Author's website: http://laurie-ky.livejournal.com/
Part One ends at a shift in the story, but there is no resolution. Part Two, Ball and Chain, will be posted in chapters in my lj and at Sentinel Thursday,as they are written.
T. Verano beta'ed this story and all her hard work and efforts have been greatly appreciated.
Each chapter was written for Sentinel Thursday on live journal.
This story is a sequel to: http://Lodestar -- a prequel for A Fair Distance

A QUESTION FOR THE LORD

J.D wondered what to do about the short, curly-headed hitchhiker he'd picked up near the Taco Bell off of exit 60. He'd wanted company for the 200-mile drive home from his sister's place, and the young feller paid his way by spinning some fine stories of outlandish places he'd visited.

Blair was asleep now, and J.D. hadn't tried to keep him awake. The boy had put on a good show while tellin' his tales, his hands a-flyin' as he'd go on about what he saw when he was in Peru or Brazil or Kenya. When he slowed down, though, J.D. could see the bone-weary exhaustion under the boy's washed-out looking skin.

He was dreaming now, jerking a bit, his breathing getting faster as he made distressed sounds that sounded like 'Jim' and 'panther' and once, very clearly, 'no.' He gave a little sob in his sleep, and J.D. reached over from his pipe wrench steering contraption and gave him a shake to stop any more dream-tears from sliding down his face. Sighing, Blair settled again.

"Lord? Put him out...or take him to Pastor Williams for the night?"

Let the boy sleep, he decided, and drove on to his town.

CHAPTER ONE

'My karma sucks! Crap, I think that in some monumentally fucked up former life, I must have had sex with a nun or stolen the Holy Grail, the way I keep getting screwed over in the here and now...'

"Blair Sandburg, I'm arresting you on charges of grand theft auto and contributing to the delinquency of minors. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney..." I heard - but didn't really listen - to the rest of the standard lines from the cop with the glad hands who was acquainting himself with various body parts of mine. 'And on with our program for tonight, skittered through my brain as he bent me over the hood of the car and snapped the cuffs on my wrists, all the while droning on and on...

The other officer who had earlier requested, oh, so politely, that I "Step out of the car, sir, and keep your hands away from your sides, where I can see them" was manhandling the three drunk boys one at a time into the back of the cop car.

'Arrested, Arrested, Arrested,' kept squirreling through my brain; and man, I wished I could've left my body here to deal with my new legal troubles and that Me, I, Myself, could've headed to the nearest bar and ordered a cold beer. Not capable of disassociating yet, though, so I kept company with myself, and reflected on how I'd ended up stepping into this pile of shit...

I had been hitchhiking tonight, trying to get through Tennessee to North Carolina, where I had a lead on another trucking job. My old buddy Mickey, who I'd crashed with this last week, had a buddy who had a buddy who owned a small trucking operation. Zain told the owner of the company the basics about me and as a favor for a friend of a friend, he was able to get me in the door. At least my new potential employer was willing to talk to me and take a chance on hiring a guy with no recent creditable references and a pretty unstable work history for the last year. I ruthlessly kept squashing any smidgen of hope for some stability to return to my life. It was better to have low expectations; the crash wasn't as hard then when they took a nosedive.

A nice old geezer, tooling along in his old junker with a big wrench substituting for a steering wheel, had given me my last ride. The car was warm, I was tired, and I faded out from the conversation. I guess he thought he was doing me a favor by letting me sleep till he got to his town. Trouble was, it was out of the way by forty-five miles from Interstate 40, but I thanked him, and as soon as he drove off, stuck my thumb out to go back the way we'd come. I trudged along the county highway in the twilight, getting no takers; and to top it off, a storm was coming up. Yep, this was pretty much par for the course for the last year of my life...

I was wet from the storm that had come and gone, leaving the road slick and shiny, when my luck changed. A car, nice one, pulled up and the back-seat door was pushed open for me to get in. I took a look inside to make sure there wasn't going to be trouble waiting for me.

What I saw were kids... three teenage boys, to be exact.

Well, fuck...this was the only offer I'd had in two hours and I needed to get out of this state soon. S'o-kay, Blair, you'd better go for it' So I slid inside, starting my thanks-for-the ride-I-really- appreciate-it spiel, as the car peeled off and blew down the road. I was tired, and I'm blaming my slow reactions on that fact; but it took about five minutes for the smell of alcohol to penetrate my beat-up brain and for me to realize that all these boys were drunk. The one next to me began acting like a bobble-head doll and the one riding shotgun gave a snort or two and began snoring. I checked out the driver and he was getting to that edge of really, really needing to concentrate to keep between the lines.

'Well, fuck. Fuck- Fuck- Fuckity- Fuck.' I sighed and told the kid driving to pull over because I needed to get out. He did, finally, after I asked him three more times. I politely ordered him to shut off the car so we could talk. He was an agreeable drunk and he did it, which left me with a dilemma. I couldn't let these boys drive around and kill themselves or anybody else, but I sure didn't see who I could pass this responsibility off to so I could be on my merry way. A question and answer session later, we had a plan to let me drive them to Josh's house to spend the rest of the night. It was the best I could get them to agree with, since nobody had a cell phone and they were dead set against stopping and calling their parents. Things were a little vague about what I would do at that point, but I figured at the worst, I'd just be thumbing it again.

Twenty minutes later down the highway, things got worse. Turned out, "This here is a stolen car, sir, and I believe ya'll got no business being in it." I was real nice and slow with the cops who wanted to see my ID and who ordered me out of the car. Kept my hands where they could see them and didn't argue with them. They were taking a chance on their lives every time they pulled somebody over; I worked long enough with cops to know that fact. To them, I was a scruffy guy they didn't know in a stolen car, so I wasn't going to give them any trigger-happy reasons to shoot me.

After I was arrested, I had to sit down on the pavement, waiting for another patrol car to arrive. I didn't try and talk to the officers; I knew they wouldn't be responsive to my explanation until they were back in their own territory, and I was secured.

I thought about how Jim wouldn't have been able to believe I could keep quiet like this. But I'd learned to do a lot of things differently since I'd last seen Jim.

Finally another car arrived and my arresting officer turned me over to the new guys. I overheard them talking, so I knew the boys were going to be taken home and told to be at the station by 9:00 in the morning to give their statements.

One of the new cops, a big guy, told me to get up - which is hard to do when you're sitting, freezing your ass off on the ground, with your hands cuffed behind your back. He watched me struggle for a moment, then reached down and hauled me up like I didn't weigh anything and put me in the back of his car. He was careful with me; and it was a measure of how low I was feeling that I actually felt grateful to him.

We stopped at the local hospital where a tox screen was done, both urine and blood. At least they re-cuffed my hands in front of me so I could pee in the cup without help, although having an audience wasn't any fun. When the big cop re-cuffed my hands in back of me, he apologized, saying it was a new regulation because a cop had cuffed a local jerk with his hands in front of him during a routine arrest for public intoxication. The guy had managed to grab the cop's gun and killed him. "S'okay" I muttered to him, because I knew better than most how cops take risks with their lives. I wasn't going to gripe about the cuffs.

At the station, cuffed to the interview room table, I repeated my statement three times, and then answered the barrage of questions designed to trip me up. I was so tired that my words were slurring, but my tox screen had come back, so they knew I was clean. They made me pull up my sleeves, pants legs, and shirt as they checked my inner arms, ankles, and belly for track marks. I guess they wanted to pin me down as a junkie, maybe see if I could be sweated for drug information -- but even if I looked the part, I'd never done drugs like that and I told them so, too. They went out and left me alone for a while in the interview room; I couldn't keep my eyes open anymore, so I laid my head down on the table and went to sleep.

They woke me up and had me repeat my statement for the fourth time, then finished processing me into their holding cell. This county wasn't really equipped for a full time jail and sent most arrested prisoners up to the next county to be housed there. Dave, the big cop who had taken me to the hospital, explained all that while supervising me getting a shower and changing into too big, orange-striped prisoner-scrubs. I could have kept my own clothes on, but they were wet still -- and my backpack was locked up for evidence -- so I didn't care about wearing jail scrubs. I didn't care about much at all; I just wanted to sleep and try to forget my crummy life.

I skipped breakfast the next morning and waited for the boys to come in for their statements. I could hear them down the hall when they did come in, with parental voices demanding that I be arrested for kidnapping and forcing their boys to get drunk.

'Great.' It looked like the boys were going to lie and say that I had stolen the car, forced them along for the ride, and made them drink themselves stupid. Sounds like they had conned their parents into believing that line of bullshit; I hoped Dave wouldn't buy it, though.

After a while, I was taken out of the cell and brought into a larger room, where Josh and the other two boys were sitting with assorted parents. Dave sounded like a teacher explaining a lesson to the slow group. First, the boys' statements were summarized; and yes, I had correctly figured what they would claim, because they'd hung me out to dry. He then summarized my statement.

Next, he told the three boys to stand up against the wall, telling me their names and giving all their ages as seventeen years old. I was startled when he asked me to stand in front of them, facing their parents. After I was in position, his manner changed; and he started to bellow that what the boys had said was the biggest pile of bullcrap he'd ever had the misfortune to hear in his entire time as a cop. He asked the parents to take a good look at me and then at their sons; then asked did they really think that a guy my size could make three star linebackers do anything at all. I shot him a quick look; but I could see where he was going with this approach and I tried to look harmless.

Pointing at me, he said that they each outweighed me by seventy to ninety pounds and topped me by six to eight inches. He informed them and me that a receipt in my pocket from a Taco Bell, placed me about 200 miles away from where the car was stolen; and the time stamped on it gave me an alibi. He stared at the parents as he told them that everybody in the county knew old JD, knew how he drove his old wreck of a car with a pipe wrench instead of a steering wheel; and that an officer had gone out to see him that morning, and JD had confirmed giving me a ride into town.

The parents were all talking at once and Dave bellowed for quiet. He had me taken back to the holding cell and he and two other officers took the boys' statements again. I really hoped that they would come clean this time and clear me. It was pretty evident I wouldn't be charged, but their true statements would make things go a lot faster.

Despite a stern lecture to myself, I felt hope rising up in me that this would all be salvaged, that I'd be on my way in an hour or so, and I could still get to North Carolina in time to take that job.

Kind of annoyed me that Dave had made me out to be a wimp; but, truth be told, I am short; and they were a lot bigger than me. I hadn't really focused on that in the car; their ages were what I was concerned with at the time.

Dave came back in the hoped for hour, and took me back to the interview room. "Mr. Sandburg," he began, but I interrupted him.

"Call me Blair, okay?"

He looked at me intently, and said again, "Mr. Sandburg, what were you doin' here in Tennessee?"

I shrugged and answered him. "I was just traveling through, met up with an old friend who pointed me towards a trucking job in North Carolina."

"You travel around much, Mr. Sandburg?" he inquired.

"For the last year I have. Why do you want to know where I've been?" I was starting to get a bad feeling about this line of questioning.

"Where did you live before you became such a wanderer, Mr. Sandburg?" Dave was looking at me with mild curiosity painted on his face, but I used to work with cops and I knew when a question was important. I couldn't see any point in not telling him, though, no reason to obfuscate. He could find out if he wanted to without me saying a word.

"I lived for fourteen years, off and on, in Cascade, Washington," I said slowly, waiting for it.

"That's a fair distance from here, isn't it, Mr. Sandburg?" Dave must have been a cat in a former life, the way he was toying and drawing this out.

"Yeah," I said softly. "It's a fair distance and I'm never going back there."

Then Dave surprised me. "Blair, you're cleared of all the charges from last night. We know you didn't steal that car; those idiot boys did, and got themselves drunk. We thank you for getting their young asses off of the highway. That's the good news..."

I sighed. "Just tell me Dave, okay? What's the new problem?"

"The bad news is that you're wanted for questioning about a crime that was committed in Cascade. We've been asked by the Cascade cops to keep you available while they send a detective here to talk to you and maybe take you back to Cascade for their investigation."

'Man, I wasn't expecting that.' "What crime? Maybe I can get this cleared up from here. I really need to get to North Carolina. That job I'm going there for won't be waiting for me if I keep getting delayed!" I wasn't going to ask * which * detective was coming for me. *'Nope, not asking, not thinking about any ex-partners/ex-lovers at all. Nope, and this problem needs to go away before he gets here, 'cause I don't want to see him - it's bad enough the things he's done to disrupt any jobs I've scored this last year - but to have to go back to Cascade, with him as my jailer, wearing shackles... no, no-way, not going to happen...'*

Dave was talking, but I didn't understand what he was saying; then he grabbed my head and pushed it down towards my lap. After a time, the blurred sounds started making sense again. He was shouting for somebody to get in here while he kept his hand on my neck. He was talking to me, telling me to calm down, take deep slow breaths. He raised my head and held a paper bag in front of my mouth. I breathed in and out and tried to stop the panic attack from continuing, my heart pounding like an overzealous grunge band drummer. Months or maybe minutes rolled by, till I was finally able to put down the bag and not feel my heart trying to jump right out of my chest.

"Sorry," I gasped out. Boy, if Dave thought I was a wimp before, because of my size, he probably was sure of it now.

"It's okay, Blair; you'll be all right now," he said back to me, slightly sing-songy. His hand was still on the back of my neck and I wasn't going to be the one to tell him to move it. It felt good.

"Tell me again what's the crime they want to talk to me about?" I sort of wheezed out.

"A woman named Marie Edwards, worked at Rainier University, was killed last year." Dave replied. I knew he was assessing me. It was a cop thing. They all did it.

"I know her; I mean, I did know her but I haven't seen her since I left town. And I know she was alive then. How did she die?" I was kind of sick at the thought. I didn't like her, especially not after the whole dissertation mess, but I never wished her any harm.

"Don't know. And Blair, the instructions from Cascade say not to interrogate you, to just hold you here on the current charges until their detective can get here to handle you."

Dave sounded a little ticked off about that. 'God, It's going to be Jim. Jim, who hates my guts. Jim, who I loved like I've never loved anybody before. Jim, who was the reason I ran away from Cascade, just so we wouldn't ever have to meet up with each other again.

'God, my karma sucks!'

CHAPTER TWO

"Sandburg!"

"SANDBURG!"

I was halfway awake when I heard a loud male voice yelling my name, so I pried open my eyelids to see what the cop wanted from me. As I turned my head on the bunk to look at the redheaded man who was scowling at me, I remembered his name.

'Oh, yeah, that's Mike.' He'd been the one to bring me meals for the last two days I was in this cage. Incarcerated. Held against my will. Prisoner non grata. Jail-bird-Sandburg.

'Jeez, I must have annoyed him by being asleep again.' He continued to glare at me; so I made an effort to answer him, although it wasn't easy, because I'd picked up a cold or something and my throat was sore. "Yeah?" I managed to croak at him.

"Chow time, hippie; get your ass out of that bunk and come eat this fine micro-waved dinner that I slaved over just for you," said Officer Mike while giving me a jerk of his chin to help me get the message to move. Now. Before he fed that tasty processed food to the drug dog or pitched it.

'Hell, I'd vote for pitching it, but I'd already had the lecture one meal earlier about their "tax dollars going to feed an ungrateful prisoner, who better not waste his dinner or my time fixing it."

He had already placed the tray on the floor inside the cell before waking me up. This place wasn't really meant to keep prisoners in it for long or deal with feeding them; but I thanked Officer Mike because hey, still working on the Karma thing. I made a half-hearted attempt to get some of the lukewarm lasagna dish down my throat; but the tomato sauce stung, and I wasn't hungry anyway, so I gave it up.

I lay back down on the bottom bunk and stared up at the underside of the top bunk. Boring. Nothing to do here but think or sleep, and I had been doing a lot of snoozing because I was so out of energy. I kind of wondered if I was becoming clinically depressed. Man, I had freaked about being kept here, and worried myself to pieces about if it was Jim coming to interrogate me or not, till I had burned myself out. My serotonin and all the other brain chemicals must be depleted, and barely pumping through my head by now. On the up side, I probably wouldn't have any more panic attacks, since I was getting resigned to the inevitable.

I was in Limbo here, that mythical religious zone where you were neither in Heaven nor Hell. Limbo wasn't a place you could get out of on your own, either. You needed the intercession of others for your status to change. And you could be an innocent such as a heathen or a young child and still land in that place of in-between.

Well, okay, I knew the Catholic Church had kind of dropped that doctrine, but it still applied to me. I was waiting for the grand theft auto and contributing to the delinquency of minors charges to be dropped in court. And the only reason I had to wait for court was to allow me to be legally held until somebody from the Cascade bullpen came to question me about Chancellor Edward's death.

What they wanted to know was beyond me. I wasn't around when she was killed, apparently, and nobody was giving me any details, even though I'd asked for them. Sure, I didn't like her, but then, nobody I knew at Rainier had liked her, especially if they were unfortunate enough to have had to deal with her in person. We had certainly had our ups and downs while I was a teaching fellow; and what she did when my diss was released, and her later attempts to sabotage my applications for employment, I considered unethical, and I took steps to address that through university channels.

I wasn't happy she died, but I was real unhappy that even in death, she managed to keep screwing me over, because if I didn't get released by tomorrow, I was going to miss that trucking job interview in North Carolina. I had four hundred bucks to my name, enough clothes to fit in my backpack, a sizeable student loan debt, and no real ties anywhere.

So, Limbo... and the prospect of Hell part...was in who would be coming to interview me. I was steeling myself for it to be Jim, but actually, seeing anybody from there was going to be hard. I had drifted away from my friends there after the diss disaster.

It had been kind of awkward when we had gotten together at a bar or to play poker at Joel's or Henri's. They would cryptically refer to current cases and leads while dealing out cards or getting drinks, and I would be left behind in the conversation. After the offer to join Major Crimes as a detective was rescinded, the guys weren't allowed to fill me in on their cases; the Police Chief had been very clear as to what my restrictions on 'need to know' were, concerning the department's investigations. I also wasn't allowed in the station. And from what Simon had told Jim, the higher-ups weren't too keen on me continuing to live with him, and I know Jim had gotten some flack about it.

And what I had to talk about was, for the most part, embarrassing. I didn't want them to know about another round of rejections from prospective employers, or how I had been let go again from a job I had managed to acquire.

The reasons given for the rejections were usually guarded after a promising first contact: 'I'm sorry, Mr. Sandburg, you don't meet our criteria for employment,' or, 'Unfortunately, Sir, the position has been filled.' Occasionally, if I already had been working for a while and was let go, a secretary or middle manager would tell me that my file had been reviewed, and my references were not favorable. I would be eyed speculatively and the body language of my supervisors would shift from accepting to distrust and dislike. Man, that was not the kind of conversation that I wanted to bring to the table with the other guys. And Megan; shit, she was too perceptive, and I didn't want her sympathy or her figuring out the changes between Jim and me.

So that left the weather or sports to discuss. I didn't mention anything relating to anthropology. After the looks on their faces the few times I had done so, I learned to stifle my impulses to mention how what they were talking about reminded me of this ritual or that tribal experience. And nobody, but nobody, talked to me about the biggest taboo of all, my press conference where I outed myself as a fraud to get the heat off of Jim.

The last job I had, did actually keep me employed up to the time I had to leave Cascade. The hours, though, made it harder to get together with the bullpen gang, since I worked evenings and weekends. Luckily, the only references this job had needed were how well I could mix drinks, flirt, and handle the customers. Jim disliked my bartending and waiting tables job and was always trying to get me to quit. He didn't like anything about it; not the part of town I worked in, the hours, the clothes and jewelry I wore, the way I smelled of cigarettes and alcohol and other people's lust when I came home in the early morning hours. I hated to disturb him by climbing into bed so late and smelling like my job, and taking a shower was out of the question; so I got in the habit of either hanging out in all-night cafes, or walking, or sitting out by the bay till morning, or just sleeping in my own bed.

I think now that sleeping apart like that helped widen the gap between us. At the time, Jim would growl about me quitting so I could be home when he was, to eat together and sleep together. He wasn't happy that I chose to keep my job, lousy as it was, because it was important to me to be making my own money and not be mooching off of Jim.

Borrowing twenty bucks off of him to pay back later was standard operating procedure for me when I was a grad student. And I frequently had been behind on paying the rent to Jim, but I would catch up, usually with a song-and-dance about why it was late. Being lovers, though, made me leery of being in a rent-boy position. My self-image balked at being a kept man and I didn't want Jim to start thinking he was my free ride 'cause I knew that thought might fester and poison our relationship. Ironic that it became poisoned anyway.

Jim had come down a few times my first week at The Meeting Place, which he'd said should be renamed The Meat Market, but he made the customers uncomfortable with his glowering at anybody who talked to me. The manager told me to lose my boyfriend at work or lose the job, so I insisted to Jim that he stop coming to see me there. He agreed; but the contemptuous look in his eyes when he watched me get dressed just made my stomach ache with tension, and I could feel his respect for me diminishing every time I walked out the door. He started to say things to me about what my job entailed, under the guise of humor; saying that I was giving false advertising by dressing like a slut - at least he hoped it was false advertising. The old table-leg comments made their reappearance, too. He'd give me a punishing, hard kiss before opening the door, and he'd swat me on the ass as I walked out past him. It wasn't playful; it was a reminder I'd better behave while I was out of his sight.

I ended up working there for over three months, which was a record compared to the other jobs I'd held: running a cash register, short order cooking, welding, delivering for a Pepsi plant, and unloading shipments on the docks. I didn't even get in the door for the professional jobs I sent resumes to, and for a pretty good reason - through an acquaintance at one of the social service agencies, where I had interviewed for a job mentoring troubled teens; I found out that Chancellor Edwards had been sending a personal letter to everyone requesting my records from Rainier, denouncing me as a fraud with no morals, and a terrible work history. Even just a confirmation that I had a masters degree in anthropology would trigger this letter, which would just make my application moot. I started leaving out that I had even gone to college on applications.

I also went to her office to have a 'chat' with her regarding this letter. She wasn't there, but I did talk to the Assistant Chancellor. He sympathized with my story and helped me fill out a grievance form against her for overstepping her boundaries, for sending unsolicited slam letters to prospective employers, and for collaborating with 'Good Old Sid, Mom's Boyfriend' in releasing my diss when I had forbidden it.

I felt sorry for him, having her as a boss. His name was Nathan Bergman, and I ended up talking to him a few more times regarding my grievance. He told me it was progressing through proper channels and that mine wasn't the only grievance to be filed against her. In the end, I received a letter stating that the university appreciated my concern, but they considered my grievance to be unfounded.

It was pointless to try and meet with her, I decided. She was trouble, and I had a feeling that I should keep my distance from her. Nathan called me to tell me he didn't agree with the grievance committee, and to let me know I could use his name as a personal reference and skip the Rainier system. I thanked him for his help, and I did put him down on applications when I left Cascade. I couldn't use the police connections because I didn't want Jim to know where I was and the other Rainier ones would trigger that damn letter against me. I found out from Nathan that even reference letters from Eli Stoddard or other professors, the ones who weren't holding the diss against me, would also have her letter included in the packet sent from Rainier. Nobody else was willing to be a reference outside of the university system, and Rainier policy did not allow for a quick telephone thumbs up. No, an official administrative form had to be filed and the last step was to send the response by mail or fax, through Chancellor Edward's office.

After I moved to New Mexico and was working at a welding shop, I met up with Nathan once more, by chance. One afternoon I found tucked under the windshield wipers of my Volvo, a note from him with his phone number, saying he was in town for a conference. So I called him; he told me when we talked on the phone that he had spotted my Volvo on the street and thought it would be fun to look me up. I laughed and told him he must have really taken a few wrong turns to end up on my street. He picked me up outside the rooming house where I rented a room and took me out to dinner, on Rainier's ticket, filling me in on some of the university gossip. He said he had always admired my car and gave me his card, telling me if I ever wanted to sell it to give him a call. The offer he gave was very generous.

That night I thought about it, and the next day I called Nathan. I had student loans to pay off, and I could catch the bus to work for now and cut down on my expenses. My Volvo was a greedy baby to maintain, and Nathan would appreciate her. We met again, and I signed the title over to him. He paid me in cash, which kind of surprised me, but he said he thought it would be easier for me than a check. I was sad when he drove away with her; I had really liked that car...

I was tired of looking at the other bunk, so I rolled over onto my side and stared at the steel poles that fenced me in and kept me in this little Tennessee town. 'Limbo sure is b-o-r-i-n-g.' I had been locked up since Wednesday night. It was now Saturday, early in the evening, and I hadn't seen Dave since Thursday around noon, after the boys had put me in the clear with their statements. I had asked Officer Mike, he of the red hair and grumpy nature, when Dave would be back working, and was told grudgingly that he was scheduled to work the overnight shift for Saturday.

I was in limbo about seeing him again, too. He had seen me act like a wuss with that panic attack, and I cringed whenever I thought about it. Still, he had been kind to me and seemed like the kind of guy who was a straight shooter. And a part of my brain wondered if he was straight, period. In a theoretical kind of way, only, because I hadn't dated anybody since I left Jim. Well, there were a few quick sexual encounters, but I couldn't even remember what those guys looked like, now. It wasn't like I was going to try and make the same mistake again, by getting emotionally tangled with my sex partner. So Dave was safe from me; I liked him too much to have sex with him. I had learned my lesson from being with Jim.

Jim... I felt my thoughts sliding towards the locked up attic of my mind where I tried to keep the memories of our loving and fighting with each other...

I started thinking about the fun times we'd had in my Volvo, when things between Jim and me were still good, before I had left Cascade. I replayed in my head the good memories of Jim riding in it, complaining about the leg room, the first blow job I ever gave him as we parked in an out of the way place near a beach. He wouldn't let me try and blow him if he was driving Sweetheart. Afraid he'd wreck, I guess, which was funny when I considered all the other times he came close to smashing that truck.

Yeah, for a while the sex had been good; and I felt that even if some of my doors to Jim's life had closed since I couldn't be his police partner, being his lover would bind us together as domestic partners.

I had taken that old clich, 'All's Fair in Love and War' and had nerved myself to make a move on Jim. I'd ambushed him one weekend, had set things up with a nice dinner; with wine, not beer, to lubricate the seduction.

Beer was for being buddies, for watching the Jags, or hockey, or baseball. It was for hanging out with Simon and the rest of the guys, at a bar or a bar-b-que. Drinking beer was what we would do after a long, tiring day; we would come home and gulp down a cold one.

Wine, now; that was for lovers. I'd called on any gods that cared to listen for luck, and had hoped that Jim had gotten the message as we'd flirted through dinner. We'd played this game back and forth so much over the years, bantering and touching each other, but tonight; the flirting was going to be acted on; by me, at least. I'd also prayed that I wouldn't get my ass thrown out of the loft if Jim turned me down for asking to make love with him.

Jim could tell that the wine signified something different between us. He was charming that night, and had smiled at me frequently. He followed my suggestion to sit down together on the couch and let me take his hand in mine. I stroked my thumb over the back of his hand; and hesitantly, shyly, told him that I'd been attracted to him for a long time and I wanted to be more to him than his friend or guide. He showed me he was receptive by bringing our hands up to my lips, shushing me; and then with our hands still together had lightly touched down the side of my face, leaving a tingling trail behind on my skin. Then he had slid his hand out from mine and placed his other hand on the other side of my face. He had done that before, both his hands on my face, giving me little pats or strokes. This time, though, he leaned over and held my head as he kissed me questioningly on the lips. I kissed him back, at first carefully, then with more passion, our mouths opening and exploring each other, as we learned to make love with each other that night.

My gamble had been successful, and I was no longer just Jim's friend. No, I was his lover; and I felt that I was finally who I should be, that this new role in Jim's life would be forever, the 'until death do us part' kind of forever. I had never allowed myself to feel so intimate before with any sexual partner. I had never before put together emotional closeness with physical pleasure, as I did with Jim.

It had all fallen apart, though, as chaos theory said it would. The center could not hold, had unraveled into a tangled mess. The Chaos Gods had shown their power; and over time, the love Jim showed to me started to feel like something different, something ugly and hard. And that ugliness followed me wherever I traveled, sabotaging all my efforts to build a new life for myself.

I felt that old devastation of my heart sweep through me again, and I wished, I wished I was far away where I could try and forget what Jim had meant to me. Stuck here, with nothing to distract me, knowing he could be on his way to question me and maybe arrest me, it was hard to keep my thoughts from centering on him. I still loved him, and I thought I always would. Too bad his feelings had done the pendulum thing.

I sighed - and rolled over to look at the other side of my cage.

'Fuck. ...Yin and Yang, night and day, equal and opposite reactions... and as for love and war... Man, there was nothing, but nothing, fair about them, at all...'

CHAPTER THREE

Saturday night shift usually meant somebody would end up acting like an idiot and, sure enough, tonight's catch was Mark and Sherry White, our favorite fighting couple for the last month. This time they were being brought in on a 10-57 from the Hide-Away Hole, where they'd proceeded to assault the other patrons, after sparring with each other. Randall and I got a standing ovation from most of the other clientele when we cuffed Mr. and Mrs. White and proceeded to place them in the back of the car. Randall took statements from the folks who had been on the receiving end of the punches and kicks, and I talked to the owner about banning them from his place or getting a restraining order.

Of course we had another problem when we returned to the station...

I walked back to our currently occupied holding cell to wake up our temporary guest who was staying with us courtesy of the state of Washington. I had no choice but to move him out in order to move one of the Whites in. We had two holding cells, but Mrs. White was goin' in the other one. The way those two whaled on each other at the drop of a hat, we couldn't chance bunking them together until they could be transported up to the Davitt County jailhouse in the morning. Mr. White and Blair together - that'd be a bad idea.

Blair was curled up asleep on the bottom bunk. I wondered about him. It wasn't hard to see he was down on his luck, but the more common reasons for being troubled didn't seem to fit him. Most likely not a drug addict, as his tox screen had been clean and he didn't have needle marks on his body. He didn't have the ten miles of bad road look of a meth addict, either, and his skin wasn't riddled with sores. Not an alcoholic, for he hadn't the smell of alcohol oozing out his pores or gone into withdrawal while in the cell. Judgin' by the calluses on his hands and muscles on his arms, he weren't scared of hard work, so he didn't seem to be just a bum.

He was smart, too; the cooperative way he handled himself when he was arrested showed intelligence. He caught on quick when I used his size to show just how ridiculous the idea was that he'd coerced those football players into stealin' a car. He'd made himself look even smaller; I swear he'd shrunk himself down another two inches while he gazed at the parents with a wide eyed, innocent look. That look had a touch of the practiced to my eyes; I bet Blair could be a handful when he weren't so beaten down. Old J.D., who'd picked him up hitchhiking, had told us that "Blair was a talker 'bout a lot of far-away stuff." The boy had struck him as a lost soul, he'd said, and the old feller had wanted to send Blair over to his preacher for help. Instead, Blair'd insisted politely to J.D. that he had to leave town that night.

Something about his old hometown sure spooked that boy. It wasn't so much about the death of that woman but more over who was coming to interrogate him about her death. He'd had the one panic attack, and Mike told me he'd been pretty jittery for the rest of the day. Jittery; and then he'd be passed out sleeping. Mike said he'd slept a whole lot and eaten about nothing. Mike acts like a junkyard dog most of the time, but he told me we'd better keep an eye on the kid 'cause he thought he was gettin' sick.

Mike and Randall also thought the order to hold him was a little strange. Usually, a warrant was issued, and the prisoner would be picked up by the regular prison bus and eventually transported right back where he was wanted. And if it was just for questioning, why not ask us to help feed him the questions and see what he'd got to say for himself. Besides, if it was so all-fired important that this detective do the asking in person, why hadn't he jumped on a plane and been here by now?

Well...I hated to disturb the boy, but he couldn't stay in the cell with Mr. White. Mr. White seemed to hate just about every kind of people there was, and Blair here would be on his shit list once Mr. White looked at him and heard Blair's last name. Hippies, Jews, Gays... and basically anybody who wasn't just like him. Didn't matter if Blair was gay or not, Mr. White would tag him as such just because of his long hair. Mr. White was drunk as a skunk and mean as a snake and all too inclined to hurt people for me to leave Blair in there with him. I thought to put him in the Police Chief's office on the couch; I'd have to put ankle shackles on him, but he could go back to sleep and I could easily monitor him while I was holding down the fort. I was done with my patrol shift and for the rest of the night I'd be at the station doing paperwork, watching our prisoners, and handling walk-ins.

Blair looked blearily up at me when I shook him awake. "Dave, man...what's up? Is the Cascade guy here?" I helped him get out of the bunk; he wasn't any too steady on his feet while I explained he was moving to the couch in the Chief's office for the rest of the night. He thought that was funny and started listin' all the couches he'd slept on for the last year. I don't think he was really awake, and he lost his own train of thought halfway down the hall. I got him settled and then decided to satisfy my growing curiosity about this boy and where he came from in Washington.

"Well! Dave Findley, haven't seen you in a month of Sundays. And who have you brought me today?"

Maddie Long was the most talkative nurse in the whole ER rotation, and when she was curious about something, she would keep on pesterin' a person till they gave in. Or most folks did. I liked to think I was immune to her talents, but I was probably just kiddin' myself. Still, she had a good heart and was partial to strays; so I looked for her to want to adopt Blair, who was sitting cross-legged on a gurney looking rumpled and sleepy. That hair of his was wilder than usual and just begged for somebody to tackle it with a brush.

Blair answered for himself. "Hi, I'm Blair Sandburg, and I don't see why Dave thought I should get checked out. I'll be fine."

I shook my head and told Maddie the list of symptoms Mike and I had noted. "Sore throat, no appetite, sleeping almost round the clock, but when he's awake he looks like he's still exhausted. He keeps rubbing his head like it hurts. And he's started runnin' fevers. I took his temperature at the station and it was 103.2."

Well, that was enough to set Maddie off and running and she started making notes, asking questions about how long this and how much that, and whipping out blood pressure cuffs and that ear temperature gadget and her stethoscope. Blair was in for it now.

After he'd woken up, an hour after daybreak, he'd admitted to having a sore throat to me when he asked for some salt so he could gargle with it. And he'd had fever dreams, apparently, while he slept with his ankle fastened to the frame on the Chief's couch. I'd watched him tossing back and forth and had listened to him going on about a blue jungle, hiding, and some animals. He kept asking to see some guy named Jim, and then telling him sorry, and mixed in all that was him telling this Jim guy to leave him alone and to forget him. He really put on quite a show, but the couple of times I tried to wake him up, he maybe quieted down for a short spell, then he'd be right back talking about hiding and running in the jungle again. His cheek and forehead felt hot to me, so when he woke up for good I took his temp and decided he was maybe sick enough for the doctor to check him out.

I'd done some investigating on the computer while he slept and what I found was interestin'. Poking around on several search engines, I'd found and printed out everything I could on one Blair Jacob Sandburg, sometime truck driver, anthropologist, police observer and consultant. I'd checked the Cascade papers; there were newspaper articles on his being kidnapped and almost killed by a serial killer, and other ones involving casework. There were photographs of him working at Rainier University looking a whole lot happier than what I'd seen so far in person. He'd been a teacher and had gone on expeditions, according to the various captions under the photographs. I found references to his work cited in other people's articles, and I printed out articles he'd written himself on different tribal cultures that were published in journals. I'd been right about him being smart, although, he didn't seem old enough to have done all the things I found listed under his name; evidently he'd been a busy, busy boy.

Not an entirely ethical boy, either, according to what the news stories had had to say about him. Blair had cheated on his research about sentinels, people with better senses than most folks, but he'd gotten an attack of conscience and had come clean about it on TV, no less. And apparently, some folks had made a pretty big to-do over the book he'd written about sentinels. Before he admitted to being a fraud, he'd been offered a whole lot of money and a shot at the Nobel Prize. Afterwards his school hadn't been too happy with him and had kicked him out. Rainier University had printed a disclaimer about Blair's work in the paper; that place was also where Marie Edwards had worked. Well, Blair had said he'd known her; she was the one who'd put the disclaimer in the paper.

Blair a fraud... now I thought that was an interestin' notion, as he hadn't tried pulling any of the usual jailhouse con crap on us. People's personalities don't change much from location to location, as I've ever noticed. If he was a conman type, he sure wasn't any good at it, or he wouldn't be hitchhiking across the country. He was a charmer; even Mike didn't despise the boy as much as he did the other prisoners, and I did think Blair could be persuasive, and probably good at getting his own way by cajoling or battin' those big eyes of his, like he was trying right now at Maddie.

I watched as Maddie laughed at him and patted his cheek. He'd tried to get out of the blood tests, but Maddie was immune to pleading when it came to doing her job. Like I figured, though, she had taken a liking to Blair.

I pondered over what I had learned so far in my computer searches... One thing -- I kept finding a name tagged with his in those newspaper stories where he'd been listed as a police observer and when he'd been kidnapped by Lash, the serial killer, and in the stories about his sentinel studies being a fraud.

Jim Ellison...

I was betting 'Blue Jungle Jim' was the same fellow. While Blair was sleeping on the couch, I'd looked up his address from his CDL license and did a reverse phone number search for it. I'd called it. Without much surprise, I'd listened to Blair on the answering machine, in a cheerful tone of voice, saying that this was the residence of Blair Sandburg and Jim Ellison and to leave a message with a phone number. Jim Ellison hadn't changed his phone message for well over a year, even though Blair had left the state. Why was he hanging on to it? Especially when it had the voice of the guy who'd lied and told the world his friend was this mythical sentinel. If he were angry with Blair, you'd think he would have erased it long ago.

Jim Ellison.

Jim Ellison and Blair Sandburg... they'd lived together, so what had been their relationship to each other?

He and Blair had worked closely together at the Cascade P.D., although what Blair did there seemed a little vague. He wasn't listed as a profiler in the articles, but he did consulting for them. Jim Ellison was a Cascade detective; and a good one, since he'd been listed as cop of the year in several of the stories. Would Cascade send Blair's old partner to interrogate him?

Maybe they would send Ellison and Blair was panicky over meeting up with him; in fact, he seemed downright scared about it.

The articles about the press conference where Blair had denounced his own research were from a year and a half ago; Blair said he'd been moving around the country for a year, but he'd kept Jim Ellison's address on his license. Had Blair continued to live with this Jim Ellison for six months after he'd admitted he'd put false evidence about Ellison in his research?

To allow Blair to stay, this Jim must've been very, very tolerant and forgiving, or maybe Blair had moved out and not changed his address on his license. If Ellison was the one coming and he was so tolerant and forgiving, then why was Blair so nervous about talking to him? Were they enemies or friends today?

Ellison was either out working tonight or he was on his way here, because he hadn't answered his phone. Cops don't have the luxury of ignoring phone calls; he'd have answered if he were home. So there was a real good chance he would be here soon to investigate the guy who'd lied about him.

I needed more answers, but I had run out of time this morning to do any more checking on the Internet. A lot of the other guys at the station were intimidated about getting out into cyberspace; but I found it to be quite handy and I intended to run some searches on Jim Ellison and Marie Edwards to see how they fit into this puzzle. Also, I thought it was time to call the Cascade PD and find out when their detective was going to show up; this time I'd make them confirm a name instead of telling us to expect an anonymous 'detective.'

Maddie was finished with her medical exam and was patting Blair on the shoulder, telling him he could lie back down if he wanted while we waited for the doctor to come in. She bustled off, saying she was going to fetch him a blanket.

I walked over to the gurney and eyeballed him.

"You doing okay?" I asked him.

Blair was yawning again as he held a cotton ball on his arm where Maddie had stuck him to take blood, and I reached out to feel his forehead. Still running a fever; still tired, even though I knew he'd slept away most of the night.

He looked up at me. "Maddie said she thinks she knows what I have, but that it's up to the doctor to do the telling. Man, hospitals are not my favorite places to hang out. Neither are jail cells and I've only got till Monday afternoon to make it to North Carolina. Do you know when the Cascade guy is supposed to show up?"

"I'll be checking with Cascade when I take you back." Blair hadn't told me anything about his life in Cascade, and I was keeping what I had learned to myself for now. I didn't think Blair was going to get that trucking job he kept talking about even if the legal complications could be cleared up in time; he didn't look like he would last two minutes driving a semi before passing out. I kept that thought to myself, too, though. It wasn't my business to disabuse Blair of his hopes and dreams.

CHAPTER FOUR

Simon Banks replaced the phone in its cradle gently and leaned back in his recliner. So much for a relaxing Sunday morning at home, he sighed to himself. Well, he'd asked for any contacts concerning Jim or Blair to be routed to him. Where Ellison and Sandburg were concerned, it was better that he be on top of what was happening.

Frowning, he contemplated the phone conversation he'd just had with Dave Findley in Sweetwater, Tennessee. The cop had asked who specifically was coming to interrogate Blair Sandburg; said the Sweetwater P.D. was wondering why was it taking so long. When told that Detective James Ellison was driving down to handle the case, Findley said he'd done some checking and knew Sandburg had been involved with Major Crimes as a consultant and had also worked with Detective Ellison. The Tennessee cop had politely grilled Simon as to what was the relationship between Detective Ellison and Mr. Sandburg. Findley had sounded suspicious when he stated that he knew Detective Ellison and Mr. Sandburg had lived together; he had asked if Detective Ellison wasn't maybe a little too close to Mr. Sandburg to be handling this case.

Simon tilted further back in the recliner and stared at the ceiling, as if the answer to Finley's question about the closeness between Jim and Blair could be found there.

How was he supposed to explain the bond, damaged as it currently was, between those two? Lord, but they were an unlikely pair of friends. To look at them, they would seem to have nothing in common; in fact, if it weren't for Jim's senses they probably never would have connected. Sandburg's wild theories had panned out, though, allowing Jim to regain control of his life. And Jim had taken a shine to the kid, trying to look out for him, even going so far as to run background checks on Sandburg's dates. They'd had their ups and downs, but they'd been closer than a lot of married couples he'd known.

After Sandburg's mother had released the dissertation, things had gotten very rocky between them. Jim had even made noises about ending Sandburg's observer status. Then Blair had made a sacrifice of his career and his professional integrity, which Jim seemed to have accepted as atonement for Blair's carelessness at keeping his research safeguarded.

Simon got out of his recliner, remembering when Jim tossed Blair a detective's shield in the bullpen. As Captain, he had been responsible for that scene, had gotten the approval from his superiors to extend the offer to their former observer.

Sweet Jesus, thinking about that day always made him restless. He needed to move around and decided to grab a cup of coffee.

That day - well over a year ago... To his eyes, Blair had seemed ambivalent about accepting the offer to take academy training and be Jim's partner officially. After Jim was done giving the kid a hug in the guise of horseplay about scalping Blair's mop of curls down to academy applicant length, he had ordered Blair into his office. He'd then proceeded to ask Blair if this was what he wanted to do, to be a cop instead of an anthropologist. Blair had looked at him solemnly while answering him.

"I'll always be an anthropologist, Simon, it's how I look at the world. I can also swear to 'protect and serve'; man, I'll do my best to be a good cop. And this way I can stay with Jim as his partner; I want that more than anything."

He wasn't sure what had happened to sour things between them again over the next few months. Of course, it didn't help that the offer to join Major Crimes had to be pulled. Franklin, who was Simon's division head, and Wang, the Assistant Chief of Police, had both told Simon they regretted rescinding the offer they'd previously agreed to, but the Chief of Police had received some intense political pressure from the Mayor against Sandburg's Exceptional Entry status application.

Simon poured himself a cup of caffeine and walked over and opened his back door, sipping coffee, as he looked at the fall colors on the trees in his neighborhood. He grimaced, thinking over the scorching dressing-down he had received from the Chief of Police over the whole sentinel/fraud/job-offer mess.

The brass at headquarters had been afraid of adverse publicity; and logically, it was hard to defend jumping an admitted fraud up to detective. Sandburg was not allowed to enter the police academy at Burien, south of Seattle, even as a regular applicant, and Simon was told that any application for a non-police officer position at the P.D. from the kid would be canned. Simon believed somebody had a grudge against Blair and was pulling some major strings, but he'd gotten exactly nowhere with trying to pin down the string puller.

The three of them had presented a cover story to the brass, which explained that Blair had denounced a fictional account that had been mistaken for his dissertation, with the pre-approval of Simon. The story would have been that Blair had made this gesture to stop the press from interfering so the police dept. could concentrate on ending Zeller's reign of terror. All three had hoped this obfuscation would allow Blair to be reinstated at Rainier so he could finish his Ph.D, and so he could continue acting as Jim's guide and a police consultant to the department.

Their superiors had forbidden them to try and salvage Blair's career, though, and had made it explicitly clear that Sandburg was not to be allowed to observe or assist on any more cases. He was restricted to public areas in police stations and was not to be consulted in any way regarding any investigations.

Of course, Jim had tried to get around those restrictions. Blair had ridden with him to a few crime scenes, but Jim had been reported; and, reluctantly, Simon had given him a written reprimand, by order of the division head. Furthermore, Simon had been told that if Jim persisted in defying the restrictions Blair would be taken to court, slapped with a restraining order, and charged with obstruction of a police officer performing his duties. Jim hadn't wanted to see Blair put through any more trouble, so he'd stopped taking Blair with him.

Simon walked over and dumped his cup in the kitchen sink, thinking about how emotionally distant Blair had become from the bullpen detectives, after his exile.

It had become harder to keep up with Sandburg; Simon had seen him less and less, and when he'd asked Jim about the kid, Jim hadn't given a whole lot of information. Oh, Simon knew that Blair and Jim had had arguments over suing Rainier and the publishing company that had released the dissertation without Blair's permission. Jim had complained to Simon about Blair's stubbornness; Jim's frustration over his refusal to sue overwhelmed the detective sometimes, and could put him in one god-almighty cranky mood.

The last few months before Blair left town, Jim had been increasingly closed off, his face a bland mask whenever anybody had asked him how Blair was doing. He'd told whoever had asked that Blair seemed to be really enjoying his job and was making a whole new set of friends. He'd said Blair didn't seem to have the time anymore to keep up with old friends, and that he hardly saw him himself since Blair worked a late evening shift.

Simon sighed. Thinking about the friend who he'd not seen in a year's time was reminding him how much he missed the kid.

Simon had been on a week-long vacation, a year ago, when Blair had called him at home. He asked if Jim was working undercover and said he didn't want to ask Jim. Simon decided he didn't want to know the details.

With Blair waiting on the phone for his answer, he debated the restrictions on sharing information and decided he could tell Blair that Jim was working secretly part-time with an ATF task force on gun smuggling but that he wasn't doing anything covert. The kid had also wanted to know if Simon knew Jim had been seeing a tall, dark-haired woman with caramel colored skin. Simon explained that was Melissa Adams, who had started with Vice three weeks ago, and hadn't Blair met her? Blair said something about Jim and his secrets and broke the phone connection.

That was the last time he spoke with Blair. The kid had left town that day, and the next day Simon had gotten a letter from him, postmarked Cascade, telling Simon he appreciated all the help he had been given and that he regretted it hadn't worked out about joining Major Crimes. He'd asked Simon to pass along his goodbyes to the rest of the crew. That had made Simon pause because not everybody in the bullpen knew Blair anymore; after all, time brings change and some detectives had moved to other departments while others had joined after Blair's stint there.

Along with Blair's letter was a long list of things to look out for with Jim. Blair'd also asked that nobody try and track him down. The kid had written that he'd thought it over and it was time to 'detach with love.' The letter stated that he wasn't the right guide for Jim; but Jim would be more receptive to looking for a better guide with him out of the picture.

Blair had been wrong about Jim finding a compatible guide. Jim didn't really connect with anybody much anymore except with Simon. And while Simon could see for himself that his detective wasn't happy, Jim wasn't telling his captain why he was angry with Blair. Jim had never told Simon what had happened between him and Sandburg, just that they'd parted ways, and Blair'd had a better opportunity come up out of town. Simon had asked Jim if Blair was keeping in touch, but Jim had replied that Blair hadn't even sent a letter or phoned home to let him know how he was doing. Simon had suggested trying to find the kid every so often, but Jim had always nixed that suggestion.

Simon wondered how much his own mistake had led to Blair's decision to leave town. When Simon had returned to work and Joel, the acting captain, updated him, he found out he'd been wrong about information he'd given Blair in that phone call - Jim had gone actively undercover that week. And also apparently Jim and Melissa had for several weeks been pretending to be interested in each other. They'd wanted to act realistically, build a tight cover in case it was needed later. Jim later told Simon that he hadn't thought it necessary to report that the flirting was for the job until the ATF found a way for them to get inside the operation.

The task force had caught a break, a way to place members closer to the illicit organization, and Jim had been given the approval for him and Melissa to pose as a kinky couple looking to buy into a prostitution business run out of an upscale bar. The prostitution business actually was a sideline of the gun smuggling operation the task force was concerned with stopping; Jim was trying to weasel into the gun end of the deal by establishing himself as a player with the hooking side of things.

Something had gotten fucked up between Jim and Blair because of that undercover operation, Simon surmised. At first, he hadn't been concerned that Blair had moved out of the loft because he supposed Blair had figured it was a good time to find his own space, if Jim was dating again. He had wondered why Blair had left Cascade, though; the kid had lived here since he was a teenager. When months had gone by and Blair hadn't contacted any of their friends, Simon grew more troubled over the apparent split between his two friends.

Jim hadn't been much help; he evaded Simon's questions by retreating into his Army Ranger act. Damn, he would even stand at parade rest when Simon would ask him why Blair left, but wouldn't say much except to agree that Blair must have been upset about something.

"Sir, with the way Sandburg's mind works, there's no telling what spooked him into jumping ship." Or he'd say, "Captain, as far as I'm concerned he abandoned his post. I don't know why he went or what he thought he was accomplishing."

Simon hadn't made captain on just his good looks; he figured that Blair and Jim had a lot to finish saying to each other. What did the pop psychologists call it? - 'closure.' Yeah, they needed a whole shitload of closure.

He hoped Jim clearing up this Marie Edwards mess would allow for that closure to take place. There was circumstantial evidence pointing a finger Blair's way, but Simon had a hard time believing the kid could have killed Marie Edwards. At least Jim could clear up the guilt issue by dialing up his senses. He'd ask Blair directly if he had killed the woman; Jim would be able to detect if Blair was lying.

Jim had been insistent when the case came to their attention that the evidence implicating Blair was bullshit. Despite denying any wrongdoing by Sandburg, he seemed angry with Blair, for being accused; angry with Chancellor Edwards, the vindictive bitch, for being dead; and angry with himself, for reasons he wasn't sharing with his captain.

And if after questioning him, Jim felt that Blair was guilty of murder? Even if Jim was angry with his ex-partner, Simon trusted Ellison to have Blair's best interests in mind and bring him safely into custody. God forbid that this be the case, but if Blair was arrested Simon intended to pull a few strings to have the best lawyer available be assigned pro bono to his case. He was owed a few favors by some legal leeches and he'd call one of them on said favors.

Jim was actually the best qualified to run this investigation, Simon had told that cop from Sweetwater; and because Jim requested it, Simon had asked that Blair not be notified that it was Jim who was coming to see him. He assured the Sweetwater police officer that, despite Ellison and Sandburg having been close friends, Detective Ellison would conduct the investigation professionally. He'd told the other cop he'd contact Jim on the road and have him inform the Sweetwater P.D. as to his ETA. Dave Findley had offered to be Jim's Sweetwater liaison, and he'd pass that along to Jim as well.

Simon dialed the number to call and waited for Jim's cell phone to decide whether to actually let him talk to Jim or just leave a message.

Right. No answer, so he left Jim a voice mail message. As mad as Jim had been when he'd left Cascade, Simon could give him another day to cool off before actually talking to him in person. Sweet Jesus, there wasn't anybody better than Jim for holding onto an angry mood.

He remembered Jim's parting shot at him before driving off Friday morning. "Captain. I don't want to go, some things are best left alone; but I'll do it and get the truth out of Sandburg. Just - let me run this my way; I want Sandburg kept off-guard as much as possible. So don't tell him I'm coming; let him wonder if it's me he's got to deal with. Okay, sir?"

Jim had tried for a respectful tone but missed it by a mile. Still, Jim knew Sandburg better than anyone else and if he thought this was the best approach - well then, Simon would back him up.

And if Jim was too bull-headed to find Sandburg on his own in order to straighten up whatever mess they had made out of their friendship; well then, it was good to be the Captain and give orders for a certain detective's own damn good.

Simon pondered over to his desk and pulled out a cigar from the top drawer. He lit it and inhaled the aroma down into his lungs as he contemplated the Sweetwater cop's question again.

'What was the relationship between Ellison and Sandburg? Between Sentinel and Guide?' For all he'd observed their goings on for years before Blair had left, he was pretty ignorant of how their voodoo tricks actually worked. This past year, Jim had told him he had had to keep his senses dialed down, mostly, without Blair around to help with his control over them. A sentinel, then, needed a guide to be at the top of his game. Did a guide need a sentinel too, in the same kind of way?

Oh, hell; these were things he rarely tried to ask himself and for a good reason. He could feel the usual headache he got when considering the weirdness that was Ellison and Sandburg's bond starting to throb behind his eyes.

Jim was the sentinel, Blair was his guide; now that things were set in motion, let the sentinel deal with his runaway guide. And let one overworked police captain enjoy the peace and quiet till Ellison came back to Cascade.

CHAPTER FIVE

Jim Ellison gripped the steering wheel of his truck and swore at the rain pelting his windshield. The bad weather he was dealing with was just the tip of the iceberg when he considered all the reasons he hated this trip.

There were the long days of driving from Cascade to Sweetwater-where-the-fuck-is-it-anyway-Tennessee. By his calculations, it was going to be about thirty-eight to forty hours of driving. Damn Simon anyway for insisting that he drive instead of fly. Oh, Simon had trotted out figures showing that it would cost over a thousand dollars for Jim to fly and rent a car, not even counting the expense if Jim brought Sandburg back home.

Jim wasn't buying it, though. Simon thought he needed the time to think things through and lose the anger that had exploded within him when he was tagged to interrogate Sandburg about the Edwards murder. Simon had been hinting ever since Sandburg had figuratively told Jim 'fuck you' by leaving Cascade the way he did, that Jim needed to contact Sandburg and make things right with the kid.

Right. Make things right...there was no making things right.

Blair Sandburg had succeeded in living up to all of Jim's expectations of him. Christ, having to think about all these memories he'd worked hard at repressing was another big part of why he hated this trip. It was going to be hell to see his ex-lover and not shake some answers out of him.

Answers to questions like: When did his partner decide that Jim wasn't to be trusted with information concerning important issues in Blair's life? How long had Sandburg been making plans to leave town with a new lover?

And why was keeping that sleazy job at the bar more important than how it made Jim feel to see his lover get all tarted up for other men's and women's viewing pleasure? Worse, at times, the customers had done more than just look at Blair in his tight shirt and tighter jeans. Before the manager had kicked Jim out, he'd gone with Blair to work several nights; smelled the lust directed towards Blair and heard the speculations that Blair was available to be fucked. Blair hadn't really believed Jim that he was being targeted; no, he'd babble on instead about Jim reading too much into the situation.

'This is just a job, man; you know, to put bread on the table. Nobody takes anybody else seriously there; you need to lighten up, Jim.'

After that, parked out of casual notice by Blair, Jim had staked out that low-life scumbag gathering-hole by dialing up his vision and had watched the jackals circling and sometimes he had seen Blair being pulled down onto men's and women's laps. He'd seen Blair getting his ass and nipples pinched and his cock rubbed through his jeans; although, to be fair to Blair, Jim acknowledged that his lover had moved away quickly from the fucking jackals, still laughing at the behavior Blair must have considered harmless. At least Jim had hoped, at the time, that the laughter had been at the customers' impudence and not from the pleasure of feeling wanted by so many others. Since then, Jim had replayed his observations of Blair working the bar crowd for a long time after Blair left and now, he knew that Blair hadn't been capable of making the kind of commitment Jim needed; flirting had been Blair's way of meeting his own cravings for newer pastures.

He never should have succumbed to the sweet seduction Blair had snared him with, not after holding out all those years. His better sense had just gone on vacation when Blair had acted the shy little virgin with him, holding his hand and blushingly telling Jim that he wanted to be more than friends. Hell, he had wanted to fuck the kid the first afternoon after meeting him in his office at Rainier; even now the sense memory of shoving Blair up against that wall, lifting him off his feet, and pushing his leg between Blair's thighs could get him hard again. Blair was sexy, and cute; he just naturally attracted people when he smiled at them.

And that was another reason Jim hated this damn trip. He didn't want to remember why he had fallen in love with his guide all those years ago. Soon after meeting Blair, when Blair had asked him to eavesdrop on a TA who'd flirted with Blair; she had confidingly told her friend that Blair was adorable. Jim had had to agree with her - Blair had been adorable, and energetic, and sweet, and cheerful, and smart; and he'd looked out for Jim. He had been willing to take the fall for Jim even back when they had just met. After all, Sandburg had diverted attention away from Jim by saying Blair had tasted the mud on the toothpick during the Brackett case, even though it had garnered the kid some strange looks.

They should have just stayed friends. He'd hated it when Blair had been involved with sexual partners, but he could have kept handling Blair's fucking other people if they hadn't become lovers, too. And Jim was not into sharing. He was, however, into being able to trust your partner, and Blair kept too many secrets from Jim. Some of them had come out during the Edwards murder investigation. Jim'd had no idea that Blair had filed a grievance against Marie Edwards till the guy who took over for her had mentioned it during the investigation. He showed the police the form letter Blair had filled out and described how Sandburg had come into the office, ranting and raving about what a bitch Dr. Edwards was and how he'd get even with her, after his grievance had been dropped as unfounded by the university committee. They had also been shown the letter Dr. Edwards had sent to Blair's prospective employers that had slammed him six ways to Sunday; it had given additional credibility for Blair's motive to kill her.

Not that Jim thought for a minute that Blair had killed the chancellor. He knew Blair wouldn't have done anything to hurt the woman just because of her vindictiveness. Hell -- the damn stubborn kid wouldn't even sue the bastards for the mishandling of his dissertation release.

No, he had no real concerns about having to arrest Sandburg; but since Jim was forced to relive ancient history with his ex-lover, especially the miserable end to their friendship, he figured Sandburg could suffer also. Let Sandburg worry what this was all about. Let him stew over whether or not Jim would be coming to interrogate him not just about Edward's death, but also to give him hell over leaving the way he did. Blair knew Jim's opinion of the kid's past in-it-for-the-sex-only flings; Blair wanting that again without even discussing it with Jim was something Blair must know Jim would give him grief over. Jim was just giving tit for tat, after all, or serving back 'Karma' on his partner.

Jim snorted to himself. His opinion about Blair's possible guilt didn't matter one whit. Sandburg had to officially answer some pointed questions concerning the evidence that had raised questions about Sandburg's connection to the woman's death.

And that was another reason he hated this trip. He was going to have to use his sentinel skills when he questioned Blair to determine if he was lying; his sentinel skills, that Jim mostly kept dialed down to normal and rarely ever used any more. A sentinel needed a guide, he'd come to understand, to set the baseline for his senses and to keep them grounded. Blair, by chance more than design -- the kid didn't really know anymore than Jim did about how the guide/sentinel thing worked -- had by his very presence in Jim's life helped Jim keep control.

Even now, with Blair gone for a year, Jim kept the bedding Blair had slept on in a plastic bag and sporadically would open it to smell Blair's scent. He would listen to the answering machine with Blair's voice on it and feel his jangled nerves being soothed to a manageable level. He had some of Blair's hair from a forgotten brush and he would wind it around his fingers and run it across his lips. He felt pathetic doing all of that but he would feel better afterwards, till the hunger for his guide's body would start to overwhelm him again.

Blair had written in his Dear Jim letter he'd come to the realization he wasn't the right guide or lover for Jim, and he was leaving so that Jim could be happy and could work on finding a better guide. That was a pile of self-serving rubbish with which Blair was deluding himself. Jim knew without a doubt Blair had left because the kid was tired of being tied down to one lover, and his new man had offered Sandburg an opportunity for a better job -- one probably involving bartering his body for gain in some way. After all, he'd shown up at the bar, in that prostitution and gun smuggling case Jim and Melissa had been infiltrating, for an interview to become one of the high-class hookers.

Holding onto his temper with difficulty when he'd seen Blair in the bar, charming the manager/pimp, Jim had decided he'd have it out with Blair at home and finally lay down the law about Blair's inclination to use his body to gain employment. Jim couldn't afford to blow the case by talking to Blair there; instead, his arm around Melissa's shoulders, he'd sent him a message on a napkin, asking his partner if he would do a threesome with Jim and his woman tomorrow afternoon. Jim had figured that was so outrageous Blair would know the invitation was a sham. Jim had raised his drink at Blair when he'd read the message; Blair had looked at him with shock as he'd recognized Jim, then puzzlement, so much hurt bewilderment on his face that the manager interviewing him had grabbed the note to see for himself what was going on between his prospective hooker and his possible business partners. Then Blair's expression had cleared with understanding and he had given a nod back to Jim.

Blair had left then, and Jim had never seen him again. Jim had trusted Blair to trust him, at least enough to wait for an explanation. Instead, his lover had cut his losses and run. 'Detach with love,' his ass. 'When it's time to prove your trust in your partner, then it's time to run' should be the Sandburg family motto instead. Blair had done Naomi proud by the way he'd skedaddled out of town.

Oh, he'd pieced together from Simon that Blair had at first figured correctly that Jim was undercover, but when Simon denied Jim was working on a case -- not Simon's fault as he hadn't known at the time what Jim and Melissa were doing -- Blair's apparently fragile trust in Jim took a nosedive. Too bad he hadn't trusted Jim enough to talk to him about what he'd seen. But he apparently was going to be leaving Jim soon anyway; Jim had questioned Blair's fellow workers at The Meeting Place and had been told Blair'd been having a number of intense discussions with a man who wanted Blair to move away for a sweeter deal.

Blair's lack of trust in Jim had finally gotten his name added to the Ellison Hall of Betrayers.

He hated this trip. He'd be at the Sweetwater Police Station tomorrow morning, to get some answers from the elusive Mr. Sandburg. When the investigation into the Edwards murder had turned Sandburg's way, they hadn't been able to identify his location. Naomi had been contacted through her old publishing house boyfriend, who she kept in touch with in case Blair had changed his mind about publishing his book, and she hadn't talked to her son for months. Tracking him by his social security number showed a spotty work record. Just like in Cascade, Blair would get restless and quit a job sometimes only days after starting it. And there was nothing for the last four months that was a legitimate job.

Blair had turned into a drifter; Jim suspected he was bed-hopping from one lover to the next and traveling wherever his meal ticket was headed. And that was another reason Jim hated this trip; he tried not to think about how Blair had gone from a gifted researcher and teacher to little more than a bum crisscrossing the country, apparently directionless and unable to hold down a job. Jim felt a load of guilt that Blair's denial of his sentinel research had set the kid on this rocky road. He hadn't asked Blair to cut his own throat like that, but there was no denying Blair had committed professional hara-kiri out of love and concern for Jim. The love and concern that Jim should have kept on the friendship level rather than accepting Blair's invitation to add sexual closeness to their companionship. He should have known better than to trust that Blair could handle the additional emotional intimacy.

Jim looked at his watch and swore softly to himself. He had hours to drive yet today before he could stop and get a motel room in the town before Sweetwater. He'd checked his voice mail messages earlier and had called the Sweetwater P.D. to check in with them. Tomorrow would be a bitch of a day. He'd have to separate his emotions from his job, just like he'd discussed with Blair years ago, in order to be able to work effectively.

He watched the rain running across his windshield; it was hard to keep his mind on anything other than speculating on what would happen when he saw Blair again. And try as he might, his thoughts kept circling again and again in his head, like a plane that couldn't get clearance for landing, of why he hated this god-awful trip.

CHAPTER SIX

It was happening again, although I'd never remembered anything once I'd returned to consciousness. And how unfair was it that I kept getting pulled into Jim's dreamscape instead of strolling through my very own spiritual plane? Instead of the blue, blue jungle scene before me, why couldn't it be a nice tropical beach with a coral reef where I could go snorkeling and check out all the marine life? Why couldn't I have a hammock that I could swing in while I read books I couldn't afford to buy in real life?

My subconscious was chiding me now by singing that old Stones song that exclaims, 'you can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find you get what you need.' I guess I need some resolution from the spirit world, or I wouldn't keep coming back here to Blue Jungle Land. This has been occurring since I left Cascade; I would be the wolf or my own naked form - and how come Jim got clothes to wear when he was in human form in the jungle and I didn't? - and I would be doing what I was now, running and hiding from the dark panther or Jungle Jim.

I was losing any anthropologist - observer -- researcher perspective now, falling deeper into a state of something like a trance. Soon I would be lost in the experience and unable to control what was taking place...

I was the wolf now, and I was running, running, dodging around fallen logs and crashing through underbrush. I found a path upwards and followed it, listening behind me to the sounds of the panther's big paws thudding against the ground. So far, I had managed to elude the big cat during my sojourns into the spirit plane. I didn't know why the dark panther was coming after me now; in earlier visits to Blue Jungle Land, Jim's spirit animal had padded past my hiding places, ignoring my wolf-form or my naked appearance. The panther had to have known I was there by smelling my scent, but he would act disdainful and stalk haughtily away from me. He wasn't ignoring me now, though; the large spirit animal was angry with me, roaring as he chased me; adrenaline was flooding through my body as I hurled myself up the trail. I was panting and exhausted and I needed to rest.

A rock formation caught my eye and I veered off the trail to investigate. There was a small cave and I dropped into it, feeling safe for the moment because this cave was too small for the panther to get inside. I changed to human form as I laid there, heaving great breaths of air into my lungs. My naked self was too thin and bled from places I'd injured while trying to get away from the big cat. I didn't understand the dark panther's anger and was afraid of the large spirit figure, afraid that the panther would catch me and tear my heart out. What could Jim's spirit form want from me now? Hadn't I done what Jim wanted by leaving him alone? The dark panther should have been looking for a new mate, a mate he was content with and didn't try to hide from other's eyes. Instead, my ex-mate's spirit kept pulling my spirit into a form of contact, even if it was just the wolf observing the panther from a distance, or Jim in his jungle camouflage walking past where naked me hid in the bushes.

I curled myself into a ball and started rocking back and forth; I was so tired and miserable. Every time I made a new den, I would return from secretly watching the panther to find it ripped apart, and I would feel compelled to run away and find another hiding place. It disheartened me and confused me because why had the panther done that, why did he care if I had a place to rest? How had he managed to destroy my respite places despite my covert observations of him? Maybe it would be better to let the panther catch me and end my existence. I heard the panther roaring in the distance and felt tears start to slip down my face; I grieved for the loss of the love the panther had once felt for me, for the loss of the love that Jim had once felt for me, as the air started changing from blue to normal...

I woke up slowly, pulled out of sleep by a voice that kept calling my name, feeling a remnant of sadness from my muddled dream, but I couldn't remember why I felt sad or what I had cried about in my sleep. The sticky trails of tears on my face were my proof, though, and I wiped my hand over my cheeks to get rid of the evidence. I didn't want anybody to know I sometimes cried in my sleep. Hey, your subconscious does its own thing; and when you're asleep, man, you're hostage to it, and it can do anything it wants. Make you feel like you can fly, have an orgasm, cry...

It was Dave who was trying to get my attention. He came over closer to the bunk and reached down to feel my forehead. Why do people do that to me? Can't they just ask if I'm running a fever? Simon and Jim used to do it, too. You'd think nobody trusted me to tell the truth about the fever thing.

"Blair, you were havin' a nightmare when I did my prisoner check, that's why I woke you up; but now that you're really awake this time, I want to take your temperature. You can drink some more liquids, too, like Maddie lectured us both about doing religiously."

"Dave, you sure you're a cop and not some overgrown mother hen?"

"Come along now, my cranky lil' chick, and drink your juice. I'm not goin' to cuff you right now, as long as you behave, so don't make me regret dropping procedure."

Dropping procedure or not, he still took my arm as he walked me back to the Chief's office and his ever-so-comfortable couch. I was handed a bottle of grape juice and submitted to having my temperature taken again. Not as high this time; it was 101.2. We'd had some arguments over taking fever-reducing meds and compromised that if my temp were over 102, I would take some Tylenol. I opened my mouth to explain again about the benefits of a fever cooking the bad germs in your body, but Dave pointed his finger at me and said, "Hush up, Blair. I still remember the lecture from the last time you gave it."

It made me sad, in a way, to be talking to him tonight because our banter reminded me of how Jim and I used to talk to each other, when we were still talking to each other.

There was an old guitar leaning against the wall in the Chief's office, and Dave spotted me looking it over.

"You play?" he asked me, while he leaned against the wall by the door. When I nodded, he walked over to the beat-up instrument and handed it to me to look over. "This was my kid brother's guitar and I'm supposed to put it with the rummage sale stuff for our next fundraiser, but you can bang around on it if you want."

I ran my hand over the frets and tried out a few notes. This baby was pretty much out of tune, and I started tightening up strings and trying out a few strums. It wasn't a work of art, but it was serviceable.

"I used to have a really nice electric guitar that my mom had given me, but it was stolen a while ago. Now, nobody believes me about this, but this guitar my mom gave me, Jimi Hendrix gave it to her, and he even signed it for her. Of course, it was one he didn't really use 'cause he played left-handed and this guitar was for right-handed players, so I think that it was given to him by a musical instrument company as sort of a promotion deal, but they screwed up and sent him the wrong one and since he couldn't really play it -- of course, if he could play with his teeth then he could have played it, I'm sure -- but he didn't want to, and he gave it away. Mom gave it to me on my twelfth birthday. I did like to play but there never seemed to be enough time to really get into it much, so mostly I'd just plunk around on it for my own amusement. I never really played in a band or anything, except for fooling around with the cover bands that were booked at a place I worked at in Cascade. During their breaks, or after hours, sometimes the guys would jam a little, and they would let me sit in with them."

Dave had raised his eyebrows at this torrent of probably unwanted information, and I felt a little stupid for getting carried away. I generally didn't babble as much these days as I used to, although I did talk to people. I'd meant it when I'd told Jim and Brother Marcus, up at St. Sebastian's monastery, that I couldn't take a vow of silence. Not unless somebody cut out my tongue, and wasn't that a gruesome thought.

"That's a right interestin' story. Jimi Hendrix, you say. Well, if you stay on the couch and drink some more juice and water, then you can sit up with me and entertain me while I do some paperwork. It gets pretty quiet here in the middle of the night unless we've got domestics to deal with or fool kids acting up."

"Okay." I wasn't that eager to go back to sleep yet, and I didn't want to spend any more time working myself up about my upcoming date with whoever was coming from Cascade. Dave had said he couldn't get confirmation on who they sent, but he should be here in the morning. Probably Dave was told not to tell me. I had to really clamp down on my impulse to bug him about it. I just had a strong feeling it was going to be Jim and that he was not going to be happy to see me. I was grateful to have a distraction from my thoughts, so I finished tuning his brother's guitar and started playing some blues tunes. Hey, I was a walking, talking blues lyric myself, totally so; with no job, no money, no home, no lover; sick, and in jail. Might as well express the muse in a fitting manner, so the blues were perfect.

I played till I got so sleepy that I just kind of slid down on the couch and felt myself falling back into sleep...

Slowly the air around me darkened down into the familiar blue of Jim's spirit plane jungle. I looked down at my naked self and felt a compulsion to run and find a safe place to hide. I took off through the jungle, batting away vines and leaping over fallen logs. The jungle seemed to be denser, closing in on me, the vines trying to snarl around my ankles, the branches holding me back as I pushed frantically through them, looking wildly around for a place to hide. I couldn't hear or see the panther, but I knew he was coming. He was coming, and I sensed his determination to find me. I altered form, dropping to all fours as I changed into my wolf-self, moving faster than I could as a human. I ran and ran and ran but never saw any place where I could hide from my pursuer.

I was so tired now and I had to rest, even if it wasn't in a hidden spot, so I threw myself down on the jungle grass and concentrated on getting oxygen into my lungs. My four legs were trembling from exhaustion, my throat parched, and I longed for water to drink and to cool off my body. I was so hot, and the air had stilled and it was stifling me, but I knew I had to get up and run again because I could hear the panther screaming in the not too far away distance.

I pushed myself up and started moving again, loping down a path that twisted and turned as it wound through the jungle. I couldn't run any faster and my limbs were heavy and difficult to move. I felt scared but determined to get away, hoping that the panther would forget about me and leave me alone. I heard the panther roar again, and he was so, so close now. I had put on a burst of speed, fear powering my muscles, when I heard the rhythmic beat of the dark panther's paws as it closed in behind me. The trail twisted; I chanced a look behind me and saw that the big cat had dropped away from the chase. I kept going, and I dared to think that I had escaped him, once again.

I was running with difficulty, breathing erratically, looking for a new hiding place... and the big cat jumped out in front of me. I tried to stop my momentum and turn and run in a different direction but as I skidded and twisted, the panther leaped toward me, and then he was on me, rolling me over and over till I felt dizzy and sick. I lay on my back, the dark panther's weight across my body; held immobile and trembling with fear. The panther's eyes were locked with mine; his paws were holding my wolf's head still as he lowered his head towards my neck, and I -- a brilliant white flash dazzled my eyes.

I found myself abruptly wide-awake on the couch -- I was awake, and burning up again; so thirsty. And I remembered. I remembered my time in the blue jungle; I remembered all the times I had spent there, running and hiding. Holy Krishna, I'd been in contact with Jim the whole time I was gone, on the spirit plane! When we'd touched I'd been afraid the big cat would tear out my throat. Instead, something must have connected, because I had never remembered any of my other times in Blue Jungle Land before that white light blitzed me. Oh man, oh man, oh fuck! I gave an involuntary moan and Dave came in to investigate. He frowned at me and felt my forehead, then reached for the thermometer again as I struggled to sit up.

"I think your fever's gone up again," he said as he stuck the thermometer in my mouth.

I pulled it out and looked up at Dave, feeling apprehension and resignation emanating from every fiber of my body.

"Jim's here, somewhere close by. He's going to be the one to question me, probably very soon."

"Know that, do you? Well, if he's here or not, you're still sick; and you just put that right back in your mouth. Whatever comes, comes; and -- who is he to you, Blair? Is he still your friend, or was he more than a friend to you? No, don't bother trying to talk. Judging by the look on your face, you'll probably not be tellin' me the truth now anyway." He took the thermometer out of my hand and slid it back in my mouth.

I sat there as Dave twisted open a bottle of water, feeling stunned to go along with feeling sick. Jim was here and he was coming for me. Jim was coming for me. Oh, man! Oh, shit! I cannot believe how my Karma keeps getting sucked down to the eighth level of hell, the one intended for liars and frauds. Man, I see Karma's effect in my life again; the punishment for fraud on the eighth level is disease.

'Calm down,' I told myself. This was no time to go off on half-baked existential tangents.

Well, I'd just have to deal. I could do it. I've been dealing with shit my whole life by myself, and I can handle seeing Jim. Although part of me just wants to bolt for the door, the other, more sensible part wants to get this confrontation over with so we both can get some closure. And oh, yeah, there are some questions to get cleared up about Chancellor Edwards. Maybe all this will be over in a couple of hours and I can still get to North Carolina before my deadline is up. I have till Monday late afternoon to show up at the trucking office, before they take the hold off that position and go with another applicant. Yeah, I can do this.

And maybe seeing Jim won't be as bad as my spirit animal seems to think it will be.

Maybe...

Hopefully...

'Think positive thoughts, Blair, think positive thoughts...'

CHAPTER SEVEN

Jim Ellison walked purposefully into the Browne County Justice Center, which to his eyes, accustomed to the facilities of a major metropolitan city, seemed like a rural one-stop Quick Mart for the legal system. He mentally reviewed his official mission here as he walked past the courtroom doors and the District Attorney's office and followed the sign that led to the sections that housed the Sheriff's Department and the Sweetwater Police Station.

Sandburg was here in the police station.

Jim was trying to not consider that he would be seeing his ex-lover for the first time in a year. No, he'd put his private agenda on hold for the time being; he was going to interrogate a suspect in a murder case and ascertain means and opportunity in the commission of a felony offence. He already had a valid reason for motive. That bitch had had a history of making Sandburg's life miserable and it was plausible that he could have wanted to avenge himself by killing her.

Plausible to someone who didn't know Sandburg very well, like the dicks in Homicide. If Homicide had been given the case, by now they would have clamored to have Sandburg arrested based on the accumulated evidence, ignoring the inconsistencies that shouted out to Jim that there was a lot more to the case that hadn't yet been figured out.

He wasn't going to let on to Sandburg, though, that he found it implausible that his ex-partner was guilty. Sandburg deserved to have the heat turned up under the hot seat he currently inhabited. Payback was a bitch; and Blair was owed for the way he left Jim alone, after making him believe that Blair loved him and would stay with him. Blair could just sweat this out while Jim sifted out the information he would need to clear the little shit.

Through gritted teeth, he'd promised Simon that he'd be professional about the interrogation and cooperate with the Sweetwater cops. And he would stick to the planned set of questions; he wouldn't ask what he wanted to know on a strictly personal level. Yet. Repeating to himself his very own mantra, to 'separate personal feelings from the job' -- and his use of the word 'mantra' showed just how much Blair Sandburg had succeeded in insinuating himself into Jim's life -- Jim stopped in front of the police station entrance. Once more he told himself -- 'separate your feelings.' Then he pushed his way through the entrance, to find his ex-partner.

I was lying on my bunk -- and how strange was it that I considered a jailhouse bunk and mattress mine -- waiting for Jim to come and get me.

I was almost calmed down... almost ready to get this confrontation between us over with. Ready or not... here he comes...

Getting ready to see Jim for the first time in a year. See him soon...

See if he'd been taking care of himself. Taking care... taking time...

Boy, he's taking an awful long time to come and get me. Come on and get me already...

Come and get me... well, maybe I wasn't as calm as I was trying to talk myself into believing; I'd just come full circle in my mental wanderings.

I wasn't at my best, here. The Tylenol Dave had strong-armed me into taking had brought my fever down but hadn't gotten rid of it. I felt hot and grimy and lethargic and anxious, all simultaneously. And for the first time since I'd landed in the Sweetwater Police Station, I wished I had my own clothes on, not these loose and drooping reminders that I was a prisoner.

Thinking I heard some movement and voices, I got up and walked over to the cell door. I could hear Officer Mike talking at the end of the hall, but I couldn't make out the words. Then I heard a low murmur that I'd have recognized anywhere. Jim. I squared my shoulders and concentrated on taking deep, slow breaths.

As I watched, Jim approached my cell. He was alone; he held the door keys and a set of shackles in his hands. He stopped, looked at me with a locked-down expression on his face, and tossed the shackles through the bars and onto the floor.

"Step back from the door, Sandburg, and sit down on the floor. Put these shackles on your ankles, then keep your hands where I can see them."

"Jesus, Jim. I'm happy to see you, too."

I think I meant it. I looked at him, slowly, savoring the sight of my sentinel. Then I came to my senses. Jim wasn't happy to see me, not that I had ever thought he would be. He was angry; the lines around his eyes and the way he held his jaw were oh, so clearly conveying his inner desire to express a little violence.

"Bet you thought I'd be having a panic attack about now. Well, I did have one, but it was last week. I had a heads-up you'd be the one to come and talk to me, you know. A very special heads up. Know what I mean, Jim?"

Jim gave a nod at the shackles and ignored me otherwise. O-kay. I had been telling myself that I could do this. I could see Jim and not fall apart. I could be civil and polite and when he was done questioning me, I could tell him I regretted anything I had ever done that had hurt him. I would wish him and Melissa, or whoever he was with now, although... maybe he wasn't with anybody --

The point was: I would wish him well and ask him if he would let his anger go and stop preventing me from making a new life away from him.

God, looking at him was hard, though.

"Sandburg, stop wasting time and put those on. I drove forty hours to have the pleasure of your company and it's time to dance, partner."

Shit, I could feel my eyes getting bright when he said 'partner,' knowing he was being sarcastic. The jerk. I bent down and picked up the shackles and went over to my bunk to sit down. Just because he told me to sit on the floor didn't mean I was going to do it his way.

Jim held my arm, as we walked -- no, he walked; I shuffled -- down the hall to the interrogation room. I could hear the deep breaths he was taking as we entered the room together.

I was feeling sad that what we had been to each other had come to this -- that the only way he'd hold my arm was to keep me from running away. Or to keep me from falling because of tripping over my shackles, which I'd done about three times, so far.

I'd hobbled into the room, the door closing behind us, when Jim shifted his body and shoved me against the wall. Deja vu, man, deja vu; he was lifting me off my feet, his hands gripping my shirt, and my hands flying out in startlement, then I was grabbing onto his shoulders instinctively for support. I was so shocked by the hard press of his body anchoring me, holding me up against the wall, that all coherent thought processes went on strike.

"J-Jim! - what--?" Our faces were so close; and for a change, our eyes were level with each other. Jim looked at me, but there was no real recognition of what he was doing in his gaze. He had a blank look on his face that I hadn't seen in a long time.

I started to feel disorientated, vertigo claiming me; I shut my eyes to stop the room from spinning around me. When I opened them again I felt two different realities; I could feel my back against the wall, Jim's body pressed against mine, but I was also in the blue jungle, in wolf form. My wolf-self was lying belly up, held down by the length of the panther's body. He was holding my head with his big paws and lowering his jaw towards my exposed neck. 'He's going to rip my throat out for abandoning him!' I howled to myself.

What next came out of my mouth were words, not a wolf-whine. And I couldn't tell if my voice was in the spirit plane or in waking reality.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I didn't know you felt abandoned! I thought you were sick of me and would be better off with another guide, another lover; one you weren't ashamed to be with all the time. Don't, Jim, please don't..."

The panther's jaw was only a half-inch above my wolf-throat now. I was panting from fear; my heart was thudding, thudding so fast --

-A thought skittered quickly through my mind: if the wolf's throat was torn out, would I bleed to death in this room?

• The panther opened his mouth... and licked my throat*.

Confusion and relief, guilt and astonishment swept through me.

The panther licked my throat again in the spirit world and I felt Jim's cheek slide down mine as he bent his head and kissed my neck.

Oh man. No way was this a good idea for Jim to be groping me here where we could be found. Jim didn't seem aware of what he was doing, but I tried to reason with him anyway.

"Jim. Come on now. Put me down, okay? Jim?"

But Jim wasn't answering me. Jim was scenting me, smelling my hair and pushing his face back into my neck. Freeing one of his hands, he partly let me go, his leg keeping me pinned against the wall. He started working my shirt up one-handed, till it was above my nipples. Nipples that were pebbling up as he started stroking my upper body, alternating between smoothing my skin with his palm and dancing his fingertips in swoops over my chest and what he could reach of my belly.

I started to pant with arousal, but I wanted him to stop. This was dangerous to do here, anybody could walk in on us; and after not telling a single soul who cared about us that he was fucking me, I hardly thought he would want to out himself now. This was the spirit world's influence, and Jim still wasn't saying anything to me. And it was getting harder to try and remember that... this... was... a... bad... idea...

The panther was licking my wolf-self's throat and purring and Jim was giving my neck little bites and nips; his leg was between my thighs and was pushing against my dick and balls, making my hard-on increase.

I was producing breathy sounds and attempting to form words, not doing so well at it, but when he started trying to kiss my mouth I got my act together and turned my head away.

"Stop it -- you can't do that -- Jim, stop it!"

I heard growling directed at me, and I was confused who made the sounds. Was it Jim or the panther? I kept my head turned out of his reach, though, and Jim went back to nuzzling my throat and sucking at the juncture of my neck and collarbone. Shit, he bit me again, and I could feel it was going to leave a mark. More blood left my head and traveled south. I could hear myself whimper as Jim pulled me forward off the wall into his arms, and lowered my feet till they could touch the ground again. He started to move us away from the wall and towards the table in the room --

• In the spirit plane the panther nosed at my wolf-self to get up on all fours --*
  • The door crashed open and I saw a blur of arms and faces. Voices were shouting. Jim was pulled away from me - and I felt the vertigo return, and then I was only in this reality; I staggered, almost falling to the ground.

Dave and another cop were shoving Jim away, holding him against the wall where I had been held captive just moments ago.

Dazed, disorientated, I stumbled towards Jim, not that I had a clue what I was going to do. Fuck - Shit -- Fuck! Got to come up with a story to cover this --

"Mike, get Blair back to his cell. Check him out; make sure he's not hurt." Dave yelled instructions to the third cop, the one who worked the day shift, while putting his bulk up against Jim, who still had a blank look on his face. Jim kept trying to move towards me, like he wasn't even aware of the two cops holding him back.

"No! Let me sta--" My protest was cut short as Mike grabbed my upper arm and swung me towards the door. I was struggling against his hold, trying to come up with the words to make this all be right, when he lost patience and locked his arms around my chest, picked me up, and carried me out into the hallway and down the hall to the cell door.

And despite my immediate concern about trying to explain what Jim and I had been doing without losing Jim his job or outing us as ex-lovers, and damn -- the 'ex' part was looking pretty shaky -- a part of me was indignant that I had been manhandled again. I wished fleetingly for the millionth time that I was bigger. Less moveable. Mike wasn't even winded from hauling me out of there, and -- Jesus, I needed to concentrate. What believable fairy tale could I spin?

While I was furiously trying to come up with something the cops would swallow, Mike was opening the door and pushing me into the cell. He followed me in and grabbed my face, turning it from side to side.

"Hippie, did he hit you? You smack your head against the wall?" He let go of my face and held out his finger in the time-honored tradition of EMT's everywhere. "Track my finger." I did so on automatic pilot, then he put his hands on my ribs. "Anything feel sore, anything hurt?" he asked briskly.

"No, I'm fine. Detective Ellison didn't hurt me, he umm... he -- Hey!" Mike was lifting up my shirt, still feeling for broken ribs. He peered closely at my skin, pulling the material away from my neck, and then let go of my scrub top.

"Detective Ellison has got a condition that sometimes --"

"Save it, Hippie-boy. Is there anything wrong with you?"

Fuck, what a loaded question, but I answered him with a quiet 'no.'

"Go lie on your bunk; we'll be back to get your statement later." And with that he let himself out of the cell, locked it, and trotted back down the hall.

I realized my adrenaline jolt was over when I started feeling wobbly. Suddenly, I was so down with the concept of getting horizontal; maybe I could think better too, if I wasn't swaying on my feet. I shuffled over to my bunk trying out theories for Jim's behavior.

Allergic reaction... some kind of seizure where he looks like he's conscious and can move around but isn't really all there... PTSD flashback to when he had to subdue a perp -- oh, and then nuzzle his neck -- shit, this was going to be tough...

CHAPTER EIGHT

Jim's sense of hearing followed the sound, the intriguing sound that so enticed him; following it down further into a tunnel that got smaller and smaller as he tracked the sound until it stopped but... he could still clearly hear it.

His other senses were nonexistent, but that didn't matter because the sound was everything to him.

The sound was everything, the sound beat steadily lub-dub, lub-dub, and he fell into the rhythm he was experiencing, and it was good, it was joyous, it was heaven, forever he wanted to hear that wondrous sound...

The beat of that mysterious drum was coming closer now, the reverberation echoing too loudly, and he adjusted his hearing down so he was more comfortable listening to the reassuring lub-dub, lub-dub beat.

He became aware of new sensations tugging at his other closed-off senses, and a frisson of curiosity tweaked at his consciousness, enough to have him make the effort to dial up his senses of taste and touch. He tasted the sweet-tang of orange juice and underneath it, the savory flavor of his lover. He knew Blair's taste in all of its forms, from the sweet-salty flavor of his cheerful moods to the musky spice of his arousal. But now? Blair tasted worried.

He notched his sense of touch up a bit and curled his tongue around Blair's finger; he gently sucked on the finger, feeling the swirls of Blair's fingerprints with his tongue. He felt a warming sensation on his arm as Blair slid his palm back and forth from Jim's elbow to his knuckles with long, firm strokes. And as his sense of smell joined with taste and touch, he scented anxiety and a different, troublesome odor wafting from Blair who, judging by the heat Jim felt radiating from Blair, was kneeling before him. The thudding he had been zoning on diminished to a very quiet beat; Jim opened his eyes and saw the beautiful face of his partner in front of him. Jim started to lift up his hand, to touch Blair's face and finger his hair, but then he remembered that he was angry at Blair.

Angry at Blair's betrayal of trust.

He mentally shook his head to clear it of the cobwebs and took a quick assessment of his own status and the situation he was in. He was in Sweetwater, Tennessee to question Sandburg on the Edward's case. He had zoned on Blair's heartbeat; Blair had brought him out of it by stimulating his other senses, and --shit, he had had to do it in front of spectators. There were three cops staring at him with variations of the 'Buddy, what the hell are you trying to pull' look. He didn't remember entering this room; his last clear memory was of guiding Sandburg down the hall, holding him up when the kid kept tripping over his own feet. Another foggy memory cleared up and he remembered thinking that something wasn't right the last time when he had set Blair back on his feet. He had taken several deep breaths to fill his lungs full of the problem to figure it out. And he had tumbled to what was wrong -- but that was where his memories ended.

Jim reached out and felt Sandburg's forehead. It was hot with fever and he smelled sick and anxious.

"You're sick; what's wrong with you?" he barked at his ex-partner.

"Never mind me; you'd better drink some juice to even out that low blood sugar attack you just had," Blair shot back at him, with a meaningful look. Okay -- so that was the cover story. He took the orange juice bottle Blair held up and emptied it down his throat.

One of the cops, a big guy, Simon's size, with a polite look on his face, came over and carefully lifted Sandburg up by his arm, moving him away from Jim's chair and over to the scowling redheaded cop.

Sandburg looked irritated by this but kept his mouth shut. Jim didn't expect that to last.

The big cop gave Jim an assessing look. "Detective Ellison, I'm Dave Findley; I spoke with your captain back in Cascade. I'll be your contact, as I've been dealin' with Blair's charges here. You must have misunderstood the message I left at the front desk for you. I said that I'd meet with you first, before you interrogated Blair, as soon as I'd finished testifying during the White's arraignment this morning."

Jim shook his head. "I got the message but I wanted to get this over with as soon as possible, so I, uh, persuaded him," Jim nodded toward the red-haired cop, "to let me get started."

"And would you care to explain your interrogation technique to us, Detective? Because based on what we saw on the monitor for this room and what we saw and heard when we came in, your suspect wasn't being questioned; he was being assaulted -- possibly sexually assaulted." Findley moved closer to loom over him while Jim sat guardedly in his chair.

Jim shrugged. " I recall escorting my... suspect... down the hall but I don't remember anything about being in this room; I don't know what happened. Why don't you ask Sandburg?" Jim started a countdown in his head. Three, two, one -- here it comes --

"Jim totally didn't assault me, but yes, he may have looked like he was, because a low blood sugar attack can make people act aggressively and they can be combative; you saw how he was unresponsive till I put the juice in his mouth -- "

There was a snort from the red-haired cop and a low mutter that Jim caught because his hearing was still dialed up. "Never saw first aid done like that -- with all that touching and sucking fingers business."

" -- And Jim should be eating something healthy, not sitting here being verbally attacked by fellow officers, and I'm not pressing any charges, so how's about we drop this conversation, okay? Jim's been driving for days and I just know he's been eating junk food all this time -- and Jim..." Sandburg turned to give Jim the full effect of the lecture Jim could have recited along with him; it felt both nostalgic and annoying to hear him getting ready to dig it out of the mothballs.

" -- You are what you eat, man, and if you eat a white-bread, loaded with fat, high sugar, low veggies and fruits diet you are just asking for trouble with your health -- "

Findley, the big cop, held up his hand to stop any more words from shooting out of Sandburg's mouth. "Blair, Detective Ellison is goin' to go along to the kitchen with Mike and eat something to make sure his low blood sugar doesn't return. You can sit yourself down in that chair because I want to take your statement as to what happened today with Detective Ellison.

"Detective Ellison." Findley addressed Jim directly. "If you've had a medical problem here it might be a good idea to go to the ER and get checked out."

"No need; I'm fine." Jim replied as he headed for the door with Mike in his wake. Actually, he wasn't fine; all of this was just too surreal, and he hadn't been in Blair's presence ten minutes and Bam! Back in the Sandburg Zone. His senses were back to their old, high-functioning levels. He'd had a blackout where he'd apparently done something to Sandburg, probably sexual. His fucking emotions were scrambled because, coming out of that zone, he'd been content to be physically near Blair, then embarrassed when he'd realized he'd been sucking Blair's finger. With an audience. Great.

Blair's caresses on his arm and the taste of his skin exploding in Jim's mouth had felt sensuous and arousing but mixing it in with his prior emotions to coming here was reminding him of getting off a roller coaster. You'd enjoyed the ride but now you felt dizzy and unsure of your footing.

And the anger he'd felt for a year towards his runaway guide and ex-lover had taken a back seat just now to worrying about what was wrong with the kid, plus fascination over how Blair just dove right back into being his guide, saving his ass with a big fat lie. Or was it? Why had he blacked out and zoned like that? He needed to talk privately with Sandburg, but he didn't think that would be in the works now that he was being eyed as having sexually assaulted the kid.

In the kitchen, while Mike poured coffee and rummaged around for a snack, Jim listened intently to Findley questioning Blair.

In an exhausted-sounding voice, Blair gave his statement and answered Findley's questions without any embellishments. He denied having any special medical training but stated that he'd seen people act like that before and was aware of how to treat it. He denied that Detective Ellison had sexually assaulted him.

Then Findley went on the real offensive, questioning Blair about his relationship with Detective Ellison. He wanted to know if they had had a sexual relationship as well as the work partnership. He asked how long Blair had lived with Detective Ellison after the truth about him cheating on his dissertation had come out. How had Detective Ellison reacted to the lies Blair had told about him being a sentinel? Why did Blair leave Cascade?

Blair tap-danced around most of the questions, stating that they had been close friends for years; they had worked together, not slept together. Conveniently, Blair left out the part about how things had changed after he'd stopped working at the P.D.

In a self-disparaging tone of voice, Blair answered Findley's questions by saying Jim had forgiven him for lying about him and had let him stay at Jim's apartment because of the trouble Blair'd had keeping a job. He had left Cascade six months after he'd had to quit observing at the P.D., finally deciding Jim had given him enough charity. Besides, Jim had met a girl and Blair'd thought sharing the apartment anymore would be inconvenient for Jim.

Jim forced coffee down his throat while wondering if there was any genuineness to the answers Sandburg had given; after all, the best deceptions were built on some point of truth. He could try and listen to Blair's heartbeat again, to get a sense of the truth, but after his recent zone he didn't think he should try it. He tightened his hands into fists when he heard the next series of questions.

"Blair, has Detective Ellison ever hit you? Ever shoved you around? Shaken you? Or pushed you up against a wall like he did today?" Findley lowered his voice and Jim could hear the concern in the man's voice. "Blair, has he ever threatened you?"

There was silence for a moment, and Jim could imagine Findley looking encouragingly at Blair, willing him to open up, and as a battered spouse, make that first step into admitting the reality of the abusive relationship. Jim had done the same thing himself when trying to get charges filed against assholes who beat and intimidated their significant others. He gritted his teeth, thinking he'd never thought he'd hear those charges leveled at himself.

Then Blair started laughing, but it didn't sound funny to Jim's ears. It sounded like he was one step from being hysterical. But Findley didn't know Blair like he did; he might not realize that the kid was close to losing it.

"Jim..." Blair gasped, trying to talk while still laughing his ass off. "He... oh, man." He finally wound down with the hyena noises enough to answer the questions.

"Jim used to threaten me all the time. 'Sandburg, pick up your towels or you'll be cleaning the grout tonight with a toothbrush.' And this one was a classic: 'Chief, if you put one dent, one dent in Sweetheart -- that's his truck, sometimes he'd let me borrow it -- you'll be washing and waxing her for a month.' He'd threaten to check out my dates before I'd go out with them. Actually, that one wasn't so much as a threat as a plan because he did do background searches on some of them. Too bad the one he did on Iris came back after the date from hell had already started. It could have saved me a lot of wear and tear on my feet, plus the odd death threat or two.

"But Jim has never threatened to really hurt me. Instead, he's been like, way over-protective -- and annoying about it -- but he's saved my life, too. You've been running a background check on me, haven't you? Did you read about when he saved me from Lash? I was this close to being killed by that nut-job. And, ya know what? I did die later. He pulled me out of a fountain where another nut-job had drowned me and he brought me back. Even the EMT's were gonna call it, but he did CPR and he brought me back.

"He brought me back to this world, man. And I repaid him by lying to the world about him. And even then, when I deserved it, he never hit me. Okay, I'll grant you that he has grabbed me by the arms sometimes, when he's been excited or upset, but not to hurt me, just to make sure I'm really listening to him. And the wall thing -- yeah, the second time we met, he thought I was a druggie who was conning him and he did the wall-shove thing, to shake me up. I wasn't shakable, though; I've never been scared physically of Jim, even though he's bigger than me. Even when he's pissed at me, like he is right now, because he's had to come all this way after me, I'm not scared he's going to hurt me, except in an emotional way."

Jim stifled the desire to shake his head over Blair's reminiscence about Jim lifting him off his feet that day in Sandburg's office -- you left out the part about my impulse to fuck you, kid -- but he flinched at Blair's confession that he expected Jim to hurt him emotionally.

"Ya know, I get where you're coming from, Dave. I was freaking out about seeing him again, but that was because of my own baggage. I guess you've figured out that we weren't getting along any more and I needed some distance; that's why I left Cascade. But now I'm glad he's the one who came to question me about Chancellor Edwards; it will give us the chance to leave each other on better terms."

"Blair," Findley said gently, "you're pretty protective of Detective Ellison, aren't you? You didn't want to leave him here with us during his 'attack'; Mike said he had to pick you up to get you to come with him. Now, I want you to listen to me and just think about coming clean for a change, because I know you're not tellin' all the truth here.

"You love Ellison and you've been fooling yourself, explainin' away the way he treats you as something you deserve. He's been rough with you before, like you told about, but the truth would be that he grabs you and shoves you around a lot more than you admitted here. He's left bruises on you, Blair, but you pretend that they don't exist."

Findley spoke in a persuasive, passionate way to Blair, and Jim felt his facial muscles harden at this attack on his honor. He had never abused Blair the way this cop was trying to make out but he had maybe been too physical at times with him. The memory of the way he would swat Blair's butt as he left for his bartending job suddenly intruded. Those hard spanks were maybe uncalled for, but shit, Blair would have kicked his ass if he'd ever really crossed that line. Okay, maybe not physically but he would have found a way.

In a more forceful tone of voice, Findley said, "he came in here today madder 'n a wet hen and when he got you alone, he decided he was going to take out all his frustrations on you -- the partner who run off and left him behind. He overpowered you and he was feelin' you up, Blair; his dick was ready and willin' when we pulled him off of you. He was dragging you over to the table, and I'm guessing he was goin' to rape you.

"And Blair," Jim heard the rustle of fabric being moved, "explain to me how this bite got here on your neck. It's not a savage bite; that's what my mama would have called a love bite. Takes a bit of doing to bite hard enough to leave a mark but not take a chunk out of your hide. Something that a fellow under the influence of a low blood sugar attack would have trouble controlling, bein' combative and aggressive an' all."

There was silence in the interview room for a little while, during which Mike asked him if he were through eating. Jim shook his head and reached for his coffee cup, stalling so he could hear Blair's response.

"Man, that's so not the way it is between us. I'm sticking with my statement. Jim had a low blood sugar problem. I was not assaulted. I will not press any charges against him. I'd like to get this interview and the one with him over with, Dave, because I'm tired; I want to go lie down on my bunk."

"And I noticed you skipped right over explaining that bite away, Blair," Findley replied. "You'll protect him again by lying, won't you? But that bite, the tape from the monitor, and what we saw when we came in this room is all we need to arrest him. We don't need you to press charges, but we'd like for your cooperation."

"What you saw on the monitor and with your eyes is subject to interpretation. And I say that Jim did not assault me. The bite -- weird shit happens sometimes with me. I told you I died. Man, I started to cross over, you know, into the next life. And then Jim brought me back. The guy who you think wants to hurt me saved my life, remember.

"But you don't have the kind of experience I did and come out of it unchanged. People have had strange marks appear on their bodies before without anybody putting them there. Ever hear of stigmata, Dave? This bite could be like a form of stigmata."

"Blair, you are really reachin' here. I'll believe that bite just appeared on your neck all by itself only if you can make it happen again. I'm asking one more time if you'd care to revise your statement."

"No."

"Then go on and sign it. I intend to have a little chat with Detective Ellison and then he can interview you for his case. But he won't be allowed to be alone with you anymore." Jim heard the scratch of a pen, a door opening, and footsteps coming his way. He heard Sandburg give a heartfelt "fuck."

He dialed his senses down to normal as Findley walked into the kitchen.

"Detective Ellison, there's some footage I'd like you to review, before you interview Blair. Would you care to come along and give me your interpretation of your actions today?"

"Findley." Jim got up and took his coffee cup and plate to the sink and rinsed them. "Since I don't remember what happened with Sandburg, you bet I want to see that tape." Jim walked out the door with the other cop, hoping that the footage was vague enough that Findley would hesitate to charge him without Blair's testimony.

Dave escorted Detective Ellison into the interview room after having grilled him about what they saw on the tape they'd just watched on the conference room TV. Dave hadn't decided if Ellison was out and out lying or just keeping something to himself about what had gone on with Blair. He was sure that the whole story hadn't come out yet, though. And Blair, he was keepin' secrets, too.

Dave stifled a yawn; this was another long shift but he wasn't about to turn this situation over to anyone else until he decided if Ellison was going to be arrested or not. Ellison was another cop but Dave had seen plenty of cops that were bullies at heart and were flat out mean to their families; the people in their custody tended to have lots of 'accidents' when being arrested or transported. If Ellison thought Blair had it coming for leavin' him, being a cop wouldn't stop him from hurting the boy.

While watching the security footage, Ellison had shrugged and repeated that he had no memory of his actions in that room. He had pointed out the blank look on his face when he came into the room and his lack of response to the attempts of the cops to bring him out of his altered state. Mostly, the film only showed Ellison's back and hid what exactly he was doing with his hands. Ellison's face had tightened when he heard Blair on the tape pleading with him to stop. He'd said he would apologize to Blair although he hadn't been aware of what he was doing.

The tape ended when Blair had come back into the interview room. Mike had gone down to Blair's cell to ask about Ellison's medical history when the out-of-town cop had continued to be unresponsive or acting like he was unresponsive. Blair had told Mike he knew what was wrong and that an ambulance wasn't necessary because he could help him. He'd gotten Mike to bring him to Ellison. In hindsight, Dave wished that they had called for EMS, maybe they'd know for sure by now if Ellison had really had a medical problem.

Dave tsk'ed to himself when he and Ellison came into the interview room. Blair was sitting curled up on the floor, his back to the wall, and his knees together with his arms clasped around his shackled legs. He didn't like to see Blair sitting on the cold floor, the boy was sick and by rights should be tucked up in a comfortable bed; his bunk here was a poor substitute at best. Blair's eyes were closed and he was breathing deeply and slowly. Detective Ellison said quietly to Dave that Sandburg was meditating and would need to be brought out of it gradually; Ellison made a move to go to his ex-partner, but Dave stopped him with a hand on his arm. Dave kneeled down next to Blair, then sucked in his breath.

"Our Lord and Savior," Dave said in a wondering voice. He gently touched Blair on the shoulder and whispered his name. Blair didn't respond until he had repeated touching and calling his name softly three times. Then Blair opened his eyes and rolled his shoulders; he winced and touched the back of his neck. When he brought his hand down there was blood on it. Dave pulled Blair's shirt further away from his neck and beckoned Ellison over to look. There on the shoulder muscle, by the back of Blair's neck, where he couldn't possibly have reached it himself, was a bite mark that was still oozing blood.

Blair looked at Dave and smiled. "Stigmata," he said. "Man, I told you weird shit happens to me."

CHAPTER NINE

Sitting on the floor in the interrogation room, I realized that while the bite mark had transferred from the spirit plane, so had another little problem, one that started me blushing from embarrassment. Thank God the way I was sitting was hiding the evidence.

I looked up at Dave and Jim, who were watching me with curious and, in Dave's case, amazed expressions on their faces.

"Could you get me a glass of water, please?" I asked. Jim volunteered to go to the kitchen and he gave me a knowing look before walking out of the room. Damn sentinel senses; they never gave you any privacy.

"Blair, are you feelin' all right? Can you get up and sit in the chair?" Dave was asking me, concern in his voice. He was probably shocked that I had materialized a stigmata mark, but he couldn't charge Jim now with sexually assaulting me.

"I'd like to sit here for a minute, 'cause I feel a little dizzy, and drink some water first," I fibbed. That wasn't why I was reluctant to move but he wasn't going to know the truth, if I could help it.

After Jim returned with the water, I pulled the same stunt I had done a few times when I was fifteen years old; I took a big gulp and then pretended the glass had slipped when I 'accidentally' doused my entire lap with good old H2O.

...After I showered -- I told Dave I felt grimy from running a fever -- and he detoured me to the kitchen for bandages, more Tylenol, saltwater for gargling, half a bowl of soup, and juice, it was back to the interrogation room where Jim was waiting for me.Dave escorted me to a chair at the table and then leaned against the wall behind me, his eyes on Jim, who had set up a tape recorder and notebook and was parked in the chair opposite from mine.

Dave had admitted while pushing food at me that he wasn't going to file assault charges on Jim because as he said, 'with the outlandish story I was fixin' to tell, the judge would just throw the case out of court anyway.' So I mouthed the words "no charges" to Jim when I looked at him across the table.

Jim nodded at me, rather expressionlessly, and then said, "Sandburg, I want to apologize for what happened here earlier. I honestly don't recall doing what I saw on the monitor tape, but you shouldn't have been treated like that. And before we get started here, I'd like to know what's wrong with you."

"Really, I'm fine."

"Really, no -- you're not. I can see that you're sick. You're also about twenty pounds lighter than a year ago. So. What's wrong with you?"

"I have a virus." I refused to look at Jim's eyes and stared pointedly at the tape recorder. "Can we get started now? There's somewhere I had planned on being today and I want to see if I can still make it there."

I didn't particularly want Jim to know what I had. I could see him twisting it around so that I was in the wrong for getting sick, and I didn't want to deal with his attitude.

"Sandburg." Jim growled which caused me to look over at him. I still didn't say anything and Jim let it drop, after giving me a hard stare, which I totally ignored.

Once the preliminary stuff -- where, when, who, and what -- was established, we moved onto why. Why Cascade P.D. needed to talk to me.

"Mr. Sandburg, can you state for the record where you were during the day and evening of August 9, 2000."

I thought about it for a moment, counting backwards in my head.

"Um... I was in St. Louis, Missouri, in August. I lived on the north side of town and worked for Peterson's Welding and Fence Company. I was filling in for one of the guys who needed to be out for a month or two, some kind of family thing. I kind of worked under the table; they hired me as an independent contractor so taxes wouldn't have to be taken out; I was supposed to do that myself. That way they didn't have to pay workman's comp either, if I got hurt. What day of the week was the ninth?"

"Wednesday," Jim replied to my question after a quick look at his notes.

"Well, I would have been at work, and then in my crappy little rented room, over on Railroad Street. I've got a notebook in my backpack where I keep contact information; it's sort of a journal. I can give you the address and number of the welding shop, if you want it."

Jim agreed and Dave radioed for somebody to bring my backpack to the interrogation room.

"Mr. Sandburg, where is your green Volvo currently?"

"I have no idea; I sold it a while ago, used the money to pay off a good chunk of my student loans. Man, is my car tied in to Chancellor Edwards' death somehow? I sold it to a guy who worked in her office, Nathan Bergman; he ran into me when I was in New Mexico and paid me cash... Oh, shit! Jim, how did she die? Why did my name come up?"

Jim was still in official detective mode, though, and didn't answer my questions. Instead, he asked me to describe my relationships with Chancellor Edwards and with Nathan Bergman.

So I did, telling him things he already knew from when we lived together. Then, with an apologetic glance, I confessed to all the events I had kept from him. I wanted to explain my reasons for not telling him but I could hardly voice them during this interview.

For the record then, I explained about the unsolicited derogatory reference letters that Chancellor Edwards sent out to employers about my academic qualifications and work ethics, and the grievance I filed regarding those letters and also for releasing my dissertation without permission. Nathan Bergman had been friendly to me and helped me with the grievance, and was serving as a personal reference for me so that I didn't have to go through the university's system.

The door opened and an officer placed my backpack against the wall while I made it clear that I hadn't seen the Chancellor for close to a year and a half, not since she'd fired me from my teaching fellowship.

I hadn't been certain what I wanted to do after the grievance had been rejected as unfounded; any further step would have had to involve a lawyer I couldn't afford, and I wasn't sure I'd win against her. Her lawyer could probably twist my admittedly unusual work record, including when I had been fired over the Ventriss mess, to support her spin-doctored venomous letter.

"Mr. Sandburg, please describe your manner when you met with Mr. Bergman at Rainier University after you were notified your grievance had failed." Jim asked me in a bored sounding voice.

"Disappointed that the grievance hadn't gotten approval, but I was polite about it; it wasn't his fault after all." I answered, somewhat puzzled by his request.

"Did you yell, scream obscenities, throw objects around the room when Mr. Bergman was present?"

"NO! Jim... are you going to tell me what's going on?"

"What's going on, Mr. Sandburg, is that you are being asked to cooperate with a murder investigation. Please describe the contacts you've had with Mr. Bergman since leaving Cascade, including the time in New Mexico when you sold him your Volvo, and please list any witnesses who saw that transaction..."

Jim took me through the whole series of questions again, before asking the one huge, honkin', humdinger of all the questions -

"Mr. Sandburg, did you kill Marie Edwards?"

"No, I did not."

"Did you strike her in any way? Were you present in Cascade on August 9, 2000? Did you drive a green Volvo in Cascade on August 9, 2000?"

"No, I've never hit her; I wasn't in Cascade driving anything on August 9, 2000."

Jim turned off the tape recorder and looked at me with a satisfied expression. I could tell he had turned up the dials during the questions so he knew I wasn't lying.

Big deal.

He knew before he had asked me the first question that I hadn't killed her because I wasn't like that. Simon would probably be happy to hear Jim had cleared me with his sentinel senses, though. Not that it counted for anything to the rest of the world.

"Sandburg, we need to establish your alibi ASAP with your St. Louis employer. Also, I need you to go through your journal and make a timeline of where you've been the last year, with rental addresses and work information listed. I want you to list why you left each job, whether you were let go or if you left voluntarily. We're going to be checking to see if Bergman had anything to do with your hop-skip-and-jump work record."

My eye must have twitched or something, because suddenly Jim was looking at me distrustfully.

"Look, if you know anything, suspect anything, even if you don't think it's relevant, I want to hear about it. Do not keep anything back. You remember how that works; don't you, Chi-- Sandburg?"

I know I had an incredulous look on my face and I tried to give Jim a hint by rolling my eyes back towards Dave, who was still holding up the wall behind me. Jim had totally lost his earlier satisfied expression and had replaced it with an irritated, suspicious one. Which he was directing at me. God, did I have to dot the i's and cross the t's for him? Had it slipped his mind that he was the one responsible for getting me fired from some of my jobs?

"You know what?" Jim was glaring at me. "I'm not in the mood for any damned charades. If you're holding something back, then spit it out. Or I'll file obstruction of justice charges on you."

Ohhhh -- he shouldn't have said that, 'cause it pissed me off, like Ka-boom! And I found my hands acting out the ka-boom part, and my mouth spilled out his god-damned secret.

"You son-of-a-bitch! I was going to give my Karma a boost and let what you did go, just ask you to not do it anymore, and let me try and salvage a life for myself. But you asked for it, Big Guy, so to hell with you and your vindictiveness!

"Yeah, I know why I was fired from about a third of my jobs. Did you think that I wouldn't have made any friends at my jobs? They told me about the phone calls to my bosses. And sometimes if the secretaries liked me, they showed me the letters that made me out to be this sexual harasser-guy and suspected embezzler. Those letters told my bosses I was close to being arrested and it would spill over to them if I kept working there. The 'guy' who contacted them said he wanted to warn them, since it wasn't my employer's fault that I had faked my references. He hinted that there'd be a big investigation; and of course, no business wanted that on their doorstep. So I would get canned and told if I were smart I'd move on. The bosses sometimes speculated to the office staff that this was a scam or something, but that didn't stop them from firing my ass.

"I saw your name on the letters -- ELLISON! How could you do that to me, Jim? I've tried Naomi's mantra -- and I made quotations marks with my fingers when I repeated what I'd heard from my mom my whole life -- 'I'm letting this go; I'm letting this go,' but -- HELL NO! I'm not letting this go. You were an asshole to do that to me, and you're still an asshole now, acting like you have nothing to do with me being run all over the god-damned country!"

I was so mad, I was shaking, and whoa - when had I gotten out of the chair and started pacing around?

Jim, the incredible jerk, just sat there with this stunned look on his face. Ha -- just let him try and explain how his sick idea of revenge was justified.

I stomped over to my backpack and pulled out my cheap little journal. I riffled quickly through it for the information on Peterson's welding shop; grabbing Jim's notebook, I wrote the name and number down for him.

"San--" Jim started to say, but I drowned him out by yelling at him to just shut the fuck up. I threw his notebook at him, picked up my journal, and turned back to Dave, who had watched all my fireworks quietly.

"Dave, I need out of here now before I do something that would really keep my ass in jail." I clutched my journal to me and started for the door. I didn't care where I would be put, I just wanted out of this room where Jim was sitting like the proverbial bump on a log

"Dave!" Mike waved me over when I walked up towards the front desk; he most likely wanted to explain why he'd jumped the gun about Detective Ellison interviewing our little guest.

"Sorry about Ellison; I thought I'd let him get started while you were stuck in court with the Whites, and just set the monitor to record so you'd be able to go over the session later. I was trying to hurry things up so Ellison could either arrest Sandburg or turn him loose. That kid has been here way too long, for us having no real charges on him. And we've bent over to accommodate Cascade, keeping hippie-boy here instead of sending him to the lock-up where he'd have to deal with the scum up there. I was getting tired of it.

"I sure didn't expect Ellison to go whacko, though. What do you think about this 'low blood sugar' story?"

"I think it's a story." I punched Mike lightly on the shoulder. "But we won't get anywhere with charges that would stick, not after Blair had another bite mark come up, and him in the room by himself; it was the strangest thing I've ever seen."

Mike agreed with a shake of his head; he had watched through the monitor when we made a commotion about Blair's neck bleeding from that new bite mark.

"They're an odd pair; I'm not so sure now that Ellison bosses Blair around as much as I thought. Blair sure laid into him when the interview was over; he thinks Ellison got him fired from some of the jobs he's worked this last year. I don't think so, though. I was watchin' Ellison's face and he seemed honestly shocked at what Blair was yellin' about.

"Hey Mike, I'm going to talk to Ellison again, check on Blair, and then I'm headed home. This has been a long shift and I need some sleep. Blair; he's back in his cell writing out some notes for Ellison's case. He said he wanted to make a phone call when he was done; that okay with you?"

Mike gave a nod and I left to go talk with Ellison. He was still in the interview room, and he was on his cell phone, talking to his captain. He updated him on the results of Blair's interview and told him they needed to start looking at Bergman for the Edwards' case.

There was something botherin' me in the back of my head, something to do with the way Ellison and Blair had acted when Ellison was so out of it. The things Blair had done to bring Ellison around; it sounded real familiar, but I couldn't figure out why it was ringin' a bell in my head. Blair's research on sentinels that I'd found on the internet... it seemed right to me, like I'd already heard it before. Somewhere, I'd learned about men with really good senses. I'd get some sleep and then think on it some; maybe it would come to me after some rest.

Ellison ended his phone call and looked at me guardedly, his eyebrows raised upwards. I told Ellison that Blair's case had been added to the court docket for tomorrow morning, and I reminded him if he needed to interview Blair further, it'd have to be in the presence of an officer. Ellison didn't look happy about this restriction, but he didn't raise a fuss 'bout it.

I wanted to ask him about Blair dyin' and the way that mark on his neck came up, but didn't; Ellison didn't look like he would take kindly to personal questions right now.

I did ask about his case. I was curious about how Blair's car was involved. I understood why he hadn't told Blair any more information. Till Blair's alibi cleared him, it wasn't good procedure to tell him more than what was necessary.

Ellison didn't say anything to me as he slid his phone into his jeans pocket. He seemed tense and tired; then he relaxed his muscles and rubbed his hand over his face.

"We have witnesses who saw a green Volvo driven by a man with long, dark hair hit Edwards, but it was just after dusk so they didn't get a good look at the guy. We also have Sandburg's car being positively identified on campus that night; the car was ticketed for parking in a no-parking area, so we've got the license plate number and description on record.

He gave a little snort. "That kid used to wrack up the tickets at Rainier; his picture is probably on a wanted poster in the campus security office." There was an indulgent look on Ellison's face for a moment, and then he lost that expression and continued talkin'.

"There was enough forensic evidence recovered from the body to confirm the witness' statements that a green car hit the victim. We haven't found the car; possibly it's gone to a chop shop, or been hidden somewhere. And I know Blair's told the truth; he didn't kill that woman. I just need some work documentation to clear him."

Ellison sighed. "Blair's the only one that can connect the car to Bergman, but no judge is going to issue a warrant to search Bergman's house and garage based on Sandburg's unsubstantiated allegation that he sold Bergman the car. Not without hard evidence to back it up."

I gestured towards the door and said, "The Police Chief is on vacation out of town this week, so you're welcome to use his office and fax machine to make calls to check out Blair's alibi."

Ellison gave a nod and I went to talk with Blair before leaving work. Since he'd blown up at Ellison, I reckoned I'd check and see if he wanted to change his statement about that 'attack' Ellison had done on him.

Blair was deeply asleep when I opened the cell door. The notes he'd made were scattered on the floor next to his bunk; I gathered them up, and lookin' at his relaxed face, decided to try something that had always worked on my kid brother.

Quietly, I called his name. Kneeling by his bunk, I repeated sayin' "Blair" in a honey-toned whisper, till he started to stir a little bit. Then I did what I had always done to my brother when we were young'uns. I started askin' him questions in my softest, you-want-to-answer-me voice.

"Blair, is Jim a good kisser?"

"Uh-huh. Make toes curl kisser..."

"Blair, do you love Jim?"

"Love Jim all th' time. Long time."

"Blair, does Jim hurt you?"

"Make me cry don' tell him."

"Blair, what's Jim done that makes you cry?"

"He don' want me."

"Blair, does Jim hit you to hurt you?"

"Nah... grabs me... don' hurt."

"Blair, do you want to stay with Jim?"

"Can't... hates me."

"Blair, do you want to go with Jim if he loves you?"

"Yeah, go home... Jim, Jim don't want me anymore."

Blair was startin' to get really woken up, so I shushed him till he fell back into a good sleep. I know askin' my brother questions this way always got the truth out of him, so I suspected I'd heard the truth from Blair now, mostly asleep as he was.

I passed the notes to Ellison on my way out; he was on the phone talkin' to Blair's boss from St. Louis. Detective Ellison and I needed to have another talk before court tomorrow. Maybe at Ruthie's Restaurant, introduce him to the finest biscuit and gravy breakfast in Tennessee.

CHAPTER TEN

I woke up in my bunk, my eyes gritty feeling and this stupid fever heating my skin. I wondered what time it was since I hadn't meant to fall asleep; I had just rested my eyes for a minute.

My phone call! Dave had told me court would be in the morning, so the judge could finally dismiss the charges. I'd wanted to call the boss at the trucking company I was headed to and try and explain why I wasn't there. There was a clock on the wall down the hallway; I went over to the bars and wiggled around so I could see it.

Shit!

It was after eight o'clock. It was too late to call today, but I'd try early in the morning and see if I could get a second chance. Maybe Dave would vouch for me, tell him I wasn't in any trouble here. Oh man, I probably should have called the guy days ago, but I'd been casting prayers out to the universe that I'd get out of here in time to get to North Carolina today. I'd hoped to avoid telling my prospective boss I was in jail.

There was a tray on the other bottom bunk; I picked through it, drank the water and juice and ate the canned fruit salad. The rest of it I skipped. Jim had been right about my weight loss; I was a lot skinnier than I had been, but a lot of the time, like now, I just didn't feel very hungry. Money was tight, too, so I tried not to spend extra on food.

After using the toilet in the corner of the cell (I wondered each time I peed if I was being watched), I picked my journal off the floor and located my missing pen in the blanket. My notes were gone, so Jim must have them.

During the time I was being interrogated this morning, I'd deliberately not thought about what had happened earlier in the spirit world. It was just too freaky and I had had to concentrate on Jim's questions. But now I wanted to document what had taken place in Blue Jungle Land. I'd have to use some code words, though, so that only I could understand it; if somebody else read it, I'd be a candidate for the funny farm.

I thought back to after my interrogation, when Dave had left me in the interview room. I'd been afraid that Jim and I were just plain fucked. In fact, when I'd been 'escorted' into that room with Jim, he hadn't been all there mentally. That had become kind of evident when he had, as Dave put it, started "feelin' me up." My guess was that it was related to a zone, maybe because I was physically close to him for the first time in a year. Anyway, I couldn't blame him for this zone clone and it wouldn't be fair for him to get in trouble about it. He could lose his badge and that would just devastate him. "Jim=Cop; Cop=Jim." Me, I'm a lot more flexible job-skills-wise. Jim, he'd gone from school to the army to being a cop. Yeah, he'd had teenage jobs but nothing like my long list of blue- and white-collar occupations. It would be ten times the shock to him to be like I was now, scrambling around for any steady job, let alone one you enjoyed doing.

So I'd been kind of desperate with wanting a way out for Jim, and I'd thought -- hey! What if my bite from Jim really had been stigmata? Nobody knows why or where stigmata come from; different theories suggest psychological or spiritual origins. Spiritual... I'd had a visitor's pass to the spirit world lately. Usually I just slipped into Blue Jungle Land from dreaming, but maybe if I tried to meditate and ask for help the powers there could aid me.

I'd sat down against the wall of the interrogation room, with my shackled ankles together and my knees pulled up to my chest, my arms loosely around my shins. Not a recommended position for meditation, but shackles -- man, they really limit your posture.

I had deepened my breathing, and slipped into the familiar state of calmness. I'd imagined a pathway I was slowly walking down, and as I had traveled further along, the vegetation had become thicker and more tropical, the air warmer, and the colors of the foliage and air had shifted from green to greenish-blue to blueish-green, and then I was there -- in Blue Jungle Land.

When I had been here before, I had either been spying on Jim's animal spirit or running and hiding from the panther or the sentinel form of Jim's animal spirit. I had been the wolf or naked.

This time, I wasn't already linked to my animal spirit, so I asked out loud for help from my spirit guide. I waited, and the wolf loped up next to me. Where he had come from I didn't see, but he jumped up on me and licked my face. As the wolf was giving my face a tongue bath, he started to become kind of see-through-ish, and then it was like he melted into me. I looked down at myself and I was naked, but I could also feel the cold, hard floor under my butt, and was aware of my back against the wall of the room where I was waiting for Jim and Dave to come back to question me some more.

I decided to look for the panther, and instead of skulking along I trotted, willing the big cat to find me. I called out, "Here kitty, kitty, kitty," taking a perverse delight in probably annoying Jim's animal spirit. After the panther had licked my wolf-self instead of tearing out my throat, when Jim had nuzzled and given me a love bite, I wasn't concerned any more that the spirit guide would hurt me.

When I rounded a curve in the path, the panther, growling loudly, had jumped down from a rocky perch in front of me. As he moved forward, almost close enough to touch me, his form shifted into Jim's jungle sentinel image.

"Shaman," the spirit form of my sentinel addressed me.

"Sentinel," I returned.

"You ask for aid from the spirit world. What need troubles you, Shaman?"

"I want to help Jim out of a jam. The police think he hurt me because of a love bite he gave me. I misled them by insinuating that maybe the love bite appeared without Jim's help. They don't believe me so in order for my story to be accepted I need to have a stigmata mark on my skin, in a place where I couldn't have made it myself. I need a bite mark on... the back of my shoulder, like near my neck. Can you make that happen, Sentinel?"

"Shaman, this can be done but it will cause you pain."

"That doesn't matter; Jim needs my help. Does he know what's going on in here, that we've been sort of in contact all the time we've been apart?"

"Enqueri has built a wall around himself; he denies the spirit world, but he is drawn to you. He desires you as his guide and his mate; this causes war within himself because he feels you betrayed him. He has much anger, anger that has grown from his fears. He needs the wolf's steadfastness; he needs the wolf to guide his gifts. In his anger, he has rejected these gifts. Enqueri must remove his wall to the spirit world and acknowledge the tie between Shaman and Sentinel that binds you together in the spirit realm. A Sentinel will be a Sentinel if he so chooses to be one. He needs assistance. Little Shaman, will you commit to returning to Enqueri as mate and guide?"

I was silent for a time. I thought about what he told me and when I was ready to answer him I chose my words carefully.

"Sentinel, Enqueri has had a flawed guide to aid him; he deserves a mate and guide worthy of him. When the panther licked the wolf's throat, I became aware of the abandonment Enqueri felt upon my leaving him. He does not forgive easily and he has never considered claiming me as his mate to his friends and family. I am afraid he will never accept or trust me as he should accept and trust his guide. I will help him now, but then we must part again. Perhaps we can part as not-enemies but I fear our closeness has changed and cannot return to what it was."

"Enqueri is stubborn, Little Shaman, but you are well matched with him... I will give you the help you have requested for your mate."

I began to correct him about his designating Jim as my mate, but the sentinel spirit glared me quiet without me finishing a word.

The sentinel spirit, Jim's image, reached out and stroked my face several times. Then he took my arm and turned me around, pulling me snug against his front; my naked skin becoming sensitized from the texture of his pants and of his bare chest. And the observer in me thought that was interesting, that I could feel such sensations here in the spirit world as well as I could sense the hard, chilly floor of the Sweetwater Police Station. The rest of me wanted to whimper... it had been so long since Jim had touched me with kindness.

*I felt his warm breath against my neck and with one arm holding me tight against him, his other hand began fondling my dick. *

"What are you --"

But Jim's sentinel spirit didn't let me finish my question before removing his hand from my dick and placing his palm over my mouth.

"Do not speak, Little Shaman. The bite you ask for will be given but not till your body sings of pleasure, to mask the pain. Let the sentinel take care of his guide.

"Enqueri has long desired this from you, that you allow him to comfort you when you are weary, and give your burdens to him to carry while you rest till strength returns to your body and spirit.

"Enqueri knows you are strong; your determination and courage shine from you, Little Shaman. You are teacher; you are protector; and you are the bridge to many people. Your spirit is giving and will weave its own path through pain, and change to emerge enriched.

"Enqueri loves all this about you; it is why he is drawn to you as guide and mate. He wishes to be keeper of your strength, to hold it safely while you regain your power when it ebbs. You give your life force away to those who are in need; it is your gift to the world. But it drains you, Little Shaman. Enqueri wants to help you renew yourself, but you reject his care. This twists inside him and knots his spirit.

*"Remember my words, Little Shaman." *

Jim's spirit-self then moved his hand and resumed stroking my dick, slowly and tenderly till I was writhing against him. He held me strongly; I couldn't have gotten away from him or stopped him even if I had wanted to. And I didn't. Want to, that is. Not being able to move, feeling his clothes against my naked skin, feeling his tongue licking my neck and his teeth scraping against my neck and shoulder just made me shudder with arousal.

I began to build to orgasm, my hips thrusting instinctively. The sentinel didn't allow this though; he moved his leg to pin one of mine and dropped his arm lower to continue to restrain me. I become frantic to be in motion and was making fuck-stupid noises when he started moving against my ass, which pushed me over the top. And as I fell, pleasure pulsing through my penis and semen erupting over Jim's spirit-self's hand; he bit hard on the muscle that joined the back of my neck and shoulder. It hurt, it really hurt, but I was distracted by the waves of pleasure still coursing through me; it all blended into a hurting-bliss sensation.

As the post-orgasm lethargy took over my body, I was glad the sentinel spirit was still holding me up. I relaxed against him and let him sway me back and forth. He kissed the top of my head and we just stayed that way, him rocking me and me melting against his hard body. I could feel blood dripping down my upper back but I didn't care.

Slowly, I became aware more of my body sitting on the floor back in the real world. Blue Jungle Land began to dissolve around me, the sentinel's body holding mine becoming less substantial, until finally I couldn't feel or see anything of the spirit plane.

I'd become aware of my name being called and had opened my eyes to see Dave kneeling beside me with Jim standing next to him. They were looking at my neck. I'd reached behind me and felt the bite mark I had been given in the spirit world. I'd been elated that it had worked. I'd made some remark to Dave about stigmata when I'd realized that I'd had an orgasm in the real world too, and my thin cotton jail scrubs were good and wet in the crotch. Jesus, this was embarrassing; the guys would be able to see the stain if I stood up, and I didn't want them to know what I had done. Although Jim had figured it out, judging by the flaring of his nostrils and the look he'd thrown at me. That was when I remembered the water trick.

'Remember my words' ...I sat on my bunk, pen in hand, thinking about what Jim's spirit-self had told me about Jim and if it really changed anything between us.

So a part of Jim had wanted me to share with him when I was hurting, or tired; wanted me to let him pet me, soothe me. Wanted to do more than the pats and little things he'd always done for me, like changing my car's oil or buying me lunch. We would roll together after sex, and sleep tangled up with each other... Oh, be brave, Blair, call it what it was: cuddling. Okay, Jim liked to cuddle me after making love and I let him. I liked it too, but I never told him that. I kind of acted like it was something I only indulged in because he wanted to do it.

I guess I'd kind of diverted Jim a lot of the times when he'd offered me comfort. Pretty much from the beginning of when I'd known him, I'd done that. I thought about the day my Corvair had been shot up and I'd been sitting on a car hood, bummed about the cost of fixing it and a little shaky still from the feeling of being in a shoot-out. Jim had come over and had been gentle with me, touching me on the thighs and leaning over me while he explained it was okay to admit to feeling shook up. I could have leaned into him and let him give me a hug but I hadn't wanted to look like a wimp so I had done my woo-hoo dance instead, emphasizing how pumped up I felt from the excitement. And that wasn't untrue, exactly, but I'd shut him off from my more scared and dismayed feelings. And you know, a hug would have felt nice but I'd denied myself his sympathy. He'd wanted to take me home but I'd insisted he take me to Rainier instead, running away from his gesture of support.

After a while, he probably had thought it was a waste of time to try the comfort routine, but he still found ways to sneak caring for me into his verbal and non-verbal communication. I thought about his gestures and little routines for a while, looking them over from my new perspective.

Getting my coat for me, deciding that he wanted to eat out on his 'turn to cook' days and insisting it was fair for him to pay for my dinner, agreeing to speak to my classes about living with the Chopec, not giving me away to Sam when she was out for my head; man, I could come up with tons of examples of Jim being protective or helping me out. He had probably loved it when I had called him my blessed protector after Lash's fun time with me.

Lash... now that was the exception to the rule. Jim had hugged me and carried me out of that hell-hole of a warehouse, had kept his arm around me when I was half out of it with the drug I'd had forced into me. I wasn't stopping him then; I'd been scared and afterwards I was shaky, and he'd given me comfort and solace. A day or two later I'd felt embarrassed that I'd been clingy and I'd worked hard at showing him I was independent for the next few days.

Independence was important to me. I liked being in control of my life and I often had made choices that allowed me to do things when and where I wanted to, without having to be under somebody else's thumb. Well, so did a lot of people, but I seemed to take it too far; when I started getting close to somebody, I would tell myself we had no future because I couldn't lose my independence. Or I would pick people that I knew had higher priorities than sticking with me. That way there was a ready made out from commitments. And when I still had gotten in too deep, like with Maya and now Jim, it would be painful when we parted. Shit -- with Jim it had felt like an amputation.

I could be a good team player on a professional level, but I wouldn't compromise or share my inner most feelings with my casual lovers. I would do things to sabotage the relationship or I would step it back down to casual friends. And the yin/yang effect when I'd turned down opportunities to be closer emotionally with my lovers was -- I lost potential life partners. I told myself I didn't care; I didn't want any deep relationships. Instead, I'd made do with casual fun with boyfriends and girlfriends. It was how I'd kept myself distracted from feeling I was doomed to be lonely.

My relationship style was probably the result of the Sandburg genes kicking in, if you went for the nature argument, or for the nurture side you could say I was demonstrating behavior Naomi had modeled when I was a kid. Whatever. I knew I should be more capable of holding onto an intimately emotional friendship at my age, but I couldn't seem to follow through on what it would take to have that level of commitment to a lover. I'd tried with Jim; I'd failed.

Jim had been the person with whom I'd compromised the most, and I probably wouldn't have done that without wanting to be near him for the research; at least at first it was about the research. But he'd become my best friend, and it had been a new experience for me, to be that close to somebody else. I've missed that a lot this last year. I'd fucked up when we became lovers; I don't think I understood how to be physically involved with Jim and also emotionally intimate. God, I'm sorry I harmed him by being so screwed up.

But it's water under the bridge, now. Things have changed and we can't ignore the hard feelings and the actions we've taken to hurt each other. Hell, earlier today I'd confronted him about his shitty behavior concerning my jobs and he hadn't even tried to come up with an excuse for what he did.

The part of Jim connected to the spirit world may have wanted us to be together, but Jim wasn't listening to the spirit world. He had shut and locked that door. I need to live in the real world, and Jim doesn't want me there with him. Tomorrow we'll say goodbye; maybe if the Edwards case goes anywhere, I'll have to come to court and testify about selling my car to Bergman; maybe we'll be further along enough in closure that we could talk and have dinner together for old times sake.

That bit of attempted wall sex he'd had with me -- it had been the spirit world trying to give him a kick in the pants. But it hadn't worked; he didn't even remember what he'd done. And that was a pretty good sign things between us weren't about to change.

I'd stick with my plan to apologize for the hurt I'd given him, offer to keep in touch, partly about the case and partly to check on him now and then. I do love him, after all -- much good that it does me.

I'd feel him out about telling him about my adventures in Blue Jungle Land. If he was open to it, then I'd tell him what his spirit guide and I have been up to for the past year. But if he wants to blow me off and not listen, well then, I'll just keep my experiences to myself.

I opened my journal and began to write...

CHAPTER ELEVEN

In his dream, in which he was pleasantly snuggled up with Blair in bed, Jim interpreted the sound of the phone ringing as the alarm going off. "Chief," he mumbled, "shut that thing off." But Blair ignored him and the damn alarm kept shrilling out its message of 'Get up! Get up! Get up!' until he finally opened his eyes and realized that it was the motel room phone that was being such a pain in the ass.

"Ellison," he yawned into the receiver.

"Detective Ellison, this is Dave Findley, Sweetwater P.D., and we need to talk before court this mornin'. Meet me at Ruthie's Restaurant; it's a block and a half down from the station, at six o'clock for breakfast. I'll introduce you to the best biscuits and gravy in Tennessee."

"Right, I'll be there," Jim answered, his head rapidly clearing. He hung up the phone thinking Findley probably enjoyed waking his ass up. The call wasn't unexpected; he had figured Findley wasn't finished raking him over the coals. Sandburg had a knack for getting people to want to protect him. It wasn't something the kid did on purpose, and usually the protection would be unwanted on Blair's part - even Jim's -- but Jim had known after talking to Findley at the station that the cop had joined the ranks of Sandburg's defenders.

Jim got out of bed and started getting cleaned up, remembering the dream he'd been having when the phone rang. In it, he and Blair had made love. And it had been good - like another one of the sweet times they'd had together before things became tense between them. He acknowledged the low, heavy feeling in his groin as he remembered the part of the dream where he had licked Blair's ear till his lover was a squirmy mass of lust, and then he had rolled on top of Blair and used the friction between their bodies to get them both off. They had spooned up then, and in the dream had gone to sleep together.

He hadn't come in his sleep, though. Blair, on the other hand, had blasted his shorts during that meditation he was in when the stigmata bite had appeared. And the kid hadn't touched his dick with his hands either. Jim had checked with his sense of smell and his vision; there'd been no evidence he'd just been jacking off in there, sitting on the floor in the interrogation room. Jim grinned at the memory of Blair blushing and the trick he'd pulled to avoid embarrassing himself in front of Findley. The kid knew he hadn't fooled Jim, though. And it had been kind of hot to think of Blair all wet and sticky there in front of him, the smell of semen strong in the air, at least to a sentinel. Actually, Blair might not have fooled Findley either, but the man had chosen not say anything about it if he had tumbled to what Findley's little buddy had done on the floor in the interview room.

As Jim headed to the little town of Sweetwater his mood slipped back into the more familiar dark tones of anger, hurt, annoyance, and betrayal that had accompanied his thoughts about Sandburg for so long now. And now he could add worry to that list. Something was wrong with Sandburg, and Jim had a bad feeling about it. His ex-lover didn't want to tell him what it was, but Jim had done some detecting sentinel-style and had a pretty good idea about what Sandburg's symptoms included. And yeah, it may have been a virus, but what kind of virus? AIDS was a virus. So was the flu. Blair's symptoms did kind of match both and Jim was probably just having another 'fear-based overreaction' but -- Christ. AIDS. He knew Blair hadn't tested positive for HIV before leaving Cascade, but god knows who he'd slept with since then or how careful he'd been.

If this was the early stage of HIV then it was too soon for an AIDS test to be given. It would be unusual for the later stage to be evident in just a year, but hell! Sandburg was anything but usual in whatever he did. And his ex-lover had lost a significant amount of weight over the last year.

Well, he'd get the truth about Sandburg's illness somehow today. Maybe Findley would fill him in.

Jim located Ruthie's Restaurant easily enough. And there was a black-and-white patrol car parked in front of the place. It was showdown time.

Findley was waiting in a booth in the back of the little restaurant; coffee mugs were on the table, and the remnants of Findley's breakfast was stacked up for the waitress to remove. Jim took it as a message that Findley didn't trust him, since Findley didn't want to break bread with him.

The big cop waved Jim to his table, and signaled to a waitress with a coffee pot in her hand. She filled a mug for Jim and then walked away with the dirty dishes, leaving Jim and Findley eyeing each other.

"Susy'll bring your biscuits and gravy over when we're finished talking. Have you been in this part of Tennessee before, Detective Ellison?"

Impatiently, Jim realized Findley was going to play tour guide to start off this interrogation.

"No, I haven't, but it looks like beautiful country," Jim responded blandly.

"My family has been here for a long time. Irish, of course, with a name like Findley, but there's a lot of Cherokee in the family tree, too. Ever hear of the Trail of Tears, Detective Ellison?"

"Forced relocation of the Cherokee to Oklahoma, back in the 1800's; yeah, I know of it. Your relatives, were they among the ones taken out west?" Jim wondered where this was going. What did Findley's ancestors have to do with Sandburg?

"Taken out west? No, most of the folks around here are descended from a band of Cherokee that avoided the soldiers and hid out in the mountains. Most everybody in town, if they come from here, has Cherokee blood in them. Course, over the years the Cherokee mixed with settlers and immigrants, and nobody makes a to-do over the Indian blood, but it's there. My Great-Great Aunt Nettie, she was one for doin' all that genealogy business and gathering the stories from the old-timers before they passed. She even got it all written up and handed out to family members, so the old stories and ways wouldn't be forgotten."

Okay, interesting enough chitchat, but Jim thought it was time to steer the conversation where he wanted it to go.

"Sandburg will be fascinated if he ever gets a chance to hear about it." Jim drank some of his coffee; when he put his mug down he asked, "And how was he feeling last night? This, uh, virus he's got, what exactly is it? He did see a doctor, didn't he? Was he sick when he got here, or is his illness more recent?"

Findley hesitated before answering Jim's questions and drew circles on the table with his finger. "Blair slept until the late evening. He was still awake when I started my shift at the front desk around eleven, and he was runnin' a fever still. I gave him some more Tylenol and let him sit in the Chief's office for a while. Said he'd entertain me by playing my brother's old guitar one more time. He fooled around with mostly blues tunes again. Sang a little, mostly to himself, till I reckon his sore throat got to hurtin' too much."

Findley looked straight at Jim. "He said he'd had this one song on his mind a lot and he played it for me. I believe he said his mother, when she was a girl, had heard Janis Joplin sing it. Maybe you know it, Detective Ellison. Blair told me he used to have a CD of her songs and since ya'll lived together - well then, I reckon you've heard it. He said it was called... um... "Ball and Chain." It was a powerful song to hear."

"I've heard it," Jim replied. It's powerfully ambivalent, is what it is. If it's on Blair's mind then he's pretty mixed up about how he feels towards me. Love, dread and pain all thrown together with a side order of helplessness. He drummed his fingers against the table. "Anything else you can tell me about how Blair's doing?"

"Blair; now, he was quieter last night than I've ever seen him, and kind of moody, not his usual self. Course, you livin' with him, you've probably seen him in lots of moods. So is being quiet normal for him? Or is it just because the boy's been sick? A few times he's gotten interested in somethin' and he starts talkin' a mile a minute. Doesn't last though. He kind of catches himself and hushes back up."

Findley took another long sip of his coffee. "He read the note you left telling him there were no charges from Cascade against him. He was real glad that his old boss had alibied him; he said he'd leave town today, after court.

"Now, you asked how long he's been sick. In hindsight, I think he was sick when he got arrested, but he didn't start runnin' a fever till he was in the holding cell. He was taken to the ER for a blood alcohol and drug screen when we took him into custody. The nurse and I, we didn't notice a fever. Later, he didn't complain about feelin' bad; we noticed he was sick and took him back to the ER.

Findley looked hard at Jim. "And I reckon it's Blair's concern whether or not he tells you what the doctor told him."

Jim wasn't going to let that go. He'd push a little; see what kind of reaction he got from Findley. "Has he got AIDS or HIV?"

"You worried about him or about yourself, Detective Ellison?" Findley pushed back at Jim, who caught the implication that Findley thought he and Sandburg had slept together. Jim didn't answer him.

"And if Blair did have AIDS, what would you do about it, Detective Ellison?"

Jim surprised himself by answering straight from his gut. "I'd pack the little shit up and take him home. No way in hell would I let him go through that by himself."

Findley leaned forward towards Jim and said in a lower tone of voice. "Blair thinks you hate him, but he says you're a good kisser. Seems your kisses make his toes curl. And before you add his spillin' the beans to your list of what you're mad at him about, he doesn't know he told me those things. He was asleep when I coaxed it out of him.

"I have to know what you want, Detective Ellison. I figure you're thinking of putting Blair in protective custody; because I would be, with my only lead a witness with no home or job who tends to move around the country and drops out of sight."

Jim felt his face freeze into an immobile mask. 'God-damnit, Findley. None of this is any of your concern.'

Findley sighed. "But Blair's not just a witness to you. You were sleepin' with him. Blair thinks you hate him but he's insistent that you won't hurt him; I'm not convinced that's true. I don't want Blair disappearin' on the way back to Cascade, or havin' an 'accident', or you hurtin' him or forcin' him when he's alone and in your custody."

Findley hardened his voice. "And I couldn't arrest you for attacking him before, but if I'm not satisfied he'll be safe in your custody, I'll be showin' that tape of you assaulting him to Adult Protective Services; they'll ask for an Order of Protection. You'll be denied custody, just in case you were to have another 'low blood sugar' problem while Blair is with you. Cascade can pay to house him in the county jail or at the holding cell until another officer arrives to take him to your city.

"So, Detective, best you be thinkin' about how you can guarantee that boy's gonna stay in one piece if you put him in your protective custody. Maybe Blair would want to go back on his own, in which case I can't stop him. He says he's got a long-hauler job lined up, but I doubt that drivin' a truck is goin' to work out for him. He's late gettin' to his employment interview, and he's too sick to be safe as a driver. If he was already on the payroll, one good look at him by his boss would get him kicked off the drivers' roster."

Jim eyed Findley sourly. "We done here yet, Findley?"

"I've said my piece. I can't trust Blair to tell the truth where you're concerned, not while he's awake, anyway. He's keepin' secrets and lying to protect you. How he managed that bite on the back of his neck, I just don't know, but I know he came up with it to keep you from bein' charged. He loves you. I know how things are on his end; it's your end that needs clearin' up."

Jim was disconcerted and annoyed that this backwater cop knew what was private between him and Blair. He could tell Findley wasn't bluffing about the threat to get an Order of Protection; there were no body tells that indicated deception on Findley's part. Maybe he could get Findley to back off from his threat to keep him from Blair.

He tried for a more conciliatory tone of voice and said, "I wouldn't hurt Sandburg, and I didn't send those letters to his bosses to get him fired. My guess is Bergman's behind it; maybe he wanted to keep Blair on the move and hard to track. He forged my name and threw those allegations around to spook Sandburg's employers into cutting him loose."

Jim narrowed his eyes. "Look here, Findley. I'm not confirming whatever Sandburg mumbled in his sleep, but he was my partner and friend, up in Cascade. I am angry about some stunts he pulled before he left town and the way he shut me out of some problems it turned out he was having, but I would never hurt the little twerp."

Jim twisted the coffee cup around on the table, all the time maintaining eye contact with Findley.

"And yeah, you guessed right; I am thinking about protective custody, especially if he's got no job right now. Those notes of his surprised me. He's been serious about working, and he's traveled all around looking for jobs. I had kind of figured he was just drifting with whoever he had hooked up with, but instead he's been hitchhiking on his own. You know how dangerous that is. I could add that he could be killed while thumbing it to justify protective custody for him. You say you think I'd hurt Sandburg if he was with me; I wouldn't ever do that. My captain will vouch for me, if you contact him."

Findley looked disappointedly at Jim and said, "That's a start, but it's not enough to change my mind."

Jim looked on as Findley checked his watch and made a show of laying out a tip on the table. As the big cop got up he softly said, "Blair doesn't have AIDS."

Jim released a long stream of breath and just as softly said back to Findley, "thanks."

Findley then beckoned the waitress over with Jim's breakfast and said, "Court is at nine thirty this morning. Don't be late. The judge gets a tad cranky when folks aren't on time. And I think you should read what Great-Great Aunt Nettie had to say about how that bunch of Cherokee fooled the soldiers tryin' to capture them." He handed Jim a large brown envelope, then walked out the door and Jim watched through the large front window as Findley drove away in his patrol car.

Jim ate his biscuits and gravy, and maybe his breakfast lived up to its reputation, and maybe it didn't; fuck, he couldn't tell. He'd dialed down his sense of taste to way below normal, not wanting to be distracted by the flavor of the food. He needed to work out what to do about Sandburg. And before that could happen, he had to figure out his own feelings regarding his ex-partner.

He was a cop, a sworn officer of the court and, he hoped, a decent man. Watching that tape of himself mauling Blair had left him feeling very uncomfortable about what he had been doing. The difference in their sizes had jumped out at Jim as he had observed himself lifting Blair up and holding him off the floor. And Blair had kept asking him to stop. Was Findley right in his assumption that the next step would have been him raping Blair? Christ, he hoped not. It had been difficult to see much of Blair's reactions to Jim molesting him, but he hadn't acted like he was scared of Jim during the later interview about the Edwards murder. Instead, he'd jumped down Jim's throat about those letters allegedly written by 'James Ellison.' He guessed he could see why Blair assumed they were genuine, but... well, he wished Blair had just trusted that James Joseph Ellison wouldn't do something so vindictive, petty, and mean.

Jim pushed the uneaten portion of his breakfast around his plate with a fork. Jesus, nothing was going as he had planned since walking into this small town's police station. And the fun wasn't over yet.

Actually seeing Blair had shifted things from black and white to all shades of gray. And seeing him sick and thin had shook Jim up. Thank God he didn't have AIDS. Blair wasn't invulnerable; he was on his own with no family or friends for support. Blair was a tough kid, and resilient, but this year had been hard on Sandburg. He hadn't been crisscrossing the country for fun, and instead of settling somewhere he'd been forced to keep moving.

Jim's thoughts went back over the same old territory. Blair had screwed him over by leaving Cascade. He was Jim's lover; he should have trusted Jim enough to ask him about Melissa...

And if Jim was being honest with himself, maybe he had set up the Melissa situation as a test for Blair. Well, his subconscious maybe had done it; he didn't set out to hurt his partner on purpose. He could have avoided hurting Blair by blowing off the restriction on telling him about Jim's cases. If he had, then Blair would have understood Jim was undercover, and anything Blair heard concerning the woman Jim was supposedly seeing was part of the job.

Perhaps Jim had kept his mouth shut and flirted more than was necessary for the job, just to see what Blair would do when he found out. Looking back over his behavior, he could see that he had been asking for trouble. And he got it. Blair didn't confront him; he ran instead.

Jim pushed his dishes to the other side of the table, suddenly sick of the game he'd been playing with his food. Fuck. The more he thought about his anger towards Blair the more uneasy he felt. He'd probably - no, definitely - screwed up here.

He was a total moron for not understanding till now that some of his anger towards Blair really was anger at himself, for pushing Sandburg like that. He should have taken into consideration the kid's instincts for cutting his losses. Blair'd grown up watching his mother end relationship after relationship. Jim knew enough about Naomi to see that she would have started each relationship with glowy-eyed enthusiasm, which would have died considerably down as her relationship hit some snags. "Detach with love, Sweetie," she would have drilled into Blair as she packed their bags.

And Blair had tried to do that. The letter he'd left for Jim was all about how he'd failed Jim and how Jim now had the chance to find his real love, to claim his real guide. He didn't call Jim a two-timing son of a bitch; although, based on what Blair knew about Jim and Melissa, that's exactly what he was. Blair seeing them together in that bar -- well, that was the final exam, all right. And Jim, not Blair, had flunked it, he now realized. Blair had been cautious and checked his sources of information, just like the careful academic he had been. Simon should have known what was going on, and he would have reassured Blair that Jim was on the job. Instead, due to Simon's vacation, the captain hadn't been updated with full intelligence. And Blair had detached himself right out of town.

Maybe Jim was more like his father than he had realized. Maybe he had set Blair up to fail, with his little loyalty and trust test, just like his dad had set up no-win situations with Stevie and him when they were kids. Jesus, what a cluster-fuck this was.

Jim shook his head and his eyes landed on the brown envelope Findley had left for him. This was another kind of test, he figured. Why else foist somebody's family history off on a stranger? Jim opened the envelope and slid out the papers inside.

He straightened them; and then, taking a sip of his no-flavor coffee, he began to read...

CHAPTER TWELVE

Eavesdropping on his ex-lover was wrong, but Jim had decided he could live with himself for doing it. Still, while waiting in his truck this morning and listening to Blair take a shower and get dressed, Jim felt maybe he had skirted the edge of stalking. Strangely enough, he had never felt that way the times he had invaded Blair's personal space, when he and Blair had first lived together. At least Blair'd never realized Jim would casually check on what Blair had been doing in the shower or in his room. The transition from friends to lovers only meant that Jim felt free to join Blair in the shower, instead of just listening to his friend touching wet skin.

Jim grimaced, though, knowing Blair would have called him severely on the surveillance he had run on Blair's work place if the kid had had any idea Jim had parked a few streets over from that sleazy bar and watched him flirt with the customers.

And... now he was parked outside of the Sweetwater Justice Center, popping Tic-tacs in his mouth so he would have a strong mint taste to counterbalance the extension on his sense of hearing. Jim was being careful since his senses only came back on-line yesterday; he didn't want to chance a zone, since he couldn't touch Blair right now. He felt semi-compelled to locate his guide, so he gave his conscience a pretty decent rationalization; he needed to check on Blair and he didn't have a good reason to be in the police station. He dialed up his hearing again to find out what Blair was doing now.

Jim listened to Blair asking if he could use the phone. While Jim waited for Sandburg to make his call, his thoughts centered on what he was going to do about securing his only lead in the Edward's case. Sandburg's alibi had cleared him, but he was still tied to the case as the only witness to Bergman's probable involvement in Edwards's death.

Jim was sitting on the fence about protective custody. Since he had personal involvement with this witness, he needed to make sure his reasons for placing Blair in custody would pass as correct procedure. But if he was honest with himself -- he also wanted to take advantage of being near Sandburg again. He felt a strong yearning to just be near him physically, so his senses could relax. They hadn't felt this good, this strong, and this natural since Blair had left Cascade.

It wasn't just the improvement in his senses; he had to acknowledge that he still had strong emotions about Blair. A year of ignoring his feelings hadn't made them go away. He'd loved Blair. He'd missed him, missed his cajoling, missed his cheerful good nature, and missed their lovemaking. And now he was worried about him. But he had to ask himself: was it worth it to think about starting over with Sandburg?

He had legitimate beefs with Blair. Blair had not told him of his employment problems; he had let Jim think he was quitting jobs when instead he'd been fired because of outside interference. That wasn't how partners who trusted each other behaved. And it stung that Blair accepted that Jim was vengeful enough to hound him with those god-damned letters.

Trust and commitment, those were the benchmarks that Jim wanted in relationships. He'd told Sandburg that a long time ago, back when the kid was in the process of losing that girl Christine. Trust and commitment were still what he wanted in a partner. What he would want from Sandburg. And no flirting with every Tom, Dick and Suzie. He'd told Blair he didn't like him working at the Meeting Place bar; why was it so important to Blair to play the role of beefcake there? Was sex with Jim not enough for the famed Sandburg libido? Was that why his lover had scoped out working as an attraction at the other bar? Was the combination of more money plus illicit sex more important than being Jim's monogamous partner? Obviously, Blair had hedged his bets, he'd managed to find somebody else to leave town with as soon as he'd dumped Jim. Which was Jim's own fault, he accepted that now about himself. Still, maybe they could put the fucked-up stuff behind them because a lot of what he'd had with Blair had been good. And Blair was his guide; just look at how his senses had broken out of dormancy just by being in physical contact with the kid again.

Jim hadn't wanted to come here initially and he still resented Simon's benevolent dictatorship, but maybe he and Blair could sort some of their problems out between them if he brought Blair back with him. It would work better if Blair were willing to be put into protective custody. It would be a long drive back to Cascade; it could prove to be the best thing to help them work out their differences. Or it could be sheer hell. And the more he thought about it the more the sheer hell option seemed likely, because why would Blair want to come back? Even if Jim could convince the kid he had nothing to do with those lying letters, what was there for Blair in Cascade besides maybe a second chance on their rocky relationship?

Oh, what the hell -- since Findley was thinking of blocking his custody anyway -- he and Blair might not be traveling or talking together. After reading the Findley family history he'd been given, he knew what the man wanted from him.

The truth. All of it.

Jim turned sideways on the bench seat and stretched his legs out, maneuvering until his head was leaning against the door window and he found himself staring at the top of his windshield.

If Jim admitted he was a sentinel and Blair was his guide, Findley was implying he would trust Jim to not hurt his guide. Denying he was a sentinel would result in that Order of Protection Findley had threatened him with earlier this morning at the caf down the street.

Findley wanted Jim to clean out his closet: reveal the truth about his sentinel abilities and acknowledge that he had had a homosexual relationship with Blair. And it stuck in Jim's craw to discuss his personal affairs with an outsider. It really wasn't any of Findley's business to know those private things about him -- things he hadn't even told his close friends or family. And if Jim admitted Blair was his guide and his lover then Jim would have to trust that Findley wouldn't abuse that knowledge by passing it to those who could hurt him or Blair. The same old reasons for hiding his sentinel status still applied.

Blair being his lover - well, he wasn't ashamed of Blair, but he hadn't wanted to deal with the rough teasing he knew he'd be receiving from the other guys in the bullpen when he broke the news that Blair and he were together. Sure, it would've been annoying for a while, but having to admit later to another serious failed relationship if they'd crashed and burned - well, to quote Sandburg - it would suck big-time. He had delayed announcing they were life partners until he knew for sure that this change in their relationship was going to work. Turned out to be a wise decision on his part, seeing that they hadn't lasted six months.

Telling his father and brother that he now had a boyfriend hadn't been something he had wanted to do either, although Steven probably wouldn't have cared that much. His father would have disapproved; he would have wanted to 'talk' to Jim, try and get him to renounce Blair, tell his son how disappointed he was in him, and generally would have tried to guilt him into leaving Blair. He had spent so many years estranged from his family... he had put off rocking the boat. If he and Blair had been able to make their relationship work, though, he would have introduced Blair to them as his lover and life partner. And if his family couldn't accept him being with Blair, then it was their loss.

It had all been a moot point, though, because he and Blair hadn't made it to 'meet the family' status.

Jim rubbed his hand on the leg of his jeans and refocused on Blair's voice. The kid was on the phone talking to a guy about a trucking job. Blair was apologizing for not having come yesterday and was telling the guy he had been unavoidably detained.

Jim winced when he heard the bellowed response from the trucking boss. "Unavoidably detained, my ass. We got a new-fangled contraption here, you might have heard about it. It's called caller ID and mine's telling me you're calling from the Sweetwater Police Station. I know when you left your friend's place to travel here, Sandburg. You should have been here days ago, so I'm betting you landed yourself in jail; didn't you, boy? I don't need troublemakers driving my trucks. I told my buddy I'd give you a try but that was conditional on you getting yourself here on time. You didn't. I don't want to hear any sob stories, either. And this is the last time I ever do a favor for a friend of a friend." Jim heard a click on the line... and realized Blair's potential employer had hung up on him.

Blair resumed talking on the phone, and Jim rolled his eyes when he grasped that Blair was pretending to accept the truck-driving job that would be waiting for him when he got to Charlotte, North Carolina. 'Chief, who the hell are you trying to fool?'

Well, he now felt justified in his eavesdropping. Blair didn't have a job, which meant no address, and no way to track him, which tipped the scales right over towards Jim deciding to place Sandburg in protective custody. Maybe not with Jim as Blair's keeper, if Findley wouldn't sanction Jim as the officer in charge, but Jim would wait here till he was relieved. Maybe that would be best, another officer escorting Blair back ho-- to Cascade.

Blair had hung up the phone and had blathered a bit to Findley while he was being returned to his cell. Bored, and not wanting to enter the Justice Center yet, Jim idly cast out his hearing, practicing a skill he had let get rusty over the last year. He focused on a random conversation or the sound of machinery and then tuned it out to scan for a new sound, just like Sandburg had guided him to do years ago.

On the ninth or tenth time of focusing on a new conversation, he heard a male voice asking a female clerk in the Justice Center to tell him who was on the docket today. She started to say the list of names, and Jim heard Sandburg's name before he tuned them out.

Several minutes later, he focused on that same male voice outside the building addressing someone else. Jim had only been paying half-hearted attention until the guy mentioned the name 'Sandburg.' He sat up straighter in the truck and intently followed the conversation. Grimly, after the next few words, Jim realized that what he was hearing meant serious trouble for Blair. He listened in growing anger to the man speak.

"So, this feller's short and thin -- with blue eyes; 'The Man' said he's 'round thirty or so but looks younger, and gots long curly brown hair. He's some kind of hippie, and he's going up in front of the judge this morning. If he gets jail time we'll have to let 'The Man' know he'll be up in the Davitt county jailhouse. That'd be alright. I got contacts there, and he'll have him an accident inside <I>or</I> if he's out on a work detail.

"'The Man' said Sandburg here don't have a car and was arrested when he was hitchhiking. He's got no friends round these parts, no reason to stay. If his case comes up dismissed, let's pick him up hitchhiking his way out of town. Ya' know... There's no reason we can't have some fun with him before we off him. 'The Man' won't know if we corn-hole this feller; the hippie's gonna end up dead, anyway. I haven't nailed a punk since prison and I could go for some of that. Mandy broke up with me and the well's been dry, if you take my meaning."

In a deeper voice than the first shit-head, the second guy growled, "Listen up, you old road dog. You want to bone the punk then you can't be lame about it. You got to use condoms and gloves; 'cause you're not gonna leave any DNA in this guy like those assholes who get themselves caught by the cops. Maybe I'll do him too; I'll see if I'm in the mood later. And we need to do a good job when we bury him. I know a place that's so back-hills that nobody ever goes there. This guy's just a drifter. Nobody will miss him or try and find him, probably, but we're 'professionals' now and we got to do this right. Lordy... I'm looking forward to spending the money we get on some good times. I'm gonna start by buying a thousand lottery tickets."

"Oh, your luck just ran out, you scumbag," Jim muttered softly to himself before he tried piggybacking his sight onto his hearing. He followed the first shit-head's voice as he spoke again to his murderous buddy.

"C'mon, let's go already. Court ain't for another hour and a half, and it makes me jittery to be hanging around the local cop shop. We can flip later for who has to sit in the courtroom."

Jim's vision ended up on a green Jeep Cherokee with a dent in the driver's door. Shit-head and Scumbag were pulling away from the curb to make a left hand turn, but Jim got a quick look at their faces and caught the last two letters of the license plate before his view was blocked by the Justice Center. There was no point in following them. They'd be back in time for court.

All Jim's hesitations about revealing his sentinel abilities to Findley went sailing right out the proverbial window. He needed help to protect Blair and the Sweetwater cop would be his best pick as an ally. Findley already was in Blair's camp as a protector. Now if he would quit trying to make Jim out as the bad guy here and focus on a couple of genuine bad guys and whoever the fucking 'Man' was who'd hired Shit-head and Scumbag to kill Blair...

He listened in to the police station chatter, trying to locate Findley. He pinpointed him in the kitchen, comparing his coffee to burnt motor oil to another cop in the room.

Jim reached for his cell phone, dialed the Sweetwater P.D.'s number, and asked for Findley. When Findley got on the line, Jim handed him his secret on a big silver platter.

"Findley, I need to talk to you right now, out here in the back of the parking lot. So dump that 'burnt motor oil' you're trying to pass off as coffee and meet me at my truck." Findley made a surprised sound at Jim's demand and hung up the phone.

When Findley got out here - at this point Jim refused to take a chance with talking in the police station - Jim was going to tell the man what he wanted to know in exchange for a promise of help. Blair was being targeted and Jim wasn't going to risk his partner getting killed because the kid wanted to show how independent he could be. Blair was going into custody, and whether he liked it or not didn't matter. He needed protection and Jim was going to provide it.

Jim watched Findley leave the Justice Center and look towards the back of the parking lot. He walked over to the truck, opened the passenger door, and pushed his way into Jim's territory. Findley raised his eyebrows and waited for Jim to explain himself.

Jim looked grimly at his potential ally. "Look, Findley, I'm going to cut to the chase here because there isn't much time and we have a major problem. All my senses are enhanced. I'm a sentinel, just like old what's-his-name, your great-great-Cherokee-hero-guy that I read about in the family history you gave me. And while he used his senses to help his tribe avoid the soldiers trying to catch them, I used mine this morning and listened to a couple of murdering bastards making plans to rape and kill Blair."

Findley had been nodding while Jim admitted to being a sentinel, but his eyes widened when the threat to Blair was revealed.

"Blair's my guide, my soul-partner, just like the companion who helped your ancestor keep control of his senses. We've had problems; we've been angry with each other, and I can't tell you what's going to happen with us in the future, but I would never hurt my guide.

"You seem to think if you know the truth about us then you'll trust us when we tell you Blair isn't in danger of me trying to harm him. He is in danger, though." Jim clenched his fists and then slowly, deliberately relaxed them and spread his fingers apart.

"And because I heard what those two assholes said about being paid to kill him from too far away, it's not going to stick if we arrest them. I've been down that road in court, before we wised up and made sure anything I learned with my senses could be backed up by regular evidence.

"These assholes talked about being hired by 'The Man' to kill Blair. I'm betting they don't know his name; I'm betting this was set up through an intermediary. They sounded like they'd both been in prison, but they haven't done contract killing before. They plan to either kill Blair in jail if he gets convicted - so they don't have very good intel on the local situation or they'd know the charges will be dropped - or pick him up hitchhiking when he leaves town. The ghouls were already cackling about spending the money they'll make by burying him in some god-forsaken backwoods."

Findley's eyes had narrowed and his body had stiffened, but he hadn't interrupted Jim so far. He made a get-on-with-it motion with his hand when Jim paused for a moment.

"So I'm showing you my hand, Findley, and I hope to God you think enough of Blair to help me protect him. I am a sentinel. Blair is my guide. We were just friends for years -- he didn't lie about that -- but he didn't come clean about when we became lovers. You said he sleep talked about us being together. It didn't work out so well, and he left me. I'm a stubborn son-of-a-bitch and I let him run." Jim frowned as he admitted his past behavior.

"Meeting up with him again, well, I'm thinking I'd like to see if he'd try again with me. I won't hurt him physically - I'll try not to hurt him emotionally. But whether or not we patch things up, he needs protection. He's the only lead in a murder case, he's indigent and homeless - there is no job waiting for him in North Carolina -- and you know as well as I do that you'd put him in protective custody too, if this were your case."

Findley put up his hand to stop Jim from spilling any more of his guts. "So Blair didn't lie about you in his dissertation? And Blair told me, after he got off the phone, that there would be a job for him in North Carolina."

Jim tightened his hands back into fists. "Oh, he lied all right about his work. But it was to protect me that he named himself a fraud and told the whole god-damned country. That's the lie, that his work was fraudulent. Findley was nodding while Jim explained himself, and the big man softly said, "thought so."

"What he told you about a job carefully left out that any job he finds won't be with that trucking firm he called. The man he talked to this morning reamed him out and fired him, if you can fire someone before they're even hired. What Blair really said is that he's going to try and find work there, but right now he's got no job offers at all. Blair's a master at letting other people make assumptions based on what they think they heard him say. He's the most ethical guy I've ever known, but he can be a devious little shit at times. You can call that man back and ask him what he told Sandburg, if you want to confirm what I'm telling you."

Findley looked thoughtful at Jim's assessment of Blair's tactics, but then leveled his gaze at Jim. "What about the attack you made on him yesterday?"

Jim sighed and restrained himself from shrugging his shoulders. Having an attitude wasn't going to help his case here.

"You know, I really don't remember what I did, and I'm sorry as hell for pushing Sandburg around, but I'm thinking it was a kind of zone - sentinels get them when they concentrate too much on one sense - and I think it was set off from being close to Blair for the first time in a year, plus I'd just figured out from the way he smelled that he was sick." Jim shrugged anyway. And... I could have been initiating sex. I also could have been re-imprinting him on my senses. It's something sentinels do with their guides, according to my guide. It allows my senses to range safely.

"But if I had wanted sex with Blair, I think it would have been consensual. Blair was probably telling me to stop because of where we were, not because he was scared of me. I'm pretty sure it won't happen again, though - my senses have flipped back to being strong again and I've seen him since then and didn't zone.

Findley looked contemplatively at Jim, probably weighing every thing he'd just been told, while Jim waited, trying to disguise his anxiety under a stoic expression.

"Would you be wantin' to keep him here or run for it?" Findley asked matter-of-factly.

"I want to set a trap for Scumbag and Shit-head, then head for Cascade before they can follow, or Bergman, if he's 'The Man,' hires new hit-men to track Blair. And the leak has to be coming from the Cascade P.D. Blair being here was an accident, wasn't it? My information was that he fell asleep while catching a ride and was let out here. He didn't intend to come to Sweetwater; he didn't call anyone and say he was here, did he? Other than calling about a job this morning?"

"Your information was right, Ellison. And he didn't call anybody till this morning. Are you thinkin' your suspect in the murder case found out where Blair was from the Cascade police somehow and arranged for hit-men to come here?"

"He's the only one I know of who would benefit from Sandburg's death, but I'm not shutting the door on any other possibilities. What seems clear to me is that his location was leaked from my P.D. Maybe through bribes, maybe unintentionally, but I'm going to plug that leak up. I'm going to call Simon..." And Jim looked at his watch, and then reached for his cell phone.

Findley asked, "Is that Captain Banks? We've talked before about this case."

"Yeah. Simon Banks, he's the Captain of Major Crimes; he's a good friend and I trust him with my life, and more importantly, with Blair's life. He should be at home; it's still early on the West Coast. And I'm going to have him confirm to you about me being a sentinel. He's known all along about it and he knows Blair as well as anyone does, except me."

Jim held his cell phone in his hand and started turning it over and over. He looked past Findley and cleared his throat.

"Findley, Banks doesn't know that Blair and I were lovers. We weren't out in Cascade. If it means you won't roadblock my custody, I'll tell him now, over the phone, about Blair and me.

"Waiting here for another Cascade officer to take custody will make it more difficult to know if Shit-head and Scumbag or their contact has called in reinforcements. In my opinion, it would be safer to leave after springing the trap on these two yahoos. If we can leave right after court then I think I can get Blair to a safe house in Cascade without being tailed or ambushed. I have some ideas that will make it harder to trace our route and I could use your help to get set up."

Jim looked directly into Findley's eyes. "What do you want me to do?"

Findley was quiet and spent a moment or two rubbing the back of his neck. Looking at Jim, he nodded, and then said, "Call your captain, explain about the threats, and tell him you'll be leavin' with Blair after court. Tell him I know you're a sentinel and Blair's your guide, to clear the way if Captain Banks and I need to talk after you leave here. Make sure he knows you are officially puttin' Blair in protective custody -- I suspect it won't be with the boy's initial cooperation - in case Blair tries to protest to somebody along the way that you've run off with him. I'll give you something official-looking backin' your custody up and it would be a good idea if Banks did too, and he should fax it here to me for you."

Findley blew out his breath in a long sigh. "You can keep your love life private. And you'll probably think I'm stickin' my nose in where it doesn't belong, but if I was you, I'd think long and hard about what kind of message you've sent to Blair by keepin' him your hidden lover. I'm bettin' he thought he was your dirty little secret, if you didn't even tell your friends about him. Are you thinking Banks wouldn't have accepted the two of you as a couple? That he would harass you, make things difficult on the job?"

Jim shook his head no. "He'd have said something like, 'I don't need the details, and Ellison, make sure you check with Personnel about adding him to your insurance policy.' He'd have taken me aside for a beer and told me Blair was good for me, and if I hurt the kid -- I'd have to answer to him. He'd never admit it to Blair, but he's very protective of him. Blair has a knack for getting people to like him."

Findley gave Jim a somber look. "I've come to like Blair, too. I'm trustin' you that you're not goin' to hurt him, since I believe I've finally heard the truth from you. And I know it wasn't easy, talkin' to me like this; you've put Blair's safety over your need for privacy. I won't contact Adult Protective Services about stopping you from traveling with him. Whatever you think I can do to help you get him home safely and to set this trap you want, just let me know."

Jim gave a nod, and as he dialed Simon's home phone number, he began organizing in his head all the steps he would need to take before returning for court later this morning.

The phone rang and rang in Simon's house, leaving Jim time to think about his partner's probable reaction to being placed in protective custody.

Blair, kiddo, I know you're going to fight me on this; I know you're going to say you can elude these killers on your own and you need to find work. I know you're going to say you'll return to Cascade, if necessary, to testify in Bergman's trial when we arrest him. I know you're not going to want to come back with me; you've decided we don't have a future together. You're going to be pissed at me.

Tough shit, Little Shaman. I'm going to take care of you, and protect you, and maybe -- if we can figure out where it went wrong between us -- we can agree to try again as lovers. I fucked up, but you did too, Chief. Guess it took hearing your death planned, for me to realize that I've never stopped loving you, Blair Sandburg.

Finally the phone was picked up and Jim heard a yawn from the other end.

"Banks. And there had better be a damn good reason for calling me this early."

"Simon, it's Jim..."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Crap. Officer Mike needed to slow down a little, or I was going to trip over my shackled feet again. I always did feel more awkward when I was running a fever; my feet and my brain never seemed to want to coordinate very well.

My daytime jailer had a good grip on my arm and was hustling me down the main corridor of the Sweetwater Justice Center. There were people standing around the main door, waiting to be allowed in for their day in court. We didn't go there; instead, Mike turned up a hallway and opened a side door, and still towing me along, we entered the courtroom.

I couldn't wait to hear those sweet words 'case dismissed,' so I could take off all my fashionable jailhouse accessories and get the hell out of Dodge. I'd say goodbye to Dave and thank him for making my time here easier. I'd even say thanks to Officer Mike here; he'd be glad to see the last of me, for sure. Maybe the next guy invited for 'three hots and a cot,' would appreciate his cooking better than I did.

Officer Mike had indulged his curiosity this morning when he bandaged my neck. He'd asked if I had gotten bite marks like that before yesterday. I gave him the party line about me dying and how strange things happened after that. Well, I did die, and plenty of weird shit had followed -- so, not a lie, just a slight misdirection.

Mike guided me over to a row of built-in chairs in the sectioned-off front part of the courtroom and pushed me down into one. "Stay put, hippie-boy," he intoned sternly. I rolled my eyes. Where the hell did he think I would be going, dressed in jail scrubs and wearing shackles?

He gave me another tough-guy look, then spoiled it by shooting me a fast grin.

"In the old courthouse, before the Justice Center here was built, a prisoner was taken down to the basement restroom, and he went out the window, dressed just like you are now -- shackles and all. He then stole the judge's brand new SUV and drove off, in broad daylight. It took two days before he was found again. I thought the judge was going to have a stroke when the idiot deputy who let the prisoner escape broke the news to him. So just stay put, Sandburg, so nobody gets the wrong idea about what you're up to. This is the same judge, and he's been a little touchy ever since that day. The bailiff will keep an eye on you; I've got to get back to the station."

I smiled back at him. "Okay, and um... thanks, man. For feeding me." Mike gave me a little wave as he turned and walked to the exit. I stared at his back, pondering his change in behavior towards me. Huh. I must have been growing on him; Jim would have said I sailed under his radar. Well... Goodbye, Officer Mike - and thanks for all the fish. As soon as I thought that, I choked back a laugh, afraid I might not be able to stop. Sheesh... maybe I should blame my fevered brain for bringing that phrase up from The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Guess hitchhiking was on my mind; I'd be doing it later this morning.

I wondered if Dave would be here or if he'd gone home. His shift was over, after all. And where was Jim? I knew he'd want to talk to me again, get some kind of assurance I would stay in touch with the Cascade Police Department. Maybe I'd call Simon once or twice a month, if Jim didn't want to talk to me after he returned home to Cascade. He'd been so angry when he took me out of my cell yesterday; the grope session he'd had with me couldn't have helped his mood when he'd realized what he'd done. And he'd been awful quick to want to charge me with obstruction of justice when I hadn't wanted to reveal it was him writing those hounding letters. Yep, still mad at me, and after today he might prefer us to have no contact. I'd try and change his mind, but I was prepared for him to reject me, again. Jim's spirit-self had told me that Jim wanted me, but James Joseph Ellison wasn't very open to guidance from the spirit plane. Ah, well.

It was getting close to nine-thirty, and I turned in my seat so I could observe people coming into the courtroom.

The place was filling up with adults, some carrying babies and small children. Most looked somber. Some seemed scared. And then there were the ones who were happily catching up on gossip with other miscreants. Social worker types with badge ID's around their necks, smartly dressed lawyers, city cops, and county deputies all found seats up in my area of the courtroom. This was a real cross-section of the county, I thought, and I idly played around with ideas for a study involving courtroom behavior and rituals, comparing it to the way justice was decided in different tribal societies. 'Well, at least I still can think like an anthropologist, even if I can't get a job as one.'

A bailiff stood up and announced that everybody should rise; court was in session, the Honorable Jimmy Boles presiding.

And then court was in full swing, with names being called, and people shuffling up to stand and be judged. The lawyers presented cases, people made excuses why they hadn't paid fines, why they had violated probation, and why they hadn't paid child support. The judge made dispositions, continued cases, remanded people back to jail, or dropped their charges. Finally, I heard my name called and I got up, but before I could shuffle over to stand in front of the podium, the court clerk whispered something to the judge. He looked irritated-like over at me and told me to sit back down.

O-kay... Not a speedy resolution after all. So I sat and I waited and I waited. The courtroom emptied out slowly. Eventually, I was the only one who hadn't been called. I was beginning to worry that they weren't going to let me go after all. The judge was starting to look downright pissed off, and I received several narrow-eyed glares from him. I concentrated on sending, 'hey, man; not my fault there's a hold-up,' vibes at him and tried to look harmless.

I'd been in court before, of course. I often had sat in when Jim had to testify, and I'd been a witness when Kincaid had his trial for taking over Cascade Police Headquarters. But the first time I'd been in court, I'd been a scared fourteen-year-old kid who had stolen a microscope. The judge had probably been bemused by the fact I'd swiped science equipment to finish a project, instead of cassettes from a record store. Well... that was a long time ago; I didn't really like to think much about that period of my life anymore, and I wiped my sweaty hands on my jail-scrubs.

Slouching down in my seat, because I wouldn't have minded being able to lie down for a while, I tried to think about something else, anything else, other than my early teen years; I settled on mentally practicing my speech to prospective employers.

It sucked - another proof that my karma got ass-kicked again - that Zain's friend had given me the old heave-ho for the job in Charlotte. Still, getting a long-haul trucking job was my first pick; the money was good, and I'd be living in the truck for the most part. I could cut out a lot of living expenses, which would mean more money to allot to paying off my student loans. It was a point of honor for me to pay my loans on time. And if I was going to analyze myself, paying student loans was such a normal thing to do that it had become kind of a centering thing for me, when everything else was so up-in-the-air.

I was calculating how many months of payments I had left, if I tripled what I sent in each month, when the courtroom doors opened, catching my attention. To my surprise both Jim and Dave walked in, Jim heading straight for me. The judge glowered at both of them, sarcastically thanked them for coming, and then called my name. Huh... The judge had been waiting, I guess, for Dave. Jim must have been finishing up paperwork or something with him. I stood up, and Jim walked me over to the podium for the judge's decision. The charges were read, the Assistant District Attorney told the judge the charges were dropped, and then I heard what I'd been hoping to hear all this last week. Case dismissed. Yippee.

All through the legal yammering, Jim had kept a loose grip on my arm. As the judge gathered paperwork and the court staff drifted out the side door, I gently pulled my arm free. Taking a deep breath, I looked up at him and tentatively said, "Jim..."

He looked at me, with eyebrows raised, waiting for me to spit out what I wanted to say. He looked tense, but not angry, so that was a good sign for getting some closure between us.

"I'm going on to North Carolina this morning. You know, to work. Can we talk, before I take off? Somewhere not here, somewhere more private?"

"Yeah, Sandburg. We can do that. I needed to talk to you anyway about keeping in touch with Simon in case you're needed as a witness if Bergman ever goes to trial."

I nodded my agreement and felt my stomach knot up with anxiety. This was going to be it. And he'd said for me to keep in touch with Simon, not him. He was done with me. Probably for the best, but the fairy-tale part of me that just wanted happily ever after went into fetal position. 'Oh, grow up,' I told myself. 'You knew it was over when he had to go to another lover to get what he needed. You just fucked up how you ended it, running away like a little kid instead of doing the adult thing and talking to him about it. Now's your chance to make it right.'

Dave came over to us then and looked me up and down. He reached out and put his hand on my forehead. I sighed and said, "I'm not running a fever anymore. I'll be fine."

"Well, you feel clammy to me. You sure you feel better?" Dave asked as he dropped his hand down to my elbow. I looked over at Jim and he looked impatient. Time to get going.

"I'll be okay."

Dave kept his hand on my elbow; he and Jim both walked me through the hallway back to the station so I could change my clothes and be processed out of jail. Dave must have thought I was fibbing about feeling okay - and I was - because he took his time ushering me back. Quite a change from Officer Mike, who'd made me go as fast as I could for a guy in shackles. At least with Dave, I wasn't tripping over my own feet. As we slowly passed by a small crowd of people hanging around the outside of the courtroom, Jim loudly asked me if I'd like a ride to the Interstate. I wondered if his sense of hearing was off and made a motion to my ears, but he gave a small shake to his head indicating his ears were okay.

So, the road would be our parting place. He'd let me out of his truck somewhere near the entry ramp. My stomach tightened up as I pictured myself hopping out of his classic - just my backpack and me. My own anger from the day before was mostly under control -- a tribute to the power of venting and a night's sleep - maybe I should let it go, but I wanted him to apologize for his rotten letters and explain why he'd acted so out of character for him. Yeah, I was going to insist that he explain his actions. I mean, he never treated Carolyn like she was shit, so why stomp on me like that?

Still... right now, Jim was being agreeable about a ride, so I told him sure, and that we could talk in the truck on the way out of town. We parted ways in the police station, and it was with relief that I shed my shackles and changed back to my own clothes. Obviously there's a ritual for getting out as well as for getting in jail. Might make an interesting part of the research I'd contemplated earlier in the courtroom to amuse myself. Boy, I sure hoped I wouldn't have any more opportunities to field test this study.

When I came back to the front desk, Jim was sitting in the lobby and was holding my backpack in his arms, which was odd. The thing was as grubby as could be, and Jim was cradling it like it was precious to him. Maybe he was holding it because it had my scent on it, and he was using it to ground himself while he extended his senses. I looked around the room, but I couldn't see or hear anything that was in the least bit interesting. I hadn't had a chance to ask him how he was handling his senses these days, then again since he'd zoned I knew they were active.

The front desk guy rummaged through his files; the paperwork was produced, and then it was sign this and sign that and I was free.

Free.

Well... Hell.

A little reluctantly, but nerving myself for this final step, I walked over to Jim, and together we left the Sweetwater Justice Center. I'd asked about Dave while I was changing my clothes and I was told he'd left the station. I had scribbled a note thanking him, basically, for being nice to me, although, I didn't quite phrase it that way because it sounded just too pathetic. He really had made my stay here more bearable.

In silence, I walked down the sidewalk to the parking lot with Jim. I was glad he wasn't trying to talk to me just yet. I had had a lot on my mind this morning, and I was still a bit fuzzyheaded from the last bit of fever I'd run till court was halfway over. I needed to figure out what to bring up first with him: the letters, my apology for leaving the way I did, how he was managing his senses...

Last night, I'd played a few tunes on Dave's guitar... or had it belonged to his brother? Anyway, one line from what I'd played was stuck, stuck, stuck in my head. Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose. I was free, all right. Free to bounce around the country like a god-damned pinball in an old-time arcade game. It felt like I had just as much control as that little silver ball, too, banging off this knob and hurtling down that chute. I was so busy reacting to what life kept throwing at me that I had no idea where I wanted to be headed in the long run. And some routes were closed to me now, and it was stupid to spend time wishing I could redo the past. I couldn't do it; nobody can.

But here I was walking along with a huge part of my past. It was sad, really, that we had fallen apart. I thought about what Jim's sentinel spirit had told me about Jim's yearning to care for me and his desire to be my mate, but I knew I wasn't the one Jim really needed in his life. I'd been a pinch hitter, at most. It still hurt, though.

When I climbed up into Jim's truck, I felt like patting the dashboard, to say hello to an old friend. And when I had that impulse I knew I had to get a grip. It was over. Jim and I were done. Time to make plans and get a goal or two in life. But first, I needed to get that closure from Jim on why we didn't make it. It was about an hour to the Interstate, and this would probably be my last chance to really talk to him. I hoped he would cooperate.

After fastening my seat belt - I hadn't forgotten about Jim's driving style - I cleared my throat and said, hesitatingly, "Jim..."

Jim held up his hand and cocked his head in that familiar listening pose. He was concentrating, so I stayed quiet. He reached over to me and slid his hand behind my neck, letting his fingers fan out into my hair.

'Oh, God. So not down with him using me as an anchor for his senses. Not with me being still vulnerable to his touch.

He listened for a few more minutes, and then moved his hand back to the steering wheel.

"We need gas."

O-kay... Not a mention of what he was listening to, but then he didn't have to share what he was doing with me anymore.

At the gas station at the edge of town, Jim filled his tank while I took a last look at the town of Sweetwater through the truck window. I opened the door, intending to get some cough drops for my sore throat, when Jim looked up from pumping gas.

"Stay in the truck, Sandburg."

"Why? I just need to -- "

"You can't need to piss again already. And I'm in a hurry, so just listen to me here and stay put."

"Jeez, did'ya wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning? Hey... what do you mean about 'again?' Oh, man - were you listening to me in the bathroom when I changed clothes? So not cool, Jim." I slammed the truck door shut and leaned back against the seat.

Jim didn't answer me, just used his credit card to pay at the pump, and climbed back in. I decided to let the eavesdropping go. I had more important things to talk about and didn't need to get sidetracked. And I knew he started doing the checking thing back in the loft after I'd moved in. He'd given himself away a few times with remarks after I came out of the bathroom, and it didn't bother me then. It was just the sentinel checking out his territory and his guide. But I wasn't his guide anymore, so... hello - privacy issues.

As we drove down the road, me with my eyes carefully watching the mostly bare trees go by, I decided to start with the heavy-duty discussion.

"O-kay. I want to start off by saying I really regret and apologize for anything I've done that's hurt you. I know now that I should have talked with you before I left Cascade, made you understand why I couldn't stay near you when you decided to end our relationship. I've done the 'let's just be friends thing' with other people before, but I couldn't with you. I was in too deep with you. But it was a chicken-shit thing to do and I can see that now, man. So I'm sorry, Jim."

Jim didn't say anything, just sighed and I decided to stop being a wuss and look at him. He had his hands wrapped tightly around the steering wheel and an unhappy expression on his face as he watched the rear-view mirror.

I took a deep breath, and continued my practiced speech. "Are you happy with Melissa? I hope you're happy, if not with her then with somebody else you've found. You deserve to have a good life with a partner you can be open about, and I know that partner was never meant to be me. I was just a pinch hitter for whoever will be your true guide and partner."

Jim glanced sideways at me and then kept his gaze on the road. "Blair... I'm not with Melissa or anybody. I never was with Melissa. I was on the job when you saw us at that bar and Simon didn't know it, because he'd been on vacation. I know you called him and checked up on me."

What...

"You should have trusted me, Sandburg, but I'm the one really at fault. I... I set you up to fail." Jim laughed a little sickly, and his words felt foreign to me. He shrugged his shoulders and I watched him, my eyes drawn helplessly to his face, watching the disgusted expression settle on it; my ears hearing noises that sounded like words, but just didn't make sense.

"Guess some of Dad's strategies sank in after all, but I didn't really see it at the time. I think... what I wanted was that no matter what it looked like, you would trust me and stick with me. Well, it backfired. You went all noble and self-sacrificing, leaving me to have -- what was the phrase in that note you left - 'a fulfilled life with a guide and lover you could be proud of, and not one you were ashamed of being seen with by your friends and family.' Or something close to that."

Jim looked apologetically at me for a moment, his eyes... his eyes looked... "Blair -- I'm sorry. Sorry I kicked in your flight reflex with my stupid fucking behavior."

My head was spinning from what he was telling me, and I wasn't sure I'd heard him correctly. I turned around in my seat so I could see him better.

"Wait... Wait one fucking minute here! Are you telling me you weren't cheating on me? Why... Why did you send me that note then, asking if I wanted to fuck you both, when I was interviewing for another job at that bar?" I worked hard at keeping my voice from trembling... But it did anyway. Jim's teeth tugged at his lip as he gazed regretfully at me.

"I thought at the time that I needed to protect my cover, and asking you to do a threesome was so out there I figured you'd know it was a fake and I was undercover." Jim took a deep breath and held it for a minute and then blew it out in a big sigh.

"But now... I think I worded it that way to see if you'd trust me despite that note and you seeing with your own eyes I was involved with somebody else. I was an asshole and I'm sorry. It wasn't fair to you..." Jim's words slid back into that foreign language and I could see his lips moving but I didn't get it. I just didn't get it.

I felt my head start to throb and I just stared at Jim, wordless, but my hands kept tightening and my stomach kept trying to do flips. I wanted to cry, but I told myself sternly to keep it buttoned up. Like hell would I let Jim see me crying in front of him.

I turned back around in my seat so my back was mostly to him, and I stared out the window at the passing countryside.

"Blair..."

I gave a tiny shake of my head and he didn't say anything else to me.

Blair's in shock over what I told him, I think. I wanted to ask him about the lover he'd left Cascade with, but he didn't even blink when I mentioned I knew he'd gone with him. I decided to forget it for now; I think I've dropped enough bombshells on him in the last twenty minutes.

He's going to be even more upset when he finds out he's in protective custody. I didn't tell him back in Sweetwater that I was taking him back with me to Cascade. I couldn't take a chance on him not cooperating with me and messing up my plans to trap the two men who plan to kill him. I'll take his being pissed at me if it means he's safe.

Scumbag and Shit-head are behind us in their Jeep Cherokee. They've been following the trail of breadcrumbs I've left for them, from 'overhearing' me offering Sandburg a ride to the Interstate to making sure we were in their eyesight by stopping at the gas station.

I'm sure Sandburg thought I was being overbearing when I told him to stay in the truck, but I didn't want to take any chances with his would-be-killers running him down or shooting him when they caught up to us at the gas station.

We're almost to where the trap is going to be sprung; hopefully, these two assholes will be taken out of the picture. But they were just flunkies; Simon and I don't know who was pulling their strings. Until we do, Blair's going to have to be protected. Not to mention the original reasons for placing him in custody are still valid. I know he's going to object and not want to come, but if I have to, I'll put him back in cuffs and shackles. He can be furious with me if he wants to, but he'll be alive.

When I heard those murdering sons of bitches joking about raping and killing Blair, I realized how much I wanted to keep him safe and be with him again. Yeah, I was angry with him, I still am about some things, but it seems really petty now, when he could have lost his life today. And just thinking about him being sick and hitchhiking makes me want to wrap him up and hug him.

Maybe... I hope... we can talk to each other on the ride to Cascade and work things out. He said he was just a pinch hitter, but he's got that wrong. I think he's the all-star, and I want him to be my guide and partner. I want to see him wearing the silver-star necklace I gave him our first Christmas to show him how much I cared for him. I found it in his backpack, and it gives me hope that Blair still has feelings for me.

So, Chief, I'm going to start a new mantra. Please be my lodestar again. And I hope that I can convince you to take another chance on us, after you're done being pissed at me for springing protective custody on you.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Jim... Melissa... the tightening in my chest when Simon had told me they were seeing each other... separating out my stuff to dump off at Goodwill or to take with me in the Volvo... deciding I didn't give a shit if anybody saw me crying when I drove out of Cascade...

I was lost in my own thoughts, eyes staring out the passenger window, replaying the events that led to my decision to leave Jim and move away from Cascade; as a result I didn't notice the truck slowing down, until I saw flashing lights up ahead out of the corner of my eye.

While we glided to a complete stop, I had turned towards Jim, and had seen we were coming up to a roadblock. There were several police cars there, and an officer waiting for Jim to roll down his window. I looked over at the short freckle-faced man and tried to remember his name. Clayton. I gave a half-hearted wave to him since I'd met him back at the Sweetwater police station.

"You be careful now, Sandburg," said Clayton, nodding to me, when he gave Jim back his license and registration.

"Man, from now on, I promise to avoid like the plague any drunk teenagers while I'm hitchhiking," I fervently answered, and waved goodbye to him while we pulled away. Rather than trying to talk to me, Jim kept looking back at a Jeep Cherokee that had pulled up for their turn at the license and registration gig. Maybe he'd gotten tired of making the attempt. I hadn't been very cooperative, after all. Not after he'd dropped his 'Melissa wasn't my girlfriend' bomb and exploded my head.

He had kept talking after I stopped taking in what he was saying. I think I'd lost the plot after he talked about his 'trust test.' He had given up explaining his actions, when I didn't respond, for staring at the rear-view mirror. And he was doing it again, keeping his eyes on the rear-view mirror, and man, he looked tense and ready to jump out of the truck.

Jim Ellison never was very comfortable talking out emotional stuff, not that I was feeling great about it either. I took a deep breath to center myself, and then sighed; I still didn't feel like talking to him about his trust exam that I'd so spectacularly failed. I just felt kind of sick about messing up so bad. But I decided to force myself to resume discussing how our bond as lovers fell apart; this was my last chance to shift Jim and me to being on friendly terms.

Maybe we could make the transition back to friends... and maybe not. Oh, hell. I didn't know what I wanted. And I glanced over at Jim again, to see if he looked more approachable now. He didn't, and I slouched down on Sweetheart's bench seat, feeling miserable and sick.

I didn't know if we would ever feel comfortable with hanging out as friends again, but if we could get past how we hurt each other we could call each other once in a while. If Bergman went to trial in Cascade, and I had to testify, possibly we could get together for old times sake. But not at the loft, it would be better to meet at a bar or restaurant. It would have to be beer we drank. Wine - like the wine we drank the night we became lovers - would not seem right, now that we weren't with each other anymore.

Or maybe I was just deluding myself. Wouldn't be the first time, either. Perhaps it would be best if Jim and I severed our connection totally. A cauterized wound hurts terribly but has a chance of healing then. I felt like I'd been slowly bleeding to death for a year, and I wanted it to stop. I bit my lower lip and looked again over at my ex-lover.

Oh, what the fuck. I still had things to say to Jim. He'd been quiet, his eyes frequently focused on the mirrors, although there weren't any cars following us. I suspected he was looking behind us so intently as a way of not having to deal anymore with me. Well, tough shit. I straightened up and turned in my seat.

"Jim? You never treated Carolyn like the enemy after your divorce, so why did you go so far out of your way to get revenge on me? Why did you write those fucking letters to screw me over? I think I have the right to know. You must have been so hurt, so angry, so... Way the fuck out of line, buddy. And I know I can get past what you did and let it go, but first, I really need to hear why you hated me so much that you kept tracking me down to fuck up my chances of making a new home."

Jim didn't answer me; instead he turned the truck right at the next road.

"Jim! I need answers here. And you shouldn't have turned on this road; it's a straight shot from Sweetwater to I-40."

"This is a short cut." Jim frowned. "Blair, I don't hate you. I never have. I was pissed off at you, yes. I'm mostly over that."

Jim fell silent for a minute and I waited for the rest of it. I'd lived with this guy for years; I could tell when he was getting ready to drop the other shoe.

Jim shook his head, and a disgusted and angry look crossed his face. "But why the hell you believed... Shit. I didn't write those letters. Somebody else did and used my name; I intend to find out who went to the trouble of disrupting your jobs like that and why they involved me. So go ahead, Saint Blair, and bless me with your forgiveness because it wasn't me. I don't know why you'd think I'd do that to you. Did it sound like something I'd do? You really think I'm that mean, petty, and vengeful?"

"What? It wasn't you?" I must have sounded doubtful because Jim got angrier. And louder.

"Sandburg! If I'd wanted to kick your ass I would have shown up in person. Have you ever known me to go behind someone's back to stick the knife in? If I have a problem with someone I'm upfront about it. I don't play fucking mind games. You should have trusted me, Blair. Should have realized sending poison pen letters isn't my style."

Jim pushed a little harder on the accelerator, and as the truck sped up he said, "If you were so convinced it was me behind those letters, why the hell didn't you call me and raise Cain about it?"

"I didn't want to talk to you." I yelled right back at him. Oh, shit! This was developing into a train wreck, all right.

"Then why didn't you call Simon?" Jim shot back at me.

"Because I didn't want you to get into trouble! I was hoping you'd run out of steam about the revenge thing and stop on your own. And about you being upfront with people - you weren't with me, were you? You had to come up with a test instead of telling me you doubted me. And the note inviting me to jump into bed with you and that woman, and the way you talked to me about my bar job, and smacking my ass when I left for work - the hell those weren't mind games!"

Too angry, Blair. Just let it go; let it go. This isn't helping to reach the friends-again objective here. I practiced some deep breathing before I continued talking in a more conciliatory tone of voice.

"And yeah, I thought being vindictive was out of character, but then I wasn't sure anymore if I'd really known you." My voice had dwindled down and I didn't keep the argument going. What was the point? I just watched the world go by from my window, and looked over at Jim every so often. I used to be his observer, after all.

Jim shut up too, for about 5 minutes. I could tell he was still mad, because that vein in his forehead was throbbing. Finally he took a couple of deep breaths and looked at me.

"Blair, this is important. Do you trust me now? If I ask you to do something for your own safety will you do it? I'm apologizing right now for any stupid behavior on my part that made you think I wanted revenge on you for leaving me. From your point of view, I guess it made some kind of sense, but I didn't plot against you while you were gone; I shut you out of my mind instead. I refused to think about you; I denied what your leaving meant to me, or I did after the initial shock of finding you'd turned to another man so quickly.

"But now, right now, will you trust me?" Jim slowed down the truck and pulled into a graveled farm driveway while I tried to make sense of what he'd said. Trust him, why? What was going on? And what did he mean by another man?

I thought we were turning around, but instead Jim pulled the truck behind a barn and stopped. You couldn't see them from the road, but we weren't alone; there was a police car and another truck parked close to us. Oh, man... To say I was getting a bad feeling about this was an understatement.

"Jim, what's --" But Jim had hopped out of the truck and was opening my door. I'd unfastened my seat belt, and he grabbed my thighs and swung me around in the seat so I faced him, my legs dangling.

"Blair. Just trust me, okay? There are two hit-men after you, and your life is in danger. I'm putting you in protective custody; actually, you've been in it since court this morning. The paperwork's all set up; Findley and I have worked out an escape plan and we have to move now!

Jim had placed his hands on my shoulders, his fingers accenting the urgency of his claim that my life was in danger. "Are you going to cooperate? Please, Blair. I'll explain things while we're driving."

"I'm going with you? You're taking me back to Cascade?" I could feel my heart start to race and felt a panic attack just waiting to jump me. "No, no, no, I don't think so. I'm not going into protective custody. I've got to get a job! Me? Stay with you? Oh, Jim -- that's so not a good idea. Tell me what's going on; I'll come up with another option, one that doesn't involve protective custody."

But Jim just shook his head. "We've got to leave right now. Promise me you'll cooperate, Blair. Don't make me cuff you, okay? Just trust me, this is for your own good." Jim was holding my arms now as well as blocking me from getting out of the truck. I started to struggle against his hold. I couldn't stay with him; it would kill me to be in such close contact and know he was finished with me. I'd take my chances on whatever new problem had surfaced. I was capable; I'd manage whatever was wrong on my own.

Jim yelled, "Findley!" while I was trying to squirm past him. I had just decided to play dirty and was trying to knee Jim in the balls when Dave moved in and snapped cuffs on my wrists. Jim leaned into me while Dave reached down and grabbed my ankle and -- damn it all to hell! Dave had shackled my legs.

I felt the heat of anger just boil through me, and I really started struggling then. I kept telling them to let me go, it wasn't fair, I hadn't done anything wrong! Dave and Jim pulled me from the truck, and Dave restrained me by wrapping his arms around my chest from behind me. I could hardly move, but I tried. I threw myself against his arms and tried to turn my body to wiggle out from his hold, but all I did was exhaust myself. I glared at Jim and yelled at him to turn me loose, but he wouldn't look at me. Instead he focused his attention on Dave.

"Findley, talk to him; see if you can get him to see reason here."

Jim started moving stuff out of his truck and into another truck. Obviously, we were switching vehicles. Jim had planned this out, God damn him, without telling me anything. He'd totally disregarded any input I might have had into how to get out of whatever mess this was.

I wasn't happy with Dave either. He said, "Blair!" and when I ignored him he lifted me off my feet to get my attention. God-damned dominance displays. I was sick and tired of alpha guys doing the picking up thing with me. My next life - I want to be six feet tall at least. But Dave did have my attention as I felt my toes leave the ground.

"Blair, now just simmer down. We don't have time for you to be throwin' a fit. I've heard Ellison's story, and I believe him. It'd be best if he left with you right away, so the ones huntin' you can lose the scent. We know you didn't do anything wrong. You're not bein' arrested; you're in protective custody. And if this was my case, I'd do the same. Ellison is tryin' to keep you alive. As his guide, you know that your sentinel places your safety above his own. Don't make this harder on him. He didn't tell you earlier because he was afraid you'd react this way; it would have tipped off the two killers who were followin' you."

I didn't want to listen but as I exhausted myself struggling I decided to play along, so I could get out of these cuffs and shackles. I went limp, and Dave set me back down.

I saw Jim talking to one of the other cops, and then he headed back to us. As he faced me, it hit me what Dave had said about Jim being my sentinel. Did Jim tell him, or was he making a guess? Dave had checked me out, so maybe he was bluffing about what he knew.

Jim answered my unspoken question. "Yeah, he knows I'm a sentinel, and that you and me were lovers. Blair, we have to go. The cops are holding the hit-men at the roadblock, but if they don't find something to charge them with they'll be back on the road looking for you. Will you trust me?

Jim looked expectantly at me, but I couldn't lie to him and I wasn't going to give my word when I didn't know the whole story. So I just shook my head. Jim gave a sigh and looked disappointed. I guess I failed another one of his fucking tests.

He and Dave hustled me over to the Ford Ranger, and Dave kept me by the side of the used truck. Jim took his Jags baseball cap off and gave it to Dave. It dawned on me that Dave was wearing clothes similar to Jim's outfit; Dave was going to be the decoy.

While Jim went around to the driver's side and got in the Ranger, Dave quietly said to me, "I'm trustin' that I'm reading Ellison right, but if you tell me that you think he'll hurt you, I'll take you into custody until Cascade sends out another officer."For a brief second I thought about saying yes, so I wouldn't have to climb in that truck and spend days together with Jim.

I couldn't fuck Jim over that way, though. No matter how mad I was right now at him. I shook my head.

"You read him right. He won't hurt me." I raised my voice; I wanted Jim to hear me loud and clear. "But I'm not promising to stay with him, either." Dave opened the passenger door and boosted me up into the seat. He pulled the seat belt snug around me, and patted me on the shoulder.

"Blair, I'll be keepin' in touch. And I left you a present; maybe it will help keep your mind off of your troubles. Ellison, drop my cell phone in the mail to me when you get another secure phone. All Blair's medical information is in the folder on the seat, as well as the custody paperwork. You're all set up for your first night out; directions and the phone number of the place are on top of the folder. I'm headed out to the truck stop, so take care and I'll talk to y'all later."

Dave climbed into Sweetheart - I couldn't believe Jim was letting him borrow his truck -- and drove away, disappearing away from the barn. I was pissed at Jim and Dave -- Christ, they had ganged up on me! I didn't need protective custody. If I wanted to, I could disappear. I knew people - the kind of people who didn't live a mainstream life - that could steer me to places where I'd slide into the underground economy and not leave a trail.

Jim started the engine and pulled over to the cop car. He rolled the window down and asked the officer if there was any news. I recognized him; another one of Sweetwater's finest. Dillon shook his head and said, "They're still running the plates and Ids. You'd better get going now."

We drove away in the opposite direction from where Dave had gone back towards I-40, and the police car followed us at a respectable distance. Jim had a bleak, set expression on his face. I really couldn't give a shit if he thought he was doing the right thing or not. This was fucking unfair! I was sure I could ditch whoever wanted my ass. Once again, Jim didn't trust me.

"How long do we get an escort? Or are they waiting to see if I'm going to jump from the truck?"

"They're following us to the county line." He looked grimly at me. "And should I be concerned about you leaping out of the truck and breaking your neck?"

I didn't answer. Let him worry about how seriously I would fight protective custody. He knew I wouldn't jump; I'd only hurt myself, and Jim would be around to pick me up before I could even try and run for it. But I was making him no guarantees for the future.

Christ. I was going back to Cascade. In restraints. With no job. No home, either. I dreaded seeing the guys from Major Crimes. They'd know what a failure I was now.

And Jim. Man, being with him -- but you know, not being with him -- was going to tear me up. I sighed; I could feel the adrenaline crash starting to take over my body. And it was funny; I wanted to feel angry again, but instead I just felt kind of numb. And really, really tired. I didn't have the energy to deal with Jim right now. I slumped in the seat and closed my eyes so I wouldn't have to look at him.

"Blair." Involuntarily, my eyes flicked open towards him. Still grim, still convinced he knew what was best for me.

"I overheard the two guys in that Jeep Cherokee talking about raping and killing you. You've got a contract out on you, and the leak to your whereabouts came from the Cascade P. D."

'That's crazy'! I thought, and something of that must have shown on my face because Jim nodded.

"It's fucked up, all right, and I'm not taking any chances on you getting hurt. You need to trust me on this one, partner, and let me make sure you're going to stay in one piece." Jim rolled his shoulders and neck muscles; in the old days that was his way of asking for a neck rub. I stared at him unblinkingly; hired killers, protective custody, my ex-lover's company for days - I was thrilled.

"Findley helped me get this truck from his cousin. He's going to drive mine out to the Interstate and end up at the truck stop, act like you had been in the truck and then had left hitchhiking. If anybody tracks him in my old truck, they'll think you went east, since he's going to mention to the clerks that his hitchhiker was headed to Charlotte. Then he's driving west to the next exit, getting off and returning on a back road. My old truck's going to stay hidden for a while."

Jim reached out his hand and fingered the manacles on my left wrist. He muttered, "I don't like these on you." He slid his hand off my cuffs, holding onto my arm instead. He squeezed it and then held on tightly. I let him. I might as well let him do what he wanted. He would anyway.

"Blair, I'm sorry I couldn't tell you earlier, but I couldn't trust your reaction. I needed Shit-head and Scumbag to follow you to the roadblock. If you'll give me your promise about staying in custody, I won't have to keep you restrained." He cleared his throat. "You're the most ingenious guy I've ever met; I want your word that you won't try and get away, won't try and strike out on your own, won't try and disable me. I'm not going to let you be a target, even if you end up hating me for it. I know you'll keep your word; so, buddy, can you give it?

"Blair..."

I closed my eyes; I was shutting down. I'd heard everything he'd said, but it was too much effort to respond. Jim didn't try and talk anymore, but he didn't let go of my arm either. We drove on towards Cascade in silence.

TO BE CONTINUED IN A FAIR DISTANCE, PART TWO: BALL AND CHAIN

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End

A Fair Distance. Part One: Running on Empty by Laurie aka laurie_ky on lj: holler@duo-county.com
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