Author's webpage: http://www.squidge.org/5Senses/

Author's disclaimer: This story is an episode of The Sentinel Slash Virtual Season (SVS), produced by FiveSenses, Inc. SVS is based on characters and concepts developed by, and belonging to, Pet Fly Productions. This story is intended for private, personal enjoyment only. No money is being made, or will be allowed to be made, by the author of this story or by FiveSenses, Inc. from the writing and distribution of this story. Any original characters introduced in an SVS episode belongs to the episode author and to FiveSenses, Inc. and should not be used without their permission.

Author's notes: Episodes of SVS may contain depictions of consensual m/m sex. These depictions may or may not be accompanied by specific mention of items necessary for safe and healthy intercourse. It is the intention of FiveSenses, Inc. and all SVS authors that, even when such items are not explicitly mentioned, their use is to be assumed as a matter of course. All of us at FiveSenses, Inc. are aware of the risks of unprotected sex in today's world and strongly advocate the practice of safe sex, including the use of condoms and other protective devices.

Warmest thanks from FiveSenses, Inc. to Alyjude, Christi, DiDanaan, Fox, WoD and Zerena for their much appreciated contributions in beta reading this story.

Author's Notes: Christi had the idea. Terri punted it along. Aly ensured panic by falling behind. WoD held the whip. The following people contributed words here: Bluewolf, Corbeau, Fox, Griffin, Mre, MrsHamill, PJ, Rogue, and many others with helpful and not so helpful advice, gags and one-liners. Catering by Wonder Burger; underwear by Fruit of the Loom; Beaufort the Pig played by Arnold Ziffel.

Warnings: Do not read while pregnant, eating or drinking. FiveSenses Inc. is not responsible for any damage to persons or computers while under the influence of this episode. No parking, tow away zone; merge left; your mileage may vary; if this isn't the episode you're looking for, move along, move along...

Finders Keepers
or Spin the Bottle
by SVS Staff

Jim Ellison slapped the alarm almost before it could ring, detecting the small click as the radio engaged. It wasn't a great miracle; he hadn't been sleeping well anyway.

Next to him lay his lover and favorite cuddle-toy, Blair Sandburg, spread out over the wreckage of his side of the bed, snoring gently and drooling into his pillow, most of his face hidden by his hyper-curly hair. Jim gently brushed back the hair, revealing one ear. Leaning forward, he blew very softly into it. Without waking, Blair jerked and snuffled. Blowing again provoked a soft groan and a hand brushing at his head.

"Oh Blair-y baby, wakey-wakey," Jim murmured into the ear -- and this time was rewarded by one bleary blue eye.

"Uh?"

"Time to wake up, Chief," Jim repeated, pulling the sleep-warmed body to him in a gentle grasp.

"Uh." Not a morning person, Jim reflected. "Jus' five more, man..."

"Nope, you got a plane to catch, Chief," Jim replied, running his hands up and down the silken skin of his lover's back.

With great effort, Blair heaved himself up so he could see the clock beyond Jim. "Oh, man, I've got two hours! Wake me in one, okay?"

Continuing his gentle caress, Jim repeated, "Nope. Got lots to do, Chief. Time to wake is now."

Pulling back far enough to see Jim's face, but not so far as to break the embrace, Blair tried for a glare but didn't quite make it. "I'm packed, 'cause you made me do that last night. I'm not going to eat 'cause I can't wait to see what midget meal the airline will serve... and don't give me that look, Ellison, I am not a midget. And finally, we took a shower last night after -- well, before we went to sleep. What else is there to do?"

Leaning forward, Jim sealed his lips over Blair's, disregarding morning breath, sandpaper stubble, and hair wild with static electricity. A long, leisurely time later, they moved apart, both breathing hard. Blair's eyes had gone from bleary to dazed.

"Oh." And he was back to words of one syllable. "But we did that last night," he said softly.

Rolling back, taking Blair with him so that the smaller man was half-lying on Jim's chest, Jim said gruffly, "That was me in you. If I'm going to go without for a whole week, I want you in me before you go."

Kissing Jim again and rubbing himself wantonly against the bigger man, Blair replied rather breathlessly. "Actually, it's only four days, Jim. And I did offer to take you with me."

"But you'll be in a dreary warehouse the whole time," Jim said, spreading his legs so that Blair dropped between them, "sorting and counting dusty artifacts. And being in the City isn't any fun alone. But I'm still going to miss you."

"Just keep thinking about welcome-back sex," Blair teased, reaching between them to fondle Jim's firming erection.

Kissing Blair hard, Jim growled, "Just shut up and get in me before I hurt something."

"Aye aye, sir," Blair replied, laughing and reaching for the lube and condoms. "A little pushy, are we, this morning?"

Jim raised himself, slid a pillow under his hips, then reached down to stroke Blair as the other man opened the condom package. "Yeah, I'd say that," he murmured, as Blair froze in place, gasping.

"Jimmmmm... you're going to have to s-stop that if you want anything at all," Blair stuttered, closing his eyes against the sight of his lover spread out before him like a feast.

Reluctantly, a small smile gracing his lips, Jim released Blair and reached his arms over his head to grip the railing. Watching Blair prepare himself, knowing that it was for him... God, maybe he'd better try counting sheep or he'd never last.

Deliberately refraining from looking -- knowing it would drive him insane -- Blair rolled on the condom, then slicked up with Wet. Once ready, he crawled between Jim's legs, and deliberately ignoring the older man's lips, began to rain kisses down Jim's chest. As his mouth targeted a very ready nipple, his fingers ghosted over Jim's right thigh.

"Blair, so help me... you're killing me here."

Blair grinned around a mouthful of nipple, then slowly moved further down Jim's body. He gave extra attention to Jim's navel, then attacked his abdomen. The quivering skin told him Jim was on the edge.

With a little maneuvering, Blair had Jim's right leg slung over his shoulder. Letting his dick tease Jim, he leaned forward and kissed Jim's parted lips.

"Chief..."

"A little antsy, are we, Jim?"

Jim unwound his fingers from the railing and gripped Blair's hair. "Antsy? How's this for antsy?" With almost bruising ferocity, he took Blair's mouth. Both men were breathing hard when they parted. "God, Blair, now. Now."

"What you do to me, Jim. You made me come twice last night, and I still feel like a horny teenager," Blair muttered as he positioned himself.

Jim, feeling rather like a horny teenager himself, pleaded again, "Come on, Chief. Please."

"Here I come," Blair said softly as he moved into Jim. Slowly, gradually, he inched inside, groaning. "God! Jim, oh God, so good," he moaned.

"That's it, Blair, yeah, want to feel you, want to remember this," Jim said, very nearly incoherent as the pleasure of the moment washed over him. "Pound me. Please, Blair! Yes!"

Nearly all the way in, Blair began thrusting, pushing hard, grasping Jim's shoulders with shaking hands. "Gotta... oh, yeah," he gasped.

"Want it... do it... Blair!"

"MMmmmm... Jim, yeah, gonna..."

"OH! Blair! YEAH! Right there baby!"

"I'm coming... I'm coming!"

"BLAIR!"

"JIM!" Nearly simultaneous screams cut through the air as Jim's come fountained out of him, bathing both men in semen. Blair gasped for air, his hips shaking as hard as his arms. Slowly, gracefully, he folded, slipping out of Jim and coming to rest on the bigger man's chest.

As their breathing slowly returned to normal, Jim's hand found its way to Blair's curls, caressing and petting. Without looking up, Blair mildly said, "You bastard."

"What?"

"Now I've got to take another shower."

"Heh."

"Man, this is so great. I've been going over that Ainu research Eli gave me and the parallels in the 'Songs of Humans' with the stuff Burton put together are uncanny. It's too bad I never picked up any Japanese..."

Jim hmm-hmmed while turning into the departures lane. Blair had been going on and on about the Ainu artifacts being prepared as a traveling collection. Thanks to Eli Stoddard's contacts, Blair had been invited to assist in the operation. Mindful of the opportunity to consult with experts in the field, he'd brought along all his notes on the Ainu story-cycles from his mentor's research.

"Got your ticket?" he interrupted the anthro-babble.

"Yes, mother. Geez, Jim, can you be any more enthusiastic?"

He turned earnest eyes to his partner. "But you'll be gone a whole week!"

"Jim. This is Tuesday. I'll be back Friday. That hardly constitutes a whole week. Jeeze. Were you always this pathetic?" Blair rolled his eyes and hitched the backpack higher on his shoulders.

"Blair, you know I can't live without you by my side!" Swooping into a free parking spot, Jim clasped his hands dramatically to his heart.

"Yeah, yeah, more like you can't tie your shoelaces without me. You'd better get going or Simon'll kick your ass for being late." Blair jumped out of the truck and slammed the door shut.

"He knows I'm dropping you off, no sweat," Jim said. "Call me when you get there," he added. "I mean it, Chief."

Blair turned back and leaned in through the open window. "Fine, but you stay out of trouble!" With a cheery wave, he disappeared into the busy terminal.

"You're the one who gets caught by psycho militia men in the bathroom!" Jim shouted after him, ignoring the amused looks from the curbside personnel.

At the edge of his hearing, he could hear Blair laughing.

Pulling up to the drive-through window, Jim picked up his double-thick shake and The Wonder Breakfast Burger (now topped by a farm fresh fried egg). "You," he announced to the greasy sandwich happily, "are the only good thing I can get when Blair isn't around."

The thought was just cheery enough to keep him going to the PD, instead of back to bed to savor the fading traces of Blair. Less than an hour apart and already he missed him. What the hell was he going to do for the rest of the week?

Fielding a tricky left hand turn with breakfast in one hand and the gear stick in the other was made more difficult by the sudden shrill of his cell phone. He managed to juggle the burger into the paper bag and hit the hands-free while negotiating the curve in three rings of the phone.

"Ellison!" he barked.

"Did I catch you at a bad time, Jimmy?"

"Dad? No, no --" he slammed on the brakes at the stoplight. "No problem, Dad," he added loudly, to cover the screech of the tires.

"If you say so."

"So, what can I do for you?" He folded the takeout bag to keep it warm a little longer and put the shake in the cup holder.

"Actually, it's Stevie. Have you heard from him recently?"

"Didn't he have some meet-and-greet for the race track somewhere out East?" He slowed down before turning into the parking garage. The security sensors usually played merry hell with cell phones, and he didn't want to drop the call.

"Yes, but we were supposed to meet for dinner at my club yesterday, and he never showed up. He never called to cancel either."

"That's not good. Hang on, Dad, I'm almost at the station. I'll look into it and give you a call later. That okay?"

"All right, son. I'll be home today."

"Okay."

Damn.

"Sandy get off okay?"

"Hey, Ellison, if Hairboy finds out you ate Wonderburger for breakfast, he'll kill you!"

When did everyone decide to butt into my life? Jim wondered to himself. "He'd better not hear it from you, H," he growled at the laughing detective.

"Lay off, Ellison!" Rafe tossed him a thick manila envelope. "This came for you in the overnight service."

"Thanks, Rafe."

He finished off his shake and tossed it into the trash. "He shoots, he scores..." he muttered, ripping open the envelope and pulling out the sheaf of papers. "Aw, hell."

He was just about to knock on the open door when --

"Ellison!"

"I was just coming to see you, sir."

"What's this about the feds picking up Abbot in Seattle?"

"I've got the incident report right here." He leafed through the pages. "One Jeremy Abbot, a.k.a. 'Weasel,' was heading across the Sound on the ferry when he slipped on a wet patch and broke his leg. The system flagged him when they ran his insurance, and the Seattle office picked him up from St. Mary's before the plaster dried."

"Right. I've got a transfer request here. Seems that the feds like the look of his rap sheet and they're taking him off our hands."

"Damn it, Simon, I've got him on arson and fourteen homicides!"

"No arguments. Wrap up your report and ship them a copy so we can close the books on this guy. Abbot's made a deal for State's evidence on that Steconi mob hit. He doesn't seem to want to come back to our fair city."

Muttering a few choice words about how incredibly unfair it was when honest-to-God police work was undermined by some murderer cutting a deal with the feds, Jim clomped back to his desk. He shoved the Abbot paperwork to one side and leafed through the Rolodex for the number for the racetrack. The feds could wait for their Steconi bust.

"Cascade Race Track Management, can I help you?"

"Stephen Ellison's office, please."

Muzak -- oh God -- Elvis assaulted his ears as the operator put him on hold. Who invented this crap?

"I'm sorry, Mr. Ellison is not available to take your call. Can I assist you in any way?"

Jim pinched at the bridge of his nose, hoping to stave off a headache. Did she have to be so perky? "Look, this is Detective Ellison of the Cascade PD, and I'm trying to locate my brother. What was his schedule for the last week?"

"Er -- I'm sorry sir, but I'm not authorized to give out that information to non-company officials."

"Well, get someone who is authorized and tell them to call me. Our father is very concerned about his disappearance." He rattled off his number and hung up on the flustered operator.

He grabbed the Abbot case files and began furiously pecking at his keyboard. Of all the--

Jim's head came up and he gave a suspicious sniff. Pastry, caramelized sugar, cream. The donut girl was making her rounds! Maybe she'd have some of his favorites stocked. Wonder Burger breakfast notwithstanding, he could kill for a donut.

"What do you mean 'I'm out'?"

Brown glanced up as the low growl caught his ear. "Damn!" he hissed to Rafe. "Why didn't someone warn the poor donut girl?"

It was late in the afternoon, and Jim -- after a day spent filling out paperwork and yelling at the feds, not to mention two more unsuccessful calls to the track -- was becoming increasingly surly.

Pale-faced but determined, Sandi bravely stood up to the fiercely scowling Ellison. "For goodness' sake, Detective; I can only carry a limited number and selection on my cart, and it is near the end of the day. How was I supposed to know you were going to go for thirds on the strawberry jelly donuts today?"

Connor shook her head in pity, while Rafe and Brown winced, turning their eyes away from the almost-certain carnage about to take place. Luckily for the hapless caterer, however, the phone on Ellison's desk chose that moment to issue a brassy summons.

Scorching her with one last look, the big cop stalked over to his desk and snatched up the phone. "Ellison!" he barked into the receiver.

"This is Peter Reed of the Cascade Race Track, returning your call." The man's voice immediately got on Jim's remaining nerve, setting his teeth on edge with its smooth, polished, ultra-professional tones. "Sorry I couldn't call earlier, I just returned to the office. I understand you have some questions concerning your brother's schedule?"

"Yes. Thank you for finally returning my call." Without Blair there to look at him in reproach, Jim saw no need to alter his natural behavior. Tersely, he stated, "I got a call from our father this morning telling me that Stephen had missed several appointments with him. That's not Stephen's usual behavior. I was wondering where he was and if he has contacted someone about being delayed."

"Actually, we were rather hoping that Mr. Ellison -- your father, that is -- could help us. On Saturday, Stephen was scheduled to meet with a consortium of race track owners from South America on a reciprocity deal. Yesterday, he was due at a luncheon at the Chamber of Commerce to discuss details of an upcoming racing event. He missed both of these meetings. Embarrassing, very embarrassing for us -- and Senor Hidalgo of the Buenos Aires Track was simply livid." Reed gave a perturbed sigh. "I don't know how we're going to recover; Cascade Race Track has lost a great deal of credibility due to these mishaps."

"My brother has been missing for almost four days and all you're concerned about is the track's damn image?" The outraged bellow brought renewed winces from the captive audience in the bullpen. "I'm heading for the track right now," Ellison said forcefully, easily overriding the other man's sputtering protests. "When I get there, I'll expect some answers. See you in fifteen minutes."

Slamming the receiver down, Jim paused just long enough to snatch up his jacket before striding angrily toward the elevator. Everyone in Major Crime held their breath until the sliding doors closed behind the temperamental detective. Then, shaking his head in sorrow, Brown offered, "From here to the race track, early afternoon rush hour, in fifteen minutes. Somebody should warn the public."

"Amen, brother!" Rafe agreed.

Exactly thirteen minutes later, Ellison was face-to-face with a profusely-sweating Reed. Crushing back the urge to simply throttle the information he wanted from the shaky executive, Jim ground out, "How can no one here not know where Stephen went or when he was due back?"

Passionately wishing he had listened to his girlfriend and called in sick that morning for a day of illicit nooky, the young blond Trump-clone behind the desk gave a pained grimace. "That's not precisely what I said, Detective Ellison. I said, I had no idea where Stephen had gone." Temper flaring for a brief moment, he declared, "I'm the vice-president in charge of Public Relations, not his baby-sitter. Ask his assistant; I'm sure she'll have all the information you require."

"Thank you, Mr. Reed; I'll do just that."

At the deliberate tone, Reed felt a chill run up his spine. Damn, how to deal with psychopaths was not something they taught at Harvard Business School! He didn't know which was worse: Ellison's towering rage when he had burst into his office, or this sudden icy calm. Abruptly remembering bits of gossip concerning the elder Ellison brother, he blanched further as he stuttered, "I -- I'm sorry, Detective, but I just don't have the information you need."

Halfway through the office door, Jim stopped, tossing over his shoulder, "I sincerely hope this mess is just due to a communication mix-up. Because if my brother has been hurt in any way..."

A trembling Reed stared after the departed cop. Then, with a low expletive, he dived for the phone and began dialing furiously.

Jim's interview with Stephen's assistant bore slightly more beneficial fruit, but he was still frowning heavily as he climbed back into his truck. Just as he reached down to start it, his cell phone rang. "Ellison."

"Ah, Mr. Sunshine himself." Sarcasm fairly dripping from his voice, Banks went on, "After filling the bullpen with your sweetness and light, I understand you decided to share your good nature with the rest of Cascade."

Screwing his eyes shut, Jim heaved a sigh. "Yeah, but Simon..." he began defensively.

"Don't 'But Simon' me, Ellison!" snapped the captain. "I've already fielded two phone calls from the track, both wondering if intimidation and harassment are normal protocol for routine inquiries!"

"Simon..."

"I just got off the phone with Stephen's admin assistant. Do you know what she wanted, Jim?" The question was obviously rhetorical. "She wanted me to verify that you were Stephen's brother!"

"Huh?" Jim was bewildered.

"You heard me. She couldn't believe that her nice, professional boss could be related to such a nasty-tempered, vulgar brute."

"Captain, they're all idiots over there," put in Ellison quickly. "Stephen goes away for a business trip and only his admin assistant knows where he goes. Maybe... if she bothers to check his calendar. No one ever knows for sure when he will return; they just wait for him to show up again. That's criminal!"

"That's Stephen's business, not yours," retorted Banks. Taking an audible breath, Simon went on more sedately, "Now, it's obvious to me that, due to a couple of factors here, you're going to be pretty much a wash-out in the social skills department right now -- and it's close enough to the end of the day not to matter. While I can't do anything about Sandburg being gone for a week, I can do something about you stressing over your brother. Take a couple of days, find out what's happened, and chill out. I'm sure he's just fine."

Smarting over the implication that he wasn't fit to be around without Sandburg's calming influence, Jim grit his teeth and answered shortly, "Yes, sir. Thank you, Captain."

"You're welcome." There was no apology in the deep voice. "Now go home, pack, and then go find your brother. Don't come back until you're ready to play nice with your colleagues."

Blair was in his element. Upon arriving at the warehouse, he had jumped right in and begun helping the team catalog and crate the Ainu artifacts that would go on tour. As promised, he had left a message on the machine when he'd arrived. It was now about the time Jim would be getting home, and he knew Jim would try to reach him at the hotel, not knowing that Blair was still on-site. Even though it was past the dinner hour, Blair didn't want to leave. The beautiful craftsmanship of the artifacts made his anthropological heart thump with joy.

However, his Guide heart -- Guide to a Sentinel off the leash -- was beginning to worry. Blair worried about the older man now that he wasn't there to guide him in person. He worried that Jim's senses would start hurting him. He worried that his partner would need backup while he was gone. He worried that Jim would be hurt while he was away. He worried that Jim was going to make like a Hoover and suck down every greasy piece of food within twenty square miles of the loft, clog his arteries, and he would come home to a coroner saying: "We're awfully sorry, Mr. Sandburg, but apparently Detective Ellison had a major heart attack..."

Blair sighed. There was no use worrying about it. Besides, he knew for a fact that Jim had, upon dropping him off at the airport, driven straight to the nearest Wonder Burger and wolfed down something that would've driven him into a conniption.

Glancing at his watch, noting with relief that soon he would be able to quit for dinner and go back to the hotel to check for a message from Jim, Blair moved on to the next artifact after carefully swaddling and placing the previous item in its designated crate.

"Jim, you better be in Prime Cut, State of the Art, High-Tech, Olympic Class Condition when I get hold of you!"

"Okay, bag is packed. Got the time off. Know where to go. Now, I need to get there."

As best Jim could figure out from the information he'd gotten out of the idiots at the track, Stephen had gone to a place called Elkhorn, Idaho. Supposedly, this was to find a new supplier for high quality horse feed, since their current supplier had raised prices near astronomically. Stephen had located a good feed store in Elkhorn that supplied quality grain, and after calling there, he'd learned that the store got their best grain from Jensen Ranch, just outside of town. Last anybody heard, Stephen had been planning to visit the ranch to see if he could work out a deal to have them directly supply the Track.

He had flown into Grangeville, the nearest city large enough to boast an airport, about eighty miles away. After renting a car, he'd driven out to Elkhorn. No one had seen or heard from him since.

Picking up the phone, Jim called Cascade International and tried to book a flight for the evening.

"What do you mean, 'no flights available tonight'?" he demanded of the clearly tired yet relentlessly personable Delta receptionist.

"I'm sorry, Detective Ellison, but there are no flights going to Grangeville this evening. I can get you there tomorrow, let's see... We've got a flight at nine that connects to one that will get you there by three. I see nothing earlier than that. No flights in any of the other airline companies, either. Our nine AM is the earliest," the receptionist replied.

Sighing and rubbing at his forehead -- of which, he noted forlornly, there was more than there had been in previous months -- Jim sighed and said, "Okay. Yes, thank you, I would like to be booked on that flight, please."

"Sure thing, sir. Hold on one moment, please."

Jim held on for several moments as he listened to the endless clicking and clacking of the keyboard on the other end of the line while the desk clerk wrote up his information and ticket. He found himself wondering absently why it always took for-flaming-ever for a simple airline ticket to be produced.

"All right! You're booked for the nine AM flight to Grangeville via Lewiston, Idaho, tomorrow morning, sir. Sir? Detective Ellison?"

Jolting out of the zone-out he had started to slide into and cursing the ill-timing that had Blair out of the city when he needed him, Jim said, "Uh, yeah. Sorry. Right here. Nine AM tomorrow?"

"Yes, sir. Come into the Delta terminal, and please be here at least an hour early to collect your ticket at the desk. Your stopover in Lewiston is just under two hours. You'll change planes there -- most likely a twin-engine plane -- and then be on your way out to Grangeville."

"That sounds fine, thank you. I appreciate your help."

"You're welcome, Detective. I hope everything goes well for you."

Saying good-bye, Jim hung up the phone and stared at it for a moment, then trudged into the kitchen to get a beer. He took a long gulp as he wandered back over to the answering machine. Pressing play, he listened to the accumulated messages, then smiled when he heard Blair's come on.

"Hey, Ellison! I made it down here in one piece! Well, except for my stomach, which stayed on the plane to organize a strike against airline food, but that's okay, you're undoubtedly eating enough for both of us. And speaking of eating, how was breakfast? Something hot and greasy, I'm sure. You need to take care of your health, man! I know I'm not there to ride herd on you right now --" Oh, but I wish you were, Chief! Jim thought "-- but you still need to be nice to your heart. After all, we both know it belongs to me, and contrary to your mistaken opinion, I do not treat my possessions shabbily. Especially when I consider them priceless. Man, I miss you so much, Jim. Wish you could have come with me. But, you did do that this morning, didn't you? Heh. All right, gotta go. Call me back at the hotel, um, 415-555-0204, room 719, and they'll be sure to get the message to me. I promise to call back tonight. Okay, I know I'm running out of tape here, so I'll say good-bye for now. Love you, Jim. Take care and be good, okay? See you when I get back."

The message clicked off with a millisecond to spare and Jim, wearing a dopey, lovesick grin, rewound the tape so he could listen to it again after deleting all the others. He especially loved listening to the part where Blair claimed his heart was priceless.

I love that little shit, Jim thought. He wished he had gone with Blair -- but then, it was as well he hadn't, because how long would it have been then before someone went looking for Stephen? He just hoped, what with the recent snowfall in northern Idaho, that Stephen wasn't lying in a ditch somewhere.

Picking up the phone, Jim put in a quick call to Simon, informing his captain and friend of his intended destination and travel plans. After Simon once again reprimanded him for his earlier scare tactics in dealing with innocent civilians, the captain gruffly ordered his best detective to take care and keep his ass safe.

"It's not like I need Sandburg coming back and ripping my head off if something happens to you," the older man grumbled.

Jim laughed. "Simon, he's a sweetheart, and you know it. He would never hurt you."

"Yeah, right. Yank the other leg, Ellison, it plays bar songs! Sandburg would ditch every shred of his neo-hippie pacifist beliefs if he thought even one hair on that hard head of yours was endangered. And heaven help whoever is responsible for it or in the way. Now, why don't you call the kid, let him know what's up, and then get some rest. You're probably gonna need it."

"Okay, Simon. Thanks for letting me off the leash like this."

"Sure, Jim. C'mon, what else can I do? He's your brother. The only reason we even had a conversation about it is because it's not Blair in trouble. If it were, I would've been choking on your dust, you would've been out the door so fast."

"So what's the downside of the argument, Simon?"

"None. I hope you find your brother okay, Jim. Call if you need help."

"Will do, sir. Thanks again."

The two of them rang off, and Jim finished off his beer before picking up the phone again, this time to call Blair. The room phone just rang -- although he was disappointed that Blair wasn't in yet, he left a message with the clerk at the front desk.

"Yeah, if you could tell him I had to go out of town to locate my brother and that everything is fine and I'll call him as soon as I can, I'd appreciate it," Jim said.

"Okay, got it. Anything else?" the perky young woman asked.

"Not really. Just that it's not necessary for him to call me back, especially if he's tired, and if he doesn't, I'll call him in the morning. Let the record state that I promise to call him as soon as I can, regardless."

Jim smiled at the laugh that evoked from the young woman.

"Is that it?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Alright, Mr. Ellison. Thanks for calling. Sorry your partner isn't in tonight."

"Me, too. Would've been nice to hear his voice. Thanks for your help, though; I appreciate it."

"Absolutely. Good night, now."

"Good night."

Hanging up the phone, disappointed that he hadn't been able to talk to Blair, Jim closed up the loft for the evening and trudged up to the lonely, cold bed waiting for him upstairs. Climbing under the covers, he tossed and turned, looking for a comfortable spot. As he shoved his hand under the pillow, he came across something that shouldn't be there. It turned out to be one of Sandburg's t-shirts... a dirty one at that. The little twerp must have left it there for him to find. Smiling in contentment, Jim tucked it under his chin and drifted off to sleep bathed in his partner's scent.

Down in San Francisco, Jim and Blair's usual luck was playing out -- again.

Once off the phone, the perky clerk began copying Jim's message onto the message form from her hasty notes, chuckling softly to herself. "Well, are we in a good mood today," a co-worker called out as he walked out of the back office.

"Oh, it was so cute! This guy called, looking for his partner..."

The two clerks were exchanging tales of the more outrageous messages they had taken when an irate customer walked up to the desk, brandishing a light bulb. "Hey!" he shouted. "I reported yesterday that this light bulb needs to be replaced! What do I have to do to get service around here?"

The two clerks hurried to placate the agitated man. "I'm sorry, sir," said the young woman, "but the repairmen have all gone home for the day, and..."

"It's a damn light bulb, you don't need an engineering degree to replace it!" yelled the customer, smashing the light bulb onto the counter. The clerk screamed as pieces of shattered glass flew into her face.

In the ensuing confusion, which included the clerk being taken to the emergency room by her co-worker to get the cuts on her face taken care of, the incomplete message to Blair was forgotten.

Thus it was that when Blair stopped in at the front desk to retrieve his messages, a clerk who had been hurriedly called in to replace the regular clerks handed him a message that simply read, "Detective Ellison called, said everything is fine, and not to call back if it's late."

Blair checked the time and reluctantly decided that it was indeed too late to call Jim. Disappointed, he said good night to the young man working behind the desk and went upstairs to his hotel room, alone, tired, and missing Jim mightily -- without a clue as to what had really happened.

And in the morning, Blair rose early, showered, and left for the warehouse, not hearing the ring of his room phone.

The flight from Cascade to Lewiston was bad enough -- the flight from Lewiston to Grangeville was horrible. He'd been crammed into a too-small seat. The little twin-engine airplane was cold and noisy as hell, and the aircraft had bounced around like a ping-pong ball in the rough weather. Grangeville Airport didn't offer much in the way of amenities, but he had a cup of hot coffee before finding out there were only fifteen cars for rent in all of Grangeville -- only three with four-wheel drive.

The best was a beat-up Subaru wagon, so Jim gamely folded himself into the car and set out to cover the eighty miles to Elkhorn. The road was icy from a late spring snow-storm, and he kept his attention focused on driving, hardly paying attention to the surrounding countryside.

He finally reached Elkhorn, but calling it a town was rather generous; Elkhorn was a weathered and timeworn collection of buildings. Jim counted three bars, a feed store, and a hardware store, as well as a gas station, a market, and the post office. Jim was certain if Blair were with him, he would have some entertaining commentary on life in small rural towns, and he missed him so intensely it caused a physical ache. But he had a job to do, so Jim shook himself out of his reverie, filled the car with gas, and verified the directions to Jensen Ranch. The grizzled old station owner eyed him suspiciously but gave him the directions.

"You head out o' town 'bout four miles, an' turn left on Old Church Road. It's 'bout five or so miles to the old church. Once you pass it, you'll come to Frenchman's Creek Road. Turn right, and you drive for 'bout ten miles. The ranch has a big fancy gate. You can't miss it."

"Thanks."

"Drive careful, now. Them roads are mighty slick, and if you go into the creek, ain't nobody likely to find you till spring thaw, which might never come this year, the way things are goin'."

Mindful of the station owner's words, Jim drove carefully, keeping a watchful eye out for any sign a car had gone into the creek, but the blizzard that had swept through the area last week had dumped a generous amount of snow. Jim could feel the knot of fear forming in his stomach. He hoped Stephen was still stuck at the ranch, because the old man was right -- a car going into the creek would not be found until spring, whenever it came to this forsaken part of the world. Probably not until August.

With a sigh of relief, Jim saw the gate to Jensen Ranch ahead. He turned into the drive and headed toward the building he could see a ways ahead. He came to a fork in the drive; one path headed toward what looked like two massive barns and a scattering of smaller buildings, the other toward a house and an old red barn. He turned to the house.

The house was a large Queen Anne style, white with green trim. A veranda wrapped around the three sides of the house he could see, and everything was well maintained. A battered pick-up was parked near the barn, and next to it was a tired-looking Ford Taurus that might or might not have been Stephen's rental car.

Jim parked next to the two cars and headed to the house. He cautiously climbed the icy stairs leading to the front door, pausing when he reached the porch to carefully extend his hearing. He heard five heartbeats coming from the house, although one was faster than the others -- probably a dog. A woman's voice, slightly off-key, was singing along with a country song on a radio.

He had not been tracking the location of the heartbeats, so the sudden squeal and thunder of hoofs caught him off-guard. Jim looked around to find a large pig charging toward him. He took an instinctive step back, and his foot came down on an icy patch. The next thing Jim knew, he was falling. He twisted around and tried to catch himself -- to no avail. Pain spiked through him as his knee came down on something hard, his hand came down but hit more ice, and his head hit the ground and everything went white, then black.

Someone was snorting in his ear, Jim thought, and licking his face. He lifted his arm to brush the offender away, and pain lanced though his body. He groaned as the events of the last few minutes came back to him. Not someone, something -- a pig. "Beaufort, you naughty boy!" a woman's voice called out, and the pig stopped licking him. Jim took an internal inventory. He didn't think anything was broken, but he knew he was going to have some spectacular bruises and one bitch of a headache. He groaned again and tried to sit up. His head spun alarmingly, and the voice said, "Oh, be careful, you could be hurt!" Jim struggled to a seated position and opened his eyes; everything was too bright, and he was really dizzy. He tried to focus on the voice and found an attractive woman staring back at him -- or rather two of her. "Are you all right?" she asked in stereo, and it was too much for Jim -- he sank back into the swirling darkness.

When he woke up again, he was lying on something soft, and he was warm, except for his left knee. The dizzy swirling was gone, so he cautiously opened his eyes. He was in the library, he supposed, looking at the bookshelves that circled the room. He was lying on a sofa, covered by a soft blanket. His knee was cold from the icepack wrapped around it, and his clothes were missing; he was only wearing his boxers and a t-shirt.

"Still charging to the rescue, big brother?"

Jim turned slightly to look at Stephen. He was ensconced in the armchair by the fireplace, one ankle carefully wrapped and propped up on an ottoman. Jim had to blink back tears for a moment, overwhelmed by the relief of knowing his brother wasn't buried under two feet of snow. He had to clear his throat before speaking. "You had us worried." Relief turned quickly to anger, though. "You couldn't call and let someone know where you were?" Jim demanded.

"Ah, no, actually." Stephen blushed as he looked at his brother. "They, um, won'tletmeusethephoneunlessi'llmarryoneofthem."

"Say that again so I can understand it."

"The phone lines are down, and they took my cell phone, and they won't let me call out unless I agree to marry one of them." Stephen scowled at Jim. "Dammit, Jim. It's not funny."

Jim finally controlled his laughter. He sat up and situated himself as comfortably as he could. He expected Stephen's explanation to take a while. Before he could start asking questions, though, the door to the library opened and the attractive woman came in, carrying a tray. She was about six feet tall, with green eyes and long blond hair worn in a braid. She was solidly built and looked to be about his age. When he'd hit his head, he thought he was seeing double; when the woman was followed by her duplicate, he realized they must be twins. When the third version followed them into the room, he gaped in astonishment -- not twins, but identical triplets.

They bustled about the room, setting up trays for him and Stephen and pouring tea. The pig trotted into the room and plopped himself down at Jim's feet. He gathered his scattered wits together and looked at his brother. Stephen just shrugged, a resigned expression on his face. Jim looked at the three women now sitting on the opposite sofa.

"Mr. Ellison," the first one said, "we're so pleased to meet you."

The next one took over. "We hope you are feeling better."

"Beaufort didn't mean any harm," the third one added. "He rarely takes to people so quickly."

"Just dear Stephen," the middle one said, and all three women looked at Stephen adoringly.

Jim did the only thing he could think of. "Call me Jim," he said, and took a drink of tea.

"Jim," the first one said. "I'm Bobbie Jo Jensen."

"I'm Billie Sue," added the next.

"I'm Bonnie Lee," finished the third.

Well, at least he had names to go with the face. Jim figured it would take a while before he could tell them apart. He hoped he wouldn't be here long enough.

"So, Jim, has dear Stephen..."

"...explained the situation to you..."

"...why we need his help?"

Jim was starting to get the hang of following the triplets' conversation. "No, we hadn't got that far."

"Our grandfather..."

"...a dear man really..."

"...but terribly old fashioned..."

"...passed away last year. He left the ranch..."

"...to whichever of us is married..."

"...eighteen months from his demise."

"Otherwise, the entire ranch goes to our cousin, Harold..."

"...a terrible man..."

"...Beaufort doesn't like him at all."

"We only have eight months left."

Jim interrupted the narrative. "Have you considered contesting the will?"

"That's what Holly Lynn said..."

"...she's our other sister..."

"...she lives in Tacoma."

"But we thought if Stephen will marry one of us..."

"...it doesn't matter which..."

"...then the ranch would be safe..."

"...it only has to be for a year..."

"...and Beaufort likes him."

Stephen was making odd strangling noises, very softly. Jim shot a glance at him and found him blushing furiously and attempting to hide his face behind his teacup. Jim returned his attention to the triplets. The middle one -- Billie Jo? Billie Lee? -- was watching him with a speculative gleam in her eye.

"So, Jim," she asked, "are you married?"

By the time Jim's spilled tea had been mopped up and the broken cup and the rest of the tea things cleared away, his head was pounding. Bonnie Sue -- at least, he thought it was Bonnie Sue, or was that Bobbie Sue? -- brought him some aspirin and encouraged him to take a nap. Jim wanted to protest, to explain to the women the trouble they were in, coax them to let him and Stephen go, but he suspected he needed a clear head to pull it off. He looked over at his brother. "Some rescue."

"Hey, you came looking for me. Someone will come looking for you, and then we'll get out of here. Relax." Stephen grinned at him, looking very much like the mischievous little brother he remembered. "I'll still be here when you wake up."

Jim dozed for a bit, waking when one of the triplets came to check on him. She brought him a clean set of sweats, and Jim was ridiculously grateful to have clothes on again. It did not escape his notice that they were not his clothes, and she did not bring him any shoes. She showed him to the bathroom, where he cleaned up a bit, and then escorted him to the dining room, where Stephen was already waiting.

Dinner was a strange affair. The meal was tasty farm-style cooking, roast beef with all the fixings. The triplets treated them like guests, asking, in their odd way, many questions about Jim's and Stephen's lives, as well as recounting a few of their wilder childhood adventures. After dessert, a delicious berry cobbler, Jim was left with Billie while the others assisted Stephen to his room. Jim wanted to help, but his knee had stiffened up, and he could barely walk.

The others returned, this time to escort Jim. Because of his lingering headache, without Blair around to ground him, Jim was a bit leery of extending his senses, so he was surprised to be escorted to a door opposite the kitchen. The door led to the basement. Jim carefully limped downstairs. As soon as he was safely at the bottom, the basement door was closed and locked.

He looked around. The basement was scrupulously clean. It was sparsely furnished, with a daybed, a table with an old lamp, a space heater, and a cot and sleeping bag against the far wall. There were shelves under the stairs, with some old paperbacks, extra blankets and bedding, and clothing. He recognized the jeans and sweater as his; he assumed the other stack of clothing was Stephen's. There was a door by the stairs, and Jim could hear running water, so he assumed it was the bathroom.

There were windows at intervals around the room, and he limped closer to examine one. It was about six feet off the floor, and very narrow. Jim sighed. He couldn't possibly fit through.

"They're too small," Stephen offered as he left the tiny bathroom and hobbled to the daybed. He sank onto the bed with a sigh. "Ahh."

"Yeah," Jim agreed. He limped over to the daybed and sat. "Let me see." He carefully lifted Stephen's ankle into his lap and examined it. "Mmm. Nasty sprain."

"Yeah. Hurts like a bitch, too."

Jim gently placed Stephen's foot back on the bed. "They keep you here the whole time?"

"Nah. I had a really nice guest-room on the second floor. After I had my little mishap, they moved me down here."

"What did you do?"

"I climbed out the window and across the veranda roof. But I landed wrong coming off the roof and sprained my ankle."

"Jesus, Stevie. Didn't you learn anything when you fell off the garage and broke your collar bone?"

Stephen shoved him with his good foot. "Very funny."

"Hey, there's a car coming!"

Stephen listened for a minute. "I don't hear anything."

"I do. Trust me, there's a car." Jim listened as the car drove up to the house and parked. He heard the car door slam shut, and the quiet crunch of footsteps across the yard. The steps came around to the back, into the kitchen. Beaufort squealed and hoofbeats crossed the house to the kitchen. As they passed overhead, even Stephen could hear them. "Beaufort," Jim explained. "Someone came into the kitchen."

Jim listened as a warm female voice greeted the pig. "Hey, Beau. What kind of trouble have you been getting into now, huh?"

The triplets' voices soon joined in as they came to the kitchen. "Holly!" someone cried, and then there was just a confused babble of female voices. He caught his name and Stephen's but couldn't decipher most of what was said. Not for the first time, he wished Blair were there.

Stephen was looking at him curiously. "Holly's here." Jim returned his attention to the kitchen.

"You did what?" The outraged shriek belonged to the new arrival, Holly. "Have you lost your collective mind? That's kidnapping! And one of them is a cop!"

"But Holly, we're sure it will be fine..." The triplets were doing their triple speak thing again.

"...they're such nice men..."

..."and Beaufort likes them both."

Holly murmured something Jim couldn't quite hear, so he listened harder.

He blinked to awareness to find Stephen kneeling beside him, looking terrified.

"Jesus, Jim! What the hell was that?"

"Sorry. I concentrated a little too hard."

"No shit. One minute you were there, and the next you were gone, and I couldn't get you to come back."

"I was trying to find out their plans. Quiet." Jim shushed Stephen, and carefully extended his hearing into the kitchen again.

"So, Beau, what am I going to do? If I let them go, the girls will be locked up for sure. But we certainly can't keep them locked in the basement. Maybe I can convince them not to press charges. Right, like I'm going to convince a cop not to press charges." She snorted softly. "I'm obviously too tired to think rationally right now, anyway, or I wouldn't be having a conversation with a pig."

Jim pulled his attention back to the basement as Holly walked out of the kitchen, murmuring to the pig as he followed her. "Nothing has changed for the night. But I think we'll be meeting Holly in the morning. She's going to try to talk us into not pressing charges if she lets us go."

Stephen was looking at him a little uncomfortably. "That's that... thing you do, isn't it?"

"What thing?" Jim turned and stretched out full-length.

Stephen pulled himself to his feet and limped to the head of the daybed. "You know -- that hearing things thing. Move over."

"No. And yes." Jim closed his eyes and slid his hands behind his head.

"What? Jim, come on, sit up."

"Yes, that is that thing I do. And why should I sit up?"

"'Cause you took my seat, maybe?"

"It's not your seat," Jim said, not budging an inch. "It's a seat. And you weren't in it."

Stephen's mouth dropped open and stayed that way, shocked as he was with the injustice of it all. "Jimmy, I was sitting there!"

"Yeah, and now I'm lying here."

"Get up!"

Jim bit his tongue to keep his smirk from showing. A man in his mid-thirties -- and Stephen was whining. Not much, of course, but enough for Jim to hear. "What are you going to do -- tell Dad?"

"Jimmy!"

"Stevie, calm down. There's other places to sit. Look, over there, you can have the whole cot to yourself instead of sharing this daybed with me."

"But I had the daybed first."

"But I'm older." Jesus, what was he, twelve? Half his mind was prepared for his brother to demand again that he surrender the seat, and he was seriously considering meeting that demand with an arms-folded 'make me.' The adult in him, though, was about to sigh and do the magnanimous big brother thing, giving Stephen the daybed out of the goodness of his heart -- but Stephen stalked unevenly across the room to the cot and flung himself down on it. When Jim propped himself up on his elbows, Stephen turned over on his side, staring at the wall. "We can trade off," Jim said to the back of his brother's head. "You can have the daybed tomorrow night if you want." Stephen did not respond. "Fine." Jim lay back again.

"You always have to win, don't you?" Stephen said after a few minutes.

"What?"

"Since we were kids. You have to be the best at everything. The strongest, the fastest, the smartest. Always gets the girl. Do you know how rough it is being your younger brother?"

"Do you know how rough it is being me?" Jim asked, astonished.

Stephen wasn't listening. "I can't even get kidnapped without you coming along and upstaging me."

"You have got to be joking. You think I'm showing off? Tell you what, Stephen, you can have the heightened senses if you want them, and the next time you turn up missing I'll mind my own business. Save a couple hundred bucks and a sprained knee while I'm at it."

"You suck."

"Peachy. I'm going to sleep." Jim heaved himself up and limped over to the shelves, where he grabbed half the blankets and tucked them under his arm. He stood up straight and looked for a moment at his brother, wondering if Stephen was going to try to sneak over to the daybed while his back was turned -- and willing to let him have it if he was -- but Stephen was still curled up on his side, facing away. Jim sighed, limped over to the cot, and dropped the blankets on Stephen's hip. "Here. Wrap up warm." Stephen did not respond. Jim went back and retrieved the rest of the bedding, hobbled back to the daybed, and arranged himself and his blankets as comfortably as possible. "'Night, Stevie," he murmured.

He knew Stephen knew he'd hear him even if he whispered; that was why Stephen didn't answer him at all.

Jim was startled out of sleep by a chipper "Yoo-hoo!" from the top of the stairs.

"Boys!"

"Breakfast!"

Oh, God, he thought. Weren't there also three Furies? He'd given up trying to sort out which one was which; what with the three of them always speaking at the same time, it didn't much matter.

"Rise and shine!"

"Today's the big day!"

"Come and --"

"Stop it, all of you," a fourth voice said. Jim removed the pillow from over his head and peered at the steps. The woman coming down could only be Holly Lynn Jensen; she had the same coloring as the triplets and a hint of the same build, but where her sisters were solid, she was -- graceful, Jim thought. Willowy. She was tall and slender without being fragile. Jim thought of Carolyn, of Lila. He'd have looked appreciatively at Holly Lynn Jensen, he realized, if they'd met in other circumstances. If he hadn't wholeheartedly signed up for the long haul with the very antithesis of a tall, willowy woman -- and if he weren't being held captive in the basement of the family home.

That appreciation, he realized, was plain as day on the face of his younger brother when Holly reached the bottom of the steps and smiled apologetically at them both. "Good morning," she said, clasping her hands. "I'm Holly. You're --"

"Jim."

"Stephen."

"Jim. Stephen." She smiled again. "I can't tell you how sorry I am for my sisters' behavior. I wish there were something I could do, some gesture of good faith --"

"You could give me my cell phone back," Stephen suggested.

"Is that yours?" A flicker of embarrassment crossed her face. "I'm happy to, of course, but I'm afraid Bonnie Lee didn't realize she hadn't turned it off..."

Jim groaned. "Terrific. And the land lines are still down, I assume?"

Holly gave him a rueful smile. "Rustic charm," she said. "There's a reason I moved to the city. Anyway, I want to assure you that I'm doing everything I can to --" she lowered her voice and glanced over her shoulder up the stairs, "-- to talk some sense into them. And in the meantime, please let me know what I can do to make you more comfortable."

Jim's stomach growled noisily. Holly glanced over at him with a twinkle in her eye. "Breakfast, for example? Can you make it up the stairs okay, or would you rather eat down here?"

"Upstairs," both Ellisons answered at once. "Feels less like a cell in the dining room," Stephen explained with a conciliatory smile.

"Okay," Holly said, "we'll wait for you, then," and she disappeared back up the stairs -- but when she reached the top, the lock didn't click.

Jim and Stephen struggled through their truncated morning routines and helped each other up the stairs with their arms braced around each other's shoulders. Emerging into the hallway, Jim nodded his head away from the dining room and whispered, "Front door's this way. Let's go."

"Jim, it's twenty degrees outside! Where are we going to go?"

"I drove here, dummy," Jim said, knuckling his brother's skull. "And my right leg's fine. We'll drive all the way back to Cascade if we have to. Come on."

Stephen frowned. "Didn't the triplets take your keys?"

"It's okay. Spare's under the car."

"The key's under the car?" gasped Stephen as they limped as quietly as possible toward the front door.

"Sandburg. Magnet box. Long story," muttered Jim.

"Oh? This I've gotta hear."

"Later." With a furtive glance back toward the dining room, Jim reached for the doorknob --

-- and was smacked in the face by a blast of cold air when the door opened before he'd even touched it. He and Stephen hopped backwards. "Billie Sue," the stranger at the door said. "Bobbie Jo. Damn, but you've changed!"

Jim stammered and Stephen did his codfish imitation while the stranger hooted and guffawed. "Hoo-ee! I'm sorry, boys, I didn't mean to startle you," he said, shutting the door -- finally -- and clapping his hands to his portly middle. "I'm not too late for breakfast, am I? Holly Lynn!"

"Harold," Holly said, without evident warmth, as she came into the front hallway. "We wondered when you'd be by." She turned to Jim and Stephen, and the smile came back into her eyes. "Did you get lost on your way to the dining room?" she asked, reaching out to lay a guiding hand on Stephen's elbow.

"Tried to," Stephen muttered as she led them back toward the center of the house.

"There you are!" one of the triplets said when the party reached the dining room.

"I see you've met Harold."

"Coffee?"

Jim and Stephen slumped into chairs and let themselves be served a huge breakfast. Jim smiled slightly to think what Blair would make of the meal. Wonderburger's Farm-Fresh Fried Egg Burger had nothing on this. He saw Stephen looking curiously at him and made a tiny "I'll tell you later" gesture with his hand.

"So, girls," Harold said, pushing his plate away and patting down his comb-over, "have you -- heh -- decided yet which of you it's to be?" Holly Lynn threw her napkin onto the table in disgust and frustration. Harold chuckled.

"It's hardly a matter for us to decide," Bobbie Jo said primly.

"We feel we should let these dear boys make the choice."

"Of course, I don't think they've decided which --"

"Ah, actually, ladies, I'm going to have to pass," Jim said quickly. "I can't speak for my brother, but I'm afraid I'm -- taken."

"What?"

"But you said..."

"You're not married!"

"I'm not. But we are living together." Why hadn't he thought of this sooner? "And Blair wouldn't take it well if I came home married. Even if it was only a financial arrangement," he said, holding up a hand to ward off interruption, "and even if it was only for a year."

Three sets of eyes narrowed on Jim, while the other three widened. "Why didn't you say something before?"

"How do we know you're not pullin' our legs?"

"Tell us about this Blair."

Jim sighed and let an image of Blair flood his mind, knowing it would make him smile. He glanced around the table: the triplets clearly thought he was lying, and didn't like it; Harold seemed sure he was lying, but liked it fine; Holly evidently thought he might be lying, and wasn't sure what to make of it; and Stephen was choking on his toast. Jim looked away from his brother and stared instead into his coffee cup. "Blair's a PhD candidate," he said, "an anthropologist, and has been with the police department --" he hit those words carefully, reminding the three sisters that he was a cop, "-- doing research for years. People will tell you it's a bad idea for cops to get involved with each other, or for scholars to get involved with their subjects, but really, in our case there was no choice." He shrugged genially. "There's nobody who makes me happier."

"Well, but..."

"How long have you been..."

"Living together without being married?"

"Four years," Jim began.

"Bobbie, Billie, Bonnie, honestly," Holly Lynn snapped. "Look at him. The man is in love. I know y'all want to keep the ranch --" ooh, she was mad now, Jim thought, noticing a layer or two of the city falling away from her speech, "-- but I'm not gonna stand by and let you ruin other people's lives to do it!"

"Maybe you're right."

"If Jim is committed to a relationship..."

"Then it'll be dear Stephen after all." All three triplets turned to Stephen, who flushed and stammered.

"What it'll be is clearing up from breakfast and leaving poor Jim and Stephen alone for five minutes," Holly said firmly. "Harold, you help us."

"Of course, of course," Harold said, amused at his cousins' apparent misfortune, rising from the table and following the women into the kitchen with his things and the syrup jug. "Oh, hey," Jim heard him say, "I didn't know this guy was still here. Hey there, Bacon, how you doin'?"

"It's Beaufort," a triplet said just before Jim tuned out.

He turned to his brother; Stephen was gaping at him. "What?"

Stephen began to applaud slowly, then mimed doffing his hat. "That," he said, "was an inspired performance.

Jim fixed his brother with a level stare. "I wasn't performing, Stevie."

Stephen waved him off. "Of course, I ought to be mad that you thought of a way out before I did -- you win again, always have to be the smartest, but --"

"Stephen. I was telling the truth."

"-- I guess I can let it go this time, because it wouldn't ever occur to me to pretend I was --"

"Are you listening to a word I'm saying? Nobody's pretending."

Stephen cocked his head and looked carefully at Jim. As realization sank in, his breaths became a little deeper, a little more urgent; when he finally spoke again, his voice was quiet. "Jesus. You're serious, aren't you?"

"Very."

"But Jimmy, Blair's a..."

"Trust me -- I know."

Stephen winced. "How long?"

Jim thought back. "A while. Since not long after the press conference thing."

"But how long have you..." Stephen waved abstractly in the air with one hand; the other had the edge of the table in a white-knuckled grip.

Jim sighed. "Twenty years, Stevie. My whole adult life."

"Wow."

"You're --" Jim swallowed. "You okay?"

"Am I okay?" Stephen looked away for a moment, then back at Jim. "I, um... well, I'm not going to refuse to speak to you ever again, if that's what you mean." He coughed. "But I... whoa." He ran a hand through his hair. "It's an idea that takes some getting used to, you know?"

"Okay." Jim sat back in his chair and grinned. "'Always gets the girl,' huh?"

Stephen laughed once, sharply. "Point," he said. "You've --"

"Shh," Jim interrupted suddenly. "Incoming."

But it was only Holly Lynn, returning to top up their coffee and give them a worried-sounding update on the situation. "I've tried reason and I've tried threats," she said, "but I'm the baby sister and they don't much listen to me when it doesn't suit them."

"Know how that is," Stephen murmured, winking at Jim.

Holly smiled briefly. "Now because you're spoken for, Jim, they're determined that Stephen will marry one of them. They know you won't pick; they're arguing about it now, and Harold's gloating and making them even madder." She puffed air through her cheeks. "I can't understand what Granddad was thinking," she said. "Couldn't leave the place to all three of them -- and I can't make them see..."

"Holly," Stephen said. He took her hand between his and gave it comforting pat. Jim raised an eyebrow; Stephen ignored him. "We don't blame you. Your sisters are... very attached to their home. That's understandable. There just must be another way for them to inherit, besides forcing one of them to marry someone she doesn't love."

Holly beamed at Stephen; Jim nodded to himself, impressed. "Good point," she said softly. "I don't think they realize they're roping two people into a marriage here." She squeezed Stephen's hand. "Another angle. Back into the breach."

"The breach is coming this way," Jim said, just before the dining room door opened and the trio marched in.

"We'll help you back downstairs now."

"Wouldn't want you to take a tumble on the stairs."

"Come along."

Holly didn't let go of Stephen's hand. "What's the point of that?" she asked. "Don't you think locking your guests in the basement is a little much?"

"Perhaps, but now that Harold's here..."

"Beaufort just isn't himself."

"He's liable to be angry. It's for their safety."

Jim sighed. There was no way to refuse; he had no doubt these women would pick him up and carry him between them down to the basement, if that was where they wanted him. And there was no way to make a break for it; if he or Stephen could have helped the other, they might have had a shot, but with both of them hobbled there was no chance.

Blair's probably wondering why he hasn't heard from me today, Jim thought, as he and Stephen followed a Jensen down the basement stairs. He'll be out here looking for us in no time flat. The triplets went back up the stairs, closed the door, and locked it. Blair coming to rescue me from kidnappers -- heh. That's a switch.

Blair was worried.

Hell, Blair was more than worried. Worried was an emotion distant though still doggedly pursuing, trailing the fear that had taken its place. Fear had shot past worried in the inside lane on Thursday -- when for the second time his evening call home had triggered only the answering machine. The only thing that kept him from bailing out of his commitment to help with this Ainu thing was the certain knowledge that Simon would have called him if Jim had been involved in anything... serious. Probably Jim was only tied up with evening stakeouts -- though why he hadn't called Blair at some point during the day had the Guide really puzzled. The only other possibility that occurred to him...

If that fucking idiot has agreed to do something undercover while I'm away... he thought, silently planning a series of strenuous tests to inflict on his Sentinel should that prove to be an accurate guess.

He hesitated to call Simon, though. Although he was Jim's Guide, although Simon knew how much he had done over the years to teach Jim control of his senses, Blair did not need Simon to think he thought Jim couldn't manage without him.

He had been really enjoying himself, too. It was the first time he had been exposed to people who knew, really knew, the Ainu culture and could answer some of the questions that had been puzzling him since he first started working -- intermittently, as he had time -- on the Ainu material. As Stoddard had told him, the translation of the previously unknown yukara he had was very rough; but one of the experts had agreed to do a fuller translation of it, and had taken a photocopy to work from, leaving the original with Blair. Oh, Blair had to be careful, of course; these were people he'd just met, people he was working with for only a few days. He had no way of knowing how far he could trust any of them with sensitive material, and he certainly wasn't about to say the word 'sentinel' in front of them. As far as Martin Davis was concerned, he was translating this for Eli Stoddard; Blair had been very careful not to reveal how interested he personally was in this particular yukara, letting the group think that he was merely acting as Stoddard's mouthpiece. "I've been studying the police for the last four years," he told them, cheerfully allowing that limited truth to give a totally false impression.

But his time away from home finally passed; putting the Ainu display together had taken less time than he had expected, and although he had been unable to get a seat on a Thursday night plane, Blair had managed to catch the first morning one on Friday, and now he was fidgeting impatiently as it approached Cascade. A phone call before he left had still only triggered the answering machine, but he had left a message anyway, saying what time he would arrive.

The plane landed and taxied to a gate. The moment he was free to move he did, but even so he was held up somewhat by other passengers blocking the aisle, lifting their bags down from the luggage compartments as if they had all the time in the world, putting on coats... and certainly in no apparent hurry to leave the plane. Once he did get out of it he sped up, passing most of the other passengers making their leisurely way up the passageway to the terminal.

Once he reached the main concourse he looked around, but saw nobody waiting for him.

He hurried to the exit, but there was nobody there either. So -- Jim had not received any of his messages... which meant Jim had not been home or at work.

Where the hell was the big schmuck???

Blair sighed and made his way to the nearest taxi. "Cascade PD," he said. There was no point in going to the loft; he would get answers faster from Jim's fellow cops.

The trip seemed to take forever; he suddenly realized that the driver probably thought that someone just arriving and heading straight for the PD had to be a cop, so was being very careful to drive inside the law.

At the PD he thrust $50 into the driver's hand and shot into the building, not caring that he had over-tipped the man somewhat generously. A glance at the elevator display showed that the cars were all higher up the building, and rather than wait, he took the stairs two at a time.

He was slightly out of breath as he walked into the bullpen -- where he was immediately struck by the 'heads down' attitude of everyone there. Not one person looked up -- it was almost as if they were afraid to look up. He glanced at Jim's desk; empty. Of course.

Dread overtook fear -- worry, by now, was lost in the far distance with no chance of ever catching up. He walked over to Simon's office and quietly opened the door.

Simon, too, had his head down and didn't look up.

"Simon?" There was a snap of accusation in Blair's voice.

When the Captain failed to jump, Blair knew that Simon knew he was there, had known the moment he entered the bullpen.

Simon looked up. "Oh... Sandburg. You're back."

Lame, Simon. Definitely lame. Blair closed the door carefully, quietly, somehow knowing that Simon expected him to slam it. "Yes, I'm back. Where's Jim?"

"Well... "

"Simon." Blair glared at the bigger man, the glare that had been known to cow Jim from time to time, though this was the first time he had tried it on Simon. "Where. Is. Jim?"

"We don't actually know."

"You don't... " Oh, God, this was even worse than he'd feared. "Why don't you know?"

"He went looking for Stephen."

"Stephen? His brother?"

"Yeah." Simon rapidly informed Blair of the situation with Stephen and how Jim had gone to look for his brother, only to disappear himself. "The last we heard, they were both still missing," he concluded, lifting his glasses and rubbing his eyes wearily.

"The last you heard?" Blair screeched, his voice lifting an octave as well as rising a considerable number of decibels. He took a deep breath, forcing control back into his voice. He leaned on Simon's desk, bracing his arms. "Did you contact the Elkhorn PD?"

"Don't try to teach me my job, Sandburg!" Simon snapped. "Of course I did! At least, I tried to. Turns out Elkhorn's too small to have a PD. It's policed from Grangeville -- which is eighty miles away. It's not like Cascade, where they'd have regular patrols two or three times a day. Two or three times a week is more likely, if they're lucky, and from eighty miles away it's not as if they could spare a man for half an hour to nip over and check on someone missing - even if the missing man is a cop." He seemed to slump.

"I suppose that's why nobody out there looked up when I walked in? Were they all scared to be the one to tell me Jim was missing?"

Simon nodded.

Blair looked at him. "Did they think I'd burst into tears or something?" he growled.

"No -- we knew you'd yell. You can be surprisingly intimidating when you try," Simon admitted wryly. "The only person more terrifying than you when Jim's in trouble is Jim when you are."

Blair refused to be side-tracked. "And you haven't sent anyone after him?" There was an accusing note in his voice.

"Dammit, Sandburg, every man here -- and that includes Connor -- volunteered to go after Jim when we didn't hear from him by yesterday. But we've got a city to protect, so... I elected myself. I'm planning to fly to Grangeville tonight." Then, with a grin that couldn't hide his very real concern, Simon added, "And I'd welcome your company."

Blair sank into a seat, his anger fading. "What exactly happened?" he asked in a more reasonable tone.

Simon told him, adding, "I'm surprised Jim didn't call you -- from home or from either Grangeville or Elkhorn."

Blair licked nervous lips, knowing that Jim must have meant to do just that. "There's no chance his plane crashed?"

"No, I've been able to establish that much. Also that no road accident has been reported between Grangeville and Elkhorn. The sheriff at Grangeville could tell me that."

When Blair left Simon's office, he found a more normal scene in the bullpen. Voices -- everyone seemed to be talking at once -- told him how sorry they were about Jim's disappearance, and more than one spoke of planning to give up a free weekend to fly to Idaho to check Elkhorn. Blair had a sudden vision of the entire Major Crime department of Cascade PD descending on the small town and swallowed the lump that suddenly formed in his throat.

Behind him he heard Simon's voice. "How many of you are thinking of heading out tomorrow?" There was a chorus of voices. Simon bellowed, "All right!" As silence fell, he said more quietly, "Show of hands. How many?"

Blair himself. Joel. Brown. Rafe. Connor. Eight others Blair didn't know as well as those four. A voice said, "I want to go, but it's not my weekend off." There was a mutter of agreement from several other anonymous voices.

"Yeah, we can't all walk away from Cascade," Simon agreed. "However, it goes without saying that those of you with the weekend off can go. All right -- Rhonda, call the airport and book fourteen seats on an evening plane to Grangeville, leaving not later than seven, and returning on Sunday night." He put his credit card on the desk beside her, adding, with a glance round the bullpen, "I don't know how much -- or even if -- we can claim on expenses, but whatever we can't, you can give me your share once we know what it is."

If he had expected any of them to back out at that, he was disappointed. Thirteen heads were all nodding agreement. "Yes, sir."

A few minutes later Rhonda looked up to say, "There isn't a plane to Grangeville this afternoon. The first one is tomorrow afternoon, and the first one back would be Monday."

"Damn!" It seemed insurmountable. Yes, they could get to Elkhorn -- tomorrow -- but how, Simon asked himself, could he justify half the PD's personnel not being behind their desks on Monday morning?

The door opened; Simon scowled at the older man who entered, seeing him for a moment as a distraction. It was Blair who exclaimed, "Mr. Ellison!" as the man looked around, obviously searching for someone.

Simon's jaw dropped as he glanced at Blair. "Jim's father?" he muttered, only half recognizing the man he had last seen, a couple of years previously, in a somewhat battered state. Blair nodded.

William Ellison looked around the room. "I'm looking for Jim Ellison -- or if he isn't here, Captain Banks," he said.

Simon stepped forward. "I'm Banks."

"I was wondering... I spoke with you earlier. I had asked Jimmy to see if he could track down his brother, but I haven't heard anything all week... "

"All I can tell you is what we've just told Sandburg. Jim traced Stephen to a place called Elkhorn, in Idaho. He went there a couple of days ago, and nobody has heard anything from him since. We --" He gestured at the group gathered around Blair. "We were hoping to fly to Grangeville -- that's the nearest town to Elkhorn -- tonight, but there isn't a plane before tomorrow, and even if we caught that, we couldn't get back till Monday... and most of us have to be here on Monday morning."

"Hmmm," William said thoughtfully. He looked at Rhonda, who was still holding the phone. "Are you speaking to the airport? Yes?" as she nodded. "Then see if you can charter a plane to take us there tonight and bring us -- or at least most of us -- back on Sunday. If we haven't found Jimmy and Stephen by then, I'll stay to look for them."

"I'll be staying too, Mr. Ellison," Blair said quietly.

He would, if necessary, leave Joel and Connor in Elkhorn with Blair and William Ellison if they couldn't track Jim down over the weekend, Simon decided. He looked at the gathered detectives. "Anyone want to drop out now?" he asked. "This will be considerably more expensive, you know."

Ellison waved his hand dismissively. "I'll handle the expense, Captain," he said. "These are my sons we're talking about here."

"And they're our friends -- at least one of them is," Simon replied quietly, hearing Rhonda speaking in the background. "We'll help pay the way."

After a moment where the two men studied each other thoughtfully, William Ellison finally smiled and held out his hand. "Done. Thank you, Captain."

"It's Simon, sir, and thank you," Simon said, taking the other man's hand.

"I'm Bill." He looked around, taking in all the eager faces. "Hello, Blair. Sorry I didn't say anything to you earlier."

"That's all right, Mr. Ellison," Blair replied, taking the proffered hand. "It's nice to see you again... although I wish it were under different circumstances," he added ruefully.

Smiling wryly, Ellison said, "Well, it is Jimmy we're talking about here, you know," and everyone chuckled at that.

Rhonda's quiet words caught Simon's ear. "There'll be a plane waiting for you in an hour and a half. They expect payment before you fly out. But the only one I could hire at this late date only seats ten," she added.

"All right, thank you, Rhonda," Simon said. Turning, he called for everyone's attention. "Okay, people, thanks to Mr. Ellison we've got a flight. But the plane only seats ten. That's seven more besides the three of us."

"Five more, Simon," Blair interrupted, and Simon frowned at him. "If we bring back Jim and Stephen."

Nodding shortly, Simon agreed. "Five more, then. Work it out, people. We'll leave from here in --" he looked at his watch. "Forty-five minutes."

"What the hell is Nelson coming with us for? And why is he wearing that hideous red shirt?" Blair whispered to Connor, who yelled back, "WHAT?"

Shaking his head, Blair repeated the question in Megan's ear, trying to overcome the plane's racket. It was a small plane, fairly comfortable for all that, but still -- he was happy the flight was less than two hours. The harsh bounces as the plane was tossed in the rough air currents were wreaking havoc with his stomach -- and not a few other faces also looked a bit green.

Connor shook her head when the question finally penetrated. She took a glance at the big man folded into the aisle seat two rows ahead of them and leaned back into Blair's ear. "Haven't the foggiest, Sandy. Are he and Jim mates?"

Frowning, Blair replied, "Not that I know of. I don't even think that they know each other very well."

Shrugging, Connor said, "He keeps to himself a bit. Not shy or anything, just, well, not talkative. Not like Jimbo." She elbowed Blair in the ribs and he snorted in laughter. "I think he might be a good'un to have around though. We might need all the big muscle we can get.

Nelson was certainly big muscle, Blair thought, nearly as big as Jim. Maybe a couple inches shorter, a few pounds lighter, and definitely more hair. The mustache on his lip probably had more follicles than Jim had on his whole head. Jim had had a mustache once, he mused, and wondered if it had been anything like the dead mouse that had crawled onto Sergeant Zeke Nelson's upper lip. Imagining Jim with a mustache was a much nicer way to pass the time than arguing with his stomach or imagining all the things that could be wrong in Idaho, and so he closed his eyes and dwelled on that. He had never kissed anyone with a mustache -- Aunt Marie excluded, of course.

It actually took just over an hour to reach Grangeville, which turned out to be little more than a blip on the map. But there was a McDonald's, which made the trip worthwhile to Henri. While Ellison-pere and Simon scoped out rental cars, Blair, Connor, Henri, Rafe, Joel and Nelson went over to the alleged restaurant and purchased anything warm. Blair especially was feeling the cold, and he wrapped his fingers around the super-hot brown-colored water McDonald's called coffee gratefully.

"I thought it was spring," he grumbled to anyone who would listen. Murmured agreements were drowned out by Nelson's voice.

"Not up here, Sandburg," he said quietly. For a big man, he had a surprisingly gentle tenor voice. "Too high. Spring won't really hit here for another few weeks. But it is kinda unusual to have snow this late."

"You're not from around here, are you, Nelson?" Joel asked, taking a bite of his huge burger.

"Naw," was the reply. "My family lives in Washington, but this side of the state. We've got a small ranch in Douglas County, sorta between Cascade and Spokane, just the other side of the Wenatchee Forest."

"Oh! I know that area," Joel said, nodding. "Past Lake Chelan? Pretty area, that. Your folks still live there?"

"Yup. I got a brother and sister still at home. I go out when I can."

Before anyone could ask further questions, a blast of frigid air announced Simon and Bill Ellison. Both men took seats at the table, rubbing their hands to keep warm. "Okay," Simon finally said, "here's the deal. There aren't many cars available for rent. I confirmed that Jim rented a four-wheel-drive on Wednesday, saying he was driving to Elkhorn, but that's the last anyone has heard from him. Bill and I rented the other two four-wheel-drive cars; we'll split up and drive out as soon as I've gotten something hot inside of me."

"Only two cars, Simon?" Joel asked unhappily.

"Yeah, sorry Taggart, but when we find Jim --" Simon looked significantly at Blair "-- we'll have a third car. A fourth, too, what with Stephen's." He added that as an afterthought, after glancing at Bill Ellison, then turning back to Joel. "You drive one car, Joel, I'll take the other. All right with everyone?"

There were nods all around, and Simon rose to get himself some food. Blair stared into the depths of his so-called coffee and worried about Jim.

Jim looked at Stephen. Stephen looked at Jim. Jim sighed. He was going stir-crazy. It'd been nearly 48 hours since he'd gotten himself trapped at the ranch. Either he was shut up in the basement rubbing noses with Stephen, or he could be upstairs, surrounded by the cacophony of the four sisters talking at once and tripping on the pig every time he tried to take a step. Holly was making no headway in talking her sisters into letting them go. He could sit here and wait until Simon and Blair tracked him down -- which no doubt they would, and if he knew them, they were even now charging to the rescue, but still --

He turned to Stephen. "I'm getting tired of these accommodations. They're nothing like the brochure."

"Yeah," Stephen agreed. "Remind me to speak sharply to the manager when we check out."

"I hope you mean that in the hospitality industry sense, and not in the we're-gonna-die-of-sheer-frustration sense."

Stephen sighed this time. "I hope not... No, I'm sure we'll get out of this soon. The terrible trio may have more than a few screws loose, but Holly seems normal. She'll bring her Weird Sisters around eventually."

"Before I lose too much more of my hair, I hope. Before Dad has a coronary. Before Blair gets any more worried than he must be already." Jim glanced at his brother, who was staring at him with an unreadable expression on his face. "What?" he barked.

"Just trying to get used to the idea of having a brother-in-law. Does Dad know? He must not, because he hasn't had a coronary recently."

The elder Ellison brother sank deeper into his seat. "No, he doesn't. I'll tell him eventually... I'm just waiting for the right time."

"That should occur around the next pass of Halley's Comet."

Jim looked up with a frown. "You've seen a lot more of him than I have in the last fifteen years. How freaked do you think he'll be?"

Stephen leaned back and stared at the unattractive ceiling for a moment. "Man, that's a hard one to call. He hates it when either one of us deviates from his ideal plan for our lives, doesn't he? I still remember his face when you told him you'd joined the Army. I've never seen a color like that."

"Yeah, well, you may see it again soon."

"Maybe. On the other hand, he's changed over the years. I could tell it meant a lot to him when you started making contact with him more often, after that country club strangler thing. And he's managed to adjust to... that other thing." Stephen waved his hand vaguely in the direction of his eyes and ears. "So who knows what..."

"Quiet!" Jim hissed.

"What?" his brother whispered.

"That 'other thing,'" Jim answered quietly, "is telling me that someone's coming." The click of the basement door being unlocked was clearly audible to both men, as was its slow, careful opening. "Not one of the women -- the tread sounds different. I think it's..."

"Harold!" Stephen blurted out.

The oleaginous cousin waved his hands around frantically in the universal symbol for "shut up, you idiot." He crept down the stairs as close to the edges of the steps as possible. Amazingly, the tactic was successful; he managed to move his bulk to the bottom without setting off any betraying creaks.

"To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?" Jim growled.

Harold drew himself up to his full height, which didn't take much drawing. "There's no need to be suspicious, Jimbo. I'm here to rescue you."

Stephen's eyes widened. "Rescue us?"

"Of course," Harold huffed. "As a law-abiding, right-thinking fella, of course I could see right away that it was my duty to assist y'all in escaping the clutches of my disturbed cousins."

"Bullshit," Jim replied as he pulled himself out of the depths of the daybed and limped over to his brother. "You're doing it because it's to your advantage to spoil their plans. But we'll take it." Extending his hand, Jim pulled the younger man up and draped one of Stephen's arms over his own shoulders for support.

Harold lurched over to support the other, a plainly insincere look of martyrdom plastered over his porcine face. "You better be careful, now, Jim boy, or you'll hurt my feelin's. I would have done it sooner, but it took this long to concoct a little somethin' to distract the gals."

Stephen stopped dead, throwing the other two men off balance. They all swayed for a minute in some warped parody of a modern dance troupe (a decidedly third-rate one) before regaining their equilibrium.

"You didn't hurt them--"

"'Course not, boy! I declare, there must be a real suspicious streak in your family. Do I look like the kinda fella that'd do that?"

Stephen and Jim both stared at Harold.

"Never mind. Now you two better get movin'. Y'all wanna be rescued or not?"

They moved. "So what did you do?" Stephen asked quietly.

"Well, I told them Beaufort was in the back bedroom, real sick, foamin' at the mouth, staggerin' around. They lit back there faster than a sprinter with the trots."

"Move faster," Jim ordered in his best Ranger Captain mode. "That won't hold them for long when they find out the pig isn't really sick."

Harold sucked in oxygen like it was about to be outlawed. This was the most exertion he'd gotten in years. "Ease up, soldier boy. He looks bad enough to scare 'em plenty. He really is foamin' at the mouth."

Jim glared. "Tell me you didn't hurt that poor defenseless animal either." He seemed to have temporarily forgotten that said "poor defenseless animal" was responsible for banging up his bad knee, nearly giving him a concussion, and painting his body with enough colorful bruises to distract Blair during intimate moments for the next week. Presuming he ever got out of this damn basement to have some intimate moments.

"Beaufort hates me, but I didn't harm him none. In fact, he's one happy little porker right now."

"Because?" Stephen asked as they made their painfully slow way up the stairs. Doing it in their injured condition was tough enough; trying to do it quietly was a real challenge.

Harold chuckled. "Because he's fulla beer."

"Beer?" Jim croaked. "You gave a pig beer? Won't that poison him or something?"

Harold heaved his rotund self upward and they gained another step on the way to freedom. "Not that pig. It'd take a lot more than what I gave him to even get him sleepy. Truth is, Beaufort's got -- well, he's got a bit of a problem."

"A problem... what problem could a pig have, other than being owned by a family of lunatics." Jim grinned. "You almost make it sound like..."

Harold hung his head.

Jim looked at Harold, then frantically swept his eyes around the room, looking for the Mad Hatter or the munchkins or the holodeck controls -- anything to confirm his feeling that he seemed to have taken a left at Reality and ended up in Weirdsville. "Please, please tell me that you don't really mean what I think you mean. Please say that you're not trying to tell me that Beaufort is..." he closed his eyes. "An alcoholic?"

Stephen made a choking sound and nearly lost his precarious balance on the step. Jim opened his eyes again, close to losing his suddenly precarious grasp on sanity.

They were almost at the basement door, and Harold's whisper was so quiet that Stephen could barely hear it. "We don't like to talk about it outside the family, but the fact is, Beaufort's had a weakness for the sauce ever since he was a piglet. Bobbie Jo and Billie Sue and Bonnie Lee never let him near it; he can get right surly if he gets too much."

Stephen glanced pointedly at his brother's knee. "I'd hate to see what damage he can do when he's mean."

"Don't worry, I only gave him enough to cheer him up and make him a little wobbly. He's real friendly when he's just had a few."

They were at the door now, and Jim was the only one who wasn't breathing hard. He focused his hearing, hoping the pain in his knee would be enough to keep him from zoning again in his Guide-less state. He zeroed in on the triplets. It was a weird sensation; his Sentinel brain seemed to be having trouble processing their conversation at this distance, unable to decide if it was hearing one voice or three. Holly was with them, encouraging them to give up on their scheme in favor of getting Beaufort to the vet ASAP. Maybe she could succeed eventually, but Jim had no intention of waiting around to find out.

"Coast is clear."

They edged carefully out, then made their way through the house as quickly as they could without making an inordinate amount of noise. They slunk through the kitchen and then the dining room on their way to the front hall, partly for cover and partly because that route had plenty of furniture for Stephen and Jim to hang on to in case one of their damaged limbs decided to give way.

"I unlocked the front door afore I went lookin' for you fellas," Harold informed the Ellisons. "Won't take much to get it open now; it never did latch too good. Both your cars are still out there, but I could only snag one set o' keys. You'll have to figure out which car they go to. Then you can get outta here and --"

"Shit!" Jim groaned. "One of the triplets just figured out the pig problem might be a diversion."

"Probably Bonnie Lee," Harold offered. "She's the smart one."

Jim growled in frustration, reminding himself that Blair would be really disappointed in him if he strangled a civilian. "I don't care if they're all fucking geniuses! The point is, one of them is on her way to the basement and another's on her way to the front door."

"Now how can you--" Harold began.

"Damn," Stephen interrupted. "We're screwed. I just can't move fast enough; we'll never make it in time."

Jim was getting desperate. "There's two of us, brother. And Harold. Even in our current condition we ought to be able to overpower one woman."

Stephen shook his head in dismay. "They're not women, they're damn Valkyries. Maybe I should just --"

All three jumped and Jim clapped his hands over his ears in pain as a hideous scream split the air. He kept them there as chaos erupted. Four yelling women, a repeat of the hideous scream (which had taken on a distinct piggish overtone) and the sound of hundreds of pounds of pork on the hoof assaulted their hearing. Beaufort was under the influence and on the loose. The men stood frozen, unable to decide what to do next -- wait where they were and risk discovery, or move and be mowed down by a drunken pig. Jim could distinguish the sound of Beaufort's hooves clattering down the hallway, followed by eight running female feet. The cacophony of yelling resolved itself into words.

"He's headed for the front door!" A whole sentence... must be Holly.

"Beaufort, baby..."

"...come back, you'll..."

"...hurt yourself..."

"...real bad..."

"...if you hit..."

"...that door!"

Their entreaties were in vain; the inebriated Beaufort was listening, not to his human mistresses, but to his inner swine. Four hundred pounds of drunken running pig hit the front door with a crash that must have been picked up by seismographs in California. Its venerable hinges weren't up to the strain and gave way with a shriek of protest. Beaufort's hooves clattered across the porch and down the steps, the women following after.

Jim crept to the dining room door and cracked it just a sliver. The front door was hanging at an angle as drunken as the pig. Cold air and glorious sunlight poured into the hallway. He turned to the others with a delighted grin. "Gentlemen -- our piggy friend has saved the day!"

Recalling that memorable day much later, Blair often said that a passing film historian would surely have concluded that an early film homage was being produced in the wilds of Idaho -- something that owed a great deal to Sennett, or possibly Marx (the comedian, not the communist). Two muddy vehicles pulled into the driveway of the ranch and slid to a dispirited halt in the unappetizing slush. An inordinate number of large men started to emerge, like clowns from a Volkswagen, stumbling as they unfolded their cramped limbs. A tall woman came next, muttering curses in some unknown language that seemed to have a passing resemblance to English. Last was a smaller man with Harpo hair, who had clearly been squashed in among the behemoths for a long time. Taking deep breaths of fresh air, he swung his head around wildly, as if looking for something.

"God," groaned Simon as he tried to unkink his back, "that was an experience I could have done without."

"Especially that icy stretch where you almost slid into the creek," Zeke observed. "Thought for a minute we'd have to fish you out. Seeing as how you like fishin' so much, that would've been a bit too ironic."

Simon glared at the Sergeant until he noticed a flash of unauthorized movement out of the corner of his eye. "Sandburg, where are you going? Come back here!"

Blair stopped in his march to the front door, practically vibrating with his desire to rush forward. "But Simon, Jim could be in there! And Stephen," he added almost at once.

"And we have no jurisdiction whatsoever. We're all concerned about Jim and his brother, but we have to do this the right way, use some strategy. First we need to --"

Blair would never find out what Simon thought they needed to do, because suddenly there was a bone-rattling crash and the door flew open. The Cascade contingent stared as a pig came barreling down the steps and began running wobbly figure-eights through the yard in evident porcine glee. Four blonde Amazons followed, slipping and sliding as their indoor shoes hit the icy path, then running in all directions, trying to head him off.

"Beaufort, honey..."

"...stop that and..."

"...come inside!"

"What's wrong with you? Anyone..."

"...would think..."

"...you were drunk!"

"Drunk?" Megan squawked. "Did she say what I thought she said, mates? Mates?"

Nobody answered. All the men were staring, transfixed, at the sudden display of running, dodging, pneumatic female flesh -- a ribald farmer's-daughter joke come to life. Even Megan was discombobulated. All except Blair, who had taken shameless advantage of the distraction to head toward the now-open door. So he was the first to recognize the bruised, limping men who emerged, blinking against the rays of the setting sun.

"Jim! Stephen!"

His joyful shout got the attention of William and Simon first -- then everyone else except Zeke Nelson turned toward the porch. Blair was already running up the steps, a joyful grin on his face, the knot of fear that had been growing inside him starting to untangle at last. He would have thrown his arms around Jim and kissed him, if not for the presence of Jim's brother and father, a strange man who looked like a character out of Green Acres, four stranger women, and Zeke Nelson. He settled for a hand on Jim's shoulder and a look that spoke volumes.

"Jim, Stephen -- what happened? Are you guys all right?" He took in the way Jim favored his left knee, the edge of spectacular bruise visible at the edge of his collar and another on his hand. Stephen was putting no weight at all on one leg and looked like he was being supported by the other man. "You're hurt!"

Jim smiled down at his partner. "Nothing some R&R and TLC can't fix. I banged up my knee; Stephen's got a sprained ankle and we both have a spectacular crop of bruises. We'll live."

William Ellison had been the second man to notice just who was on the porch, and by now he was close enough to hear Jim's recital of their injuries. "I'm glad to hear that, boys. I thought Stephen was the one with the safe job, but I'm beginning to wonder. How did you manage to get into this state?"

Stephen smiled weakly at his father, trying to ignore his brother's snickering. "Would you believe we were defending our virtue?"

"When it comes to you two," the elder Ellison sighed, "I'm beginning to think I should be prepared to believe anything."

"A good strategy, Dad," Stephen replied, throwing a meaningful glance at his brother.

"Jeez, Chief," Jim interrupted quickly. "Did Major Crime come here en masse? Who's minding the store?"

"Hey, there would have been more if we'd had a bigger plane."

"Is that Zeke Nelson? Why did you bring him?"

Blair glanced back at the farce in the front yard. "Apparently for his skills as a pig wrangler." Zeke and one of the triplets had finally captured Beaufort and were wrestling him to the ground -- well, closer to the ground than he was already. Beaufort seemed to think it was some sort of game, and Zeke didn't seem to mind rolling around in the snow with a pig and a Kirsten Johnson clone. Blair was so entranced by the performance he didn't realize at first that he was being hailed by Simon.

"Sandburg, are they all right? Sandburg? BLAIR!"

Simon at top volume was undoubtedly an attention-getter, but it seemed odd that the pneumatic triplets all stopped dead and stared at him, leaving Zeke and the smaller woman to deal with the pig. They looked wildly around at the crowd, and three pairs of green eyes settled on Megan like a bank of high-intensity lasers.

The Captain's question finally got through to Blair and he shouted back. "They're OK, Simon. Just banged up a little."

Three blond heads moved from Megan's direction to the porch in an Olympic-quality display of synchronized staring. Three identical Amazons approached the house.

"You're Blair?" The triplets chorused.

"Jim wouldn't marry..."

"...one of us because he's in love..."

"...with you?"

"Why didn't you tell us..."

"...we were barking up..."

"...the wrong tree altogether?"

By now Blair's tired brain was overwhelmed by the fall down the rabbit hole this trip had turned into, and relief had made him a little punchy. So he could be forgiven for failing to realize, until he heard Jim's whispered "Oh, shit" behind him, that they had just been outed in front of Jim's father, Jim's brother, Sergeant Nelson, and five strange people from Idaho. Very strange people.

William Ellison was standing right next to Blair, but Blair found it suddenly impossible to turn his head. Even his vocal chords seemed paralyzed, which didn't really matter, since for once he couldn't think of a thing to say.

"Uh, Dad," Jim began, "I was going to--"

William held up his hand. "Never mind, son. This isn't the time or the place. Stephen, I can see that your strategy of being prepared for anything was sound. I didn't think I'd need to utilize it quite so soon. Just to be sure, however -- do either one of you have any other surprises for me right now? A love child in the attic? A UFO in the barn?"

"No, Dad," Jim replied. "Can't think of any more."

"Don't look at me," Stephen added. "Well, except that I'm thinking of asking Holly out once we both get back to civilization." He lowered his voice to a whisper in deference to the presence of the triplets. "She's normal, really."

"And Holly would be --"

"The non-matching sister," Jim explained.

"Is that it?"

The Ellison brothers nodded.

"Thank you. I'm not as young as I used to be; I don't think too many repeated shocks are healthy for me. Now..." William Ellison put on his best corporate manner and raked the scene below him with a steely gaze. "Let's get this mess organized."

"Oh, God, I missed that!"

Jim lay back on the bed, amazed that Blair had been able to coax a third orgasm out of his battered old body. Every bruise had been kissed, every contusion tenderly caressed, and the endorphin rush had even taken away the pain in his knee. His body fluids were sorely diminished, but a quart or two of water would fix that -- presuming he could ever find the strength to get out of bed and stagger downstairs to the refrigerator.

Blair wedged himself against Jim, carefully avoiding the most spectacular of the remaining bruises. "Second that," he agreed. "It was nice of Simon to give you some time off to recover, considering."

"Considering what?"

"Considering that your injuries were acquired not in the line of duty, but on personal time -- which you were given because you were single-handedly undoing all the hard work of Community Relations and the Chief's PR people."

Jim did not appear chastened. "Maybe, but those idiots at the track will pay a lot more attention now, I'll bet. Stephen's less likely to get misplaced again."

"Maybe he won't need to worry about it. Maybe he'll marry Holly and become a millionaire. Is Idaho a community property state?"

Blair could feel the shiver travel up Jim's body as he contemplated that. "Bite your tongue. There's insanity in that family -- I don't want my brother marrying into it. Besides, I'm not sure if Holly's part of the eighteen-million-dollar deal, or just the Terrible Trio. Grandpa must have been one odd son of a bitch; that's the screwiest will I've ever heard of."

"Uh, speaking of family... your father seemed to take the news about us amazingly well. I was afraid he'd be freaked."

Jim pulled Blair into a tighter embrace, bruises be damned. "Don't relax yet, babe. Ellisons do not freak in public. I doubt he was as blase about that as he looked; the whole thing may come back to bite us in the ass yet."

"Well, he'd better not hassle you about it. Biting you in the ass is my job."

"Mmm, and you do it so well..."

Blair raised himself on one elbow to make eye contact. "Speaking of my job, it's clear that I can't leave you alone for a minute. Look at the trouble you get into. That whole Idaho thing was unbelievable. You should have pressed charges."

"Hey all's well that ends well. Other than Stephen's injuries and mine, nobody got hurt. Well, unless you count Beaufort's hangover. We'll all recover, man and pig alike."

"I guess. I did feel almost sorry for the triplets. They really love that ranch, and they've lived there all their lives. It'd break their hearts to lose it -- especially to a guy like Harold. What a jerk."

"Hey," Jim laughed, "watch what you say about my intrepid rescuer. Poor Harold doesn't know it yet, but I think his chances of inheriting are getting slimmer."

"Why? I thought you said Holly may not count -- presuming Stephen would get that serious about her. The Ellison boys aren't exactly fast movers in the marriage department. It took you almost four years to pop the question to me."

Jim's hand started a slow, languorous trip down his lover's body. "Hm, I don't recall that I ever actually popped anything except your --" Blair's sudden oscular attack prevented him from finishing that sentence.

"Now where were we?" Blair asked when he finally released Jim's mouth. "Why wouldn't Harold get the ranch?"

Jim got his brain in gear again. "It seems that Zeke has taken quite a shine to Bonnie Lee. She's the smart one, according to Harold."

"Everything is relative," Blair commented. "Zeke Nelson is a brave man. I'm not sure being a Cascade cop for twenty years is quite enough to prepare one for marriage to the Jensen triplets. I can't believe mere marriage would split them up. Imagine life out in the boondocks, trapped in a house with three crazy women and an alcoholic pig."

Jim laughed. "To some men, that would be an ideal plot for a porno movie."

"Well, my plots revolve around lofts and big, buff Sentinels."

"And mine around hairy blue-eyed anthropologists. All I can tell you is that Zeke has been observed calling Bonnie Lee on his personal cell phone every chance he gets... and he casually mentioned that the Sheriff in Grangeville is thinking of retiring."

Blair shook his head in amazement. "Son of a gun. Poor Harold. Serve the little shit right for calling me a fruit when you were out of the room. Speaking of fruit, I'm getting hungry. I think we missed lunch again."

Jim smacked his lips. "Yeah. A liquid diet just isn't enough for a couple of he-man fruits like us." Jim hauled his well-loved body out of bed and Blair followed him down the stairs. "Shower, then food. What have we got to eat?"

"There's leftover ham, we could make sandwiches."

Jim stopped in the middle of the stairs. "Uh... is there anything else?"

"Not really... we've been too busy making up for lost time in the fuck-each-other-silly department. We really need to go grocery shopping... but what's wrong with ham? You love ham sandwiches."

"Yeah, I know, but... it's Beaufort."

"Beaufort?"

"I never knew a pig personally, before, you know? You guys probably would have rescued us eventually, but Beaufort's little diversion with the door really saved our bacon."

Blair lost it, howling with laughter, clinging to the railing for support. "Saved your bacon? Saved your bacon?"

"OK, Sandburg, that's enough. It wasn't that funny."

Blair wiped his eyes. "Oh beg to differ, Jim, beg to differ. We have some ground beef in the freezer -- how about spaghetti with meat sauce?"

"Fine."

Blair trotted down the stairs, still chuckling. "Last one in the shower does the dishes!"

Jim limped along after. His knee still wasn't up to snuff, and the little shit knew it. As he neared the bathroom, he heard the shower start and Blair's rich baritone reverberating off the tiles.

"Hamalot -- Hamalot -- in far-off France I heard your call..."

It was going to be a long night.