PROLOGUE

May 26, 1999

Cascade, Washington

When Jim Ellison pulled into the parking stall on Prospect Avenue, he expected to find all the lights on in his loft apartment since his roommate had been home all day. He was surprised to find only a faint glow, probably either from Sandburg's bedroom or the hallway light. Reaching out with his hearing, focusing on the sounds emanating from the loft, he heard a rapid heartbeat instead of a calm steady one.

Concerned, he slipped out of his truck - none too graceful since his leg was still healing and he refused to use that damn cane any longer - and hobbled as quickly as he could across the street. The stairs were out of the question, so he opted for the elevator, wondering, while it dawdled to the third floor, what could have Sandburg sounding like he'd had a wrestling match with Andre the Giant.

Ever since the dissertation newscast, all of Blair's normal haunts had suddenly been cut off, former peers at Rainier making it perfectly clear that they didn't associate with a fraud. As for his friends, Blair couldn't bring himself to call any of them, but neither had they made an effort to check up on him. Which only served to infuriate Jim more than normal; he of all people learned the hard way what Blair was willing to sacrifice for his friends. That kind of dedication to a friendship couldn't be saved just for him. And yet, when Blair was in trouble, not one of his friends had the decency to check in on him. Jim had never approved of some of Sandburg's affiliations at the university. This only cemented his position.

Cut off from his academic affiliations, then, Sandburg had been relegated to life at the loft until he could figure out what to do next. He'd appeared at the station only once, and that was when the shock of having a gold badge thrown at him nearly blew him over. Jim hadn't brought up that event in the two days since it happened, nor had Blair said anything to him, but from the uneasiness in the loft, it was apparent both thought about it.

The elevator dinged open and Jim stepped out, listening for any other signs of life in the loft. Only Sandburg's heartbeat, and though quick, nothing else seemed wrong. No scent of blood, no sign of a break-in, though the loft door stood open a crack. Alarmed still, he limped to the door and slowly opened it.

"Sandburg?" he called softly, walking in and shutting the door behind him.

Blair Sandburg sat at the dining table, his slumped form hidden partway in shadow, half in the light from the hallway. His head hung down, chin touching his chest, shoulder length curls hiding his face. One elbow rested on the table and that hand covered his eyes.

"Chief, you okay?"

"I finally got a hold of Eli," Blair whispered. Jim cringed at the flat, lifeless tone of his friend's voice.

"What happened?"

Sentinel hearing picked up Blair's attempt to fight back a sob. Jim closed his eyes in regret, knowing exactly what had occurred and wishing he could bust open the head of one Doctor of Anthropology.

Over ten years ago, Eli Stoddard had taken in a scared yet ebullient sixteen-year-old freshman from Rainier University and introduced him into the world of Anthropology. Through the years the man had moved up in Blair's estimation, from hero to mentor to the father Blair would have liked; although he'd had plenty of father figures in his life, none of them were of Blair's choosing. Eli Stoddard had been his choice. Though Jim had never met the man, he knew enough about him through the rose-colored description from Blair. The next words his roommate spoke, however, didn't surprise him.

"He called me a fraud, Jim. A fraud."

"Ah, Chief," Jim sighed, hurting for his friend.

"I've heard that word more than once since the press conference, man, and it was like…well, I was okay with it because I know I made the right decision. At least, I thought I made the right decision. But to hear it from Eli. From Eli," Blair added in a whisper. "I tried to explain things to him, but I'm…" He paused, took a deep breath and went on. "But I'm so damn confused about everything myself, all that came out was gibberish." He finally looked up at Jim, who nearly staggered under the weight of the anguish in those cursed expressive blue eyes. "Man, how do you tell someone the truth without…without telling him the truth?" He shook his head, slumping even more in the chair. "I couldn't lie to him, but I couldn't tell him either."

Jim had no answer for his friend, which irritated him all the more. Jerking his jacket off and tossing it at the hooks near the door, he swore softly. Why couldn't all of this just be behind them by now? Crossing the kitchen, he yanked open the refrigerator door and pulled out a beer, then slammed the door shut. When he turned around, twisting off the beer cap, he met Blair's reddened eyes. They stared at him in disbelief, but Jim also saw fear there.

"Oh, man, Blair, don't…" He started forward then halted, his hearing picking up a slight difference of his voice in the loft. It echoed more. He looked around and suddenly figured out why.

Blair's things were gone. The knick-knacks on the bookshelves, his things out of the kitchen, even the afghan from the back of the couch.

"What the hell is going on here, Sandburg?" He regretted his tone, but adding shock to anger was never a good mixture for him. He peered into Blair's room. It had been completely cleared out except for the futon and furniture. All the books, wall hangings, clothes - everything was gone. "Where's all your stuff?"

Blair rose from the table, visibly trembling. "I-I have to get out of here, Jim. I can't…can't process everything that's happened. Not here. Not with…" His eyes spoke the word even if his mouth didn't.

Not with Jim around. That's what he was going to say. So, things hadn't been worked out like Jim had thought. The discussion at the hospital hadn't really fixed things. All of the laughs and good times they'd had since that discussion, despite the strain, had all been an act.

"So, that's it, huh?" Jim barked. "Stoddard calls you a fraud and you throw away everything we've worked on."

"What have we worked on, man?" Blair suddenly exploded. The trembling continued, but now it was from anger. "You tell me what we have. A week ago I had everything I wanted - respect at the university and at the station, my diss had been finished. I even thought you and I had finally worked out our differences. We've been doing pretty good this past year, ya know? Then in one fell swoop - one well-meaning gesture - you're calling me a traitor and I'm destroying my life's work. I lost everything, Jim! Everything!" He ran shaking hands through his long curls, clenching the hair into two fists. A breath escaped him in a whoosh. "I thought I could deal with it, with the fallout, with everything, but…gotta get outta here, man, I gotta clear my head. I have to find out what's left for me."

Momentarily taken back by Sandburg's sudden fury, Jim didn't say anything. When Blair moved toward the door, he finally found his voice. "Where…where are you going?"

Blair froze, his hand on the coat still hanging on a hook by the door. He took a deep breath and let it out. "I don't know. Anywhere. Anywhere but here."

Grabbing the coat and pulling it on he turned to Jim, looking suddenly exhausted. Jim had never seen this Sandburg before. Normally he bounced with life and energy, even when the world turned against him. But all of that had drained away. Even the blue eyes that had always seemed to crackle with vigor now peered at him dull and lifeless.

"My stuff is in storage; Mom is paying for it until I figure things out. Jim," Blair continued, his voice shaking and soft, "I need you to promise me something." Jim limped forward, resting a shoulder against the support column in the kitchen. When he didn't say anything, Blair continued. "Don't follow me. I know that without even trying, man, you could find me." A sad smile pulled at his lips. "You are Officer of the Year, after all. But, I need to do this. I have to do this…for me. Things keep going around in my head and I can't find an answer. Not here."

"Will…" Jim's voice cracked and he cleared his throat, irritated with the loss of control. "Will you be back?"

Silence lay like a dense fog between them. "I…I want to. I just…I just don't know when. Or…" Blair looked up, pleading in his eyes. "Please, Jim, give me your word you won't try to find me. Let me do this."

All sorts of arguments came to Jim's head that he could use: the police academy opportunity, their connection as Shaman and Sentinel, the continued exploration of his Sentinel abilities. Hell, didn't he talk to a ghost just recently? Mostly, he wanted to use the argument that Blair had used against him so many times before: that friends were there for one other; that's what friends do.

But he spoke none of them. If he had taken the time to review the emotions churning in him, looking past the anger and feeling of betrayal by this decision, he'd see that, all in all, he wanted Blair to stay because he cared for him…brother to brother, friend to friend, police detective to a partner who had earned his trust time and again.

He didn't want to look that far, though. He couldn't. All he could see was another betrayal.

"Fine," Jim said sharply. "Whatever you want, Sandburg."

The hurt in Blair's eyes materialized for only a heartbeat before a mask moved into place. "Take care, man." He looked as if to say more, but then shook his head and turned away. A moment later he was gone, the door closing behind him.

Jim swore, heaving the bottle against the door, watching as it crashed, splashing its contents everywhere. As beer slid down the smooth surface of the door, Jim turned away and hobbled to the stairs, already shoving away the pain…and the memories.

********************

October 25, 1999

Cascade, Washington

"Let me get this straight, Banks." Chief Reed sighed, refusing to look at Simon. Instead, the pudgy man stared intently through the windows of Simon's office, studying the activity in the bullpen. "The mayor requests that you put your best detective on this murder case, and you assign Brown and Rafe?" He finally turned, anger mixed with incredulity creasing the skin around his puffy eyes. "Is that what I'm to understand?"

Peering defiantly at his superior, Simon nodded. "Brown and Rafe are among a group of best detectives, sir. You know that. They are part of a well-running team that has contributed to the decrease of crime in this city."

"Cut the bullshit, Banks!" Reed blurted, his face turning crimson red. He leaned on meaty hands against Simon's desk. "You know who the mayor meant when she requested the best! I want you to remove Brown and Rafe from the case and put Ellison on it."

"Sir, with all due respect," Simon was finding it very difficult to remain civil with this man, but his voice remained steady, "have Brown and Rafe done something to damage the case, so far?"

Reed glared at Simon long and hard before answering, the blood draining from his face. "No."

"Are they making headway on the case?"

Grimacing, Reed straightened, but continued to glare. "Yes."

"Then why would I replace a good team doing a good job?" Simon kept his PR voice in place and settled deeper into his chair waiting for the explosion that would erupt; he could see it in Reed's beady little eyes. Sandburg had been right in his assessment of the new Chief of Police - he did look like a pudgy rat.

Meaty hands fisted at his sides, Reed's face grew red again. "Because I ordered it, Banks! Why are you so set against putting Ellison on this case?!"

Simon sighed. He was going to have to tell Reed the truth; he had known it from the moment the man had entered his office. "Ellison requested time off, sir."

Reed studied Simon closely, gauging the truth of his words. "And did this request occur before or after you assigned him the case?"

Simon paused, recalling that particular conversation. The words "mayor's pet" and "bloodhound" had been used most, dripping with Jim's best sarcasm. "After," he finally admitted. "But, sir, you have to understand --"

"So help me, Banks, if you bring up that anthropologist again, I will personally ram my fist through that door!" Leaning forward again, Reed raged on. "Ever since that punk hippy disappeared five months ago, the detectives in this department have been acting as though they lost a cop. The little fraud wants to run away and not face the mess he got himself into, that's his problem. Not ours. He was not a cop!"

Simon jumped from his chair then, fury unleashed, towering over the smaller, rounder man. "He may not have had the badge, sir, but that kid had the heart. He was better than some of the rookies with full academy training that are hitting our reserves now. And he was a damn good partner to Ellison!"

Reed swore explosively and turned away, his voice rising. Simon could have sworn he heard the windows of his office rattle with Reed's next words. "Why are you guys so damned protective of that punk? He's a fraud! He used Ellison to get ahead, he printed some absurd fantasy that created Ellison grief, and you guys are still protecting him! Tell me why, Banks!"

Why? Because despite what you think about him, Sandburg has more honor than all of us put together. Simon shook his head, slumping back into his chair. "You never gave the kid a chance, Reed," he finally said. "You judged him immediately --"

"And I wasn't wrong, was I?" Crossing thick arms over a broad chest, Reed glared down at Simon once more. "Get on that phone, Banks, and call Ellison. I want him on this case."

Simon sighed. "I can't, sir."

"And why is that?"

"Because Jim isn't available. I don't know where he is or what he's doing."

Reed's mouth dropped open. "For how long?"

Simon shrugged. "He requested a leave of absence until further notice. Dammit, Reed, the man hasn't had a vacation for years. Every time he and Sandburg tried…" Simon's voice trailed off, wondering how he could possibly explain the constant trouble Ellison and Sandburg seemed to find themselves in, even on "vacation". Memories came to mind: of a fishing trip that ended up with a chase after game poachers; of following Jim to a podunk town to get in on a secret fishing trip and Sandburg ending up drugged while Simon and Jim tried to stop a train robbery; of a trip out to a monastery for some relaxation, only to end up protecting a former Mafia snitch. He cleared his throat. "Every time Ellison tried, he ended up having to deal with criminals anyway. He deserves this. The past few months have been difficult on him."

"I don't give a shit, Banks. He can go on vacation after he solves this case for the mayor."

"Then you'll have to hunt him down yourself, Chief," Simon announced, tired of the entire exchange. He leaned forward and pulled a file from one of the many piles sitting on his desk. "Until you do, Brown and Rafe are on this case. The mayor will just have to deal." With that, he closed his mouth and started working, completely ignoring his fuming superior and wondering if there were any job openings listed in the Cascade Times for a former police captain.

Reed remained standing for a moment longer, heavy breathing exploding in furious bursts through his nose. Finally, he took the hint. Grabbing the office door, he jerked it open. "Expect to be on report, Banks, for disobeying a direct order from a superior officer and disrespect of that same officer." Turning, he left the room, slamming the door behind him. This time, the glass windows did rattle.

Watching as the chief stormed out of the bullpen, shoving people aside, Simon waited until Reed was on the elevator before letting out a long sigh. Pushing the file away and dropping his pencil, Simon leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes. Damn, he could have handled that one much better. He could have remained calm. He could have offered a better explanation. He could have -

A light tap on his door broke through his self-recrimination and he watched as Joel Taggert entered, followed closely by Brown and Rafe. Rafe closed the door behind them.

"You okay, Simon?" Joel asked, dark eyes clouded with concern as he sat in one of the chairs set in front of Simon's desk. "We could hear everything out in the bullpen."

"I swear the windows were about to crack," Rafe murmured, settling onto the conference table. Brown sat in the other chair beside Taggert.

"They were," Simon muttered, sitting forward. "The chief wasn't very happy that I wouldn't replace you guys with Ellison."

Rafe's face contorted into a glare. He was about to say something, but Brown punched him in the leg. "Ow! What was that for?"

"Nothing," Brown replied. "And keep it that way." His face spoke a message, though, that Rafe read clearly.

So did Simon. "Okay, give it up. What's going on?"

"Nothing, sir," Brown replied, casually slouching in the chair, giving his best innocent grin. Simon glared at him. "Any news from Jim?"

"No, and I don't expect any. Not until he's ready."

"Did he give any indication how long he'd be gone?" Joel asked. Lips pulled down into a frown, he shook his head. "Things just aren't the same without him and Sandburg," he added in a quiet voice.

All of them nodded their heads and Simon had to hide a tired smile. It had been a tough few months for all of them. Five months had passed and they were still trying to recoup from the media circus around Ellison and Sandburg last Spring. Then there had been Klaus Zeller's assassination attempt that got Simon and Megan Conner shot; Simon's wound still spasmed on a cold day and Conner had gone to a month's worth of therapy appointments to get to the point where she could work at her desk without constantly looking over her shoulder at Simon's office. Not to mention picking up the pieces of the mess when Zeller broke into the bullpen and decided to have a shootout with the Cascade police; they were still finding shards of glass in corners and embedded in desks.

But damage had been done that no amount of clean-up could fix. After recovering enough from their wounds, Simon and Jim confronted Commissioner Pelson. Explaining that the dissertation was not a fraud and the only lie Sandburg had told to save his partner's sanity had been the one to destroy his career in Anthropology, Simon had convinced Pelson to allow Blair into the police academy. Jim had balked at revealing the truth of his abilities to the Commissioner, but Simon's trust in Pelson had won Jim over. That, and reiterating to his stubborn detective what Sandburg had sacrificed. After Pelson approved the request, with conditions, of course, Simon presented the idea to the other detectives in Major Crime. Unanimously they all agreed. Jim had even somehow convinced Blair's mother to support the action, although Simon suspected her guilt over her role in the dissertation mess drove her to that support.

After announcing their intent to Blair, the kid had appeared to react positively about the prospect. Blair's remark about not cutting his hair, and Jim's good-natured heckling, made it seem that the strain of the past several months had finally disappeared. The partners were finally back on track.

Or so Simon thought.

He should have realized the truth quicker. The remark about not cutting his hair wasn't really a "yes". Nor was it a "no". It was only a tension reliever. But Simon hadn't seen that then.

Two days after the offer, Jim came home from the station to find all of Blair's things gone and Sandburg running away. To clear his head. There was more, Simon was certain, but Jim never explained further.

Simon had been certain Jim would request time off to hunt for the kid, but amazingly, he didn't. He'd had plenty of offers of help, but refused them all. Soon the offers stopped. After a month people started to ask Jim if he'd heard anything from Blair. Jim tended to change the subject at that point; or simply walk away. After one of Jim's famous temper flares, everyone in Major Crime realized Sandburg was gone for good. People stopped asking him anything at that point; actually, they tended to not talk to Jim unless absolutely necessary. They got tired of being snapped at.

Though Simon would spend time with Jim, not even he knew how Jim was dealing with Blair's absence. Over time, Simon noticed Jim reverting back to his loner ways, his quiet ways. Megan had mentioned something about the change as well. Not knowing Ellison pre-Sandburg, the change more than surprised her -- it frightened her.

When Reed sent down an order to bring another detective on board and make him Jim's partner, a seething tirade began that Simon never wanted to witness again. Jim refused; the Chief demanded. Jim refused again. During it all, Jim withdrew more and more, even from Simon. He fell into his work, not leaving the station until well after his shift ended and coming in before it began, all the while only speaking to people when absolutely necessary. His detective work never suffered - rumor had it he'd be voted Officer of the Year again - but every relationship he had built had become nearly non-existent. If a partner were to be assigned to him, the new detective would have to wear parkas every day to compensate for the cold front.

Simon sighed. No one, it seemed, realized how intricately one Anthropology-PhD-wanna-be and consultant had fused with their lives, or the life of a particular hard-nosed detective. Whether he admitted it or not, though, Simon had a feeling Jim did understand...at last. And it had begun to quietly destroy him.

Joel's comment about the changes that had taken place was definitely right on base. "No, Joel, it's not the same," Simon finally breathed. "But hopefully Jim's leave of absence will benefit us all. Sandburg left; that was his choice. Crime didn't stop because of it, and neither can we." He turned back to Brown, cocking one eyebrow. "Brown, why don't you and Joel excuse yourselves? I think Rafe and I need to chat a bit."

Brown peered over his shoulder at his partner once more, a sympathetic shrug answering the sudden apprehension on Rafe's face.

"Sure thing, Cap," Brown replied, standing. He turned to Rafe. "I'll head down to see about the autopsy results." He patted Rafe on the shoulder then left, Joel following.

Rafe continued to stare after his partner, hands wringing nervously in his lap. When he finally moved his gaze to meet Simon's, his expression creased with worry.

"Is there something you want to tell me, Rafe?" Simon finally asked, sitting back in his chair. He already knew what was bothering the young man. Rhonda was pretty good about sharing with Simon things she heard around the bullpen that would require Simon's attention.

For a moment Rafe hesitated and Simon could see the wheels turning. Rafe was trying to come up with a way to get out of this.

"Talk to me, Rafe. If I have to make that an order, I will."

Rafe sighed then, long and hard, his shoulders slumping. "I just get tired of it, sir, that's all."

When Rafe didn't continue, Simon urged him on. "Tired of what?"

"Of constantly wilting in the shadow of the great Jim Ellison!" Rafe looked up then, dismay clearly on his face. "Sir, please…I'm sorry, sir…I...damn." He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Simon wondered if Sandburg taught him that. "Don't get me wrong, sir. I love the guy. It's just…Sir, when will Chief Reed and the commissioner and the mayor realize that there are other detectives in this department just as good as Jim?"

That confirmed what Rhonda told him. Apparently, Rafe's impatience came to a head just recently and he spoke up about it with Rhonda, just after being assigned the murder investigation Jim Ellison had denied.

Wisely, Simon remained silent and listened.

"I mean," Rafe slid from the conference table and started pacing, "why is it that every time the words 'best detective' are used, the first name that comes to the brass's mind is Jim Ellison? Dammit, H and I are just as good a team as Ellison and Sandburg. True, we don't have that connection they seemed to have, but we work well together and we get the job done! Why is it that we have to be relegated cases that Ellison thinks he's too good for?" He ended his tirade by literally falling into the chair Brown had vacated. Much like his partner had, Rafe slouched and remained silent.

"Anything else?" Simon asked after a moment.

Rafe ran a shaking hand through his hair. "Isn't that enough?" He sighed. "I'm sorry, sir. I guess I sound like a child throwing a tantrum, huh?" His face scrunched and his voice raised in pitch until he was mimicking a whining child, "'Jim's got more than I got!'" The normally soft lilt of his accent deepened noticeably in his fit. "You probably think I'm pretty pathetic, right, sir?"

Simon chuckled. "I've thrown my fair share of tantrums through the years."

Rafe's head came up at that. It took a while, but a faint smile passed across his face.

"Rafe, I think you are one of the best detectives that I have. Jim may be lead detective because of his experience and years on the force, but that doesn't negate the ability of every detective in this department. I'm proud of every one of you."

Hiding a smile, Rafe dropped his gaze to his slacks, picking invisible lint from the pristine creases. "Thank you, sir. That means a lot. I'm sorry for my outburst."

"Apology accepted." Simon put on his best stern expression then. "Now get out there and do your job, detective. And you'd better prove to Reed that this office is overflowing with best detectives!"

"Yes, sir!" Rafe snapped to attention, smiling.

When the door closed behind the detective, Simon let out a long sigh. He'd have to remember to thank Sandburg. If it hadn't been for that kid's constant desire to be reassured and thanked for his services, Simon would not have been able to pull through that one.

Simon chuckled, recalling those warm memories. As a matter of fact, he'd learned a lot from that energetic grad student. Maybe he should have admitted it more. Or at least said it once on his own. Maybe Sandburg would have stayed.

No. Whatever demons Sandburg was fighting, Simon couldn't have made much difference. There was more to it than just that. Still, it probably wouldn't have hurt.

He peered out the closest window, watching the movement in the bullpen, the pride he had mentioned to Rafe suddenly swelling. He did have a good team who knew their stuff. He'd have to find a way to show his appreciation. Nothing too emotional, mind you; maybe pizza.

Gradually his gaze fell upon Jim's empty desk and the empty desk set across the aisle from it. Simon's lips pulled down into a frown. It had taken a year of Sandburg constantly in his way before Jim had finally requisitioned a separate desk for the kid. That single action alone had seemed to change Sandburg. No longer was he a "ride-along"; he'd moved straight into consultant mode, wanting to learn more and more about police work. Quite surprisingly to everyone, Sandburg had taken to every aspect he learned, almost as though he had been born for it. Hell, he'd even followed Jim into more dangerous situations than cops of ten years had seen.

Sighing, Simon rubbed a hand over his face once more. He had to admit it, even to himself: he missed the kid. Moreso, though, he worried about Jim. Simon and Jim had parted after an argument that had Jim's neighbors at their doors to get an eyewitness view, certain there would be bloodshed. Simon regretted what he had said to his friend, but he would have done it all over again. Jim had become a better detective when he had learned to open up to his peers and superiors. Their friendship had even benefited. Whether Jim admitted it or not, everyone who worked with Ellison knew the source of that change had been Sandburg. Simon couldn't stand to see his friend closing down again. More importantly, he couldn't risk losing the even better detective Ellison had become.

Thinking it, however, was far different from saying it. Jim hadn't liked hearing those particular words and had stormed out -- after telling Simon he was taking leave. Simon had left that little tidbit out while talking to Reed. If the Chief of Police knew that Ellison had shown insubordination to his superior officer, it would end up being the final nail in a nearly closed coffin. Reed was just looking for an excuse now.

Well, wherever his wayward detective had disappeared to, Simon hoped he was finding answers. When Jim returned - and Simon had to keep reassuring himself it was a when not an if - perhaps things would have settled for him. Simon hoped Jim brought Sandburg back with him. Because whether admitted or not, Jim needed a partner - and no one filled the requirements better than Blair Sandburg.

Returning to the files glaring at him from his desk, Simon sent out a hope that both of his wayward friends were safe.

********************

Medford, Oregon

Jim Ellison had spent the better part of the last twenty-four hours driving from northern Washington to southern Oregon, neither sleeping nor eating. I-5 had been a straight shot of mind numbing city after city. Which was good. He didn't want to think. He didn't want to feel. All he wanted to do was get as far away as possible from Cascade, Washington.

When he finally did turn off for some sleep, the sun had set beyond the horizon and what nightlife existed in Medford, Oregon, had come out. By the time he pulled into Oscar's for a beer and some food, the place was already packed. The waitress serving his beer and greasy hamburger mentioned something about the place being full because of some show, but Jim didn't plan on staying that long. Only long enough to have a couple of beers, fill his stomach and find a motel somewhere to sleep for a couple of hours. Then he'd be off again. Maybe he wouldn't stop until he hit Las Vegas. He could hole up in Nevada for a while - soak up some sun, get his fill of women, gambling and liquor. Forget about crime for a while. Forget about being a cop; forget all the Sentinel crap. Forget about Sandburg. Just be human. Plain, old human Jim Ellison.

Too bad he couldn't forget about the Sentinel senses right now. Though dialed down as far as possible, his taste buds were only making the fatty hamburger even more disgusting.

Tossing the remainder of his oozing meal onto the plate, he slouched in his chair, gulping down the last of his first bottle of beer, automatically checking out his surroundings. The main floor of Oscar's Bar & Grill was packed tightly with tables and chairs; practically every chair was filled with a body, most of them chatting excitedly with food in their mouths. The resulting din had forced him to dial down his hearing when he first entered, so the noise level didn't bother him. Sights and smells, however, did. He could already feel a headache coming on, and the smoke hanging heavily above the heads of the crowd caused his eyes to water.

Just dial it down, Jim, Sandburg's voice echoed from the past. Jim closed his eyes and shut out the voice...and the hollow ache that accompanied it.

"Not used to all this ruckus, eh?" his waitress asked with a brilliant smile as she placed another bottle of beer on the table.

Jim lifted the bottle and tilted it towards her in silent thanks. "Is it always like this?"

"Usually on a show night it gets pretty busy." She motioned with her head back towards the bar. For the first time, Jim noticed people standing, compressed together so tight that he could barely see the floor. "Standing room only. Pretty good."

"Who's playing?"

"Local band, very popular. You staying?"

"I don't think so. Know of a hotel nearby?"

"Sure. Just up the street is a Motel 6. Very clean, good price...if you're looking to be alone."

She smiled warmly at him, posing just right to give Jim a pretty good idea of how much he'd enjoy not being lonely with her. He grinned, seriously considering the evening of pleasure that the waitress's eyes were suggesting. He focused on the girl's name badge. Sherry. Nice name. She smelled of smoke and grease with a little of the cologne Red coming through, and she filled her jeans and plaid shirt nicely.

Taking a drink of beer, Jim leaned forward to ask Sherry what time she got off when the noisy room suddenly fell silent. The effect nearly dropped Jim to his knees. Through the haze of smoke, he studied the patrons, shocked to see their mouths moving as though speaking to one another as animatedly as they had been, but no sound came out. Pressing his hands to his ears, Jim sat back and looked up at Sherry. Her full lips were moving as well, brows creased in concern. He shook his head, hoping to clear up whatever stoppered his ears. A blue glow illuminated the entire scene. Jim knew what would be next.

A low growl purred in the silence. Jim recognized that growl, but it wasn't the sound he had been expecting. Usually, his spirit animal appeared in these visions, but this was not his spirit animal. A chill raced up his spine; he knew whose it was. Slowly he shifted his gaze to the far side of the main floor, drawn there by some unknown compulsion. His eyes widened as they tracked a perfectly balanced spotted jaguar moving across the railing that separated the floor from the bar area. The cat licked its furry lips; its golden eyes gleamed menacingly, but not at Jim. Following the cat's gaze, Jim flew out of his chair, hand automatically traveling to his back, grasping air as he searched for the gun and holster usually there. A gray wolf padded across the front of the stage, its muzzle swinging back and forth, blue eyes searching for something. It was completely unaware of the spotted jaguar stalking it.

Jim's body shook and it took him a moment to discover that someone was doing the shaking. The blue glow dissipated and sound suddenly blasted through his head. He doubled over in pain.

"Sir? Sir?" Sherry's frantic voice broke through the sizzling torture in Jim's head. "Hilary, call 911."

"No," Jim managed to whisper, his voice strained even to his hurting ears. "I'm all right."

"Are you sure? We can..."

"No!" Jim bellowed. Still tilting his head against the relentless clamor around him, he dug into his jeans pockets and pulled out some money. After dropping it on the table, he staggered from the bar.

********************

He drove. He didn't care where; he didn't care how long. He had to get away from the lights and the sounds and the smells. His skin was on fire.

Leaving the lights of Medford far behind, Jim finally pulled his truck over to the side of the road, leaving on the fog lights by which he'd been driving. Lurching out of the truck, he made it to the side of the road before the nausea hit. He dropped to his knees and vomited up his greasy meal. Several dry heaves later, he sat back on his knees, breathing heavily.

He remained like that for a while, willing control to return, doing the deep breathing exercises that came almost naturally to him now. Soon, the fire on his skin disappeared, his hearing returned to normal, as did smell. When he opened his eyes finally, and could look without pain at the twinkling stars on a backdrop of black, he let out a deep sigh.

It had been a while since his senses went crazy like that. He'd managed surprising control the past several months, since Sandburg packed up and left; but to be honest, he hadn't done anything seriously extreme in that time, either. Normal day-to-day police work, searching a scene, going over weapons and vehicles, that sort of thing. But anything heavier, such as focusing his eyesight further than a hundred feet, or listening in on conversations down a street, had been out of the question. Not that he doubted he could do it. He just had no desire. Sandburg had left and Jim's wish for things to return to normal, to the way they were before the kid had hit the scene, had come true.

And he hated it.

Jim shook his head as the vision of the hunting jaguar tumbled through his brain once more, sending his stomach reeling. Falling forward, resting his weight on his hands, Jim urged the nausea to disappear. Swallowing down the acid bile rising in his throat, he breathed deeply through his nose. As control returned, the vision played once more.

A spotted jaguar. He hadn't seen the animal for almost two years, not since the events surrounding Alex Barnes. That name brought up not only an image of the stunningly beautiful blonde Sentinel who had wreaked havoc in his life, but also that strange compulsion that had led him to her in Mexico. For some reason beyond even Sandburg's explanation, a connection existed between the two Sentinels; a connection so intense that Jim had even pushed Blair aside in order to answer it.

Taking deep breaths, Jim sifted through his memories, hoping to find the weapon that would allow him to fend off the mystic craving overwhelming his will. An image of a jungle and a fire lighting a small camp caught Jim's awareness, the familiar voice of Blair as he spoke to Jim. Truthfully, at that moment, Jim had been caught up in the strange embrace that had dragged him, Sandburg and Conner through the jungle. But something Blair had said that night had caught hold and remained.

"You're just going to have to find something else to concentrate on."

Something else. What? What could he concentrate on that was powerful enough to destroy his desire for Alex?

"What do you fear?" Incacha's voice from the grotto echoed in Jim's mind. Images that had struck him following Incacha's questions surged within him. Images of Blair.

That was it. Those images had destroyed the hold of not only Alex, but of the potion that held Jim in its fiery grasp while in the grotto. It may have been Incacha that spoke to him through that experience, but it had been Blair who grounded him. Blair who had guided him to the control Jim needed.

Blair who would give him the will to fight the desire growing in him now and keep his senses keen.

Sighing heavily, Jim sat back on his knees once more, fighting with the thoughts tumbling through his mind and the emotions clenching at his chest. For five months he had tried to forget the young man who had made an indelible dent in his life. A dent; Jim scoffed at that. More like Blair Sandburg had penetrated every facet possible. No matter how hard Jim had tried to fight it, more than experiences connected them, more than the dissertation, even more than the friendship that had formed over the years. This Sentinel thing had linked them in ways Jim didn't - couldn't - define.

He had come to accept that, though. Had come to accept the permanence of Blair in his life. After the time they spent with Two Eagles and John Whitefeather in New Mexico after capturing Anna Morningstar, Jim had decided that he could handle the mystic side of their partnership if it didn't cause too much hassle and didn't happen too regularly.

Then the events around the dissertation occurred, everything exploding around them. When the press had first started running the story about Blair's dissertation, revealing Jim's ability, Jim had at first been shocked and angry - two emotions in the Ellison psyche that he didn't handle well. Jim had said some things to Blair that he later regretted. He had wanted to apologize to his friend, but the media pushed harder; and the harder the media pushed, Jim found himself wanting nothing more than to just shut off the whole Sentinel thing. Get rid of the senses. End it all and go back to the way things were before Sandburg. He had been willing to destroy their friendship in order to regain some kind of control.

Problem was, a major part of him enjoyed having Sandburg around. He had become fond of listening to Blair's confusing chatterings in the loft at two in the morning; he liked having a partner at the station...hell, Jim had even started tolerating the tests. That part of him wanted to keep what they had. All mysticism aside, Blair had chosen to be the brother Jim had lost in both Steven and Danny Choi; had chosen to remain by Jim because of friendship; had become the partner that Jack Pendergrast would never - could never! - have been.

Jim cringed, closing his eyes against the memory of Sandburg's pained expression when Jim had accused him of betrayal. Despite everything they had experienced together, Jim wanted to destroy it all - to walk away from a friend who had sacrificed a great deal to help a struggling Sentinel.

Watching Blair's spurious confession before the entire city of Cascade had finally put together all of the pieces. At that moment Jim swore he'd do whatever he could to make up for what almost happened. Their conversation at the hospital had been a start, but Jim could tell by Blair's less than enthusiastic response that he needed to do more.

So when Simon had regained his strength after the shooting at the station, Jim had gone to him with a proposal. When Simon had agreed to it, and all the implications that would be involved, Jim went to Naomi with the idea. She hadn't been too thrilled; the thought of her son as a cop definitely didn't sit well with her. But she had agreed, mostly because of her part in the dissertation fiasco. Jim had actually been counting on that.

The irony of it all? Jim, who had wanted to walk away, who had tried to fix things, hadn't been the one to leave. It had been Blair who finally did the walking.

Memory of their last conversation bubbled up from where Jim had shoved it months before. Arriving home to find all of Sandburg's items gone, the bookcases emptied of knick-knacks, the afghan gone from the back of one couch, and Blair sitting at the table staring at the door, waiting for Jim to arrive. He had finally contacted Eli Stoddard. After having the word "fraud" used in newspapers and by his former colleagues, Blair had heard it from the man he revered as a father. That word had begun to wear Blair down, but hearing it from Eli killed him.

Blair admitted he needed space to process everything and Jim had reacted in his normal, Ellison way. He'd gotten angry and hurt. Quite the legacy his father had left him.

No, that wasn't fair. William Ellison may have raised him, but Jim had learned, from a certain anthropologist, that he was the adult he chose to be, not just the outcome of poor parenting. And at the moment when Sandburg needed the support from the only friend who could give it, that friend had shut down on him.

Some friend.

Jim took another deep breath, pushing away the thoughts of self-deprecation, realizing simultaneously that the previous desire for Alex Barnes had completely disappeared. His mind cleared and he recalled the vision with ease. As he reviewed the images over and over again he recognized one very important thing he had overlooked: it hadn't been the connection with Alex Barnes that brought on this vision. The feeling was all wrong. He wasn't being warned about Alex; he was being warned that Blair was in danger because of Alex.

Flashing red and yellow lights caught Jim by surprise and he squinted at the road. A sheriff's vehicle pulled around Jim's truck and came to a stop. Wiping his mouth, Jim stood, cursing himself that he hadn't been paying enough attention. He should have seen beams of those lights long before now.

A burly man exited the vehicle, aiming a flashlight at Jim, who lifted one hand to shade his eyes.

"You doin' okay there, mister?" the deputy asked, not coming closer.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine."

"Have a bit too much to drink?"

Jim shook his head, not daring to move from his spot. He knew the rules about roadside stops and didn't want to spook the deputy. "No, sir. I mean, I did stop at some place in Medford, but I only had two beers. Weak stomach, I guess."

"You stop at Oscar's?" The deputy's voice suddenly became wary.

"Yes, sir."

"Why don't you step over to the front of your vehicle, sir, and show me some identification."

Rolling his eyes, Jim obeyed. Standing at the front of his truck, using the soft yellow glow of the fog lights, he pulled out not only his state ID, but also his police ID.

"Cop, eh?" the deputy asked after he had taken the items. "Cascade, Washington? You're a long ways from home, Detective."

"Yeah," Jim replied, a sad smile lifting one cheek. "Decided it was time to take the days I've been putting off all these years. Rat race, you know what I mean?"

The deputy smiled, more at ease, though Jim could see the man's hand still rested on the handle of his gun. "Things are slower here in Jackson County, Detective. Tell me, you the guy who raced out of Oscar's as though his tail were on fire?"

Jim frowned. Sounded like Sherry had called 911 anyway. "That was me. I didn't want to bother anyone, deputy. The waitresses were going to call the police and I didn't want the hassle of the hospital. Like I said, weak stomach."

The deputy nodded. "Why don't you do me a favor and step out here." He motioned towards the side of the police vehicle. The lights still flashed, and Jim had to squint when he neared them. "Think you can walk a straight line?"

Knowing whatever buzz existed after Oscar's lay in a pile on the side of the road, Jim walked a perfectly straight line. He passed every sobriety test the deputy offered.

Finally, the deputy sighed. "Okay. Sherry and Hilary were just concerned that you'd end up hurting yourself or someone else, so they called the police. You look and sound okay. However," one finger snapped up, "I suggest you head whatever direction you're going in and the first hotel you come to, pull over and get some rest." He handed Jim's ID back to him.

"Will do, deputy. Thanks."

The deputy waited for Jim to get into his truck and pull away. For several miles, Jim saw headlights in his rearview mirror. After a while, the deputy must have decided Jim wasn't a threat. The headlights dimmed and then disappeared as the sheriff's department vehicle turned around and headed back towards Medford. A half hour later Jim passed into northern California.

Beat, and not wanting to think about anything for the rest of the night, he did as the deputy ordered. The first motel he came across - okay, the second; the first was a rundown, old thing on the side of the road outside some town that looked like the twentieth century passed by it completely - he pulled over. After checking in, Jim found his room for the night. Not even bothering to scan the room as he usually did, he fell face first onto the bed and gave in to the welcomed oblivion of sleep, haunted by the lonely howl of a gray wolf.

********************

5 A.M., October 26, 1999

Las Vegas, Nevada

Tearing from his bed, slamming against the far wall, Blair Sandburg frantically searched the dimly lit room. Heart hammering against his chest, breaths coming in quick rasps, he watched as the blinking light of the hotel sign outside his window banished the shadows with each flicker. When at last he felt confident enough that no one was in his room, Blair began to relax.

Sliding down the wall, ignoring the rough feel against his sweaty back through his t-shirt, Blair immediately folded his legs into a half-lotus. Resting his wrists on his knees, closing his eyes, he forced his body into some semblance of a catatonic state. Allowing the quiet moment to enfold him, Blair began to relax. His heart slowed, his pulse quit racing. With the serenity, images flowed freely to his mind.

He couldn't quite see the lurking danger, but something menacing trailed his every movement. Since returning to Las Vegas, the feeling of being hunted had bothered him; it had only been the last several days that dreams had begun to haunt his sleep. Whatever was after him was close by.

This dream, however, had been slightly different than the others. The familiar sensation of being hunted still permeated the dream, but behind it, in the distance that Blair couldn't quite penetrate, echoed the sound of a large cat's growl. Though the distance distorted the cry, it could not distort the feeling of home and safety that accompanied that sound - a feeling Blair had foolishly sacrificed months ago, a feeling to which he was now desperately trying to return.

Whether it meant that Jim was nearby, or just that the closer Blair got to home the more he thought of his friend, Blair didn't know. Whatever the answer, it had been too long since feeling the connection to his Sentinel and Blair's heart thrilled at the sensation.

He focused his thoughts on the nightmare once more. It had turned murky after the call of the jaguar. What had finally broken the hold and sent him soaring out of bed had been crazed gold eyes leaping at him.

Whatever or whoever was after him meant business though, that much he could tell. Since leaving Cascade, Blair had purposely pushed aside the Shaman stuff that had floated in and out of his life, but that didn't mean he didn't listen when something like this happened. He learned after those nightmares that led Jim and John Whitefeather to Anna Morningstar two years ago that he didn't dare take any chances. Even if these nightmares were just his overactive imagination - which he had no doubt they were not - it was better safe then sorry. Since it was still a while before he could afford to leave Las Vegas for Cascade, he would need some kind of help. The cops were out of the question - they still hadn't forgiven him the last time he was in Las Vegas. Maybe he'd pay a visit to Mal. Blair still had one more chip to cash in. Mal's expertise would be just the ticket.

With that reassuring thought, Blair started back towards physical awareness. Usually he'd remain in meditation longer, immersing himself in its empowering effect. Anymore, though, if he remained in meditation longer than a few minutes, his mind usually brought up the ache of loss he felt so poignantly the longer he remained away from Cascade.

Once he had made the decision to return home, it seemed one thing after another conspired to keep him away. The compulsion to get home, however, had given him the strength to withstand quite a bit these past few weeks. Never in his life had he felt such a need for home. Growing up with Naomi afforded him many places where he stayed, but it had taken leaving Cascade to discover what home really meant. Admittedly, it wasn't just the city that drew him back; he hoped the friendship he had abruptly severed five months ago still existed on some level.

Even if it didn't, Blair knew where he needed to be; he finally knew his place. He had told Naomi that he had found the brass ring, and it hadn't been the validation of his work or the money and prestige that hung before him like a carrot. It had been everything in between - helping Jim discover his potential, being a friend, guide and partner, having a home. The thing was, Blair may have believed that in his head, but it took his heart a bit longer to grasp what that truly meant. Now he understood. Despite the fact that Jim might not accept him back; despite the loneliness that may be awaiting him; despite even the title of fraud that had slipped so easily from Eli Stoddard's lips and that had begun in the corridors of the police station, as well as from his once revered colleagues at Rainier; despite it all, Blair could not argue one irrefutable truth: Cascade was his home. That's where he belonged.

With his Sentinel, whether his Sentinel wanted him or not.

Blinking open his eyes, Blair was surprised to find a gentle golden glow filling his room. A new day dawned over Las Vegas, Nevada, and spilled its greeting into his room. He groaned. Which meant he hadn't had more than two hours of sleep since falling into bed at three. Though he was used to going days without sleep due to the schedule he had kept between Rainier and working with Jim, these nightmares were taking their toll physically and mentally. In four days he'd had a total of ten hours of sleep, but it felt like he'd been awake for weeks. Not good.

Standing, Blair extended his arms and hands far above his head, stretching until his back and neck popped. Crossing the small room, he opened the long, slender windows that overlooked the outskirts of Las Vegas. A cool breeze burst through the windows, carrying with it the smell of bacon and eggs from the greasy spoon next door. Blair fought down the bile rising in his throat from that smell. Food this early in the morning was definitely a no-no.

Leaning against a corner of the window, Blair studied the light brown vistas of the surrounding desert. He had made it as far as Las Vegas before the money he earned in Georgia ran out. Luckily, the relationships he had managed to create when he first landed in Las Vegas five months ago had lasted and his former manager at the Mirage had rehired him. With his pay and tips, he could pay for the rundown motel room and still slip some money into a savings account. It wasn't much, but it would be enough.

He turned from the window and grimaced at his messy room. His uniform he had at least hung up, but the remainder of his clothes still managed to cover the floor of the single room unit that consisted of a double bed, a chest of drawers, a small table with one chair and a microwave on a sturdy box. It was by no means Shangri-La, and didn't even come close to the loft, but for now it would do, cluttered as it was.

Just for a little while longer. After these next two paychecks he'd have enough money saved for a ticket back to Cascade and still have a cache large enough to get him a place to live and exist for at least a couple months. That ought to give Blair enough time to find out what he would be returning to.

Memories of his friend pushed their way into his mind, but Blair pointedly shirked them aside. He didn't want to think about Jim right now. Fear that he had irrevocably damaged their friendship was a little too much for him to handle on an empty stomach and no sleep. But, damn, Blair sure missed him.

Scrubbing his head with one hand, thrilled to feel hair finally returning, he crossed the room to his messy bed. Now that morning was well on its way, he'd be able to get a bit more sleep before his shift started. The hunted feeling didn't bother him so much once the sun was up.

He managed to crawl beneath the knotted covers and settle comfortably on his side. With a sigh, he burrowed into the pillows. Thoughts of the loft and Cascade drifted in his tired mind, interrupted every now and then by the distant sound of a cat growling.

********************

4:30pm, October 28, 1999

Cascade, Washington

Simon Banks tossed the last file into his outbox and settled back into his chair, wearily rubbing his eyes with long fingers. Rafe and Brown had exceeded all expectations - except Simon's; he knew they could do it - and solved the murder in record time. Watching Chief Reed commend the two detectives was a memory Simon would cherish for many a day. If Reed's face could have been any redder, he'd look like a fire engine truck; which seemed apropos considering the man had steam coming out of his ears. Guess it was difficult for Reed to admit mistakes. Who knew?

Simon chuckled to himself. He would have given anything to see Reed's face once the doors to Major Crime closed behind him and a cheer rented the air. Detectives and officers alike pounded Brown and Rafe on the back for several minutes. Rafe in particular seemed rather pleased.

Shaking his head, Simon pulled a cigar out of its leather pouch and sniffed the length of it, letting out a contented sigh. Things were going well, even shorthanded as the department was. He wouldn't think about what would happen when a crime wave hit. According to sociologists out of Rainier, apparently Cascade was brewing for a hit. All the misdemeanors were just a prelude to a city getting ready for the darker winter months. Simon usually didn't give credence to such reports, but since Sandburg had started hanging around Major Crime, Simon was actually convinced that all that scientific mumbo-jumbo might be worth something.

He wasn't going to worry about it, though; by the time the forecasted crime wave hit, Jim would be back. Simon was certain of it. And what's more, he'd have Sandburg in tow. If not...

Well, like he said, he wasn't worrying about it.

"Simon?" a muffled female voice called at his door, someone knocking at the same time. Rhonda stuck her head in. "Do you have a moment?"

Waving her in, Simon straightened. "I thought you had called it a day, Rhonda."

"I did, sir." She hesitated then entered the room, closing the door behind her.

Simon felt a wave of gratitude for this strong, quiet woman. When he had first started as captain in Major Crime, he hadn't been too sure about the pretty blonde unit secretary. She seemed more looks than smarts. Blonde hair, blue eyes, slender with a nice figure, Rhonda had turned many an eye, even Simon's. At first.

It took a whole day for him to realize who was the real undercurrent of control in Major Crime. By the end of that first day, Simon knew he could trust Rhonda with just about anything and she'd get the job done. She hadn't let him down once since then.

"Sir?"

Rhonda stood in front of his desk; her winter coat hung open, purse on her shoulder. Her forehead wrinkled in question.

"Sorry, Rhonda, just thinking. Why are you back? Did I forget to sign a form?" Simon grinned up at the woman, noticing the strained smile in return. That got his attention. "What is it?"

Quickly, she sat. Crossing her legs, she leaned forward and dropped her voice to an intense whisper. "While I was checking out, two men came in looking for you. They presented badges that said FBI, but..." She bit her lower lip.

"Go on."

Taking a deep breath, she continued, "In here we've had agents from the FBI, CIA, ...you name it, and we've been visited by them, right?"

Simon nodded.

"These guys don't act like FBI, Simon." Her eyes barely darted towards the windows of Simon's office. Simon shifted in his chair, using the movement to follow Rhonda's gaze.

Two men stood by Rhonda's desk, both dark-haired and of the same height. One man had gray in his hair. Both wore long tan trench coats over dark suits. What was it with agents and trench coats, anyway? They stood rigidly, hands behind their backs. Simon returned his gaze to Rhonda.

"Why do you say they're not FBI?"

"FBI are usually pretty haughty about their cases, somewhat snooty if you will. Almost like they're kids with a secret and are tickled pink that they can't share it."

Simon grinned at her explanation. She hit that on the head.

"These men, though...I told Mike at the front desk that I would guide them up to your office. I tried to start up a conversation with them in the elevator, but all their answers were abrupt. Almost curt." Rhonda bit her lip again. At Simon's gesture to continue, she whispered, "No emotion, no haughtiness, just tight-lipped. Like CIA."

Sitting back in his chair, Simon nodded, mulling over Rhonda's insight, once again very pleased that he had fought for her employment when cutbacks would have sent her out the door. She had an intuition that floored him.

"Did you have any special plans tonight?" he asked, piling the papers strewn across his desk and sliding them into the drawer he kept empty for just such a purpose.

"Not really. Except to feed my cat." She smiled again, this time it touched her eyes and dimpled one cheek.

"Would you mind sticking around for a bit? I may need you."

Rhonda rose and grabbed the pile of papers Simon had put into his outbox earlier. "Sure. There's always something I can do." She walked to the door, paused and turned. "Joel Taggert is still here. Want me to have him ready for you to see him?"

Amazed again at this wonderful young woman's instincts, Simon nodded. "Go ahead and show them in."

"Yes, sir."

********************

Las Vegas, Nevada

The opulent mansion stood stark white against the desert sands of Nevada. Several acres of nothingness surrounded the residence and its grounds until the eye was drawn to an expanse of plush grass and palm trees - an oasis in the desert. Elegant, wealthy and powerful; those were the words Blair used to describe the setting, and the man who owned them.

Paying the taxi, Blair turned towards the front entrance. Skinny poplars, not indigenous to Nevada - and how did the owner get them to grow so healthy in the desert? - lined both sides of the path leading to the front door. A door made of mahogany and etched glass. Blair had been to this mansion only twice before; each time he visited he couldn't keep his mouth from falling open. One thing was for certain: the rich in Las Vegas lived the life to the hilt.

Pressing the doorbell, he waited for the booming "Ride of the Valkyries" to play and someone to answer. His blue eyes swept the front lawn, admiring the different types of floral and plant life lining the front of the house and placed in different areas in the plush, well-kept grass. In one corner stood a fountain of gray marble, with a cherub holding a vase that spewed water.

"May I help you?" a formal voice broke into his thoughts.

Blair jerked back to the front door, recognizing the rather large man who stood there. "Hey, Franklin," Blair announced, grinning.

The first time he'd met Franklin the man had him off the ground by the collar. Even now Blair had to suppress a shiver from the look of sheer loathing that had been on Franklin's joweled face that night. Since then, Blair had grown to like the guy.

Blair did a doubletake, noticing something strange about Franklin's appearance, beyond the absence of a neck. "Oh, man, you grew a mustache!"

What appeared to be a sneer -- but Blair had come to learn was actually how the man smiled -- crossed Franklin's thin lips. Blair took that as a compliment. "Mr. Fitzwilliam is expecting you," Franklin announced.

Blair stepped into the entryway and waited for Franklin to close the door. Following the burly man, he quietly surveyed the lavish home. Up the right was a sweeping staircase with a dark wood railing and soft tan carpet that matched the rest of the home. Large canvas paintings, some of which Blair knew to be one of a kind artwork, hung along the walls of the stairwell and in the living room to his left. The dining hall had a chandelier with crystals so perfect rainbows danced from every cut. He'd never want to own a place like this, but, man, it was beautiful to behold.

Franklin led Blair to an office off the main portion of the house. A thick, mahogany door separated it from the other rooms. As Blair stepped in, a tall, skinny man stood from behind his desk, removed the glasses from his oval face and grinned.

"Blair, my boy, it's good to see you!"

Mal Fitzwilliam stepped around the desk and started forward. He towered over Blair, maybe six-six, with slender everything. Piercing black eyes watched him from beneath a high forehead and thick, perfectly trimmed black hair, streaked gray at the temples. No one knew exactly how old Mal was, though Blair had guessed from conversations with the man he'd have to be somewhere in his sixties. In the dark gray, double-breasted suit he wore, Mal looked like a walking skeleton, almost to the point of appearing weak. But Blair knew differently. Behind the frail appearance lurked a body of hardened muscle, trained and sleek. Whoever made the mistake of expecting Mal to be an easy mark made that mistake only once.

Bending at his waist, Mal drew Blair into a strong hug, pounding him on the back. "You don't write, you don't call. What kind of raising did your mother give you?"

Blair grinned, stepping back. "Sorry, Mal. I've been working as many shifts as I can the last week."

Mal shook his head, crossing his arms. "I keep telling you, kid, all you have to do is ask. I could pay for your airline ticket *and* set you up nice and sweet in Cascade. It's the least I can do after saving my life."

Lifting both hands in defense, Blair stepped past Mal. "And I keep telling you, I'm doing this on my own. My life may be in pieces back home, man, but I won't go back to it on somebody else's money."

"You are quite the man, Blair Sandburg." Mal quirked one eyebrow at Blair, his face twisting into a smirk. "Are you certain I can't convince you to stay? Las Vegas has many distractions, and I could use a man like you on my…team."

Team. Interesting way of putting it. Blair turned back to Mal. "Thanks for the offer, Mal, but I prefer to stay on the right side of the law, if you don't mind."

Mal laughed, slapping Blair on the back as he crossed to the desk and sat. He gestured for Blair to sit. "You know, I've had men killed for less than that kind of statement."

"Yeah, and if I didn't like you so much, I'd be careful of what I say."

Blair put on his best winning grin. There had been a time when he did fear Mal Fitzwilliam, especially after finding out from the Las Vegas police department that he had ties to the mob. That had been before Blair saved Mal from a professional hit; before the police had sent Blair packing when he tried to help them solve that murder case four months ago. To the LVPD's irritation, Blair did solve that case and at the same time earned some points with Mal. So, though Blair was still careful around the man, the police's opinion of Mal Fitzwilliam didn't persuade him too much.

"Blair!" Mal suddenly sat forward. "What happened to your hair?"

Blushing, one hand went to the short curls hugging his head. "It's a long story. Trust me, though; it was worse than this. Remind me to tell you about it some time."

Still amazed, Mal sat back in his chair. "Thought you said you'd never cut your hair."

Blair made a face. "I didn't cut it. Like I said, I'll tell you about it some time. Right now, I'd like to call in my last chip."

The mood instantly changed in the room. Blair could feel it. He knew it would. Suddenly businesslike, Mal gestured for Franklin, who had still been standing at the door, to leave. Once the bodyguard had disappeared, Mal sat forward, steepling long fingers in front of his face as he rested his elbows on the desk.

"What's up?"

Leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees, Blair thought over what he was about to say. He couldn't tell Mal everything; he'd think Blair paranoid and lock him up.

"I think someone is after me, Mal. Please," Blair lifted one hand, shifting his gaze from the floor to his friend, knowing the next question to be asked, "don't ask me how I know. Just trust me on this."

Mal's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You tell me who it is, Blair, and the problem is taken care of."

A tiny smile pulled at Blair's full lips. "Even if I knew who it was, I wouldn't let you harm them, Mal. You know me better than that, man."

"What do you mean, even if you knew? Don't you know?"

"Like I said, don't ask me how I know, I just do, but I haven't seen whoever it is yet."

Tilting his head to one side, Mal smiled fondly. "Feeling a bit paranoid, my friend?"

Blair laughed. "A little." He straightened in the chair, rubbing his tired eyes. The nightmares had gotten worse the past forty-eight hours and Blair hadn't slept wink one in that time; not even during the daylight. "You have your finger on the heart of this city, Mal, you know every cop and every criminal. Owners of casinos come to you for information, as do the police. All I'm asking is that you keep an eye and an ear open for anyone looking for me. I can't get out of town until Saturday morning; that's the earliest bus I could get. Tomorrow night is my last shift." He cleared his throat, digging into his jeans pocket and pulling out a silver dollar. An asterisk in permanent black ink scarred Susan B. Anthony's cheek. He tossed the coin onto Mal's desk. "My last chip, man. Will you do this for me?"

Mal studied the silver dollar closely, his face an unreadable mask. He had given that coin to Blair right before Blair had left Las Vegas a little over three months ago. It had been one of three coins. Mal said he had earned them. All he had to do was turn one in and Mal would honor it. Hopefully this one would get him home before the hunt ended and Blair found out who the hunter was.

Taking the silver dollar into a bony hand, Mal frowned. Then, quite suddenly, he tossed it back at Blair. "You keep it."

Shocked, Blair's mouth fell open. He stared at the silver dollar in his hands then back up at Mal, confused and completely dismayed. He hadn't planned on Mal saying no. Before sound could form words and escape Blair's gaping mouth, Mal stood and rounded the desk, leaning on the front.

"Let me explain something to you, Blair Sandburg," he stated firmly, dark eyes flashing. Blair knew that look - it brooked no argument; it demanded complete attention. Sometimes Mal reminded him of Jim when that look crossed his face. "Those chips were given to you because you earned them by earning my respect. Even though you know what I do, that doesn't stop you from getting in my face. Any other man would be dead in an alleyway." He crossed his legs at the ankle, his expression softening. "But the day you saved my life and the lives of my men, you put me in your debt. I promise you, that never happens. So you keep that chip. What you're asking of me right now is your right to ask freely. It's the least I can do." A shrewd grin split his thin face. "Besides, I'd like to see the look on your Detective Ellison's face when you call in that chip all the way from Cascade."

Eyes wide in amazement, Blair sank back in his chair, mouth still agape. When he finally found his voice, he cleared his throat. "I - I don't know what to say, Mal."

"Say nothing, my friend. If someone is after you, I'll find out who it is and…detain…him until you get on your bus. We need to get you home, right?"

Blair smiled in relief. Home. It was still strange that, after all his traveling, after everything that had happened the last several months, the word home still meant Cascade.

"Right."

********************

Cascade, Washington

Agents Bartholomew and Wakowski had droned on for twenty minutes before Simon finally held up a hand. Putting on his best "you're full of it" smile, he interrupted Agent Wakowski as the younger man tried to explain once more why they needed to speak with Jim Ellison.

"So, let me get this straight," Simon started, folding his hands on the desk, keeping his voice amiable, although he could at any moment take each man by the collar and toss them out on their ears. "You need to speak with Detective Ellison because you think you can convince him to become an agent for the FBI?"

Bartholomew lifted one eyebrow at Simon in question, but he remained silent. Wakowski started in again. "His background makes him perfectly eligible --"

"And you felt that showing up at the Cascade Police Station at six in the evening, when most shifts are through, you could catch Detective Ellison, maybe take him to dinner, and schmooze him for a while."

Wakowski peered at his partner, about to say something, but his mouth snapped shut. Obviously, something in the older man's face told the agent to be quiet.

Leaning forward in his chair, Bartholomew asked, "You're not buying this, are you, Captain Banks?"

"No, Agent Bartholomew, I'm not. Quite frankly, I take offense to the fact that you felt you could march in here and drop bullshit around my office without me smelling it." The smile was still in place; the amiability was slipping however.

Bartholomew sighed, running one hand through his gray-peppered hair. He cast a sidelong glance at his partner, who barely shook his head; the expression on Wakowski's face sent clear warnings. Bartholomew paused as though considering his partner's silent counsel. Simon knew it was all an act. He'd performed the good cop/bad cop angle too many times to not recognize it. By seeming to understand Simon's skepticism, Bartholomew sought to create a basis of trust. Thing was, Simon had no desire to trust either one.

"Very well, Captain Banks," Bartholomew finally said. "On the level. We need Detective Ellison to help with a case we're working."

"Oh?" Simon feigned surprise, eyebrows lifted, as he sat back. He'd play along.

"Does the name Alex Barnes mean anything to you?"

The hair at the back of Simon's neck prickled and a cold shiver raced up his spine. His mouth suddenly went dry. Yes, the name Alex Barnes meant something, and it wasn't anything good. Immediately his mind flashed back to that dreadful morning at Rainier University and the body of Sandburg lying face down in the fountain. He could still smell Blair's sodden hair, feel his clammy skin, hear the absence of a heartbeat, even after all this time.

"I see by your face you remember that particular case." Wakowski's slightly nasally voice intruded on Simon's memories.

Simon was actually grateful for the interruption. He only nodded, not trusting his voice. He needed something to drink. Turning to the credenza behind his desk, Simon reached for a mug and the coffeepot usually kept full and brewing, only to remember at the last instant that he had dumped the last pot. Replacing the mug, he swung back to the two agents who were driving up his blood pressure.

"I believe," Bartholomew continued, "that it was Detective Ellison who followed Alex Barnes' trail to Mexico and eventually caught her."

A sinking feeling started in Simon's gut. He didn't like where this was going. When Simon didn't answer, Bartholomew opened up the briefcase he had carried in and pulled out a manila file. He tossed it onto the desk.

"Alex Barnes escaped from Leavenworth's psychiatric ward," Wakowski explained. "We were able to trail her for a while, but came up empty. The trail ended."

As the agent spoke, Simon reviewed the contents of the manila file. Most of it contained reports on her mental state, emotional instability, successes and failures to manage the bursts of uncontrolled rage. Simon's eyes focused on a paper with neat, square handwriting on it. A burst of air escaped his lips as rage began to boil.

"It says here Alex Barnes escaped three months ago," he stated between clenched teeth, all pretense of geniality gone.

"Yes," Bartholomew replied simply. He crossed his legs and leaned sideways in the chair, resting an elbow on an arm. Simon didn't care for his whole blasé demeanor.

"And when were you going to inform my department that she was on the loose?"

"We didn't have to inform you of anything," Wakowski snapped. "This is a federal investigation."

"That woman caused more problems in my city than I care to remember. She managed to steal toxic gas from a well-guarded location and led one of my best detectives on a chase that nearly got him killed. She did succeed in killing his partner!"

"Ah, yes, Blair Sandburg. Is he available as well? Maybe we could - "

"Get out of my office!" Simon roared, standing and pointing to the door. He had no time for these two men. Alex Barnes was on the loose and Jim and Blair were out there. Worse, they were out there separated from one another.

Bartholomew rested a hand on his red-faced partner's arm, motioning for them to leave. "It would seem Captain Banks isn't interested in interagency cooperation. We'll try elsewhere."

Jaw clenched, breathing heavily through his nose, Wakowski jerked his head in a nod and snapped to his feet. Bartholomew followed more casually, taking the file from Simon's grip. As they neared the door, he turned with a congenial smile.

"There is one more bit of information that you might be interested in, Captain Banks." He took that moment to slip the file into his briefcase. When he finally looked up, Simon was ready to grab the man by the neck and throw him out physically. "There was another escape within forty-eight hours of Barnes and we have reason to believe the two escapees have hooked up. Does the name Lee Brackett mean anything to you?"

Silence fell like lead in the room as that name hung heavy in the air. Lee Brackett -- former CIA, now rogue, and with a vendetta against Jim Ellison -- was on the loose. With Alex Barnes.

Another Sentinel.

Simon finally managed to get his legs moving. Without a word to the two men smiling arrogantly at him, he brushed past them, opened the door and bellowed for Joel before seeing him sitting on the edge of Rhonda's desk.

Joel Taggert snapped to attention, dark eyes widening at first then narrowing once he caught the fury on Simon's face. "Simon, what is it?"

"If I say the name Lee Brackett, will that explain it?" Nodding once at the look of horror on Taggert's face, Simon turned to Rhonda. "I need Brown, Rafe and Conner back here, ASAP."

"Already on their way, sir." Rhonda grinned, a twinkle in her eyes. She shrugged nonchalantly at the surprised expression on Simon's face. "I figured better safe than sorry. Cuts down on wasted time."

Simon shook his head, shoulders shaking in a silent chuckle. He'd have to buy that girl diamonds at the rate she was going.

Movement behind him caught Simon's attention and he turned in time to see Bartholomew and Wakowski heading across the bullpen towards the elevators. "And where do you think you two are going?" he demanded in his sternest voice.

The two turned as one. "You asked us to leave," Bartholomew replied simply.

His casual voice and behavior were starting to irritate Simon. Pushing aside his annoyance, swallowing the words he wanted to say, Simon put on his most apologetic expression. He needed them and the information they had, which meant turning on the niceties.

"Forgive my outburst, gentlemen. Please, in the spirit of interagency cooperation, won't you return to my office and let's see what we can do to locate Brackett and Barnes?"

Bartholomew grinned triumphantly. "Then you'll contact Detective Ellison?"

"I'm afraid that's not possible. He's on an extended leave of absence and is out of contact."

For the first time since they arrived, Bartholomew and Wakowski were at a loss for words. The look they exchanged bordered on panic. Simon actually enjoyed that.

"But it shouldn't take too much to find him," Simon continued. "After all, I have the best detectives in the northwest working for me."

********************

11pm, October 28, 1999

Las Vegas, Nevada

Walking into The Mirage assaulted every one of Jim's senses. Perfumes mingled with cigar smoke, while the aroma of indistinguishable foods hung in the air; lights of every imaginable color blinked and fluttered throughout the entire casino; the sound of thousands of people chatting or yelling or singing combined into a cacophony Jim couldn't filter out; the humidity of so many people and the heat from outside mingling with the air conditioning of the casino, hung on his skin; he could even taste the spices in the air.

Staggering into the men's restroom before the nausea turned into something worse, Jim stumbled into a stall and leaned over the toilet. Breathing deeply - grateful The Mirage kept pristine restrooms - he pictured the dials he associated with his senses and turned each one down far enough to gain control. The nausea abated and Jim slowly straightened. Taking in a final deep breath, then letting it out slowly, Jim walked out of the stall.

He couldn't keep his senses dialed down, but now that he knew what would hit him once out in the casino area, he could control the sensory input and not overload again. Sandburg would be proud of how Jim dealt with this little episode.

Sandburg. Jim frowned. He had promised Blair not to look for him, but there were times when such promises needed to be kept and when they needed to be broken. It had taken a bit to contact Sneaks back up in Cascade, but once the ball got rolling, locating Sandburg hadn't been too difficult; the trail led him on a merry chase, though. Jim had been about to fly to Georgia before his string of contacts reported that Blair was no longer there. When it seemed the trail had ended, Jim finally had to call in the "big guns".

However much he hated it - he still didn't like the whole mystical turn his life had taken - he had forced himself into the meditative state Two Eagles had taught him and connected with his animal spirit, allowing it to lead him to his friend. By the time Jim felt he was on the right trail, leading him directly to Nevada - hadn't be been on his way to Las Vegas, already? - he received news that Blair was, indeed, in Nevada. Not needing any more urging, he continued in the direction he had been heading in the first place.

The minute he arrived, Jim sought the help of the police department, figuring a little interdepartmental assistance couldn't hurt. They had all been cordial enough and willing to help out the Cascade detective, until Jim had mentioned Blair's name. He was immediately shuffled off to Homicide and a certain Detective Applegate, a short, balding man with a thick midriff, who had nothing but animosity for the "long-haired, punk, know-it-all" that had managed to solve a difficult murder by stepping on some pretty precious toes.

Through the entire tirade, Jim had a hard time hiding his smile. It would seem Sandburg's effect on police officers didn't just extend to those in Cascade, Washington.

When Applegate reported that he ran the "punk" out of Las Vegas three months ago - "And good riddance to bad rubbish!" - Jim realized he wouldn't be getting help from the police. No matter how many times they told him that Sandburg was not in Las Vegas, Jim knew differently. So he started asking around.

Which led him to The Mirage and the fervent desire that he had made good on all his promises to take Sandburg here on vacation. If they had gone, Jim's first contact with the severe sensory overload would have been dealt with under his friend's knowledgeable care. Now, he not only had to use his senses to locate Blair, but he had to fight the sensory spikes sending hot iron flashes into his head.

He splashed some cold water on his face and stared at his reflection in the mirror. A tired man stared back at him. He had barely slept in three days, and the wear showed on him. His short-cropped hair was disheveled, his clothes rumpled, eyes puffy and red. It was surprising the casino security hadn't thrown him out. He sniffed his clothes. Definitely needed to be changed before too long. Once Sandburg was found and safely with him again, Jim could worry about other things. Right now, he needed to get to Blair before Alex did. Together they could fight whatever they came across.

Together.

Yeah, he had to admit it. He was eager to see his friend again. Eager to listen to his voice, eager to hear about the last few months, hopeful that what had been destroyed between them could be rebuilt. More surprising was the knowledge that, subconsciously, he had left Cascade for this very reason. To find his friend. Deep down the loss had driven him into an argument with Simon and leaving Cascade. Despite his promise to Sandburg to not search for him, Jim knew that he had been heading to Las Vegas for more than rest and relaxation. If the vision hadn't occurred, he still would have done whatever he could to find his friend, no matter how cold the trail. When he finally realized all of this, it made using that mystic connection he hated so much a lot easier. It also made him realize he'd been paying more attention than he thought to Sandburg's rantings on the psychological make-up of humanity.

Running wet hands over his hair, satisfied with the outcome, Jim turned and started for the door. He stopped with a hand on the doorknob. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door.

Everything seemed muffled with his dials down and he sighed in relief. He could handle it at this level. When he needed to, he could turn up the dials one by one; but right now, he was okay.

The last person he spoke to said that a person matching Blair's description worked at the Blackjack tables in The Mirage. Except, the guy didn't have long hair. It was curly, though. Confused by that last response, Jim still tried the lead. It was the best one he had since arriving.

Making his way through the casino to the tables, Jim searched through the haze of lights and bodies. After turning up his sense of smell, wading through the blend of perfumes, deodorants and sweaty bodies nearly sent him to his knees until he turned the dial down again. Convinced smell wouldn't work, he carefully turned up his hearing. Filtering out the sounds of the machines and the din of voices he focused mainly on heartbeats, pushing them aside one by one until he located the one he sought. There were a lot of heartbeats to filter out and it took a while, but when at last a single, familiar heartbeat pounded in his ears, he desperately clung to it. The anger, frustration and loneliness of the past five months melted away under the steady, strong beat of that single heart and he couldn't hold back an excited smile.

Piggybacking his eyesight onto his hearing, he scanned the crowd until he found the all too familiar smile that lit the even more familiar face. Expressive blue eyes seemed to glow in the lights of the casino. The comment made about the long hair by the person who sent Jim to The Mirage finally made sense.

Short, tight curls clung to Blair's head, a lighter brown than Jim remembered. If it hadn't been for the heartbeat and the smile that was all Sandburg, Jim would have walked right past the man and not recognized him. The blue eyes seemed even bigger without the long hair that had always framed his face. And if it was at all possible, the kid looked even younger. Simon was going to freak. So would Conner; she loved that hair.

Blair's focus was on a person Jim couldn't see, but his friend's entire manner softened as he spoke to the customer. Dialing up his hearing just enough to hear what Blair was saying, Jim nearly staggered under the relief of hearing that voice again.

"You could always stop, Mrs. Unger," Blair said gently, grinning at the response. "Well, if the house, that's me, gets nineteen or higher, then you'll lose." Blair leaned over the table to hear Mrs. Unger's reply. He chuckled. "That's right. I pull up anything higher than a three and you'll get busted." Jim smiled, recognizing the tone of Blair's voice as he explained the rules of the game to his customer. Ever the patient teacher.

Before Jim could hear the answer to Mrs. Unger's next question, a familiar growl caught his attention, sending chills through his shoulders. A blue haze fell over the casino, a sure sign that what he was about to see was a vision. Following his instincts to the bar, Jim became aware of the spotted jaguar hunched on all fours, its shoulder blades moving up and down, its tail jerking back and forth. Jim followed the keen golden focus of its eyes. The cat was about to pounce on Blair.

Alex was here. In the casino.

Jerking free of the vision, Jim rushed towards Blair's table, tripping over people, pushing others aside. He ignored their enraged outbursts. His entire focus was on the man who stood oblivious to the danger. The closer he drew, the more anxious Jim became. He watched as Blair stopped talking in mid-sentence and looked up, scanning the crowd. A relieved smile played at Jim's lips. Blair felt it.

A cloth bag dropped over Jim's head and he was dragged in the opposite direction he had been heading. He fought and yelled despite the feeling of a gun in his side, but there were too many hands on him, keeping him steady, drawing him farther and further away from the heartbeat that had started to thump a little quicker.

In the darkness of the bag, Jim watched as the jaguar stilled for several heartbeats, then pounced, dragging down the surprised wolf with its claws and teeth. The wolf whined in pain.

Jim let out a roar, struggled even harder, won free of several of those hands. He called out Blair's name before something heavy slammed into the back of his head. Stunned, he fell to his knees. He struggled against the oblivion dragging him down. Another strike to his head ended the struggle.

********************

11pm October 28, 1999

Cascade, Washington

Brown, Rafe and Conner arrived almost simultaneously. Taking Conner by the elbow, Simon ordered Brown and Rafe into the operations room with Taggert. As Brown and Rafe obeyed, Simon pulled Conner to the breakroom. Shutting the door behind them, he turned to the confused inspector.

Before she could say anything, he handed her a cell phone and an envelope. "Don't talk, just listen." Conner's mouth closed with a click. "There are two agents here claiming to be from the FBI, but I'm pretty certain they're CIA." He held up a hand when Conner opened her mouth again. "They're chasing Alex Barnes, who escaped from Leavenworth three months ago." He glared at Conner as she moved to speak again. "Not only are they after Barnes, but Lee Brackett. Do you know who he is?" Conner nodded, opened her mouth to say something, but shut it again at Simon's glare. "The agents have reason to believe that Barnes and Brackett have hooked up. If that's true, then Jim needs to know about it. I told the agents I have no way of contacting Jim. I lied. In that envelope is the number to the cell phone I demanded Jim take in case of an emergency. He wasn't very happy about it, but he took it. I don't know if he'll have it on or not, but your job is to find out. Get out of this building, get as far away as you can and keep dialing that number until you get Ellison. Tell him everything I've just told you. Do you understand?" Conner didn't say anything, just looked at Simon expectantly. "Did you hear me?"

"Can I speak now?" she asked, her Australian accent lilting each word.

"Don't get smart with me, Conner," Simon growled.

"Sorry, sir, but I don't understand. Why not tell the agents you know where Jim is?"

"Because I don't trust them, Conner. The CIA have their own little agenda most of the time and I'm not going to give them any information that would put them that much more ahead of me in whatever game they're playing."

Conner glanced at the objects in her hands. "Do you think Barnes is after Jim and Sandy?"

Simon sighed, all impatience escaping in that breath. His shoulders slumped. "I don't know, Megan. Really. But there is a connection between Jim and Alex; you know that. More than just this Sentinel business. It's something deeper. And Brackett knows about Jim's Sentinel abilities. I just don't like the fact that they're together while Jim and Blair are separated and out there without backup."

Nodding in agreement, Conner patted Simon's forearm and smiled, light brown eyes twinkling mischievously. "The thing I like most about you American blokes is your willingness to shaft your government. Count on me, sir. I'll report in as soon as I contact Jim."

"Thank you, Megan," Simon said, smiling. "In the meantime, I'm putting Taggert, Brown and Rafe on shaft patrol, as you so properly put it. We'll give the agents the runaround as long as we can."

Conner saluted then turned. She had her hand on the door when Simon called her name. "When you talk to Jim, tell him…" His voice trailed off. Tell him what? That he was sorry for the angry words last spoken? That Jim was missed? That he hoped Jim could find Sandburg? All of the above?

Before Simon could articulate the words, Megan nodded once, face solemn. "I will, Simon."

With that, she left. Simon squared his shoulders, preparing himself for the best snow job of his career.

********************

Midnight, October 29, 1999

Las Vegas, Nevada

Mal Fitzwilliam was not happy. His network was supposed to be the best in the west. Top dollar paid for good men who were supposed to be able to do the job. His information structure alone could tell when the Governor of Nevada had to pee before even the Governor knew he had to pee. And yet, despite all that, some man, some nobody, was able to get within fifty feet of Sandburg before being taken down. No, Mal was not happy.

His men could tell he wasn't happy, also. Good. At least they properly read the weather front accompanying him as he marched down the corridor to the office in back of The Mirage. Those that escorted him to the office kept a respectful distance, just in case the thundercloud hanging over their boss decided to erupt with a good lightning bolt in their direction. The men who greeted him at the door knew instantly their hides were in trouble and bowed their heads shamelessly.

Once the door had closed behind them, Mal cut loose on his men. "Of all the idiotic, reckless, stupid…simpletons, every one of you. How could you let that man get so close to Blair? Didn't the information network on the streets warn us - long before that man even stepped foot in the Mirage - that he was asking questions about Blair?"

"Yes, sir," several men whispered pathetically.

"Didn't our informants give you a description of the man so the minute he entered The Mirage you could take him?"

"But, sir, he disappeared…"

Mal glared at the man who dared to speak up. "I don't want excuses, Bellows. I want whatever happened fixed. Got it? Something like this better not happen again. Because if it does, one of you will have a very sad widow. Am I understood?" It was a controlled roar he let loose, but a roar nonetheless. Every man cowered. They knew better than to mess with Mal Fitzwilliam; but an angry Mal Fitzwilliam, that was a storm best to run from.

"Good." Straightening his tie, Mal immediately switched gears. His men understood him. The problem would be fixed. Whoever, or whatever, had fallen through would be dealt with. Now, it was time to find out a little about the man sitting in the side office. "Tell me about him."

He walked towards the door as Bellows fell in beside him. "We had to drag him out of the casino, sir. Good thing we tipped off security what we were doing, or there could have been problems. Still, we haven't been able to pull any ID out of him. Before we got him duct-taped to a chair, he took out Aniston with a good right hook and Franklin went down with a spin kick. Heard some ribs crack."

"Franklin, eh?" Mal's eyebrows rose appreciatively. "A fighter. Good."

Bellows opened the door and allowed Mal through first. He was greeted with the iciest blue eyes he'd ever seen, glaring at him from a face of stone anger. Whoever the man was, he was powerfully built: rugged features, prominent jaw, well-muscled and, if what Bellows said about Franklin was true, obviously well-trained. He didn't appear that old, maybe late thirties, certainly no older than early forties. Duct tape had been wrapped around the man's head twice to cover his mouth, his arms bound behind him, duct tape passed around his heaving chest and the back of the chair. The man was even duct-taped by the thighs and ankles.

"Gave you a problem, did he?" Mal asked with mild humor. Not waiting for an answer, he stepped up to the furious man and stopped, casually returning the man's glare. "Well now, you seem to be trussed up rather nicely. I presume that'll teach you to go after a friend of Mal Fitzwilliam's."

The eyes narrowed even more.

"Let me explain something to you, young man," Mal began, pacing in front of the man, who followed him with those frigid eyes. "Blair Sandburg saved my life, and I don't take something like that very lightly. When he came to me a few days ago and asked me to keep an eye on his back because he felt his life was in danger, I took special offense to that. In my city, nobody…NOBODY…threatens my friends." He stopped and faced the man once more. "Now, Mr. Sandburg is one of the finest young men I know, and he would never approve of something accidental happening to you. As a matter fact, he made me promise that no one would be hurt. I honor my promises. At least until my patience runs out. And for you, my patience will run out Saturday morning, when Blair disappears." His eyes narrowed, matching the intensity emanating from his captive. "Then, you will see firsthand why nobody crosses me."

No fear met his words. Part of him prickled under that. Usually, threats from Mal Fitzwilliam were taken seriously. The other part of him thrilled. This young man reminded him much of Blair - unyielding, belligerent, not intimidated. This one had a spark of life that touched Mal just as Blair had.

"I want to know his name," Mal said suddenly. "Bring me his wallet."

Bellows glanced at Mal then at the fuming man. Taking a deep breath, he reached towards the man's pockets. The man watched him intently. Just as Bellows' hand reached his back pocket, he jerked in the chair and growled. Bellows fell backwards. The man actually chuckled. Despite himself, Mal began to like this guy. What was with him lately? First Blair Sandburg, a kid who appears out of nowhere, who was as straight as any good cop Mal couldn't buy; and now this guy, a fearless man hunting Blair for what outcome Mal couldn't guess. He must be getting soft in his dotage.

He had to know who this new adversary was. Without hesitation, Mal stepped forward and retrieved the man's wallet. The man simply stared at him, watching every movement. When Mal backed away, he could have sworn the icy eyes had thawed somewhat.

Opening the wallet, Mal nearly lost every bit of control on which he had prided himself. A gold badge glinted in the room's light. A picture ID established this man as Detective James Ellison.

Ellison.

Mal swallowed and looked up. Those eyes met his, questioning, threatening… hoping?

"Oh no," Mal whispered. "Release him! This instant. Do it now!"

Not accustomed to ignoring their boss's orders, his men had Detective Ellison released within seconds. And seconds after that, Ellison was in Mal's face.

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" Ellison roared even as Mal's men grabbed him and dragged him back. Ellison struggled against their hold, his face red with fury. "Blair is out there, unprotected, and she's here!"

"She?"

"Didn't Blair warn you who was after him?"

"He didn't know."

Ellison's face fell. He swore as he looked at the door, his eyes glassing over, head cocked to one side. The blank expression sent chills down Mal's spine. When a choked gasp escaped Ellison's lips, Mal knew something was wrong.

"She has him." Ellison's voice was tight. Mal had never met this man before, but he knew fear when he heard it. Ellison was afraid, but not for himself. For Blair. "Help me." Pleading edged those words and pierced Mal clean through.

Mal nodded, gesturing for his men to release the detective. As a group, Mal and his men rushed out of the office, following Ellison as he exploded out of the corridor leading away from the back offices and into the casino. He slid to a halt as they entered the casino, gazing over the crowd, head tilted to one side as though listening for something.

"This way!" Ellison barked then took off.

Mal held back Bellows. "Contact security and tell them to back off. Take Gibson, Prade and Smothers and grab some security then circle the building. Whoever has Blair will try to get him out of the building. Maybe we can cut them off. Stay in contact with me."

Bellows nodded. Motioning for the three men Mal ordered to follow him, he pulled a radio from his back pocket and immediately started speaking with security as he rushed towards The Mirage entrance. Mal gestured for the rest of his men to follow Ellison. He hoped they were not too late.

********************

Jim pushed away the fear threatening to destroy his control. Filtering out the sounds of the casino, ignoring the people milling in his way, he followed Sandburg's heartbeat disappearing towards the back of the building. Peripherally he noticed security guards coming towards him. One of them grabbed the radio at his shoulder, listened, then grabbed his partner. Jim hesitated only a moment, watching as the floor security came to an abrupt halt. Realizing they weren't coming after him, Jim slammed through a side door and raced down a stone corridor leading to the loading docks; the heartbeat in his ears suddenly sped up.

Blair's voice echoed back to him.

< "Alex?" > Blair gasped.

A familiar chuckle, almost like a purr, responded.

< "Hello, Blair. You're looking quite well. I like the haircut." >

Jim slowed, inching his way towards an empty loading bay at the far end of the docking area. Sinking into the shadows as much as possible, he peered around the side of the bay. Lights set atop stone walls illuminated the sloped dock access. At the head of the empty lane, a van waited in the shadow of an alley, the motor running, lights off. Opening his vision to allow the glow of the lights to penetrate the shadows, Jim saw that two burly men held Blair, gripping his arms awkwardly behind his back. Alex Barnes stood in front of them; her body pressed against Blair's, one hand raking through his curls. The full, red lips cocked in a snarl.

Seeing her again tightened a knot in Jim's gut and he feared the same strange feeling that had affected him when Alex first showed up in Cascade two years ago would overcome him again. Taking deep breaths, he concentrated on Blair's shaking voice to ground him.

< "Y-you look good, too, Alex," > Blair replied, trying to smile.

Alex clenched a bunch of curls and roughly jerked Blair's head back. < "Are you surprised? Did you think that a psych ward in a penitentiary would destroy me? Or did you hope?" >

< "Look, Alex…" >

< "Shut up, Blair, and get in the van." > Stepping back, she gestured for the men to put Blair in the van.

Not caring he had no weapon for defense, Jim jumped from the loading dock, yelling Alex's name. Fitzwilliam had been behind him; hopefully the man was true to his word that he considered Blair a friend, and that he'd show up any minute with armed backup. Jim couldn't waste his attention by listening, however; he focused all of his senses on the group at the end of the loading area.

Alex stepped forward, her blue eyes flashing in rage…and surprise, Jim noted. She hadn't heard him.

"Jim!" Blair called out in surprise. He struggled against the grip of the men, but they held him firmly in place. Amazement widened the blue eyes.

"You okay, Sandburg?"

"Okay? Are you kidding? Jim, how the hell did you get here? Not that I'm complaining, man, but…" Despite the circumstances, he suddenly grinned. "I sure am glad to see you, man!"

Still wary, and quite aware that he was unarmed, Jim couldn't help a smile as well. "Me too, Chief."

Blair stilled, a strange expression crossing his face. In a voice soft enough for Sentinel ears, he repeated, "Chief." His voice shook. "Damn, it's good to hear that again."

Jim continued forward but stopped as Alex finally recovered and stepped in front of Blair and the two confused men who held him. A shrewd smile lifted her full lips. "Well, well, well. Hello, Jim. It's been a long time."

"Not long enough, Alex. Thought you were supposed to be locked away for a bit longer."

"Change of plans."

Jim nodded, remaining perfectly still. He could hear Fitzwilliam and his men heading toward the docking bay. Observing Alex's expression, he could tell she couldn't hear them. That meant her Sentinel gifts were still fried. One good thing. "You'll have to change them again, Alex. You're not going anywhere with Sandburg."

Curling a lock of blonde hair around one ear, Alex straightened, lifting her chin in superiority. "You let Blair slip away, Jim. You didn't want him, and I do. What makes you think I'd give him up?"

"Sandburg isn't a piece of property, Alex."

"There you're wrong, Jim. He's my companion now."

A movement behind Alex drew Jim's attention. He tensed at the warning in Blair's eyes as they peered up and over Jim's shoulder. Though Jim hadn't seen or heard anything, Blair's gaze was enough.

"Jim!" Blair finally bellowed, terror in his voice.

By that time Jim was moving, turning as two armed men propelled down the sides of the loading dock. Leaping into action before either man could get a shot off, Jim barreled into the midriff of one man, knocking him down. The man's weapon skittered across the cement. Jim grabbed for the weapon only to have the second man kick him solidly in the gut. The air whooshed out of him and he lay stunned.

"Jim!" Blair screamed, struggling to be free of his captors. He managed to free himself from one man, but the other dragged him back, slamming him against the van. Blair's head connected with the van, dazing him.

Rage flared, propelling Jim to his feet before regaining his equilibrium. His attacker kneed him in the gut again, driving him to his knees.

"No!" Blair's voice held a different quality to it this time. It wasn't anger that Jim had been hurt; there was fear in this cry. Jim squinted open his eyes, struggling for breath, watching as both men held a struggling Blair against the side of the van. Alex pulled out a syringe and as one man held Blair's head still, she slid the needle into Blair's neck. Instantly Blair's eyes rolled up into his head and he slumped to the ground.

"Sandburg!" Jim gasped, trying to stand. His attacker punched his jaw, keeping him down. Helplessly he watched as Blair's limp form was thrown into the van. The door slid shut and screeching tires shot up smoke as the van took off.

Jim tried to catch his breath when the familiar sound of a gun cocking caught his ears. He opened his eyes in time to watch his attacker grin maliciously, aiming down the sight of a gun directly at Jim's head. Before the attacker could finish drawing in a steadying breath he jerked wildly as his chest exploded with bullets. The man fell to the ground, eyes wide open, hand still holding his weapon.

Peering around him as he stood, Jim caught the determined look of Mal Fitzwilliam standing on the ledge of the loading dock, handing a weapon over to one of his men. Tilting his head in thanks, Jim stumbled up the docking bay to the alley, following it to a well-lit, busy street. Looking both ways, he sought with eyes and ears for some evidence of the van and Blair.

Nothing.

He fell to his knees. Clenching his fists, a frustrated roar ripped from his lips. So close. He had been so close. And now Blair was beyond his reach again.

********************

1am, October 29, 1999

Las Vegas, Nevada

Security had called the police and soon the loading dock was taped off, extra lighting brought in to assist forensics. Police officers spoke to several who claimed to witness the event. While enduring the questions, Jim's eyes remained on the two men who had been left behind. The one Jim had beaten had remained tight-lipped through the on-site interrogation. The police decided to continue questioning him downtown. Before Jim could work his way free of the officers questioning him, LVPD had the guy in a car. By the time the officers were done, Jim's attacker had been taken from the scene.

But not the dead one. Immediately he crossed over to the body still lying on the ground. Forensics was still taking pictures of the scene. Jim knelt beside a woman bagging items taken from the body. One particular item caught Jim's eye.

"Excuse me, may I see that?" he asked.

The woman eyed him cautiously. Jim flashed his badge and a smile. The woman relaxed noticeably.

"You need gloves," she stated firmly.

When Jim spread his hands innocently, she picked up on the gesture and dug into her pockets. After handing him some gloves, he slipped them on with some effort - they were way too small - and took the baggie that held a small, white box. Pulling it out of the baggy, he studied it for a moment, then noticed that he couldn't hear anything around him. Pulling back his focus, he listened to his surroundings, not surprised to find a space of dead air surrounding the object.

A white noise generator.

Jim swore, quietly shaking his head as puzzle pieces fell into place. Well-armed men, a vehicle, tracking…everything that Alex could not have done alone. And now this; a white noise generator had been used against Jim years ago when an ebola virus had been stolen from Rainier University. Jim thought back to the van, pushing past the sight of Alex and Blair, remembering the shadow in the driver's seat of the van. Someone had been there. The pieces came together, dropping a cold stone of dread in his gut. All of it could only mean one thing. Lee Brackett.

"Damn."

Standing, he flicked the white noise generator off and handed everything back to the forensics tech. "Does someone have a cell phone I could borrow?"

The tech motioned to two plain clothes detectives that had arrived on the scene only moments before. Jim thanked the woman and crossed to the detectives.

The curly red-haired detective saw him first. "You the Washington cop that caused all this?"

Jim didn't like the kid's tone, so he merely glared at him. Then he purposely turned away and spoke to the other detective. "I'm Detective Ellison, Cascade PD. I was wondering if I could use your cell phone to contact my captain."

The other detective eyed Jim up and down, then sniffed. "You the one Applegate told us about? Friend to that liberal hippie?"

Were all of LVPD's detectives assholes? Not wanting to bother with them, nor having the time, Jim turned away and spotted a familiar face. Bee-lining his way past officers and yellow tape, he pushed his way through the crowd and approached Mal Fitzwilliam, who stood in the shadows, watching the entire scene. Obviously, he didn't want to be physically involved in the investigation.

"I need your help."

Fitzwilliam grinned. "The way I see it, you already owe me."

Jim steadied the impatience roiling in his gut. His fingers ached to grab the arrogant son of a bitch and throw him against a nearby wall. "And how do you figure that?"

"I just saved your life."

Taking a determined step towards Fitzwilliam, Jim ignored the movement of the men around them. Fitzwilliam stood several inches taller, but the height difference didn't intimidate Jim.

"Let's review, shall we?" Jim said, his voice low and steady. "If your men hadn't jumped me in the casino, my friend would be with me right now instead of with a woman who has already killed him once. If your men had asked me for my identification instead of dragging me through the casino and duct-taping me to a chair, Blair and I would be enjoying what I had hoped would be a very pleasant reunion. Now, as I see it, you saving my life doesn't even come close to you paying your marker."

Fitzwilliam calmly studied Jim's face, then slowly nodded. "What can I do for you, Detective Ellison?"

********************

12:30am, October 29, 1999

Cascade, Washington

Rhonda caught Simon's eye, gesturing him out into the hallway. Casting a cautious glance at the two agents heavily involved in a discussion with Rafe and Taggert, Simon motioned to Brown what he was doing and then slipped out of the conference room.

"What is it, Rhonda?" Simon whispered as they crossed the hall from the door.

"Jim's on the phone," Rhonda replied, a smile slowly crossing her lips.

Relief flooded through Simon and he grabbed Rhonda and kissed her soundly on the forehead. He headed towards his office. Conner had been reporting for the past couple of hours that she had been unable to get through to Jim on the cell phone number Simon had given her. Each report tied knots in Simon's shoulders and gut. Each hour increased the danger.

Closing his door and locking it, he practically dove to his desk and picked up the phone. "Jim?"

"Hey, Simon."

Jim's voice sounded tired and strained, but that didn't stop it from sounding really, really good. "Man, where have you been? We've been trying to get a hold of you."

"I left the cell phone in my truck. Listen, Simon, I need you to do some homework for me."

"Where are you, Jim?" Simon crossed to his chair and picked up a pen. "I'll call the local police and have them pick you up."

"Listen to me, Simon, that won't be necessary. I need you to--"

"Brackett has escaped, Jim." Simon hated to state it like that, but Jim wasn't cooperating; best to cut to the chase. "So has Alex Barnes. We think they hooked up."

"Dammit," Jim whispered. "I had a feeling."

That brought Simon up short. "What? What do you mean you had a feeling?"

Simon listened as Jim quickly explained everything that had happened over the past few days, ending with the white noise generator and Blair's abduction. During the report, Simon had slumped in his chair, his face falling.

"Geez, Jim," Simon whispered into the phone. "Man, I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault, Simon. It's mine."

"C'mon, Jim -- "

"Dammit, Simon, if I had ignored Blair's request to not search for him, if I had followed my gut instinct and went after him right away, this would not be happening. He'd be safe."

"You don't know that. Alex still could have come after him. It sounds like she's hell-bent on having him for herself."

"At least I would have been with him. Instead he was alone, Simon."

Simon paused, weighing whether or not to say the thoughts tumbling through his mind. Daring to take the risk, Simon said softly, "Jim, if you had gone after Blair when he asked you not to, there's no guarantee he would have stayed. There's no guarantee your friendship would have survived."

The silence on the other end of the phone cut through Simon, but he waited it out. In the beginning, after Jim had brought Sandburg in and asked to have him as a ride-along, Simon doubted if his detective really wasn't sick in the head. Over the years though, the differences between the two men were what made them the perfect partnership. The friendship that had emerged still amazed Simon. Though neither said it, the way they acted toward one another, how they spoke of each other, proved that both Jim and Blair appreciated that bond as well.

When Blair left, it wasn't the loss of the partnership that nearly killed Jim. It was the loss of that friendship.

"You're probably right, Simon, but that isn't going to help me find Blair. The homework I wanted you to do was to follow up on Brackett. The white noise generator is what made me think of him. Now that I know for sure, getting Blair back is even more imperative. I know what Barnes will do to him, but there's no telling what Brackett will do."

"Jim, I've got two agents here. They're the ones who told us about Barnes and Brackett. They claim FBI, their credentials say FBI, but we think they're CIA."

"Simon, you have to keep them out of this. If they know even the area where Brackett is, they'll come after him and won't care who gets killed in the process."

"But if they can find Brackett, and we work with them…"

"Please, Simon, I know how these guys work. You can't trust them."

Simon nodded. He knew that already. "What do you want me to do?"

"See if you can get your hands on the transcripts of Alex's therapy sessions. Maybe something in there might point us in the right direction. I'll work from down here. Contact me on the cell phone; I'll be sure to carry it with me this time. There's one thing I can still do."

"What's that?"

A pause. "I don't think you want to know, Simon."

"Oh, one of those things again."

"Trust me, I don't like this anymore than you do, but it helped lead me to Blair in Las Vegas in the first place. I'm hoping it'll help me find him now."

"All right. We'll work from here. And Jim?" Simon leaned forward in his chair, taking hold of one of the figurines on his desk and studying it.

"Yes, sir?"

"Be careful."

Another pause, then a firm, "Yes, sir. You, too," and the phone went dead.

********************

Las Vegas, Nevada

Jim stared at the cell phone in his hand, grateful that the angry words he and Simon had exchanged a week ago had done nothing to their friendship. It was good to have Simon working backup. Closing the phone, he handed it back to Fitzwilliam.

"So, we're paid up," Fitzwilliam stated firmly, giving the phone to one of his men.

"Yes, we are. What about you and Blair?"

Fitzwilliam studied the dispersing crowd for a moment, then gazed at Jim, determination in his green eyes. "Tell me what you need."

********************

October 29, 1999

Sierra Verde, Mexico

The sound of flies buzzing around his head was the first thing Blair became aware of. The second was the dry, nasty taste in his mouth. After that, he realized he couldn't move his arms or legs. Blinking rapidly, his eyes opened, only to close again at the sharp light that hit them. Rolling his head back, wishing he could use his hands, Blair sat for a moment, trying to rid himself of the headache that had suddenly made an appearance.

"You awake?" a deep voice asked.

Shocked, Blair opened his eyes, moaning when the light hit again. Squinting against the glare, he studied his surroundings. The light filtered through a thin, nylon tent, the screen windows rolled up, the doorway tied shut. Blair himself was trussed up hand and foot to a sturdy pole, his hands behind his back. Rope bit painfully into the skin around his wrists. He still wore his Mirage uniform, though someone had taken his shoes and socks.

"I was really afraid you were dead, Professor Sandburg," the voice said again. Blair focused his blurry vision across the tent, blinking rapidly to clear the film over his eyes.

"Wh-who are you?" he asked.

"Doctor Velbrig. Remember, we met once shortly after my group established this site."

Blair's vision gradually cleared and Dr. Velbrig came into focus. A handsome Black man, Dr. Velbrig was tied up to a pole much like Blair, his tan shirt sweat-ridden and open at the chest. His full lips were cracked and one sore bled. Creases at his eyes and forehead were filled with dirt.

"Dr. Velbrig?" Blair tried to recall the man. Slowly the memory bubbled up from his still muddled mind. "You came to Rainier a year ago, right?"

"Correct. I wanted to meet with you before I and my team started our excavation."

"Excavation?" Blair shook his head, trying to clear his mind. As though someone had turned on a light switch, he remembered. Dr. Velbrig and his archeology students from Stanford had won the rights to head the investigation into the Temple of the Sentinels found outside of Sierra Verde. He and his teaching assistant had traveled to Cascade to interview Blair. "But what are you doing in Nevada?"

"Nevada?" Dr. Velbrig tilted his head to one side. "My dear young man, you are in Mexico, outside Sierra Verde. You were brought some time ago. I was quite worried about you."

Sierra Verde? How did he get to Sierra Verde? "I'm sorry, Dr. Velbrig, my mind seems a little hazy right now. Who brought me here?"

"I don't know exactly who she is. She appeared a few months back with paperwork from the government stating that my team and I were to clear out. I tried to appeal but I was shut out. My team and I gathered what we could and left."

"A woman?" Blair's memory returned bit by bit. He shifted slightly to get comfortable on the hard ground, only to wince as the ropes gnawed unbearably into his wrists. He hissed through his teeth. A memory flashed before his eyes, of The Mirage docking area…a van…two men and…

Blair gasped. "Alex Barnes."

"Barnes, yes, that's her name. You know her?"

Paying only partial attention to Dr. Velbrig, Blair nodded. Yes, he knew her. She had injected something into his neck. That must be why he had a hard time clearing his head and why it felt like a skunk had died in his mouth. Hopefully she hadn't done any permanent damage. He closed his eyes, trying to remember the events of the past several days. He had been in Las Vegas, had asked Mal to keep his eyes and ears open for someone who might be asking after him. He had started his shift at The Mirage like normal, had been explaining Blackjack to an elderly woman, heard a jaguar growl…

A jaguar. Jim.

Memory flooded freely now. Blair had been dealing Blackjack and Mrs. Unger had had several questions. During Blair's instruction, he had heard a cat growl, had looked up and seen a black jaguar leap onto one of the craps tables. It hadn't acknowledged him, instead had stared at the bar. As suddenly as the vision had appeared, though, it disappeared. Shortly after, he went on break and was grabbed by two men. They had dragged him to the docking area. That's when he saw Alex.

Blair swallowed down the distaste that filmed his mouth, and not just from whatever drug had been used on him. The way Alex had touched him, spoke to him, he felt filthy just thinking about it. And then Jim had appeared. Completely out of nowhere, he had leapt from the docking bay and shouted Alex's name. If a UFO had landed right there and Elvis himself had appeared, Blair could not have been more shocked. He'd had a feeling Jim was near, but twenty-feet away had not been considered. The relief at seeing him had nearly sent Blair to his knees, and even in that dangerous situation the easy banter they had shared erased all Blair's fear at what awaited him in Cascade. Their friendship seemed still intact.

Then Blair had seen the men above the docking bay and realized Jim hadn't heard them. Blair watched as Jim went down, doubled over in pain. That was the last thing he remembered; that, and the deep fear that, after coming so close, Blair may have lost everything again.

He bowed his head, eyes squeezed tightly shut, forcing down the fear that Jim might have been seriously hurt.

"Are you okay, Professor Sandburg?"

"Don't call me that," Blair whispered. He glanced up. "I'm no longer a fellow at Rainier. Please, just call me Blair."

Dr. Velbrig nodded. "Then you may call me Theodore. Formality, I fear, is lost in this wilderness among so many individuals of ill repute."

Blair chuckled, remembering how the doctor's formal speech had made him laugh during their last visit at Rainier. He glanced around the tent once more, blinking the sweat out of his eyes. The air was stuffy and humid in the tent and he already wished someone had opened up his shirt as they had Dr. Velbrig's.

"So how long have you been here, Theodore? I thought you said you and your team pulled out."

"We did. However, I gained permission from Stanford to attempt communication with the Mexican government and perhaps reacquire the site. We had enjoyed a good relationship over the past year; I was hard pressed to find a reason why we would be ousted so readily."

"What did you find out?"

Dr. Velbrig made a face. "Nothing from them. Plenty here. I couldn't accept their excuses. They didn't make any sense. So, I did some investigation and discovered that Ms. Barnes had set up her own site."

"What?" Blair jerked forward in surprise, causing his wrists to rub against the wooden pole. He moaned as pain shot through his arms, sending spots in front of his eyes.

"Blair? Blair, are you all right?"

Dr. Velbrig's voice disappeared in the agony that pounded behind Blair's eyes and sent him into oblivion.

********************

1am, October 30, 1999

Las Vegas Airport

The cell phone barely finished its first ring before Simon answered it. "Banks," he barked.

Jim slammed shut the driver's door of his truck. Slinging the pack he had filled earlier over his should