a sleep-befuddled Blair was processing all this, he realized that it was not the weekend, and it was just after five in the morning.

"Mr. Ellison, I'm really sorry to bother you. The morning papers just arrived at the bakery, and I think you ought to see this."

"I'll buzz you right up, Lucas," Jim said. "Nice boxers, Sandburg."

&&&&&

"I don't believe this. None of this was to be released to the media," Blair said. "This damn article reads like they were sitting there in the judge's office."

"I suspect they were. One of those defense lawyers went straight to the Gazette."

"Maybe we're overreacting. This crap isn't in the Cascade Times. Not as many people read the Gazette."

"It won't matter. Kincaid likes messing with high profile targets, and having your picture on the front page, any front page, just plays to his hand."

"Jim, in case you haven't noticed, your picture is right there next to mine."

"I had a target painted on my chest before you ever came on the scene, Chief. Back in my detective days, I did plenty to piss off the Sunrise Patriots. The fact that some people consider me wealthy just creates added incentive for someone like Kincaid. He had no reason to come after you outside of your connection to me. This is exactly what I wanted to avoid." He sighed. "I never thought I'd say this, but sometimes I really miss the black op days."

"So what do you suggest? I hated it when Simon had a guard on me all day. Do you think he'll insist?"

"Probably, but probably not this instant. I should talk to Simon, and then talk to Bev."

Blair excused himself and headed for the shower. For the moment there was nothing he could do except give Jim some space. Breaking bad news to a friend didn't require an audience.

&&&&&

As much as Blair hated to leave, he had no choice. He had three classes and his graduate students scheduled, and they simply couldn't be put off. Both men dressed and grabbed a quick breakfast. The food had the appeal of straw, but Blair couldn't very well insist that Jim eat without joining him.

"Promise you'll call me. Please, Jim, I'll worry like crazy if you don't."

"You're in class."

"So? I'll be worrying in class. Call anyway."

"What a mess. Don't be surprised if you end up with a shadow."

"How are your senses? And don't even think of bullshitting me." Blair shook his head when Jim answered with a blank stare. "I think we have good evidence that stress makes your senses more difficult to control. I'd classify this as stressful."

Jim shrugged. "It's the least of my worries, but I had a little trouble picking out a shirt. My skin itches."

"And of course you weren't going to tell me."

"It's just not a top priority. You need to concentrate on your real job. I called you a cab, by the way. I'd drive you, but want to stay close to the phone."

"They say bad luck comes in threes. After the fiasco yesterday, and now this, let's not make your senses the third."

Jim looked away, distracted and a bit sad. He mumbled something Blair didn't quite catch. "What did you say?"

"I said, 'we're clear', because I've already racked up three." Jim walked to the windows and stared into the distance, his hands shoved into the pockets of his slacks.

Blair watched for a moment. Every line of Jim's silhouette said "misery," but Blair couldn't figure three. Then the pieces clicked into place. He hadn't really expected to see Jim this morning, which meant...

"Jim, it's not my business, but did everything go okay last night? With Beverly, I mean."

Jim looked over his shoulder, and then back to the panorama of Cascade before him. "We had a great visit."

Great visits and Jim's demeanor didn't quite add up. Blair felt he had to ask. "And?"

"We had a really good time. I realized how much I've missed her." There was an awkward silence before Jim realized Blair wasn't letting him off the hook and continued. "She's met somebody. She wanted me to know."

Blair's heart sank. "Ahhh, Jim. I'm so sorry." "It's okay, Chief. We weren't in love, neither one of us. We'll always be friends, and I'm happy for her."

There was nothing else Blair could say, nothing that would be right. At a loss, he finally said, "Thanks for the cab. If I don't hear from you, I'll call."

&&&&&

Trying to put the trial issues out of his mind, Jim went to his office at the health club. By 8:30, he was grateful he'd hired an assistant. Calls were flooding in, asking for a reaction. By ten, undeterred by his refusal to take any non-work related calls, reporters started showing up in person.

Annoyed and feeling a bit guilty for letting Jessica take the heat, he decided to make things simple and leave. He ducked out a rear entrance and drove over to Prospect. In all the chaos, he hadn't checked on the progress personally. He had confidence in his project manager and the other contractors, but there was nothing like on-site inspections. This time, he took the stairs slowly, following Sandburg's advice. The door to 307 was open, and he could make out the sounds of conversation inside.

It was beautiful, better than his expectations.

"Mr. Ellison, we weren't expecting you." Dustin Maine, his construction manager, was a California transplant, complete with a surfer's blond hair and easy smile. He also had a degree in civil engineering from San Jose State and a perfectionist streak a mile wide. Unable to do a lot of on-the-job inspections in person, Jim relied on him to get it right the first time. He'd never been disappointed.

"Sorry, Dustin. I should have called, but I had a break. How's it coming?"

"Great, as long as you're okay with all the overtime." He gestured toward the wall. "I had my doubts, but this shelving is cool. We've got to use this stuff again. The support system is great. I think elephants could dance on 'em. Floors are finished except we'll have to clean up the shelving mess."

"The floor looks like it belongs in an NBA arena. I can't believe it wasn't replaced."

"What a surprise, huh? Rustic is okay, but we found a lot of good wood under all the wear. Besides that, cabinets are in, plumbing and electrical people are finished. The cleaning crew is already working upstairs. You've got to go up and see the new skylights."

Jim started up the stairs and halted at the first sniff of cleaning products. He retreated quickly. "That'll have to wait."

"Oh, I forgot about the cleaners. We're using the ones on the list." The list of sentinel-friendly products had been but together by Sandburg.

"Don't worry about it. Even the good stuff can be a problem sometimes." Jim shrugged. What's the timeline now?"

"I'm shooting for completion this afternoon. It's not really my area, but I told the architect to get the furnishings people over here."

"This exceeds all my expectations," Jim said appreciatively. "What else can I see?"

"Hey, check out the kitchen. I cook hotdogs in the toaster and even I love it."

"Hotdogs in the toaster?"

"Well, yeah. I do wood, not food. When I'm really in a hurry, I just use a fork and stick 'em under the hot water."

&&&&&

"All right, ladies and gentleman, that's it for today. Remember you have reading, and you might start thinking about your term paper. Time will go faster than you think." Blair answered a few questions and then concentrated on gathering everything into his briefcase.

"Excuse me, Dr. Sandburg." Blair didn't glance toward the worst falsetto he'd ever heard. "I'm a little too busy for a paper. Could I read a comic book instead?"

"Jim Ellison, none of my freshmen would even THINK of using that line. You're dating yourself, old man. They want the movie version, of course." He smiled at Jim, who was hanging by the door with a broad grin. "You look pretty happy, compared to the way things looked this morning. I wasn't expecting you. What's the occasion?"

"I went by the loft. It's almost done and it really looks great. I can't wait for you to see it."

"As much as I've enjoyed staying with you, I can't wait either. You won't admit it, but you need your privacy back."

"Wrong. You underestimate how much it's helped me to have you there all the time. If you're willing, I'd like to keep the guest room set up for you, so you can pop in whenever."

"Really?"

"Really. Now I was thinking lunch. Can you find us a place where we can hide out? I've been ignoring calls from the media all morning, and I'd like to keep it that way."

"I have just the place."

&&&&&

It was easy to slip away from work again. After several days of careful thinking, he had two duffle bags of equipment assembled. He had to consider the risks, of course. His other "experiences" had been anonymous. Quick stalks followed by solo kills in deserted areas, keeping watch from a discreet distance. Nothing to trace back. An occasional move and it was all relatively safe.

This would be different. A suburban house, not a back alley or empty road. He usually didn't pick out a victim ahead of time. This would be a prosperous couple, not a half-intoxicated no name. He'd nearly backed out several times, but as the days slipped by, an awful realization dawned. All the other times had been pathetic, misdirected. He had used others as proxies, but never touched the ones who ignored or dismissed him.

So this time it would be different, and he wasn't nervous about it. He was looking forward to it.

&&&&&

"As God is my witness, Chief, if someone lights up a joint in here, I'll run them in."

"Relax, Jim. Organic is not synonymous with drug abuse. Besides, Holly's a friend from my grad student days, and not everyone gets served back here. She'll never let anyone back here in the greenhouse to hassle us." Jim eyed the curtain of vegetation suspiciously. "It's a great place. Holly grows a lot of her own veggies in here, year round, and all of her herbs. Come on. You'll love the pizza."

"Sandburg, we're eating vegetarian food surrounded by a damn indoor jungle. Don't give me that look. It's like - like eating omelets in a chicken coop. It's a morals issue."

Blair cracked up, spewing a mouthful of tea. "Jim, give me a little warning before you make these little speeches about food." He smiled sympathetically at Jim's tense posture. "Really, take a few deep breaths and lose all the crap from the day."

"You're right." Jim sighed. "It might be months away, but I already hate this. The whole idea of a high profile trial, being under the microscope, makes my skin crawl. It will be just like Peru, people following me around trying to get into my life."

"You could give another interview, like you did when you went public. With no scoop to get, it would spare you the pursuit."

"There you go suggesting logical solutions, when I was settled on denial. So you think creative evasion isn't the way to go?"

"I know you can do it, but do you want to sneak around? Make it a non-issue by providing the real story." Blair cheerfully munched on a carrot stick. "Have you heard from Simon? Or Beverly?"

"Not yet. I can't say it improved his overall mood. What he really wants is to be left alone so Major Crime can actually solve crime. The last few days no one's gotten a bit of work done, and the bad guys don't take days off. That poor kid who was murdered hasn't even been identified yet. Forget tracking down the killer, who might even have a string of victims and is probably going to kill again."

"You weren't the only distraction, Jim. Simon doesn't hold you responsible."

"Maybe. I don't know, Sandburg, maybe I should just steer clear of Major Crime. Make it easy for everyone."

"Is that what you really want?" Blair asked softly.

"What do you want?" Jim asked.

"Like that should even be on the radar screen. This is your life."

"I'm serious. It's yours, too. What do you want?"

"Wow. Okay. When an anthropologist studies a culture, ultimately he wants to understand, so all of us can be wiser and happier. I want both of us to understand your gift, but if you aren't happier, then we're missing the point."

"Hmm." Jim helped himself to a carrot. "I think you and Joel are singing the same tune. That maybe I should relax and give things a chance." Blair nodded. "Bev gave me a pretty good pep talk. I guess if I hear the same thing from three people I trust, I'd better believe it."

Their food arrived, pizza for Jim, soup and salad for Blair. It was one of the rare moments when the barriers dropped and Jim spoke freely. He spoke about Peru and Incacha, what he could remember about his senses and how he'd used them. Blair concentrated fiercely, knowing the moment a notebook appeared it would break the mood.

They were about to start dessert when Jim's phone started ringing. "I'm not answering," he said.

"Don't be a troll, Jim. It could be Simon, or Bev, or someone else you actually want to talk to."

Jim grudgingly dug the phone out of his pocket. "Simon, and don't you dare gloat."

The conversation was brief. "We're going to have to skip dessert unless it's portable, Chief. We're wanted in Major Crime."

"Lead the way. I'll get Holly to wrap up some brownies for us." Jim raised an eyebrow. "No, not that kind of brownie. Double chocolate with nuts, and they're to die for."

&&&&&

Judge Alexander couldn't clear his calendar to meet with all parties until one. Beverly Sanchez had waited all morning to vent her anger. The two defense attorneys were late. The judge was on slow simmer. It wasn't an auspicious start.

Alexander tapped his pencil impatiently. "Ms. Sanchez, if they aren't here in the next ten minutes, I'm holding them in contempt. Forget a fine. I'm going to toss them in the hoosegow."

"You'll get no argument from me, Your Honor. I can't convey strongly enough my concerns. You laid out your restrictions clearly before we finished yesterday."

"I know the meaning of a gag order, Ms. Sanchez. I plan to hold their feet to the fire. Everyone in this country is entitled to a defense, but their clients are terrorists. They'll get no consideration from me."

There was a soft knock at the door, and Ken Jordan, one of the defense attorneys entered. As defense attorneys went, he was a pretty good guy. Beverly had been surprised that he'd chosen to defend these particular defendants.

"My apologies, Your Honor."

"Where's your other half?" Alexander said sharply. "I'm in no mood for any more nonsense."

"With respect, Your Honor, I was shocked by what I read this morning. Your instructions were extremely clear. I have spoken with Mr. Carding."

"And why the hell isn't he here!" the judge exploded.

"With your indulgence, sir, he dictated a statement to me. He released the information under duress. About an hour ago he contacted the F.B.I., to get himself and his family out of the city. They're searching for a way for him to turn state's evidence without violating professional ethics."

"So you're telling me you had nothing to do with the story in the Gazette."

"Yes, sir. I had no part in it."

"Will this fairy tale be confirmed by the Bureau?"

"Yes, sir. I also met with our clients. Their situation is becoming increasingly precarious. If they don't accept the plea agreement already arranged, I will ask to withdraw. I'm confident if we proceed they will do so."

"I'm not going to repeat yesterday's circus, Mr. Jordan."

"I'm staking my reputation on it, sir. In fact, they requested a meeting with Ms. Sanchez. The state may be interested in what they have to say."

Alexander looked at Beverly. "Ms. Sanchez, assuming everything he says is confirmed, are you amenable?"

"Yes, with a few reservations. I'd like to hear what they have to say."

"Fine. The two of you see the defendants this afternoon. We'll reschedule the hearing tomorrow morning. I want this matter brought to a close. I'm holding both of you responsible."

Both lawyers rose to leave. "Will two o'clock be satisfactory?" Jordan asked. "That gives us an hour."

"Make it three," Beverly said. "I'm meeting Ellison and Sandburg first."

&&&&&

"Sanchez, I don't buy it. They're up to something."

"Captain Banks, normally I would agree with you, but I think it's the real deal," Beverly said. The four of them, including Jim and Blair, were squeezed into Bank's office in Major Crime.

"So there wouldn't be a trial?" Blair asked.

"Not if they take the plea," Beverly said. "That's what we wanted all along. I think it's worth a shot."

"So that lizard Carding gets a free pass, even though he broke the gag order," Jim said. "Excuse me if I'm not thrilled."

"Well, I wouldn't mind seeing him in a cell for a bit, but that really isn't the primary issue." Beverly checked her watch. "I need to go. I wanted you to know firsthand what was going on. Oh, I almost forgot." She reached into her briefcase and pulled out a file. "I had this faxed from Olympia. We had two cases, both from a couple of years ago, that came through our office for review. It's a real long shot, but I'd like you to take a look at them." She handed the file to Jim. "I'll call you as soon as I know anything definite."

"I'm sick to death of the Sunrise Patriots," Simon growled as the door closed. "Kincaid is a menace."

"No arguments there," Jim said darkly. He flipped open the cover of the file.

"Uh, Jim, why don't you take that thing into the conference room? Sandburg, you can wait here while we do our thing."

"I appreciate the gesture, Captain, but I'd like to see the file," Blair said firmly.

Jim closed the file hastily. "Chief, you don't want to see this. You really don't."

"If you want to sanitize as we go along, fine. Otherwise, I'm coming."

Simon shrugged. "It's his choice. He's got the credential. Just don't blame me if these things keep you up at night."

&&&&&

He slid into his van with time to spare. He could look out the grimy back window and watch Herbig's house down the block. He didn't like to wait, but this time, it would be worth it. Let Herbig and his lady find his little present. Later, when the house went dark, he'd visit the good professor and have that conference he suggested.

He looked at his hands and noticed the blood. Not that it mattered.

&&&&&

Jim had the contents of the file spread out in front of them. It didn't take the two professionals long to figure out that Sandburg could read the materials a lot faster than they could.

"There are definitely similarities," Simon commented. "Same caliber gun, same general M.O."

"I hate to think this guy has a string of victims all across the state," Jim said. "Let me see the forensics report again."

"Captain, do they put these unsolved cases into some kind of a data base?" Blair asked. "Could you search for certain characteristics?"

"I can get Rafe to make some calls. I think the statewide data base was one of the things Sanchez was working on. It's not up and running yet."

"No footprints were recovered, not from either crime site." He set the report down. "We don't have anything that's a direct link."

"What about these notes in the victim's pockets?" Blair asked. "For some reason, those passages sound really familiar. Did the Cascade cases have anything like that?"

"I don't remember." Jim checked the Cascade files. "Actually, they did. There's this written on the back of a grocery list. The other case - yep, writing on a folded three by five card. I didn't notice. They're pretty nondescript. I would have associated them with the victim, not the killer."

"Maybe they are," Blair said. "I don't know. I can't place it."

"So we have two more possibles," Banks said. "This case is really getting under my skin. I'll get Rafe busy on this angle tomorrow."

Jim closed the case file he'd been reading and tossed it onto the pile. "I don't think we can do anything more. Come on, Chief. We'll go by the University and get your stuff.

&&&&&

Tony wrapped his arms around his wildly sobbing fiancée. "Alicia, Alicia, honey, please stop"

"How could anyone do such a thing? She was just a baby."

She rocked in his arms, inconsolable. Tony stroked her hair, shaking with rage himself. Why couldn't he have been the one to find Muffin, her calico fur soaked with her own blood. He didn't dare touch the remains, at least not until the cops got there. How could he ever make them feel safe here? Maybe they should move, even though they'd already started fixing the place up.

A Cascade PD cruiser pulled up in front of the house. Tony gently guided Alicia to her favorite chair and settled her with tea, as far from bloody kitchen porch as possible. He met the officers and escorted them around the house rather than have them get the story from her. She was just too emotional, too fragile.

The officers were considerate and concerned, but not much more. Normal procedure was to alert the neighborhood and watch for any additional incidents. Usually kids, acting out some sick fantasy, they explained. He helped them unfasten the rope from Muffin's tiny body. They would have taken her, but Tony wrapped the remains tenderly in a towel. Alicia might have preferences for her beloved pet, but now wasn't the time to ask.

He went to sit with her, to offer whatever comfort he could.

&&&&&

Jim entered the code to the elevator. "I'm tired, Chief. Really, really tired."

Blair stepped into the elevator behind his friend, and used the time to take a good look.. Jim looked pale and tired. Not doubt his senses were acting up, taking extra energy to manage. The stress would get to anyone, much less a sentinel. "I'm sorry we got delayed at my office. I'm beat, too. Why don't you call it an early night?"

"Now? It's not even eight." Jim wandered into the apartment and flopped onto one of the sofas. He glanced at the television without much enthusiasm.

"Time's relative. Just stretch out and relax, even if you can't sleep. Read a book, or listen to some music."

"I thought I might check the late news."

"That's hours from now. I can do that, even record it if you like. I'm staying up anyway."

"Bev might call."

"If she does, I'll come get you."

Jim hesitated, then nodded in agreement. Blair watched him thoughtfully as he retreated to his room. It just didn't seem right for one person to bear so much.

Blair powered up his laptop. He didn't have a lot of grading to do, but he'd woefully neglected his correspondence. He clicked away, deleting or answering email as required. There seemed no end to the institutional paperwork.

Far down the queue, he opened one from Tony. Shit! What kind of a friend was he? It wasn't that late. He could call. It took him a few minutes to find Tony's home number. He waited through six rings and was on the verge of hanging up, when someone answered.

"Hi, this is Blair Sandburg. Could I speak with Tony, please?" A woman's voice sobbed. "Alicia, is that you? What's wrong? Are you okay? Is Tony there?" Despite a couple of attempts, Blair couldn't make out anything intelligible. "Alicia, listen to me, okay? I'm coming over, right now. Do you hear me? I'm hanging up and I'll be there in half an hour."

"What is it, Chief?" Jim had apparently heard him. He was standing, bare to the waist, clad only in a pair of sweat pants. "Where are you going?"

Blair was frantically searching for keys and shoes. "My friend Tony - remember I told you about him. Something's happened. Alicia's hysterical, and I can't make out what's wrong. They just moved into a little place on the east side of campus. I've got to get over there. I should have called sooner, damn it."

"I'll go with you."

"It's okay, Jim. I can call a cab."

"Forget it. We're going together. We can take the truck."

Following Blair's directions, it actually took them less than twenty minutes. Jim watched solemnly as a slim, dark haired woman met them at the door and nearly collapsed in Blair's arms.

"Alicia, come inside. Tell me what's going on." Blair hustled her into the entry and the room beyond. Jim stood slightly removed as Blair slowly coaxed the story out of the distraught woman.

"My - kitten - back porch - hurt her." She sobbed brokenly. "Tony - he -." She broke down completely.

"I'll check the back, Chief," Jim said softly. He slipped through the bright kitchen onto a screened porch. The small space was dominated by a small wicker table with two chairs. Beyond, even in the dim light, Jim could see a grassy yard, and further back, a low fence.

The coppery smell of drying blood hit him like a blow. A towel-wrapped bundle rested on the wicker table. He carefully lifted back the corner of the fabric and swore softly. There was no excuse or explanation for this kind of savagery.

The painted floor was spotted with drops and smears of blood. Neither Tony or his young lady had attempted to clean the area. He stepped to the side and squatted low, trying to make sense of the marks. The outline of Alicia's shoe was easy to distinguish. Several versions of men's shoes were apparent. Close to the door, another - Jim scrambled over, examining it closely.

It couldn't be. Surely he was kidding himself.

He found a bank of light switches and found one to illuminate the yard. He moved slowly down the back steps. The neighbor's porch light was also on, and for once he blessed his sentinel vision. He found another bloody print on the back step, two more in the soft soil surrounding the grass. The same boot mark with a slash across it. He circled along the fence until he had no doubt about his conclusions.

Blair was in the kitchen, apparently getting another cup of tea for Alicia. "Jim, I'm pretty spooked. Alicia says that after the officers left, Tony got really pissed. He thinks that nutcase student did this and took off for Rainier to get the guy's address."

"Shit! How long ago?" Jim brushed past Blair.

"Jim? Hey, what is it?" Jim didn't answer. All Blair followed him out of the kitchen, taken aback by the intensity on Jim's face.

"Miss, do you know any of your neighbors?" She nodded. "Listen to me carefully. I want you to go over there and stay there. Don't come back here until someone comes to get you. You can't stay here." He pulled her to her feet and steered her towards the front door. "Chief, try to get him on the phone. Now."

"Why - what's wrong?" Alicia asked. "I'll go with you."

Jim still had her moving out and down the walk. "Miss, we may have a situation here. Blair told you I used to be a cop?"

"Yes, but..."

"Then trust me. Go to your neighbor's place and we'll get a hold of Tony." She started toward the next house, then hesitated. "Go!" Jim said emphatically. He took off for the truck. "Chief, hurry up!"

Blair stopped to reassure Alicia while he found Tony's number. "I don't know, but just go. Really, it's okay." Jim was starting the engine, waving frantically at Blair to get in.

"Did you get him?"

Blair listened for a minute. "No answer, and voice mail isn't picking up. What the hell are you doing, Jim?"

"Try text. Tell him to stay put. And call Simon," Jim said as they roared down the street and careened around the corner.

Blair braced an arm against the dash to keep from slamming into the side window. "Jim! What did you see back there? Answer me!"

"Tell Simon to get a forensics team to that porch and back yard. There are bloody footprints back there - boots with the same weird markings we found at the murder scene. I'm sure of it. Which also means we need to get to your friend before he does something stupid."

"Oh my God," Blair said. "That's it! That's where I saw that writing! Tony showed me his student's essays. I'm positive - the phrasing, everything."

"Get him on the phone, Chief. Do it now."

&&&&&

His office phone was ringing. He ignored it, intent on his task. Even faculty didn't have direct access to personal information, but Rainier's system wasn't that tight. All you needed was a little time and some access. He didn't feel great about it, but he wasn't the only one who knew the departmental secretary kept her codes taped to the bottom of her keyboard.

Finally!

Tony copied the address onto a scrap of paper. Not approved use of University records but, at the moment, he didn't give a damn. The University didn't want to make waves, and the cops couldn't do anything unless they caught the guy in the act. He'd followed the rules, been politically correct, called the cops like a good guy and for what? Nothing. So what was he supposed to do? Let Alicia be terrified in their own home? Open the door so some freak could terrorize them whenever he felt like it?

He typed the address into MapQuest, just to make sure he could find the place. His cell rang, then the office phone rang again. Scowling, he ignored both and sent the map to the printer. He didn't bother to shut the computer down, just grabbed his coat and headed out the door.

He was fumbling for his office key to lock the door when the blow came from behind.

&&&&&

"Over there, between those two buildings. Look, that's his car."

They sprinted across the parking lot. Jim couldn't see any students nearby. The windows in the building Blair had pointed out were all dark. Jim took the steps in two long bounds and flung open the double doors.

"Which way, Chief?"

"His office is 235. Stairs to the right. Then left."

Jim stopped abruptly in the stairwell. Blair nearly smacked into him. He was breathing hard from trying to keep up with Jim's long legs.

"I want you to stay here while I check things out. You got that? If anything looks dicey, call 911 and get out of here." Jim eased the door open and moved cautiously down the hallway.

"Like I'm really going to leave you here," Blair muttered under his breath, not intending Jim to hear. He saw Jim's back stiffen, and reminded himself to watch the commentary.

Jim stopped at Tony's door, checked all the way to the end and came back. He motioned to Blair. He held up a hand when Blair got close. "Stop!"

"Is he here?" Blair asked.

"He's been here. The door was open, lights and computer are on." Jim was examining the floor and the door jamb. "Look here. There's a little smear of blood here on the door jamb. How tall is he?"

"Taller than me. Six foot, maybe a bit less."

"Pretend you're trying to lock the door. I push you from behind, smack your head into this metal frame. It's the right height." Jim looked up and down the hallway. "Someone could have ambushed him, right here by the door."

"Shit, no one would know. They don't teach any night classes in this building, and they don't use the top two floors at all. It's deserted. What do we do now?"

"Check his computer." Jim pulled a tissue from a box on the desk. "Use this. Don't touch any more than you have to."

Blair tapped the mouse. "A map." He hit print, then backed up a few screens. "He went into student records. I should have known. Tony was a pretty decent hacker before he grew up and got responsible."

"We'll call Simon. Get a unit over there." Jim's conversation with his former superior was brief and terse. Blair could hear Simon's bellow as Jim hung up.

"He didn't sound too happy."

"Simon forgets I don't actually work for him these days. Okay, so he jumps Tony, but where are they?"

"Oh, God, he can't be dead. Say he can't be dead."

"I know, Chief. We can hope. What would that son of a bitch do?" Jim started toward the stairwell.

Blair frowned. "Jim, this building is deserted, but this isn't far from the center of campus. There are students moving around. What does he do? Carry an unconscious body across the quad?

Jim spun on his heel. "Sandburg, dial his number again. Right now." Blair fumbled for the phone and dialed. Jim bowed his head slightly, his eyes closed. "Upstairs. I hear it ringing upstairs. Stay here! Call Simon!"

"Jim, come back here!" Blair called, to no avail. "Damn it!"

&&&&&

It hadn't been hard to get into one of the deserted classrooms up here. He'd trussed the good professor up against an old-fashioned wooden lectern. His head lolled back over the edge, blood dripping from his nose and behind his right ear. Fuck! He wanted him awake. He wanted him to know.

Stupid academic wimp! Or maybe he'd hit him too hard. Whatever.

He didn't like it, standing here, waiting for the guy to wake up. All the other times, they'd been quick. Efficient. A couple of shots and done.

He fingered the gun in his jacket. Maybe he could use it, but would someone hear it? That really wasn't what he wanted. He wanted - needed - to cut this time. He slid the knife from its sheath, still crusted with the blood from earlier. He sliced through the fabric of the shirt, baring the chest of his victim. Herbig stirred, and pulled against the ropes. How nice.

Time for class, Professor.

&&&&&

Jim went to the top floor, intending to work his way down. Now, standing by the stairwell on the sixth floor, it seemed like a bad idea. He could search room by room, but it could take too long. He needed something, some clue.

He went back into the stairway. Blood? Not that he could see. Could he smell it? He tried, and promptly sneezed. Blair said they didn't use these floors, and apparently they didn't clean them either. The flights leading to the unused floors were dimly lit. Apparently no one replace fluorescent bulbs as they burned out.

It was darker out in that back yard. Try!

Jim forced himself to relax, to breathe, as Blair had coached him. He blinked. The darkness seemed to lift. No blood. Just a thin film of dust. The dust! Slowly, he walked down the stairway, following the dim outline of his footsteps, the only set of marks. At the fifth floor landing the pattern changed - in front of the entrance a large area was scraped clear.

Exactly what would happen if a burden was set down, to open the door.

He pushed through the door. It seemed even darker. This hallway was carpeted, ratty and dingy. No tracks to follow. What now? He needed backup, more people to search, and fast.

He was poised to retreat, when he heard it - a groan. Hesitant, he dialed up his hearing.

Time for class, Professor.

He ran, tracking the sound. After the scream, he was certain.

&&&&&

"Simon, I called 911, but I don't think they get it. Jim went up there alone." Blair listened. "Okay. How long? Campus police? In your dreams. Oh, shit." Blair nearly dropped the phone. "Simon, listen to me!" he shouted. "I hear screams! NO! I'm going up, he's up above me somewhere."

&&&&&

It was beautiful, thin, from the hollow of the collarbone to the navel. Blood beaded up in tiny bubbles as he went. Herbig surged against his bonds, trying to jerk away. He grabbed him by the hair, twisting, twisting. "We're just starting. I think I'll write a little - maybe a poem. T." The scream was sweet, seductive. "H. E. The. What's my grade now?"

"Freeze! Cascade PD!"

A tall man was surging across the floor. He slashed with the knife and the man fell back. He slashed again, forcing the man back. He shoved a chair between them and backed away. He abandoned the knife. He pulled the gun and fired, backing towards the door. Three shots went wide, and the guy kept coming. A fourth shot. He spun and went down.

In an unseeing panic, he turned and bolted toward the door. Another shape appeared, crouched in front of him, and he tried to fire again. A whoosh of sound, and he was clawing at his face and eyes. He couldn't see, the floor was slick. A blow to the side of his head sent unspeakable pain through his cheek and eye. He fell as one blow after another forced him to the floor.

&&&&&

Simon Banks, gun drawn, led the charge, a hastily assembled group of city and campus officers at his heels. Sirens in the distance told him that more help was on the way. "Upper floors!" he shouted. They were still in the stairwell when they first heard shouts.

"Help! Over here! Help."

Banks recognized the voice. "Sandburg?" he shouted, running in the direction of the voice.

"What the fuck took you so long! Get an ambulance! We've got injured!"

"What in God's name..." Simon skidded to a stop, trying to make sense of the scene before him. A shape on the floor, covered with extinguisher foam, was moaning, "He hit me. Keep him away. He hit me. He broke my jaw. Keep him away from me."

"Arrest that asshole," Blair ordered. "I should have done more than hit him." He was kneeling beside Jim, who was propped up against the wall. Another man, about Sandburg's age, was seated near him, holding a bloody shirt to his chest.

"Jim, look at me. Deep breaths, keep the dial down. Stay with me, man. Simon, put some pressure here. I can't do two things at once."

"Cuff him," Simon barked, pointing toward the moaning heap. "We need first aid supplies, here." He joined Blair, taking over direct pressure on Jim's right shoulder. "How is he?"

"Jim?" Blair asked.

"Fine."

"Like hell. Breathe, Jim. Concentrate."

"I don't believe this," Simon groaned. "How could you do this to me, Ellison?"

Jim let out a snort through gritted teeth, and managed a crooked smile. "Me? I told him to wait for you. He took the guy out with a fire extinguisher."

"Oh dear God. I'll never see the end of the paperwork. Sandburg, you're not a cop!"

Two Weeks Later

Jim adjusted the sling supporting his right arm. He doubted the damn thing would ever quit hurting. It didn't matter. He wasn't about to miss the opening for a few aches and pains. The balcony of his old loft was a great vantage point to watch the action sheltered from the crowd.

The formal presentations were finished. He grinned as Sandburg, acting in his stead, cut the ribbon, officially opening 852 Prospect as a demonstration project. No way he could've worked a ceremonial scissor with a bum wing. The injury was a convenient excuse. It wasn't his kind of scene anyway. Not that it was Blair's either, but he'd done it as a favor.

Sandburg and favors. Would he ever even things up? Sandburg persisted in the stupid idea that he was the debtor. How could a guy with a PhD be such an idiot? If Blair hadn't waded in with a fire extinguisher, wreaking havoc, Jim Ellison wouldn't be alive and breathing. Not to mention the agony before and after surgery. Sentinels and bullet wounds apparently weren't a good combination. Blair had stayed with him in the ambulance and emergency room, fending off well-meaning medical personnel. Jim knew firsthand that physicians didn't take kindly to suggestions, but no one withstood Sandburg on a mission. For the full week of his hospital stay, he'd rarely left the hospital, coaching, encouraging, soothing.

Jim had no doubts who was indebted to whom.

He stepped back through the doors, and examined his old loft with a critical eye. In his opinion, the results were spectacular. The floor to ceiling shelves were filled with books and artifacts. Masks and weavings dotted the once blank walls. Jim thought back to the first days of his sentinel journey, when he'd stripped the place down to virtually nothing. By contrast, now it was bursting with vibrancy and promise.

In a few minutes, the first tours through the building, including Sandburg's new home, would start. He planned on staying for a little while at least. He flexed his aching shoulder. His pain management was noticeably better when Sandburg was around. Right on cue, Sandburg slipped through the doors.

He was nearly bouncing with excitement. "Did you see the crowd out there? How'd I do as a ribbon cutter?"

"Better than me, that's for sure. Thanks for doing the honors."

"You're hurting," Blair said, not expecting a response. "Why don't we just duck out?"

"Not just yet. Simon's here, and I saw some of the Major Crime guys out there, too. I want to at least see them before we go. Why don't you grab us some food, okay?"

"Go sit down, then." Blair filled a plate of hors d'oeuvres from the spread laid out in the kitchen. He tucked two beers and a bottle of water under one arm and joined Jim in the secluded reading area. "I brought beer and water, so you can choose."

"Thanks. I'd love the beer, but for now I'll play if safe."

"I can't believe how much the crews got done in a couple of weeks."

"Not hard when you have everyone on site. Any unit in this building is like a blank canvas, according to plan. Pick the shell and finish it out according to your tastes and budget."

"How far along are the other buildings?"

"Coming. If there's big demand, there'll be a wait. Some of the units are spoken for. Community housing gets five percent of all the units. Some are set aside for families, some for retirees." He took a nibble of cheese and set it aside.

"Taste off?"

"Some," Jim said with a sigh. "Confirming your theory. One bad sense makes the others more sensitive. I think as long as my shoulder hurts, everything else is going to be a problem."

"We can still go."

"Not yet."

They settled back and Jim tried to relax. The real estate people had the real work to do, escorting groups, answering questions. Tucked away in their quiet corner, only a select few knew to seek them out. Taggart stayed for a bit. Simon arrived with Daryl in tow.

"This place is awesome, Jim," Daryl said enthusiastically. "I told dad we should move."

"Move?" Simon shook his head emphatically. "Not a chance. I'd have to clean the garage, and it's mostly your junk."

"Daaad."

"Don't 'Dad' me. I think Brown's sold. Nice gesture with the discount, Jim."

"What discount?" Blair asked.

Jim shrugged. "Any cop or firefighter gets a break on the price. Society doesn't pay them enough for what they do."

Blair nudged him with a grin. "You sly dog. Not to mention that having a cop in every complex provides built in security."

"Worked wonders with the health club when I first started. Why mess with a good thing."

After a little more pleasant conversation, Banks and son said their goodbyes. A few more friends and acquaintances drifted by. Blair could tell Jim was wearing thin. He was about to insist on a discreet departure when a familiar face appeared in the crowd. Beverley Sanchez, with her husband-to-be in tow, was gliding toward them, champagne in hand. Jim had especially invited her, but hadn't been sure she would have time to make the trip.

Jim smiled with pleasure and Blair shifted to make a place on the small sofa. Beverly sat next to him and took his hand. "The place looks amazing, Jim. Gregg and I would be thrilled to find a place this great."

"If you promise to move back to Cascade, I'll arrange it. Glad you could make it, Gregg." He'd met Gregg Eagle the previous evening at dinner, and was impressed with Beverly's choice.

"We have something for you, Jim," she said.

Gregg produced a large rectangular package, which she passed to Jim. "I'll give you two a moment. Good to see you again, Jim." Blair picked up the cue and joined him.

"Would you open it? Please?"

Jim braced the package on his knees. Beverly helped steady it, and he tore the wrapping, starting at the top corner. It was a framed newspaper article, a recent one. Tired of reporters trying to sneak into his hospital room, he'd asked Blair to meet with Strebkin, the editor of the Cascade Times, on his behalf. He flushed, mirroring his reaction when Blair had shown the resulting article to him in the hospital. "Strebkin overdid it. The headline's over the top."

"Doesn't matter." She trailed her hand along the polished wood. "Do you know why I framed it?"

"No."

"Because, my dear Jim, part of you will always be a cop, a great cop. You're going to keep that part of your life. It may take a while, but I'm certain of it. I want you to be reminded of that fact, front and center, whether I'm here or not." Her eyes glittered with the hint of tears. "I'm so proud of you. You're the most courageous person I've ever known."

He kissed her lightly on the cheek. It was bittersweet. It hurt to lose her, but he was glad to see her so happy.

"Don't be a stranger." She gave him a goodbye hug. "Now let Sandburg take you home."

Jim took a moment to survey the loft. The time he'd spent here in agony, brought to despair by his senses, certain he was going crazy, had been the darkest hour. Even so, after he abandoned the place, it seemed as though he had no home. The health club was more secure, he could live more easily there, but it wasn't home. The new penthouse, with all its special features, still felt temporary.

He reread the headline, "Sentinel Thwarts Serial Killer, Rescues Rainier Prof". Along with the twinge of embarrassment, he felt a deep satisfaction. He'd come full circle.

He was ready to go home.

THE END