Author's webpage: http://arii.simplenet.com

Author's disclaimer: Not intended to infringe on the rights of any copyright holders for The Sentinel or Highlander: The Series.

Author's notes: If you like this story, thank Carla, who gave me the idea and the image that drives the plot (such as it is ;-). She gets megakudos for the beta too. She put a lot of time and energy into helping me 'flesh' it out. Any inaccuracies, spelling mistakes, typos, etc. are mine.

The Right Man - part one
by Bette Bourgeois

Detective James Ellison, Cascade PD, and his partner, Blair Sandburg, doctoral candidate in anthropology at Rainier University --Sentinel and Guide-- were headed home in the wee small hours of the morning after a long night's work. The stake-out had been successful and back-up had been ready. The bust had gone down without a hitch, and a half dozen perps were arrested and on their way to holding cells for the night. Ellison and his partner were headed home for a couple of hours shut-eye before they had to be back at the station bright and early to do their part in finishing up the case.

They'd helped shut down a small mom-and-pop drug operation run out of a rundown farm out in the countryside just beyond the city limits. Returning to the city, they had just pulled onto the Cascade Narrows Bridge when something flashed on the roadway ahead of them, momentarily blinding Jim's highly sensitive sentinel sight.

"Whoa!" He automatically slowed the truck until his eyesight had recovered enough to be able to tell what had caught his eye.

"What is it, Jim?" Blair looked at his partner as they slowed.

"Something on the bridge up ahead. A bright flash of light, like a spark or something," Jim answered. He edged the truck slowly forward, not wanting to put the two of them in unnecessary danger if there was something structurally wrong with the bridge. As they got closer, Jim could make out two dark figures moving back and forth across the bridge. When they moved closer together, he saw the sparks again.

"They're swords!" Jim exclaimed in shocked surprise.

"What?" Blair didn't understand what Jim meant. "Swords?"

"It's two guys fighting with swords," Jim explained, pressing down on the accelerator now that he'd identified the problem. "When their swords clash, there's this spark of light."

Jim's partner squinted as he peered through the windshield of the truck in an effort to see as far as the Sentinel. It was a hopeless cause. "Who would be out practising sword fighting on Cascade Narrows Bridge at 3 o'clock in the morning?" Blair's tone was skeptical. He still couldn't see anybody. He wondered if Jim's fatigue was getting to him. It had been a long stakeout, made even longer with the perps arriving on the scene just as their shift was due to end at midnight.

Jim slowed the truck as they came closer, keeping his eyes pinned on the two figures in the long dark coats. It was the strangest thing he had ever seen. Surely they weren't actors rehearsing for a play or a film, were they? There were no film crew trucks on the bridge. In fact, as far as he could see, there were no other vehicles at all in sight. The detective's truck had just gotten close enough for his partner to finally catch sight of two dark figures silhouetted against the night, when one of them slumped to the ground.

"Jesus!" Jim shouted and jammed on the brakes, throwing the gear shift into park.

"What?!" Blair lurched beside him as the truck rocked to a halt. He threw out his hands to prevent an uncomfortable meeting with the dashboard. Jim hardly ever swore, and when he did it was a bit of a shock.

"He just cut the other guy's head off!" Jim cried out in disbelief. He had his door open and was climbing out, when all hell broke loose. At least, that's what his enhanced eyesight was telling him. Flashes of lightning appeared out of nowhere, striking the bridge abutments, skittering along metal surfaces. Light bulbs exploded overhead on both sides of the bridge, sending glass shards into the air like confetti. "Stay in the truck!" Jim shouted at Blair above the din and he backed up against the front bumper of the truck himself watching the scene before him wide-eyed with wonder.

A strange glow surrounded the decapitated body and it slowly began to levitate into the air. Jim blinked, not believing what his eyes were telling him. Then a bolt of lightning struck the man who was standing to the side of the body. Jim's own body jerked in shock as he watched bolt after bolt hit the standing figure. The man shook and staggered, throwing his arms up over his head, sword still clenched in one fist, pointing now at the night sky. Jim heard the man scream in agony and watched as the same strange glow began to light up his body as it had the one hanging above the blacktop.

"Jesus!" Jim whispered the imprecation, or was it a prayer this time?

He watched a bolt of lightning strike the man's sword and travel down the upraised arm right into the man's body and watched that body jerk in reaction. Jim asked himself, how could that guy still be standing? Something touched Jim's arm and he jerked violently in reaction himself, turning towards the touch. "What?!" he choked out in anger. Then seeing Blair standing beside him, "I thought I told you to stay in the damn truck?!" Another shower of sparks fell from the top of the bridge and filled the night sky.

"Jim," Blair glanced into Jim's shocked gaze and then back to the drama on the roadway. "Jim, that is no natural phenomenon happening there. There are no clouds in the sky. Look at all the stars," he pointed to the night sky, drawing Jim's gaze there. "That lightning is not coming from the sky, Jim. It's coming from those two guys on the bridge," he pointed again, in awe at the sight.

Jim's eyes had been drawn back to the men on the bridge again too. "No," Jim corrected Blair. "It's coming from the guy with the missing head." Jim watched as the dead body dropped onto the bridge, lifeless, a limp black shape in the darkness. The standing figure finally slumped to its knees. Jim heard the clang of the sword as he saw it fall from the man's hand. He saw the man bend forward, curling over on himself, his head meeting pavement as he seemed to crumple slowly, still surrounded by a faint aura of electricity. "And it was being drawn into the other guy."

"What?!" Blair stared at Jim. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," Jim stated. "I saw arcs of it stretching from the dead body to the guy standing with the sword. It looked like his body was drawing it in like a magnet." Jim was silent for a moment, considering his own words and how unbelievable they actually sounded. "Damnedest thing I've ever seen, Chief," he muttered. Turning to his partner, he shot him a sharp glare. "You stay here by the truck or I'll beat the livin' daylights out of you when we get home," he threatened. "Understood, Blair?"

Blair just nodded and then watched Jim head toward the slumped figures about a hundred feet ahead of them on the bridge. As Jim got closer, Blair heard the detective call out.

"Cascade PD! Are you all right, sir?"

Jim watched as the man kneeling on the road jerked upright and turned his head. The dark eyes flashed open and Jim got a good look at the saturnine features glowing a dull white in the darkness. A jolt of recognition pierced the Sentinel's memory and then was gone as the man moved. Jim watched as the crouched figure reached for the sword lying near, using it to lever himself unsteadily to his feet. He then staggered back away from the approaching detective.

Jim saw the sword swing around and point towards him. Pulling his gun from its holster he took a bead on the man's heart and called out, "Cascade PD! Put down your weapon and step away from it!" The sword disappeared, but Jim didn't see it hit the pavement. Then the man turned and started running in the opposite direction. "Stop!" Jim yelled. "Police! Stop or I'll have to shoot!"

The figure stopped and turned to face Jim. That jolt of recognition hit the Sentinel again when he saw the moonlight on the long nose cast a large shadow across the handsome face. Then he watched in horror as the man rushed to the side of the bridge and climbed the railing.

"NO!" Jim shouted in horror, but it was too late. He saw the long coat flap and then the figure was no longer outlined against the bright lights of Cascade. "NO!" Jim shouted again in denial at what his own eyes were telling him. He raced over to the side of the bridge in time to see a gigantic splash as something hit the water in the gorge, and then the surface smoothed out as if it had swallowed the man whole. No body floated to the top; no coat, no nothing. He had vanished. If Jim hadn't seen the splash with his own eyes, he wouldn't have believed it had happened.

Jim looked back at his truck. Blair, seeing the signal, came rushing over. He stood beside Jim, looking down into the depths of the black waters beneath the bridge.

"I can't believe he jumped," Blair stuttered. "Where'd he go?" His gaze searched both banks, and then down the river as far as he could see.

"He vanished," Jim replied in a dazed voice. "He hit the water and just vanished. Reminds me of the stunt that Lash pulled."

"Lash survived the jump," Blair reminded Jim.

"Yeah, and maybe this guy did too," Jim muttered. He pulled out his cell phone. "Better get a team out here."

"This one's going to take a lot of explaining," Blair shook his head in bewilderment.

"Simon is not gonna believe this one," Jim agreed.

"Let me get this straight," Captain Simon Banks, head of the Major Crime division, Cascade PD, removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. Why did Ellison and Sandburg always have to bring him these kinds of cases? Couldn't they stick to car-jackings and bank robberies? He swore that every psycho on the continent made their way to Cascade just to take on his best detective and his partner.

Simon cleared his throat. "You saw a guy in a black trench coat use a sword to decapitate his opponent in a sword-fight on Cascade Narrows Bridge at 3 o'clock in the morning." He glanced from one stone-faced man to the other. He'd lost track of the number of times he'd asked them to repeat this. They were obviously starting to get irritated with his tone of disbelief. "Said decapitator was then struck repeatedly by lightning even though there wasn't a cloud in the sky all night." He checked their expressions again. Sandburg had closed his eyes, as if he could hide from the expression in Simon's. "The suspect then brandished his sword at Jim in a threatening manner," here he paused to meet Jim's eyes, but Jim was staring at the ceiling. "And when asked to disarm, threw himself off the Cascade Narrows Bridge, into the gorge below, where he disappeared from sight, never to be seen again." He pushed his glasses back on his face and checked out his two men again, hoping that the addition of his eye wear would help him see something that he was missing without them. "Is that right?"

"Yes," Jim and Blair chorused without a missed beat. They'd been rehearsing this for the past half hour and had it down pat by now.

"Gentlemen," Simon removed his glasses again. They hadn't helped. "This makes no sense."

"You're right," Ellison agreed. He exchanged a look with Blair, who tried valiantly to hide a smile.

"Why do you two bring me reports that make no sense, gentlemen?" Simon asked.

"They're the facts, sir," Jim pointed out solemnly.

"Don't you get lippy with me, Ellison," Simon threatened with a sharp voice.

"I was there, Simon," Blair piped up. "That makes two of us who saw it." He didn't look at Jim, but he knew his partner was either smiling or trying hard to hide one.

Simon's sharp retort was cut off as a knock on his door interrupted them and it opened. Rhonda, his secretary, stepped through the door holding a manila folder. "The autopsy report you were waiting for, sir?" she smiled at Simon. She handed it to Blair, who was nearest the door, and he passed it on to the captain, who had stood up to receive it.

"Thanks, Rhonda," Simon accepted the folder. "Anything on our John Doe yet?" His secretary just shook her head, shrugged and backed out the door again, closing it gently.

Jim and Blair watched Simon reseat himself behind his desk, opening the folder as he did. They waited while he read its contents.

"Cause of death: decapitation." Simon snorted. "No kidding." He read further. "Body subjected to extreme heat post-mortem." He raised his eyebrows as he stared up at Jim.

"I watched an electrical field of some kind engulf his body." Jim's voice was calm, cool and insistent. "It then discharged itself as lightning into the body of the other man."

"And blew out every light on the bridge in the process," Blair added. "Glass was flying everywhere."

"Sandburg, I thought you were in the truck," Simon growled at Blair.

"Simon," Blair sighed. "Those flashes of lightning lit up the bridge like it was midday."

The captain sighed in frustration. "Okay, okay." He waved his hands in front of himself in a signal of surrender, defeated by their certainty. "Let's just forget about the light show for a moment. What we have here is a homicide and a suicide."

"Without a second body," Jim reminded him. "They've been dragging the Narrows since dawn and haven't found anything; not a body, not a sword, not even a trench coat. Same for the ground crew. Nothing found on either bank."

"Well, maybe if we can get this headless body identified, we can start looking into who might want him dead," Simon suggested.

"The prints are working their way through channels, sir," Jim assured him. "Nothing has shown up on the local database. Nothing from the Feds so far. We've sent them to Interpol. It's a long shot, but it's all we've got."

Simon sighed. "All right. Keep me posted."

"We're off to get some lunch," Jim announced as he and Blair headed for the door.

"All right. Get out of here," Simon muttered and went back to the report in front of him.

Jim and Blair found an empty booth in the diner just down the street from the precinct. The place did a nice hot corned beef on rye that even Sandburg could appreciate. The first rush of lunch hour was over and they had plenty of seats to choose from. The waitress was friendly and Blair smiled a thanks as Jim took his first bite.

"So, what if nothing comes up on the prints?" Blair started the conversation. "Have we got any other options?"

Jim swallowed. "We might."

"Like what?" his partner mumbled around a mouthful.

"I think I recognized the guy who jumped," Jim stopped chewing for a moment, once again trying to place the face: long nose, intense eyes, narrow jaw, short hair. He couldn't come up with anything other than a feeling of familiarity.

"You're kidding?" Blair stopped eating too. "From where? Why didn't you say anything to Simon?"

"Well, that's just it," Jim complained. "I don't remember where or why he seems familiar. I can see the face in my mind's eye, but damned if I can put him in a place or with a name. With the attitude Simon was giving us on this case so far, I didn't want to add my frustrations to his. I mean, a face that I recognize but can't identify isn't much help."

"Well, hell, we've reconstructed memories for you before," Blair argued. "We can give that another try. No reason why it can't work again."

"Okay," Jim agreed. "But tonight, at home. I can't concentrate on something like that here at work. And I want to go through the mug shots first and see what happens with those prints."

After lunch Blair headed off to the university to teach an afternoon class. Jim was still mired in mug shots when the phone rang on his desk. The good news was that Interpol had identified their John Doe and were faxing the info even as the agent spoke with Jim on the phone. As soon as he had the sheets in his hand Jim slipped them into a folder and knocked on Simon's office door.

"What now?" Simon didn't even look up from his computer screen where he was typing a report.

"Interpol have IDed our John Doe, Captain," Jim came in and closed the door. "Smuggler working out of Eastern Europe. Name of Jacques Cartier. Runs a legit import/export business out of Prague. They've contacted his company," here Jim checked the reports, "and his office says he's on an American buying trip. He didn't have any business in Cascade as far as they know, but he was due Friday in San Francisco."

"And nobody has any idea why he would be stopping in Cascade," Simon concluded sourly.

"The agent with Interpol promised to fax details of his itinerary as soon as they can get it from his office; probably sometime tomorrow. Until then," Jim shrugged, "there's not much else to do but wait."

"All right," Simon agreed. "Got anything else for me?"

"Well," Jim reluctantly sat down across from his captain. "Sort of."

"Sort of?" Simon sighed. "What does that mean, and do I really want to know?"

"I kind of recognized the guy that jumped off the bridge," Jim confessed.

"What?" Simon sat forward in his chair. "Why didn't you say so?!" he demanded.

It was Jim's turn to sigh in frustration. "Because I can't tell you who he is. There's just something familiar about his face," Jim closed his eyes for a second and rubbed a weary hand across tired eyelids. "But I can't place it. I've been looking at mug shots all afternoon and nothing is happening."

"Great," Simon muttered.

"Sandburg is going to try and help me remember tonight," Jim offered. "It's a shot in the dark, but I'm willing to give it a try."

"Well, let me know if you two manage to come up with anything," the captain grunted and went back to his report.

"Will do," Jim agreed.

When Jim got back to the loft there was a message on the answering machine from Blair that he had a meeting at 7:00 that evening and wouldn't be back home before 9:00, so Jim went ahead and nuked some leftovers in the microwave for his dinner. He couldn't find anything worth watching on the tube and decided to put a little music on the stereo and see if it helped him relax enough to work on retrieving the missing memory that was keeping him from identifying their sword-wielding jumper.

He sat back and closed his eyes, concentrating on evening out his breathing and visualizing the man's face in his mind's eye. What was it about the guy that had stuck him there in Jim's memory? Okay, he thought, let's start with the most obvious. The guy was good looking, attractive in a very aesthetically-pleasing kind of way.

Could that have been it? Had he been attracted to their mystery man the first time he met him, and didn't remember it? The nose was memorable; long, but not in a negative way. No, on the long, chiselled face, it's length gave the face a look of almost classical beauty. The mouth wasn't a pretty mouth, it was too severe for beauty. But there was a sensuality to it that was hidden by its straight lines.

It was becoming clearer to Jim with every moment spent contemplating the lines of that remembered face, that he had been attracted to it. In fact, there was the faint memory of something magnetic in the man's gaze. Something had drawn him to this face, had made him remember it, even though he couldn't remember the context. But he definitely remembered feeling drawn with a stirring of interest that he hadn't felt towards a man in a very, very long time. He went with the feeling, enjoying it again as he must have at the time, trying to place it in a time frame or location, trying to rebuild a memory.

The next thing Jim knew he heard a voice calling him from some distance, calling his name over and over. His subconscious pulled him towards the voice, recognizing it as his guide's immediately.

"Jim. Come on, Jim," Blair's voice was soothing yet insistent. "Follow my voice. Come on back, Jim."

Opening his eyes, Jim smiled at Blair. "Hey, Chief. Been home long?"

Blair was shaking his head and frowning. "I just got in. How long have you been sitting there zoned, man?"

"Zoned?" Jim frowned, bewildered. "I was just taking a breather, trying to remember where I saw that guy's face. I wasn't zoned."

"Jim," Blair sat down beside Jim on the couch. "I couldn't get a response from you. You were gone, man. Completely zoned on something."

Jim glanced at his watch. It was 9:25. He'd been sitting there for over two hours, he realized, stunned. How time flies when you're having fun . . . or get stuck in a zone-out. He met Blair's worried eyes. "Guess I lost a bit of time there," he agreed sheepishly.

"Aw, Jim," Blair shook his head in exasperation. "How much?"

"Couple of hours," Jim shrugged.

"Man," Blair's breath exploded out of him with suppressed anger. "Why do you take these chances? I said I'd help you when I got home. What's the deal with trying this on your own? You don't need me to tell you how dangerous that is, do you?"

"Take it easy, Blair." Jim tried to soothe his guide. "No harm done."

"This time," Blair continued to glare at Jim. He lifted a finger and used it to poke the Sentinel in the chest, making his points with a jab for each word. "Don't . . . do . . . that . . . again . . . without . . . back-up." He paused for even more emphasis and then stabbed one more time. "Got it?"

Jim grabbed his partner's hand and held it still for a moment before pushing it away. "Okay, okay," he sighed in resignation. "Can we drop it now?"

"I don't know," Blair was being stubborn. "Can we?"

"Yes, we can." Jim's voice was strained with trying to keep his annoyance out of it. Blair only had good intentions in mind. It wasn't his fault that Jim hated the feeling of having his senses on a leash; a leash that he had no control over without his guide.

"Okay," Blair huffed. He hoped he had gotten Jim's attention. The man continued to scare the hell out of Blair with the chances he took by treating his extraordinary senses with such a cavalier attitude. Having to pull Jim out of a zone-out always rattled Blair's cage a bit. Now he had to calm down and give Jim his full attention. He had a promise to keep and they had a bad guy to identify and catch . . . if he was still alive. "So, did you remember anything?" Blair shifted into question-mode.

"Nothing that can help us find him," Jim shrugged. He didn't want to have to confess that attraction to the man if he didn't have to do it. He'd never told Blair that he was bisexual. It hadn't seemed necessary. After all, he hadn't acted on those kinds of feelings since he was a kid.

"You mean you did remember something," Blair pounced on the possibility.

"I said it wasn't anything. I didn't remember where or when I saw him," Jim reiterated.

"But what did you remember? It may have some significance that you don't recognize yet," Blair insisted.

"Blair," Jim started, exasperation with his guide clear in his tone. "Just drop it. It wasn't anything significant."

"How do you know? It sent you into a zone, whatever it was. That sounds like something pretty powerful to me," his guide pointed out.

Jim sighed. He stared at Blair with pursed lips, wondering what would happen if he told Blair. What kind of impact would it have on their relationship? He didn't want Blair to feel uncomfortable around him. That would be hard to work around considering the amount of time they spent together working in Major Crime and just living together in the same apartment. Still, Blair was a new-age kind of guy. Maybe he'd just take it in stride.

Blair sat back and watched Jim struggle with the decision of whether or not to tell his partner what he remembered. Whatever it was, it definitely was important, if Jim was having this much trouble telling him about it. He could be patient, knowing he'd get the information sooner or later. The older man knew Blair would just keep asking for it until he got it.

Jim paced over to the windows slowly and then paced back to the couch. He looked down at Blair again, who was sitting waiting patiently, an inquisitive smile just curving his lips.

"I remember being attracted to him," Jim stated baldly and braced for the reaction.

"Attracted to him," Blair repeated. He blinked in confusion. "You found him attractive," Blair tried to verify Jim's statement. Jim just stared back with his usual stoicism. Blair finally clued in. He caught his breath and watched as Jim winced, turned and then paced back to the windows again. "You mean . . . physically," Blair clarified.

Jim didn't turn around. "Yeah."

"Oh?" Blair's quiet reaction dropped into the silence.

"Yeah." Jim's hollow laugh was self-deprecating.

"Hm," Blair nodded finally. "I wonder if it's a sentinel thing."

"Blair!" Jim was not amused. He turned to face his guide, hands on hips, exasperation plain.

"Hey, man," Blair pointed out seriously. "It's another fascinating piece of the sentinel puzzle. It's not too farfetched to believe that your genetic advantages apply to more aspects of your nature than your senses. Bisexuality makes perfect sense. Why didn't you say something before now?"

Jim was shaking his head. He should have known his guide would take such a personal confession and turn it into a scientific theory. He sighed, trying not to sound too exasperated. "I didn't say anything because I thought it would muddy the waters too much. I mean, we spend a lot of time working together and living together. I didn't want you looking over your shoulder wondering whether I wanted to do some extra intense sentinel/guide bonding. I didn't want you to get the idea that I expected our relationship to move in that direction just because we're so close already."

Blair blinked for a moment, taking that in. "I wouldn't have thought that, Jim. No way would I suspect you of taking advantage of our work situation or our sentinel/guide relationship to make moves on me. I mean, we're friends first, right?"

Jim heaved a sigh of pure relief. "Right."

Blair stifled whatever regrets he might have had at hearing that sigh of relief. He knew Jim just saw him as a good friend, a faithful guide, a competent partner in crime-solving. Perhaps it was a good thing that Jim had made that clear to him, once and for all, without even realizing it. It was good to know where you stood in as confusing a relationship as theirs was.

"So," Blair brought them back to the issue at hand. "You remember being attracted to him. Does that surprise you?"

Jim came back and sat down on the couch beside his guide. "Yeah, it does. I haven't been attracted to a guy since I was in the army," he glanced at Blair. "And I haven't acted on that kind of attraction since I was a kid."

"Define ' kid' for me," Blair asked thoughtfully, quietly logging away the information he was getting from Jim for further contemplation at a later time. It wasn't very often that Jim opened up about personal stuff. Blair found himself hungry for any details of Jim's past.

"High school," Jim relaxed back against the cushions. "A friend of mine on the football team and I had a fuck-buddy type of thing going. Neither one of us thought we were gay. It was just a game; you know, fooling around, a taste of the forbidden . . ." Jim's voice trailed off as he remembered how innocent he had been back then.

"And since then?" Blair probed.

"Well, the opportunity was there in the military," Jim confessed. "But if you wanted to get ahead in the army, you followed the rules and kept out of trouble." He turned to face Blair. "That meant no fraternizing. Of any kind," he clarified. "I wanted command, so I towed the line all the way."

Blair nodded. "Completely understandable," he agreed. "Ambition was important to you and you had everything you needed to succeed. Why mess that up, right?"

"That's the way I felt at the time, Chief," Jim nodded, grateful for Blair's understanding.

"But nothing since you got out?" Blair asked, keeping his voice gently inquisitive. Jim was being unusually forthcoming. He wanted to keep it that way. He valued Jim's trust for the precious gift that it was.

"No," Jim mused quietly for a moment, trying to remember other faces, other times. "I guess that's why this one guy stuck in my memory," he suggested. "I'd like to see if I can remember anything else about him. Want to give it a try? Or are you tired out after that meeting? It's been a long evening for you."

"No, no," Blair assured him. "I'll just make a cup of tea and put my feet up. Now that you've started the process, it's a good time to continue working on that memory. Just sit back and relax."

Jim watched Blair head to the kitchen and heard the kettle being filled. "Would you grab me a beer, please. My throat's feeling scratchy."

"Tea would be better for you, Jim," his guide called from the kitchen. "Much more soothing."

Jim sighed. Too weary to argue, he grumbled back, "All right, make me some tea then. I don't really care at this point."

Blair came to lean at the end of the counter and took in Jim's slouched posture on the couch. "Long day, huh?"

"Yeah," Jim agreed, laying his head back against the cushions and closing his eyes. "I looked at so many mug shots today I started seeing faces on the bullpen walls. And if you remember, we didn't get much sleep when we finally got home this morning. What? Four, maybe five hours?" He turned to look at Blair over the back of the couch. "How do you keep going on so little sleep?"

"Who knows?" Blair shrugged and turned away to tend to the whistling kettle and the tea-making. "Maybe I'm just used to getting by with less sleep. Maybe it's a metabolism thing and I just don't need as much as you. After all, you usually end up doing all the physical stuff when it comes to catching the bad guys." He brought their tea over to the coffee table and sat a mug down in front of each of them. "And staring at a computer screen doesn't seem to bother me as much as it bothers you either. Probably something to do with your enhanced sight being more sensitive even if you do turn it down."

Jim picked up the mug and sipped, feeling the soothing warmth against the back of his throat. "You could be right."

"You ready to try again?" Blair peered at Jim over his own steaming mug.

Jim sighed and replaced his mug on the table. He sat back, got comfortable and closed his eyes, resting his hands loosely on his thighs. "Ready as I'll ever be, Chief."

"Okay," Blair began, keeping his tone low and gentle. "Visualize his face. Is that the strongest impression you have of him? The sight of his face? Some particular feature perhaps?"

"Well," Jim decided thoughtfully, "it's the nose, definitely, that makes the first impression."

"What about it?" Blair inquired. "Big, small, ugly pug?"

"No, no, no," Jim's head was shaking, even with his eyes closed. "It's long and aristocratic-looking. It dominates his face, and yet without it he wouldn't be as classically handsome as he is."

"Handsome, eh?" Blair questioned with a grin.

"Yeah," Jim mused. "Fine featured, tall, slim . . . about as tall as I am. Dark hair cut almost as short as mine, but spiky. It kind of stands on end, but in an attractive way."

"That's very modern, that style," Blair observed inconsequentially.

"He was wearing . . ." Jim reached for an extension of the image. "He was wearing something dark. It covered him almost completely." He paused. "A turtleneck sweater; yeah, that's what it was. He had on a dark coloured turtleneck sweater and a heavy tweed jacket. He held out his hand. Yeah, we shook hands!" Jim sat up straighter on the couch, his hands now clasping his knees anxiously. "I can feel his hand in mine even now . . . God! His hand was hot and sweaty . . . and the feel of it! It was like touching a torch! How could I have forgotten that?" Jim was completely caught up in the memory, reliving the meeting with the mysterious stranger.

"You were there, Blair," Jim added, out-of-the-blue.

Blair blinked at his partner in surprise. "I was?"

"You were there," Jim continued as if he hadn't heard his guide. "You introduced us and he looked at me and held out his hand and I took it and . . . God! The heat coming off his body seared me through the touch of his hand. And there was this overpowering sense of . . . this . . . God, it must have been his scent! Yeah, it was a scent and it just rolled over me in waves like I didn't know what had hit me. And the feeling of it . . . It was more than just smell. It was like scent and feeling rolled into one." Even just remembering it, Jim was suddenly overwhelmed with the same incredible feeling of almost euphoria that he had felt when he came into physical contact with the man. Touch, scent, sight and the feeling . . .

Jesus! Jim's eyes flew open in horror. He stared for a instant into Blair's bewildered eyes and then launched himself off the couch and across the room before his guide could do more than blink.

Blair watched Jim take up an almost militarily-stiff position in front of the balcony doors. Wow. What had Jim remembered? Whatever it was, he had just had a very powerful reaction to the memory.

"What happened, Jim?" Blair asked softly. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Jim insisted. He breathed in deeply of the cool air coming off the glass in front of him. Calm down, you idiot, he chastised himself. It was a memory. Just a damn memory. So where the hell had this erection come from? He stood stiffly in his embarrassment, hoping that Blair would give him a couple of minutes to try and get himself under control.

"What did you remember, Jim?" Blair's question was tentative.

"I remember where I felt that combination of sensations before," Jim muttered.

"You do?" Blair was almost too afraid to ask. Something was freaking Jim out.

"Yeah." Jim's voice was curt.

"Ah . . . Do you want to tell me?" Blair stared at that rigid back, silhouetted against the night sky.

"Not really," Jim confessed, but he sounded reluctantly amused. Hell, this was an embarrassing situation.

"Why not?" Blair tried.

Jim sighed. Blair was not going to let it go. "Pheromones."

Blair thought for a moment that he hadn't heard right. "Pheromones?"

"Yeah." Jim's voice was hushed, embarrassment clear in his tone. "Don't tell me you've forgotten the mess I got into with that woman, Laura?"

"No, I remember," Blair assured him. "Boy, do I remember. It was scary watching you. It was like you had totally . . ."

"Lost control of my senses," Jim finished for him with grim determination. "Including my common sense," Jim's voice added, full of self-disgust.

"But that didn't happen with this guy. I would have remembered something like that, believe me," Blair chuckled quietly.

Jim closed his eyes, looking back into the past again at that remembered moment. "No, it didn't happen, because he left. It was just a really intense moment of awareness and contact . . . I remember looking into his eyes and meeting this sharp gaze. He had . . . well, hazel eyes, I guess you'd call them; a light brownish-green colour with strange lights and flecks in them. And I felt this surge, like just waking up in the morning. You know, all your senses sitting up and taking notice. Kind of, 'Hello!' and then he pulled away and . . . then he was walking away. I just watched him disappear into the crowd."

"There was a crowd?" Blair jumped on the detail. "And I was there? What was I doing?"

Jim searched for Blair in the memory. He was . . . Where was Blair? "Just a minute . . . Blair?" Jim paused, looking into his memory, past the tall handsome man . . . to Blair. Blair was saying something. Blair was . . . "You introduced us, Chief." Jim opened his eyes. He turned and pinned his guide with a sharp look. "You introduced him to me. Yeah. I remember now. He was one of your professor types. I arrived to pick you up after a lecture and you introduced me to this guy. What was he, the speaker or something? You said . . . now what did you say? Give me a minute . . ."

Blair watched, fascinated as Jim closed his eyes again, standing there silhouetted against the lights of Cascade. Tall, dark and handsome . . . whoever Jim was remembering couldn't be any more attractive than his partner was at that moment. Blair let his eyes take in the sheer physical beauty of the man in front of him and then smiled as his eyes travelled down the familiar figure. Well, guess that answers the question of why Jim had jumped up and taken refuge in embarrassment at the balcony windows. That was definitely an erection pushing against the seam of Jim's slacks. He looked up at the closed eyes of his friend. Jim was so lost in his memories, he probably didn't remember the reason why he had turned his back away from Blair in the first place. Maybe he should pretend he didn't notice?

Jim's voice continued. "I caught sight of you talking to this guy and I came over to join you. The lecture had ended. People were milling around. I hate crowds like that. God, the mix of sweat and cologne is nauseating. You looked up, motioned me over. This guy turned and our eyes met. Yeah. And you said, 'this is my friend Jim Ellison. Jim's with the Cascade PD.' Yeah. And then I held out my hand and he took it." Jim's voice took on a dreamy disconnected tone as if reliving the moment. "And we're looking at each other and this feeling is washing over me and you're saying . . . What the hell are you saying?" Jim tilted his head, frowning deeply in concentration, the sensual pull easing again. He tried to remember hearing Blair's voice, even though he had barely taken it in at the time. "You said . . . 'Jim meet Professor . . . Alan Grant.' That's it!" Jim's eyes popped open and he stared in triumph at Blair. "Alan Grant!"

"Alan Grant?" Blair repeated in vague surprised tones. "I remember the guy; tall, skinny, horn-rimmed glasses."

"I don't remember any glasses, Chief," Jim argued. "And I had a good long look into those eyes," he insisted.

"Well, he must have taken them off after the lecture," Blair interrupted. "Because he had them on all through the lecture. I remember he kept glancing through them at his notes. He was a guest speaker during our Anthro Lecture Series last spring. He's British, but teaches out of some university in Eastern Europe; you know, one of the former Soviet states. Can't remember which one off the top of my head. Anyway, he was lecturing on the nomadic tribes of Ancient Mesopotamia and I went to hear if he had come across any evidence of sentinels in those cultures."

"All that is very interesting, Chief," Jim cut off what had the potential to be the beginnings of a boring anthro lecture. "But how do we find the guy now, a year later? And what was he doing back in Cascade? And why would he have been involved in a sword fight on that bridge in the middle of the night? And why would he have jumped off said bridge to his certain death? It just doesn't make sense, like Simon said. We've identified the guy, and it still doesn't make any sense."

"All right, all right, just calm down." Blair waved at him placatingly. "Come sit down again and we'll think of something."

Jim returned to the couch beside his guide. It was only as he was reseating himself that he realized that his slacks were still uncomfortably tight across his crotch. He flinched as he sat down and glanced at his guide to see if Blair had noticed. Blair was smiling at him with a quizzical little look that made Jim flush with renewed embarrassment.

"Take it easy, Jim," Blair tried to keep the amusement out of his voice. "I find it kind of fascinating that even the memory of that pheromone rush can turn you on like that. But don't worry about it embarrassing me. Hell, I gotover that kind of thing when I caught you and Laura in the cloakroom that time," he teased.

"Sandburg . . ." Jim shook his head as he growled quietly.

"I have an idea," Blair handed Jim his mug of rapidly cooling tea. "Take a sip and hold it in your mouth. Concentrate on the taste of it and the feel of it in your mouth. Hold the mug close to your face and inhale the aroma. Clear your thoughts of anything else but the experience of drinking and savouring the tea."

Jim did as Blair instructed and found himself calming and the tightness of his tautly-held muscles easing into something closer to relaxation. He opened his eyes finally after a couple of mouthfuls of tea and teased his partner back. "You know, this would be easier if I liked the taste of tea."

Blair just chuckled, glad that the strategy had worked. "I've had another idea," he explained. "Professor Markham was the guy who arranged that lecture series last spring. I'll give him a call and see if he knows how to contact this guy, Alan Grant. Maybe we can get hold of some colleagues or something, someone who knows what he was doing in this area. What do you think?"

"It's certainly worth a try, Chief. Go for it," Jim approved.

Blair moved to make the call and settled into the corner of the couch with the phone in his hand. "Hello, Professor Markham? This is Blair Sandburg calling. That's right. Sorry to call you so late in the evening, but I'm wondering if you can give me some information about a lecturer we had here at Rainier during last year's Spring Lecture Series."

Jim opened up his sentinel hearing and both men listened while the good professor recapped his involvement in the endeavour and what a success it had been, figuratively patting himself on the back. "Yes, I know," Blair responded. "I managed to catch some of the lectures myself. Yes, I agree." Blair shrugged apologetically to Jim, catching his eye. Jim just shrugged back good-naturedly.

"I was wondering if you had heard any news about what Professor Grant was up to these days. That's right, Alan Grant. Yes, I agree; inspired speaker." Blair listened to the other man talk for a minute, then turned wide-eyed and startled to look at Jim. "He is? Are you sure? Well . . . that's . . . that's great." He paused again to let the professor rattle on. "Yes, I'm sure it is." Then impatiently, he interrupted the flow of information. "You contacted him yourself? Do you have a number for him? I'm anxious to discuss some things about his theories of nomadic migration myself and there never seems enough time to talk after a particularly stirring lecture . . ." Here the other man broke in on Blair's explanation. Blair started shaking his head in exasperation at the other man's continued droning. He put his hand over the receiver and whispered to Jim. "Did you hear that? Grant's supposed to be coming back to Cascade to speak in this spring's series!"

Finally Blair broke into the professor's monologue again. "Do you have some kind of contact number for him?" Blair blinked and looked at Jim again, wondering if his partner was as surprised as he was at what they were hearing. "He is?! They did? Well . . . that was an extraordinary coup on their part, if I may say so? Yes. Yes . . ." Blair laughed reluctantly at a remark. "Yes, I guess the comforts of North American society could be a heavy inducement. Yes, the offer of tenure after two years would be pretty powerful too, I agree." Blair finally had to break in again. "But a contact number . . ." he sighed his impatience.

Suddenly, Blair scrambled for his backpack on the floor beside the couch and pulled out a notebook and a pen. "Just a minute . . . yes . . ." and he scribbled something down. "That is great . . . Yes, of course. Be happy to do that for you. Yes, yes this is terrific news. Well, I'll let you get back to enjoying your evening. Thank you, Professor. I really appreciate your help. Yes, I will. Thank you again. Good night."

Blair hung up the phone and turned to Jim with a triumphant smile. "Do you believe that? Grant was such a hit here last spring, and the swelled heads in the Anthro department were so taken with him, that moves were made to persuade him to come here to Rainier permanently! The inducements they offered . . . tenure, accommodation, generous benefits, final say on scheduling . . . Well, you heard him. And it worked!" Blair shook his head in surprise at his own words. "He was due here sometime this week to sign his contract and arrange housing, you know, tying up all the details. He's supposed to be moving here to Cascade officially sometime this summer and start teaching in the fall."

Jim's mind was immediately racing with questions. "And Professor Markham hasn't seen him."

"No," Blair's head-shaking indicated a negative. "He knew Grant was coming this week, but somebody else on the committee is supposed to be acting as chaperone. Markham didn't know the details, but doesn't think Grant has arrived yet."

"Or maybe he arrived but didn't make it as far as the university," Jim made the grim suggestion.

"Whatever . . ." Blair agreed with a shrug. "Anyway, he gave me the name of the hiring committee member who was going to be showing him around while he's here. Do you want to call her tonight, or wait until morning?"

Jim and Blair headed into work early the next morning. A telephone call confirmed that Professor Grant had arrived in Cascade two days ago on a flight from London. He'd been feeling jet-lagged, so had begged off sightseeing and was expected to call his contact, Liz Michaels, at Rainier sometime the next day to arrange a tour of the university. He had made an appointment to see Rainier's president and the Chair of the anthropology department yesterday afternoon, but had never shown up. Liz Michaels had tried calling him at his hotel, but he hadn't been in. She was going to try again this morning. Blair relayed the information to Jim and he called the professor's hotel himself before they went in to see Simon with what they'd found out.

"He hasn't been seen by anyone in over 24 hours, Captain," Jim concluded his report. "The search teams have concluded their sweep of the narrows and the bay. No one found anything. This guy's body has vanished off the face of the earth."

"Keep digging," Simon ordered. "Contact the university and check out this deal to bring him here. Contact his old university and see how they felt about him coming to the States. Go over to the hotel and check out his room." He paused to think. "Anything else yet on this smuggler who lost his head?"

Jim shrugged. "He flew into Cascade three days ago and checked into a hotel downtown. His office knew nothing about him stopping here. They have no contacts for him in Cascade. The hotel hasn't seen him in two days. Nobody there noticed him meeting anyone or doing anything unusual. We're going over to check out his room there as well."

"Right," Simon nodded. "Well, get to it and keep me posted."

Jim and Blair were busy all morning. They found the headless smuggler's passport in his hotel room, but not much else: a suitcase, some clothes, flight tickets for the end of the week to San Francisco. They didn't find any letters or notes in his briefcase to indicate who he was meeting in Cascade or why he was there. They interviewed the hotel staff, but he'd only stayed there one night and no one had noticed anything unusual about his room or his comings or goings.

Blair had a class that afternoon, but he arranged for someone else to cover it for him. He didn't want Jim going through Alan Grant's possessions on his own. The possibility of the Sentinel being ambushed by a zone-out was too great if they found that the guy's pheromones were still lingering in the room. Jim insisted that he would be fine, but Blair didn't want to take the chance. He'd never seen Jim react this strongly to someone since that episode with Laura, the beautiful thief.

Blair knew something was up the minute they walked in the door of the man's hotel room. Jim walked straight to the bed and picked up a discarded blue shirt. To Blair it was like watching a homing pigeon at work. Jim lifted the shirt to within a couple of inches of his face and Blair was shocked to see the big man stagger.

"Jim!" Blair rushed to his side, but Jim just shrugged him off. "You okay?"

"Fine, Sandburg," Jim muttered. "I'll check out the luggage, you have a look in his briefcase," he indicated the leather case lying open on the table by the window.

Blair noticed Jim kept hold of the blue shirt in one hand, even as he rifled through the open suitcase on the bench at the foot of the bed. He watched Jim searching through pockets and then turned his attention to the papers in the briefcase. Nothing but relevant correspondence with Rainier, some curriculum outlines and a folder full of copies of research papers that the professor had published over the years. There were no personal letters, no identification, no passport; just the ticket stub from his London flight.

"Anything?" Jim's deep voice interrupted Blair's search.

Blair looked up to find Jim standing beside him, still clutching that damn blue shirt. "You okay, Jim? What's with the shirt?" Blair asked with raised eyebrows. He watched as Jim looked down at the shirt in his hand as if he'd never seen it before. Jim threw it towards the bed and turned his back on it.

"Nothing," Jim mumbled. "Um . . . why don't you go down and check the desk for anything they might have while I finish up in here. I want to have a look through the drawers and the trash, just in case."

"I can do that," Blair volunteered, not liking the glassy look in the Sentinel's eyes as they slid past, not meeting his.

"Naw," Jim drawled casually. "I'll look after it. You might miss something that my senses can pick up. You go check at the desk and I'll be done by the time you get back."

Blair nodded to himself thoughtfully. He walked over to the balcony doors and opened them wide. "Maybe a little fresh air will help, Jim," he suggested.

"Good idea," Jim mumbled again. He picked up the waste basket from beside the bed and dumped it on the table by the windows. Blair didn't move from his side, so he finally looked up and met his partner's gaze with as calm a demeanor as he could manage under the circumstances. "Go," he gestured towards the door and smiled reassuringly. "I'll be fine."

Blair watched Jim pull a latex glove out of his pocket and start to pull it on. Good, he thought. Jim's detective instincts still seemed to be working. For a moment there he had been worried that the man was going to go through the garbage bare-handed. Blair turned and paused at the door for a glance back at the Sentinel's head bent over his task and then left.

Jim's head came around as he heard the door close. He reached out immediately and closed the balcony doors, peeled off the glove and tossed it with the rest of the garbage back into the basket. He retrieved the blue shirt from the bed and did what he'd been dying to do ever since he'd picked it up. He buried his face in it and breathed in deeply. He felt his legs give out under the sensory rush and sank down weakly on the bed.

He had an idea and pulled the shirt away from his face to turn and check out the pillow that had been pulled out from under the bedspread. He rolled across the bed, stretching out and buried his face in the pillow. Yes, here too, he sighed, breathing in the man's scent, luxuriating in the feelings filling him. God, it felt good; better than anything had in years.

He had another idea and headed into the bathroom. Yes! He grabbed the towel hung carelessly over the shower door and buried his face in that. Jim staggered back against the bathroom door, bracing his legs, letting himself feel it all, right down to the hardening of his cock against the fly of his slacks. It had been so long since he had felt this high. It felt so good he wanted it to last forever. Every sense was awake and singing. His palms were tingling from the brush of terrycloth clutched in his hands. He opened his eyes and could see minute flakes of dried skin towelled off after the man's shower. Burying his face again he picked up the faintest trace of male musk where the towel had been rubbed over damp genitals.

Jim jumped when he heard the clang of the elevator doors opening down the hall. Sandburg? He listened for his guide's distinctive heartbeat. Shit! He looked down at the damp towel clutched in his hands, as if seeing it for the first time. What the hell did he think he was doing?! The Sentinel stared at his reflection in the mirrored tile opposite him in shock for a moment, then sprang into motion. He slung the towel hurriedly back over the shower door then strode back into the bedroom and threw the soiled shirt on top of the suitcase. He heard Blair's heartbeat approaching and met his partner just inside the door as it opened.

Jim cleared his throat as Blair's eyes met his. "Nothing here, Sandburg," he muttered and held the door open as Blair stopped beside him. He watched Blair cast a suspicious glance around the hotel room, noting the closed balcony doors. "Did you come up with anything, Chief?"

Blair kept his gaze on Jim as he answered. He noted the flushed cheeks and the deep breathing with suspicion, but didn't comment. "Sorry, Jim, the answers are all negative. He didn't leave anything for safekeeping at the desk. Didn't leave any notes for anyone. No messages have come in from anyone except the university. I had a look and they're all from Liz Michaels asking him to call her."

"Okay," Jim sighed and gestured to the hallway.

Blair couldn't decide whether the sigh was from frustration or relief, but as he was happy just to get Jim away from there, he left beside his sentinel, not saying a word. They returned to the precinct and Jim immediately disappeared. Blair didn't bother following. He knew that the contents of the hotel room had had a disturbing effect on Jim's sentinel senses, but decided to give him some room to handle it on his own. He was relieved when about ten minutes later Jim returned looking a little dishevelled, but calm; the tell-tale tension of his twitching jaw-muscle gone.

After a quick lunch, they settled at Jim's desk in the Major Crime bullpen to make some phone calls. They found that the professor's old university wasn't surprised when he left. They couldn't come close to paying the professor what he was offered by Rainier. He'd left his rooms at the university some two weeks before and they had already been sublet. They had no idea where he'd been staying since leaving. They assumed he'd already taken up his post in America.

The two men discussed their findings with Simon and then made an appointment to see Liz Michaels and break the news about the professor's apparent suicide. Jim and Blair met late in the afternoon with a worried Liz and the Anthro Chair, Dr. Coleman, who were shocked to learn about the incident on the bridge, the explanation for Professor Grant's disappearance and his presumed death by drowning.

One interesting bit of information did surface from the interview. Liz Michaels had an American contact for Alan Grant: an emergency phone number that turned out to be for a martial arts dojo in Seacouver. Jim called DeSalvo's Gym and spoke to its proprietor, Mr. Duncan MacLeod. Mr. MacLeod told them that his friend Professor Grant hadn't contacted him lately, although he was aware that the professor was moving to the States sometime in the coming months. He promised to call them if his friend contacted him. Jim insisted to Simon later that he didn't want to leave it at that. He argued persuasively that there had to be a link somewhere that they were missing. So Simon agreed to send Jim and Blair to Seacouver to speak with the gym owner personally to see if Mr. MacLeod knew whether Alan Grant and Jacques Cartier were acquainted.

Blair was worried about Jim's inability to let this case go; to close it down as an unsolved murder - suicide. He was afraid Jim was letting the strength of his memories of the dead man influence his better judgment. He was beginning to believe that Jim didn't want to accept that the man was dead.

And Blair was absolutely right. Jim refused to believe that he had lost the man who had affected him so deeply before he'd had a chance to find him again. He'd successfully buried that startling memory the first time, but now it was obsessing him to a dangerous degree. He realized it; realized that his emotions were pretty volatile right now. He knew Blair thought the trip to Seacouver would be a wild goose chase. But as all roads to the man in question turned into dead ends, Jim was determined to follow every last lead until he was forced to admit defeat. If Alan Grant was out there to be found, Jim wanted to find him. He consoled himself with the fact that no body had yet been found. That had to be a good sign, not a coincidence. It had to be.

Blair watched Jim brood all evening. Finally, he had to say something before turning in for the night. They were leaving in the morning to drive the three hours to Seacouver.

"Jim, I'm worried about you." Blair watched Jim ignore him, continuing to flip through channels on the TV with the remote control. "You are setting yourself up for a fall here, big guy. There isn't anything this MacLeod fellow in Seacouver can tell us. The man is dead, Jim. All we can do is break the news to his friend as gently as possible."

"You don't understand, Blair," Jim's tone was impatient and full of frustration.

"Yes, I do," Blair soothed. "I know that this guy has stirred up your senses in a way you've only experienced once before. I know you're finding the memory gnawing at you. I know that being there in his hotel room just about caused a zone-out. I know, Jim," Blair reached out and laid his hand on Jim's shoulder, giving it a sympathetic squeeze. "But making-believe that we're going to find this guy is not a good idea."

Jim wouldn't meet his eyes. "He can't be dead, Blair," the older man insisted.

Blair flinched at the pain in that voice. "I know that's what you wish were true, Jim, but you've got to face facts. There's no proof. Nothing. I'm sorry, man. I feel for you, I really do. If I could make things different, find some clue . . . I'd be so happy to see you get that second chance, Jim. But I can't see anything that shows it's ever gonna happen. I'm so sorry, man." He squeezed gently on the broad shoulder again, but Jim didn't turn around.

Jim was staring across the room and out the glass doors at the night sky as if it had all the answers. "We'll see," he muttered, then returned to surfing TV channels with the remote control. He came across a hockey game and turned the volume up and his hearing down to drown out any more words from his Guide that he really didn't want to hear.

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, known to Immortals far and wide as the Highlander, replaced the phone receiver and tapped a pencil on the desk in the dojo office. He headed over to the elevator and ascended to his loft apartment to talk to the man currently lounging on his sofa.

"I just had a call from the police in Cascade," MacLeod informed his friend, and watched Methos stiffen slightly, but otherwise show no reaction to the news.

"Oh, yes?" the world's oldest Immortal commented with seemingly casual indifference.

"It seems Professor Alan Grant is missing. He didn't show up for his interview at Rainier University. His hotel room is deserted. Foul play is suspected. The good professor left my number as a contact with someone at the university. I assured them that I hadn't heard from you in a while, but somehow that didn't seem very reassuring to the detective who called."

"Did you happen to catch the name of the detective?" Methos asked without looking up.

"Ellison," MacLeod watched for a reaction and wasn't disappointed when he saw Methos swear inaudibly under his breath and jerk upright on the sofa. "Detective Jim Ellison. I take it you know him."

"We've met," Methos grunted.

"Just what have you got yourself involved in this time?" MacLeod asked in a tolerant voice with just a hint of a smirk.

Methos' glance threw daggers at the Highlander. "Cartier found me there." He raised his hands defensively at Mac's accusing expression. "Hey, I didn't know that the idiot was criminally insane! I let him off lightly in Paris. I thought he'd be grateful and leave me alone. My mistake!"

"So he found you and you two fought?" Mac pressed for information.

"Yes. I relieved the fool of his head before he could cause any more trouble," the old man explained with a note of exasperated patience in his voice at having to answer the Highlander's questions.

"But . . ." Mac prodded. "There's always a 'but' in it where you're concerned," he added with heavy sarcasm. "Someone saw you, right? A cop, for instance?"

Methos sighed. MacLeod knew him too well. "Yes."

"Detective Ellison?" Mac asked with raised eyebrows.

"I'm not sure," Methos confessed. "It could have been him. Someone yelled out 'Cascade PD' just before I jumped."

"Jumped?" Mac pounced on the word. "What do you mean, 'jumped'?" Methos grinned an evil little grin and Mac winced in anticipation. He didn't think he was going to like this.

"I jumped off the Cascade Narrows Bridge and washed up on the beach the next morning. I got the hell out of there before the search and rescue guys arrived, but it was touch and go for a while. I could hear the dogs coming in the distance."

Mac just shook his head back and forth as he studied the old man's smirk. "And you complain about the scrapes that I get into," he mused helplessly.

"So Professor Alan Grant is no more," Methos concluded the tale. "He killed a complete stranger in a bizarre sword-fight scenario and then committed suicide in a fit of remorse. End of story."

"Except for one inquisitive detective from Cascade, who is still looking for you." Mac watched his friend's smile die and something strange and unexpected take its place. There was calculation and amusement in the look Methos gave the Highlander as he saw Mac's raised eyebrows. But what else was hiding behind that quirk to the old man's lips? "What?" Mac probed, his curiosity aroused. "How do you know him?"

"We've met before," Methos confessed. "We were introduced at the university last year."

"And . . ." Mac tried to draw him out. Methos smiled that Mona Lisa smile that Mac had never seen before. Was that actually a sparkle in those hazel eyes?

"And he made quite an impression," Methos admitted. He watched the Highlander's eyes widen with shock. "He's tall, good-looking, strong, well-built and exudes this . . ." he hesitated to be frank, but thought, what the hell, this is Mac, after all. "He's got this animal magnetism that is very powerful when it's turned on one full force."

"You were attracted to him?" Mac's surprise was palpable. Methos didn't answer, just smiled that smile again. "You wanted him?" No answer. "Do you think he was attracted to you?"

"I don't know," Methos mused. "It certainly felt like it."

"What happened?" Mac hadn't realized Methos was such a fast worker.

"Nothing. I've been in Europe, remember?" Methos' tone was wry.

"Well, you didn't have to be," the Highlander argued.

"It wouldn't have worked," Methos returned. "He's a cop. It would have been too dangerous."

"And you never knowingly put yourself in danger," Mac conceded dryly.

"Well, not very often," Methos reminded his friend, and both of them smiled ruefully as they remembered a few instances where he'd broken his own rules to help MacLeod.

"Do you think he'll come here?" Mac brooded over the possibility.

"Probably," Methos acknowledged. "He's a cop. You know . . . decent, caring. He'll want to break the news of my demise to you personally, I imagine." He smiled at Mac. "You'll have to act suitably grief-stricken, I'm afraid."

Methos sat in his truck across the street and down about a half-block from the dojo in a borrowed wig, dark glasses and a loud-checked coat. He watched the detective and his shorter companion arrive and enter the dojo. He drank up the sight of the tall lean man's easy loping stride. He felt the sheer animal strength reaching out to him from down the street, it acted that powerfully upon him.

Many minutes later he watched the two of them emerge from the building and head for their truck. In shock, he saw the taller man's head turn towards the direction where he was parked, as if sensing that someone was watching him. But how could the detective know that? Methos instinctively ducked when he saw the man start to turn, and crouched low in his seat, holding himself still, not daring to breathe as he waited to see if he had been discovered. Finally, he heard two doors slam, an engine start up and then drive away. He quickly started his own vehicle and cautiously eased out into the traffic to follow them.

He followed the men to the waterfront where they got out to walk along the beach, talking desultorily. He stared at the big man's slouched shoulders; those strong proud shoulders. He watched the shorter man place a small hand in the middle of that broad back and rub soothingly.

Methos saw Ellison stop and his head droop. The young man beside him moved in closer and wrapped one arm as best he could around his friend's shoulders, giving him a fierce hug as he continued to speak to him urgently. The big man stood still for a long moment, accepting the hug or just listening to the other man's words, then he moved sharply to pull away. From his spot in the parking lot, Methos clearly heard the barked word, "No!" as it echoed across the silent beach.

The young man with the long curly hair neatly stepped in front of the detective and reached up to grab those broad shoulders in both hands. Methos admired the move. Ellison was big and angry. It took guts and determination to stand up to someone who looked so intimidating.

From what Methos could see they just stood looking into each other's faces for long minutes. Then the cop surprised his audience by suddenly sweeping the smaller man into a big bear hug. The young man seemed just as surprised, if the look on his face was anything to go by as he was quickly released again. As he watched them, he saw them smile small tentative smiles at each other: one in encouragement, one in acceptance. Then Ellison swung a long arm around the other's shoulders and they continued their walk down the beach.

Methos found the whole exchange very enlightening and came to a decision. It was a foolhardy decision no doubt, and one he would probably regret, but nevertheless, something stronger than common sense prompted him to action as he stared at that tall figure slowly strolling along the seashore, pulling the smaller along with him.

Without giving himself time for second thoughts, Methos reached into his glove compartment and pulled out a business card. He scribbled something on the back and then hurried stealthily over to the detective's parked truck and carefully opened the door. Good thing it wasn't locked, he grinned to himself.

Blair trailed after Jim as the older man headed for the truck. He hoped his words and actions had been of some comfort. Their last lead had just come to a dead end, and he hated knowing that he had been right. Jim was not taking the disappointment well and his frustration with the outcome of their investigation was bringing out emotions that he seemed afraid to express as anything other than anger.

If Blair hadn't been so worried about Jim's state-of-mind, he might have let himself feel jealous. Hell, Jim had only met the guy once, just to shake hands, but the way he was acting you'd have thought he lost a lover! Blair clamped down on his own feelings of frustration. Now was not the time to be worrying about his unrequited feelings for his partner. Jim needed a friend right now, not an emotional opportunist.

Ellison had reached his truck and pulled open the driver's side door. He immediately spotted the card and read the name printed on it. Without thinking, his hand covered it and he slipped it, unseen by his partner, into his jacket pocket. It burned there against his side. His hand burned where it had touched the small card. He pulled himself into his seat, closed his door and wrapped his suddenly shaking hands around the steering wheel, trying to control the uncomfortable pounding of his heart and the wave of heat making him break out in a sweat.

Blair did up his seat belt and then stared in startled amazement at Jim's clenched hands on the steering wheel. He'd thought that the man had calmed considerably since they'd arrived at the beach. What had brought the tension back so suddenly?

"Jim? You okay?" Blair asked carefully.

Jim took a deep steadying breath. There was still a faint hint of that scent in the air of the truck's closed interior. It didn't help matters. "Yeah, I'm fine," he tried to keep his voice steady. "Why don't we go find someplace to eat. You hungry yet?"

"Sure," Blair went with the suggestion. Maybe Jim was just hungry. "If we eat now we'll have all evening to drive back to Cascade." He took Jim's silence as agreement. Within a couple of blocks of the waterfront they found a nice-looking place that advertised steaks and seafood. Jim asked Blair to order him a steak and excused himself to go to the men's room.

Jim braced himself against the stall door to steady his legs and reached into his pocket to pull out the small business-sized card. Professor Alan Grant's name was printed on it, along with Rainier's address and telephone. There was no personal information on it so Jim turned it over and focused on the message scribbled on the back: an address, a time, and the instructions to come alone. He stuffed the card back in his pocket and left the stall to wash his hands thoroughly. There was no way he was going to be able to eat with that scent on him.

Jim was quiet throughout the meal, so Blair just filled in the silence with chatter as he had a thousand times before. He watched Jim push his food around on his plate and drink a beer. When he ordered the second one, Blair spoke up.

"Jim, man, talk to me," Blair pleaded. Jim met his eyes and Blair was shocked to see an expression of steely determination in them. Jim had evidently come to some kind of decision, but about what?

"Blair, do you trust me?" was the extraordinary thing Jim asked.

Blair slumped back against the seat of the booth they were sitting in as if a giant hand had pushed him. His breath whooshed out of him in shock and he stared into the eyes of his sentinel. He hadn't seen that look in Jim's eyes, or heard that question, outside of a life or death situation. That he should be seeing it now was incredible. "Jim . . ." he began to express his bewilderment.

"Just answer the question, Chief," Jim interrupted him in a quiet tone.

"With my life," Blair answered without any further hesitation.

"I'm going to ask you to do something for me, Blair," Jim explained. "I'm going to ask you to do it without questioning me. I'm going to ask you to trust me to know what I'm doing and to wait for me without panicking or getting into trouble."

"Wait for you?" Blair jumped at the words. "What do you mean?"

Jim's eyes were ice-blue and enigmatic. "We're staying the night in Seacouver."

"We are?" Blair's eyes widened in disbelief. "Why?"

"I can't tell you why right now, Blair," Jim looked away from his partner's incredulous gaze. "I'm going to take you to a nice hotel and get us a room. You're going to watch some TV and order something you want from room service and then get a good night's sleep." He looked back into those deep blue eyes across from him. "I may be back tonight, I may not. I may be back tomorrow morning, or maybe not until tomorrow afternoon. When I get back I will answer any questions that you have to the best of my ability. I just can't answer any of them now, because I don't have the answers yet."

"But you're going somewhere tonight, or to see someone tonight, where you hope to get those answers," Blair finished. After almost three years solving cases together, he knew his sentinel pretty well by now and knew when the man was finished with a case. And Jim definitely wasn't finished with this case yet. Maybe he wanted to grill that MacLeod character on his own. Maybe he thought he could get some information out of the man that he wouldn't reveal with a witness present. Blair could understand that.

Jim contemplated Blair's serious expression. Yes, he could trust him. He had known that he could, he had just wanted the reassurance. "That's about it," Jim agreed, having no intention at this point of admitting just exactly what he was proposing to do tonight. "And whatever I find out, and whatever I pass on to you, it stays between you and me," he added, watching his guide's eyes. "Between Sentinel and Guide," he paused to let the implications sink in. "As far as Cascade PD is concerned, this case is closed."

Blair nodded his agreement. Whatever was going to go down tonight, it was for Jim's personal peace of mind, and if Jim passed on any information gained, it was going to be in confidence. "The case is closed, Jim," Blair assured his partner. They exchanged knowing glances and Blair watched Jim sigh in relief.

Continued in part two.