On Ice

Disclaimer: The Sentinel, Blair Sandburg, Jim Ellison, Simon Banks, and all other characters are property of Paramount and Pet Fly. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money has exchanged hands.

On Ice

by Arianna

To Tia, in gratitude for your generous donation to Moonridge! (and with many thanks for your patience!)

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

Ten days before Christmas, sleety rain drizzled intermittently from the heavy clouds hovering over the city, leaving the world a monochromatic gray on gray that even the holiday banners and large tinseled wreaths and bells hung on every other lamp post couldn't brighten. If anything, they looked limp and tawdry, weighted down by wet and dreary with age. His fingertips tapping an irritated tattoo on the steering wheel, Blair sighed at the heavy, stop and go traffic, everyone being extra careful on streets made slushy and slippery by the wet, cold and dismal weather that was so typical of Cascade in early December. He'd told Jim that he'd make it, for sure, for lunch, and then would help with the case reports afterward, but it had taken longer than he'd hoped to finish up before the holiday break, with students lined up in the hallway outside his office wanting last minute guidance with assignments they'd be tackling over the next few weeks. He was definitely late -- again.

When he finally made it to the underground garage, he raced across the scuffed cement floor and into the bleak corridor beyond to scamper into the elevator just before the doors closed, grimacing with impatience when he discovered it was jam-packed, mostly with uniformed personnel, and every button for every floor between the basement garage and the sixth was lit. He considered getting out on the ground level and making a run for it up the stairs, but figured he'd be no further ahead. Late was late -- what were a few more seconds going to matter? As people entered and left, he edged his way to the back, fairly vibrating with impatience.

Finally, finally, the doors opened to the hallway outside of the Major Crimes Unit, and he pushed his way out and through the tide of humanity that was waiting to get inside the elevator. He caught a bare glimpse of Jim and Simon disappearing into the far stairwell, no doubt having given up waiting both for him and for an elevator to lurch its way upward. Rolling his eyes, he dashed down the hall, having to duck around others who were heading out for lunch or other errands around the building. "Hey, Hairboy! How's it hanging?" H called out as he and Rafe rushed to catch the elevator he'd just vacated, and he laughed, waving and chanting, "I'm late, I'm late, I'm very, very late! Catch you later!" over his shoulder. Pushing open the heavy fire-door to the stairs, he heard the sounds of Simon's and Jim's hurrying footsteps, already at least a floor below, and was about to call out for them to wait when Jim's voice drifted up and he started down while he listened, not wanting to interrupt.

"I'm just saying I think it's time to cool it for awhile," Ellison was saying. "Sort of put him on ice, you know? For when I really need help. But I'm doing pretty well -- and, well, you were absolutely right. He shouldn't have gone in on the last case. It was too dangerous and we're just lucky he didn't get shot."

Blair frowned and paused.

"I don't know, Jim," Banks rumbled as they continued downward. "He's been a lot of help to you in the past couple of years. Are you sure you can manage on your own?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," Ellison replied flatly. "Think about it, Simon. In the last few months he's what? Tagged along up in the mountains and managed to get beaten up and damned near killed by that psycho hunter, and got shot -- when I was doing fine, would have done fine on my own, and he was only one more thing to worry about. And then he got his friend involved in the Cyclops Oil mess, and she ended up getting killed, when she really had no business taking those risks. After that, well, let's just say his judgment was questionable during the investigation of Orvelle Wallace and I ... well, I'm not sure I can trust him the way I thought I could. Less than two weeks ago, he had to take out a dirty Fish and Games Officer on his own, and yesterday, we were just lucky that we weren't both killed. It's just been one thing after another, and it's all gotten out of hand."

"Well, they're your senses and your call," Simon replied, their voices growing fainter and more distant, as Blair sagged down onto the step, stunned. "You going to tell him you don't want him going off on cases with you? Can't say I envy you that. You know he'll be disappointed."

"I know," Jim sighed, his voice growing hard to hear. "But he's got to have enough to finish his dissertation -- God knows, he's done a million tests. It's ... it's -"

But Blair didn't wait to hear more. Pushing himself to his feet, he whirled back into the main hallway and leaned against the wall, feeling sick and wondering what to do. Jim didn't want him hanging around anymore? Didn't see any more need for his help? Thought he just got in the way? Didn't trust him? God. Thought it was his fault that Janet was killed? Closing his eyes, crossing his arms, Blair fought the sudden urge to retch, dragging in slow, deep breaths. But Jim had known that Janet had offered to get that information for them -- hadn't said anything then about ordering her to stay uninvolved. Oh, shit. Shit. Tears burned in his eyes, but he blinked them away. He'd blamed himself at the time, but Jim had said it wasn't his fault. But now it seemed his friend had only been trying to make him feel better. Had only been tolerating his presence. For how long?

His hands shaking, pale with the shock of what he'd just heard, Sandburg wandered into the bullpen, empty now that everyone had cleared out for lunch. Slowly, he made his way to Jim's desk and sank down onto the chair, feeling numb and disoriented. He couldn't think, couldn't get past the astonishment and the sick, sick realization that he'd gotten one friend killed and ... and Jim didn't want him around anymore. It was overwhelming. Devastating. He felt cold, icy cold, and started to shake, disgusted with himself for not being sure which realization was worse, more painful, harder to bear.

"Oh, God, Janet," he whispered brokenly, his grief and guilt as raw and wretched as when they'd found her body. "I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry."

Crossing his arms and bowing his head, he curled into himself, telling himself he had to get a grip. He couldn't let anyone see him like this. Again, he fought to deepen and slow his breathing, but the memory of Jim's words, the sound of his voice, so cold and fed up, kept intruding, spiraling him back into the depths of despair. A distraction. He needed a distraction to focus his thoughts, his mind, to shut out thoughts and emotions too hard, too much to bear. Taking a shaky breath, he looked around, wondering if he should just go. But the Lazar case file he was supposed to help finish was lying on the blotter. He'd promised to help; it was one last commitment he could fulfill. Ignoring the note on top that told him where to meet Jim and Simon for lunch, forcing away the understanding that lunch hadn't been a sort of end of term celebration but the excuse to get him away from the office to tell him his ride was over, he lethargically flipped it open and concentrated on the top report form until he was focused enough to recognize it. Letting his backpack slip off his arm to the floor, he doggedly began completing the necessary documents.

Forty minutes later, he'd done all he could. That was it. The last thing Jim had wanted from him. Glancing at the clock on the wall, he realized he'd better take off before anyone got back from lunch -- he couldn't bear to pretend everything was just fine. Couldn't imagine facing anyone. Did they all know how Jim felt? Did they know he was being given his walking papers that day? Hurrying now, he closed the file, and wrote a short note on a yellow, sticky slip that he had some errands to run and would see Jim later.

And then he left, taking the stairs quickly, feeling a pressing need to escape.

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

"Guess Sandburg must've gotten stuck at Rainier," Simon observed as they pulled out their wallets and split the lunch tab.

"Yeah," Jim sighed. "End of term is always hectic -- grading papers and exams, students suddenly realizing they haven't got a clue and need counseling. The holidays are worse than summer break. Then the kids just want to get out and play, but this time of year, they're like everyone else. Stressed out."

Banks chuckled and led the way back out to the street. They both checked out the heavily laden clouds that seemed stuck over the city, but at least it had stopped raining. Cutting a sideways look at his subordinate and friend as they ambled back to Headquarters, he asked, "You feeling less strung out than when we left for lunch?"

Jim grimaced, but nodded. "I just get so ... well, worried, I guess, that one of these times he's going to get himself killed," he allowed, almost grudgingly. Shrugging, he went on slowly, "But, yeah -- getting it off my chest helped, thanks."

"Well, that's my job," Simon replied dryly. "Keeping my men from going off half-cocked and screwing up a good thing." He looped an arm around Ellison's shoulders, and counseled, "You know damned well that his friend got us invaluable information on Cyclops -- and you know as well as I do that it was in no way Blair's fault that the girl got killed. And we both know you might easily have gotten in trouble going after Quinn to rescue me if he hadn't been there to keep you from zoning on the scent or tracks. Damn it, Jim, I know you worry about him, but he holds up pretty good. Just, oh, I don't know, talk to him about being more careful."

Snorting, Jim shook his head. "You think I haven't? Sandburg just keeps saying he can't back me up from inside the truck. And he's right. But ..."

Patting his back, Banks let his arm fall away. "The two of you make a good team," he said reflectively as they approached the entrance to the Police Department. "I know it won't go on forever, but talk to him about how he feels about it all. If he still wants to keep backing you up, even after staring into the barrel of a gun yesterday, and you can get your protective instincts under control, I think the status quo works pretty well."

Chewing on his lip, Jim nodded solemnly in agreement. Sandburg was a great partner and he didn't have any desire to work with anyone else. And the kid did help with the senses -- a lot. He just didn't want to ever have to live with the responsibility of Blair getting killed while backing him up -- or even getting hurt badly again, like he had eighteen months before when Sandburg had been crushed in the truck. Blair had very nearly died that time, and it had taken months for him to recover. Jim never, ever, wanted to see his friend suffering like that again. Every time Sandburg had been hurt since, or was even just in a risky situation, Ellison's chest clenched with a primal fear and an imperative urge to protect that he couldn't seem to either suppress or ignore. But Simon was right; he'd been over-reacting because of how tight things had gotten the day before. He just felt so hollow inside whenever he thought about how easily it could have gone bad -- very bad.

Inside, they found Brown and Rafe in the crowd waiting for the next elevator. When Henri looked around and saw them, he grinned and then, looking past, asked, "Where's Hairboy? I thought he'd be coming back with you."

Simon shrugged. "Guess he couldn't get away from Rainier."

"No, no, he was here -- headed off down the stairwell right behind you," Rafe told them. "He got off the elevator less than a minute after you guys left. You mean he didn't catch you?"

When they simply looked mystified and shook their heads, Brown frowned. "That's odd," he muttered as the doors pinged open and they all entered. "He sure seemed in a hurry when he barreled after you."

Glancing at Jim, Simon asked, "Well, if he was right behind us, why didn't he ..." But his voice died as he remembered what they'd been talking about in the stairwell, and from the look on Ellison's face, the same thought had just occurred to him.

"Maybe he's still upstairs," Rafe suggested, looking from his superior to Jim, frowning at the concern clouding their faces and wondering what was wrong.

"Maybe," Jim grunted, impatiently watching the indicator lights above the doors.

But Sandburg wasn't there when they arrived. Striding to his desk, Jim saw the note stuck on top of the file and swallowed. Flipping it open, he quickly noted that Blair had finished off the reports even as he was reaching for the phone to call Rainier. Not getting an answer, he dialed home, and cursed softly when he got a busy signal and slammed the phone back into its cradle. Looking up at Simon, who had followed him to his desk, he said tightly, "He's at home, but on the phone."

"Jim, if he overheard us ..."

"I know, I know," Ellison cut in.

Sighing, Banks said grimly, "Well, try him again in a couple minutes. If you still can't reach him, maybe you'd better track him down."

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

"No, no, don't apologize and, hey, please don't feel bad. You were absolutely right to call me," Sandburg said into the phone, raking his hair back, shaken by what he'd just heard and very angry though he kept that out of his voice as he continued reassuringly. "God, I'm just glad you're going to be okay. Look, I'll be there in about two hours, and we can figure out what to do then, all right? You just hang in -- and tell them you won't accept any visitors but me, you got that?" He listened, nodded sharply. "Fine. Don't worry. Everything will be okay. I'll see you soon."

Hanging up, he dashed to his bedroom and, not sure how long he'd be away, tossed clothing and the other gear he might need into a backpack and suitcase. His hands were shaking with anger and anxiety about what he'd just learned and his thoughts were jumping around, wondering how he would best get more information about the situation without raising suspicions. His inclination was to just march in and demand answers, but that probably wouldn't get him very far. He needed to get on the inside and, though it was a stretch, maybe there was a way to do that. Nodding to himself, he dug into the back of his closet and pulled out what he'd need if his scam worked. A fast trip to the bathroom to gather up his toiletries and he was ready to go. Pausing at the door, he thought for a minute, realizing he had to leave Jim a note, however much he wished he could just disappear for a while after having overheard the conversation in the stairwell. Dumping his suitcase and backpack, he turned to rummage in a kitchen drawer for some paper and a pen, and was just jotting down a brief message when the phone rang. Glancing at the caller ID, he shook his head and went back to writing. Two rings later, the answering machine kicked in and he heard Jim say, "Sandburg, pick up. I know you're there. We, uh, I think we need to talk."

"No shit," Blair muttered under his breath. "But not over the phone, man. And not now. I really don't need to hear how little you think of me right now."

He finished up the note, grabbed his bags and left the loft.

Ten minutes later, his gear in the trunk, he was accelerating up the entrance ramp onto I-5. Merging into the southbound traffic, Blair couldn't help thinking how weird the universe sometimes was, for he didn't really believe in coincidences. If the call for help had come the day before, or even that morning, he would have been torn, his profound desire to respond warring with his soul-deep commitment to be there for Jim, so long as Jim needed him. But overhearing his partner's remarks, however hard they'd been to hear, had set him free to go with a clear conscience to render whatever aide he could to someone he owed more than he could ever repay.

But man, hearing all that had hurt. Still hurt so much it took his breath away. After all they'd been through, after the tests and trials of friendship they'd survived, he wouldn't have thought that Jim would ever resent him the way he'd sounded in the stairwell. Why hadn't Jim just told him that he was getting in the way? Or had Jim tried and he just hadn't been listening, because that sure in hell wasn't a message he ever wanted to hear. And yeah, he'd pulled a fast one withholding information on the evidence building up against Orvelle, but he had come clean to Jim, and he'd been proven right in the end. Orvelle was innocent. Had that single act of withholding information been all it had taken to abrogate Jim's hard-won trust in him? Sighing, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white, he raked his hair back from his face and swallowed hard, trying, really, really trying not to think about how Janet's death was all his fault.

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

When Jim rapped on his door and then entered to hand him the file on the Lazar case, Simon looked up, his brows arched in question. "You get in touch with him?" he asked.

Shaking his head, Ellison looked away. "He's not picking up the phone. I've left messages, but he's not calling back, either."

"He heard us, didn't he?" Banks sighed, frowning in concern.

Nodding, he replied somberly, "Yeah, if he was as close behind us as Rafe and H said, he had to have heard at least some of it."

The Captain rubbed his mouth. "Look, maybe you'd better go check on him," he muttered uncomfortably.

"He's a grown man, Simon, not a child," Jim resisted. "A few remarks out of context aren't going to shatter him. I'll clear it up tonight."

Leaning back in his chair, Banks looked unconvinced. "I don't know, Jim. As I recall, you said some serious things. Like you don't want him around anymore and he gets in the way. And that you don't trust him and it's his fault his friend got killed. Those are pretty heavy messages to absorb."

"Yeah, but you know I didn't mean all that, not the way it sounded," Ellison rasped, wishing he'd kept his damned mouth shut.

"I know it. You know it. But right now, he doesn't know it. I think you might want to take off early and sort this out with him," Simon counseled, sitting forward, his hands on the desk. "He's done too good a job to be left thinking that that's how we see him."

Capitulating, feeling an internal sense of urgency to clear up the whole thing with Sandburg, Jim nodded. "All right. Thank you, sir. I'll, uh, I'll see you in the morning."

But when Ellison arrived home, he saw that the Volvo was gone. Chewing on his lip, before he got out of the truck and locked it, he wondered if Blair had gone back to the university after all. Wheeling back out, he drove to Rainier and around the parking lot adjacent to Hargrove Hall, but the lot was nearly empty and, when he listened for Sandburg's voice in the building, he got nothing. The place seemed deserted -- everyone gone for the holidays. Shaking his head, trying to not feel anxious, thinking that maybe Sandburg had just gone out to run the errands mentioned in the note, he went back to the loft. Given that Sandburg's parking slot was still empty, Jim wasn't surprised to hear nothing but silence emanating from the apartment.

Once inside, he looked around but everything looked pretty much as it had that morning. Hanging up his jacket and moving toward the kitchen, he spotted the note on the counter and froze momentarily, a sinking feeling in his gut. But he told himself not to be a fool. Blair had probably just left another message saying he'd gone shopping and would be back with dinner.

However, when he got close enough to read the familiar scrawl, his mouth went dry. Feeling his chest tighten, he read the message again, looking for clues as to where the kid had gone.

Jim, I've gone out of town for a while, to help a friend who is hurt and maybe in trouble. Don't know how long I'll be away or where I'll be staying. Sorry to take off in such a rush, but I guess you won't mind too much. Be a nice break for you, probably. And it's not like you need me around much anymore. My cell's on the blink, but I'll call you once I know what's going on, or at least to give you a heads-up when I'm headed back to Cascade. Blair. PS. If I'm not around for Christmas, hope it's a good one, and Happy New Year, if I miss that, too.

"Son of a bitch!" Jim growled as he crumpled the note in his fist, only to smooth it back out again, and read it for a third time. No clue about who the friend was, what the trouble might be, where he was going, or for how long, only that it might be for weeks. But more than enough clues to know he'd heard too much of what he'd never been meant to hear. And one last clue. Back to Cascade. Not back home or to the loft, but just back to the city. No guarantee as to when he might call, and no way to call him. And a postscript to drive home the fact that he hadn't left for only a few days. "God damn it!" Ellison cursed again, slamming the side of his fist on the counter.

Closing his eyes, he forced himself to think. Sandburg had heard a friend was in trouble and needed help. How had he gotten the news? When? Not that morning while he was still at Rainier or downtown at the PD, or he'd've left this note at the office. His lips thinning, Jim recalled the busy signal when he'd first tried to reach Blair after lunch. Turning to the phone, the last caller ID showed his number at the PD. Picking up the phone, he dialed the telephone company, identifying himself by his name, rank and badge number and requesting a list of all calls made to his home number that day.

When he got the information, he scowled and raked his hand over his head. At least he had a city. Seattle. But who did Sandburg know who worked at, or was a patient at, the Seattle Mercy Hospital? The friend was hurt, so probably a patient, though no guarantees on that.

Still, it was a place to start.

Hauling on his jacket, he slammed out of the loft, heading back to his office downtown.

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

Jim put in a call to Mercy Hospital, requesting the names of all non-elective admissions in the last seventy-two hours. He conjured a tale about seeking a missing person, but didn't have the name because the individual might be using an alias. The administrator hummed and hawed, noting that it was all very irregular, but when Ellison simply remained silent, oppressively so, he was finally promised that he'd have a list faxed in twenty minutes. Thanking the official with careful courtesy, he hung up and drummed the tips of his fingers on the desk. 'In trouble' could mean a lot of things, not necessarily trauma requiring hospitalization, but he had no grounds to request a warrant to get the relevant information on all patients, let alone staff and medical personnel. If this lead didn't pan out, he didn't know what else he could do other than put an APB out on the Volvo. Seattle was a big town -- simply heading south and driving around hoping to spot Blair or his car would be an exercise in futility.

Simon wandered out of his office to drop a file on Taggart's desk and was obviously surprised when he turned and saw Ellison. Ambling over, he asked, "Didn't you go home?"

"Yeah," Jim grated, looking up, his eyes clouded with anxiety. "He's not there. He took off to help a friend in trouble. Left a note." Reaching to his shirt pocket, he pulled out the folded, rumpled piece of foolscap and handed it over.

Simon grimaced as he finished reading and handed the note back. "You think there really is a friend in need, or is that maybe just a convenient excuse to take off for a while?"

Ellison's lip twisted as he shrugged and shook his head. "I think he did hear from someone; he got a call from the Mercy Hospital in Seattle before he left." Looking away, he said tightly, "But there's no doubt that the timing is also convenient." Sighing, he added glumly, "I don't think he would've just taken off without reason. He doesn't go out of his way to avoid confrontation. Just the opposite, sometimes."

Nodding, Banks crossed his arms. "It's pretty clear he heard more than enough earlier, though."

"Yeah," Jim agreed with a stiff nod. "Yeah, it is." Clearing his throat, he went on, "I've asked for a list of non-elective admissions over the past seventy-two hours. Maybe that'll give me some idea of what's going on."

"Jim," Simon rumbled warningly.

"I know, I know," Ellison retorted, lifting his hands, palms out. "I don't have jurisdiction, he's old enough to come and go as he pleases, and he doesn't owe me any explanations. But ..."

"But you're worried about him," Banks allowed patiently. "Let me know if you find anything out."

"I will, sir," Jim confirmed. Once again meeting his friend's eyes, his stoic mask slipped a bit and he looked stricken as he murmured, "I didn't mean it. I never meant for him to hear any of that. I was ... I was just letting off steam."

Banks sighed and nodded, and then returned to his office.

A few minutes later, the fax machine beeped and started to clatter as it spitted out two sheets of single-line type, one after the other. Jim bounded to the machine, catching up the papers as they spilled out, hastily scanning name after name.

And then he stopped and straightened, a thoughtful frown on his face. No wonder Sandburg had dropped everything and ran when he was called. Blowing a long breath, Jim's shoulders relaxed. Now he had a lot more than a lead. The name was as good as a treasure map that would lead him straight to his partner.

His relief at having a lead didn't last long, however. Maybe there was nothing serious going on. Maybe it had just been an accident or something, but he recalled Blair's note that his friend was maybe in trouble. Regardless, if she was hurt badly and needed help, then Jim wanted to help, too. With a chill of apprehension, he felt a powerful sense of urgency to find out a lot more about what was going on. The last time Sandburg had gotten mixed up in that world, he'd been shot by an assassin and damned near killed.

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

Despite the weather, the highway was clear if not dry, and Sandburg made good time to Seattle. All the way south, he mulled over the little he'd been told on the phone and thought about the woman who had called for help: Janey Tarkington, his former skating coach and the person who'd helped him become whole again after he'd been crushed in the truck nearly two years ago. It had been unnerving to hear Janey, normally so solid, so strong, on the verge of tears and sounding so afraid. She'd only gotten out part of the story before her voice quit and it broke his heart to hear the stifled sniffles as she struggled for control. Janey was one of those people that others went to for help, who never seemed to need help herself. Fiercely independent, he knew it must have been damned hard for her to call, to admit that she didn't know what to do and was frightened.

What the hell was going on with that ice show? All he really knew for sure was that she'd been working with the Ice Follies as a choreographer and coach for the past few months, and something bad was going on; she evidently believed that someone had deliberately shoved or tripped her hard enough onto the ice the day before that she had a minor skull fracture and concussion. He cursed under his breath, furious that anyone would hurt someone as fine and decent as she was; would scare her so badly that her natural equilibrium and wry humour were lost.

Well, he'd just have to get some answers and, if someone had hurt her deliberately, get enough evidence to have whoever it was charged with assault. When he swept into Seattle on the multi-lane and perpetually packed Interstate, anxious to have more information to be prepared to some extent when he saw her, he decided to make one stop before going to the hospital.

Pulling into the arena's parking lot, he jogged to the main entrance, his collar up against the bitter chill of the wind off the water. Once inside, he made his way down and along the dreary, grungy back corridors, which were busy with technicians, trainers, choreographers, costume people, set designers and the talent who rushed past on their way to or from rehearsals. Voices shouting questions or directions were sharp, tense -- he heard no laughter and saw no smiles. Innumerable blades scraped across the rink with a sliding, cutting sound that echoed loudly in the cavernous building. The cold air rising from the ice and permeating the building felt thick with tension. Though he'd been torn between simply asking some straight questions and exercising a little subterfuge when he'd been packing, the atmosphere of palpable tension suggested a head-on approach really wouldn't garner anything useful, and he decided to go directly to his backup plan. After asking directions of a harried technician, he was pointed to an administration office deep in the bowels of the building.

Pushing open the glass door to the reception area, he took in the show's glossy advertising on the walls that badly needed fresh paint, and then focused at the sober young clerk at the counter. Behind her, the door to the interior office was half-open. "Hi," he said, forcing a bright smile. "I'm Blair Sandburg, and I wondered if there might be an opening in the cast."

Her smile in return was courteous, if a bit stiff and impersonal; she was about to hand him an application form when the door to the inner office was jerked all the way open and a tall, elegantly-dressed, middle-aged man quickly emerged. His platinum hair was professionally coiffed and his fingernails were gleaming, as if he'd just returned from the manicurist. "Sandburg?" he clarified, peering at Blair through gold-tinted glasses. "Blair Sandburg? The Blair Sandburg who was presented with the special gold medal two years ago at the World Championships in Cascade?"

"Well, yeah," Blair shrugged diffidently. "That would be me."

"Pleasure to meet you," the stranger replied, holding out his hand. "I'm Lyle Perkins, and I'm the producer of this year's show, 'Fairytale Follies'. Did I hear right? You're interested in joining the cast?"

"Yeah, I am," Sandburg as he shook the sweaty hand, and had to resist the temptation to scrub his palm against his jeans. "I've got a few months free and, well, I thought it would be fun to live some of what I've only ever dreamed of doing, you know? Could use some extra cash to pay down my student loans, too, to be honest. So, when I heard the show was in town, I thought I'd take a chance on coming in to apply, in case you might have an opening for a skater."

"Well, Blair -- I can call you, Blair, right?" Lyle swept on, his tones melodious and verging on confidential, "To tell you the truth, you couldn't have arrived at a better time. We start the show here in Seattle in two days and our leading male skater has gone missing. Probably just took off with his girlfriend, but he's sure left us in the lurch."

"Lead skater? Missing?" Sandburg interjected anxiously, his gut going hollow both because he'd thought if he got anything, it would be in the chorus, not up front and in the limelight, and because the idea of someone missing after what happened to Janey raised all kinds of warning flags. "Have you informed the police?"

"He's an adult, if an irresponsible one to have taken off without notice, so I doubt the police would feel there's cause for alarm." Perkins shrugged, waving off the concern, his gaze shifting away. "He hasn't shown up for rehearsals for the last two days and nobody knows where he is. Like I say, he's probably taken off with a new girlfriend and didn't bother to let anyone know. He might even think he can just turn up again to do the weekend shows before we move on to Cascade, but I can't take that chance. I've got a show to put on and I don't have time to wait around for him to call in, or simply hope he'll show up."

"So, I guess I'll be understudying the understudy, who'll go on instead, right?" Sandburg clarified, glancing at the woman behind the counter, who seemed to be avoiding involvement in the conversation, her attention on shuffling papers.

"Well, no," Perkins explained with a sigh. "The understudy had an accident last week and badly twisted his knee, so we've really been caught in a bind. I thought we might have to cancel the tour." Taking a breath, shrugging again, he straightened and carried on, "So, if you can work up the routines between now and Friday night's show -- you're hired."

"Oh, well, uh, I see. Is there a trainer I can work with?" Blair asked uncertainly, seriously wondering if he could possibly pull off the skating that would be required.

Lyle's lips tightened with regret. "I'm sorry, but the trainer who works with the principal skaters slipped on the ice late yesterday afternoon and suffered a concussion. But we've others who can help you, and all the routines are written up. So," he went on with a shark-like smile, opening his arms wide as if offering up the opportunity of a lifetime, "You came to the right place to live your dreams, Blair, if that's what you really want to do. You up for the challenge?"

Quirking his brows at the recent run of unfortunate incidents that had befallen the Follies, Blair swallowed hard. He'd hoped to get on the inside, and that's exactly what he was being offered but, man, it was more than he honestly felt ready to deliver. Still, he wasn't going to get a better chance to infiltrate the company, so he took a deep breath and nodded. "Yeah, sure, I'm willing to do my best. If you can get me the binder on the routines, I'll study them tonight -- but I'll need a lot of ice time in the next two days."

"Whatever you need, you've got it," Lyle assured him enthusiastically, clapping him on the back. "You're the answer to our prayers, Blair. If you hadn't walked in the door, I was probably going to have to cancel the show."

"Well, guess it worked out for both of us then," Sandburg replied carefully, struck by the way Perkins' smile didn't reach his flat, cool eyes. And the man's enthusiasm seemed outright bizarre, particularly as he'd been hired without a tryout and for all this guy could know, he hadn't skated for years.

He was immediately given the materials he needed, assigned a locker, and told a room would be assigned to him at the hotel where the company was staying so that he could check in immediately. The head of wardrobe was called and he was measured quickly by the morose company tailor, to have the costumes altered. It all happened so fast that, within twenty minutes, he was on his way back to the Volvo.

After switching on the ignition, he sat in the car for a moment to let the engine warm up. Studying the arena, his eyes narrowed as he thought about the different games that might be in play. He'd only been on the ground for less than half an hour and he'd already learned that it was an unhappy company of skaters and support personnel, with an injured trainer, a sleazy producer/ promoter -- and one missing lead skater with an injured understudy. Either this ice show was operating under a shitload of bad karma, or there was something distinctly strange going on, though he didn't know what or why. As he slowly drove out of the lot and along the slippery streets to the Mercy Hospital, he told himself he was going to have to be very careful and sincerely hoped he hadn't bitten off more than he could chew.

He also wished he could call Jim, to talk about the situation and get some advice. But it wasn't his friend's jurisdiction and, right then, he had no inclination to be more bother and burden. No, he'd just have to do his best and try to figure it out on his own. Hell, he'd been working with one of the best detectives in the country for more than two years now; surely he'd learned enough to do a little snooping around.

He parked in the visitors' lot and, slipping unsteadily on the icy walk, hastened into the large hospital, built predominantly of red brick that looked grimy in the dull light. Stopping at the small shop run by the Ladies' Auxiliary, he bought a bright bouquet of fresh-cut flowers in a simple glass vase before heading up to the fifth floor. When he got to the room, he paused for a moment in the doorway, studying his friend quietly, noting the badly bruised cheek, the butterfly bandages across a narrow gash on her temple, the uncharacteristic pallor, and the lines of pain and worry etched around her eyes and mouth. Her lips were pressed together, and she was unconsciously twisting her fingers in the counterpane of the sheet covering her, betraying her deep anxiety. "Hey," he called softly as he entered, drawing her attention from the window across the room.

"Oh, Blair," she sighed, trying to smile but not quite making it as she held out a hand.

He placed the vase and flowers on the bedside table, and then gently took her hand as he bent to kiss her brow. "How're you doing, Janey?" he asked, concern in his eyes. "That bruise and the cut look like they hurt, and it probably feels like the whole Army is trooping through your head."

"It's better than it was," she replied, her voice sounding shaky, so unlike her usual warm and confident tones. "Thank you for coming. I ... I wasn't sure I should call, but I didn't know who else -"

"It's okay, I'm glad you called," he reassured her, and then drew up a chair. "Do you feel up to telling me more about what happened?"

She swallowed and nodded, her eyes glazing with tears that tore him up inside. Janey Tarkington didn't cry, except maybe when she was inordinately proud of someone's achievement or touched by something that made her really happy. But she never cried in anger or fear or hurt; those feelings she held tightly inside or let them wash away as unhealthy and unproductive. In all the years he'd known her, he'd never seen her look so upset -- scared even. Janey was a rock that others clung to, not someone who fell apart or sought help easily. Leaning forward, he cradled her hand in his own, and waited for her to compose herself enough to speak.

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

"Find out anything?" Simon asked. He been watching Ellison make a number of phone calls and when his lead detective started to stare into space, his expression troubled, he left his office to see what was going on.

"Uh, yeah, maybe," Jim replied, a frown furrowing his brow. Scratching his cheek, he paused and then gathered up the notes he'd made. "Let's talk in your office," he suggested.

Back behind his desk, Banks poured them both a coffee and then leaned back to listen. Jim hitched a hip onto the conference table and scanned his notes before setting them aside. Looking up to meet Simon's gaze, he asked, "You remember Janey Tarkington?"

The Captain nodded. "She's the trainer that worked with Blair, right? Getting him back on skates to get his body coordinated again after being bed-bound so long? The one he worked with when he was a kid? Small woman but feisty, determined."

"Yeah, that's Janey," Jim replied, a slight smile tweaking the corner of his mouth as he remembered her. But the smile faded and he sobered. "She was hurt early yesterday afternoon -- cracked her head on the ice and is in Mercy Hospital in Seattle, with a minor skull fracture and concussion. Sounds like she'll be okay, but they're keeping her in for another day or so."

Quirking a brow, Banks sighed. "I'm sorry to hear she was hurt. And I guess I can understand why Sandburg would drop everything to go and make sure she's okay. But," he paused, then added, "that doesn't tell us why he wrote that he might be gone for weeks."

"No, well, I think there's more to it," Ellison replied tightly. "It might not have been a simple accident. She's currently working with one of those Ice Capades kind of operations, this one called the Ice Follies -- it's one of those big extravaganza shows with fancy costumes, trick lighting, huge cast of skaters that make the rounds every year in the fall, and over the winter holidays. She joined the company about six months ago, to provide coaching to the lead skaters and to help choreograph this year's routines. Anyway," he paused to take a sip of coffee, "I found out from a contact I know down there that this particular company seems to be having a run of exceedingly bad luck. In the last three months, a number of skaters have suffered accidents, one being badly burned when the wires of the lights they were wearing on their costume shorted out, several have suffered broken bones or sprains, and there's a rumour that a lead skater has taken off or disappeared in the last two days. As for Janey, she was out on the ice during a rehearsal of the big finale number when someone crashed into her from behind and knocked her flat."

"That's a lot of bad luck," Simon observed dryly, frowning.

"Too much to be just bad luck," Ellison returned, grimacing unhappily as he shrugged and continued. "But whether it's bad management, sloppy technicians, poor equipment, inept skaters -- or something more insidious -- well, who knows at this point?"

Sighing, Simon scratched his cheek, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he looked out the window. "You think Sandburg is going to try to find out what's going on," he mused, his gaze returning to Jim's.

Nodding, Ellison crossed his arms and studied the floor. "I know it's not our jurisdiction, but Janey's a friend of mine, too," he ventured. "And Sandburg might be getting into something he can't handle on his own."

"He might not thank you for barging in," Banks cautioned. "Might just see it as another indication that you don't think he can handle himself."

"I know that," Jim grated irritably.

"And the Seattle PD might not appreciate you poking around on their turf," Simon went on.

"I know that, too," he snapped, then rolled his shoulders to alleviate some of the tension he felt. "But I still think I should go check things out," he said with less asperity, looking up to meet Banks' steady gaze. "At least see how Janey is doing -- no one can take offence if I go to visit a friend in the hospital, right?"

"Ri-ight," Simon drawled, but his lips thinned. "I can't afford to give you a lot of time off right now," he temporized. "You know this is the busiest time of the year."

"The Lazar reports are finished, and I don't have anything else on my plate right now," Jim countered. "Just a couple of days, Simon, that's all I'm asking for. Just time to check things out and make sure the kid's desire to help doesn't lead him into hot water, that's all. And, well, it would give me a chance to clear the air with him."

"Okay," Banks capitulated. When Jim slid off the table and started toward the door, he added, "Keep me posted -- and if it looks like this is something for the Seattle Police, make sure you get them involved and don't try to deal with it on your own."

"No problem," Jim affirmed with a grim expression and firm nod. "We got enough work here without trying to do theirs, too. I'll just make sure Janey is okay and hopefully get my partner back where he belongs."

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

Janey sniffed and her free hand twisted the sheet and blanket. "I'm sorry," she said, clearing her throat. "I don't usually get so upset."

"You're allowed," Blair reassured her. "Look, if you don't feel like talking right now, that's okay."

"No, no, I need to talk to someone who isn't involved. Someone I trust to be sensible and not jump to conclusions -- and who might have ideas on what I should do," she replied more steadily. "That's why I called you. I trust you." Sniffing again, she took a breath. "I think something illegal is going on. Maybe a lot of illegal things and I'm scared. Not for myself," she hastened to add, squeezing his hand urgently, "but for Tommy." Her voice cracked on the name and her lips trembled.

"Tommy?" Blair echoed, blinking with confusion, rapidly putting the pieces together in his head. "You don't mean little Tommy, your nephew? The kid who used to follow you everywhere and could skate better than the rest of us by the time he was six? What's he got to do with this? Oh no, don't tell me he's the skater that's missing?"

Janey nodded tightly. "You probably don't know, but when my older sister and her husband were killed in an accident, I adopted Tommy. He was eleven at the time. He, uh, he decided to turn professional this year, and he asked me if I'd also join the Ice Follies for this season of shows, just to ... to help him make the transition."

"I heard Tommy hasn't been around the last couple of days," he said with sober solemnity, understanding now why Janey was so upset, probably understanding a whole lot more than she realized.

As a kid, Tommy had been a miniature replica of her, but he didn't look a thing like either of his parents, whom Blair had gotten to know years before when he and Janey had worked together so closely. He'd often seen the way his coach treated the child, how she looked at the kid when she thought nobody was noticing -- it was the same way his mother looked with a kind of joyful wonder at him. He still might not have put it together -- after all, nephews can look like their aunts, have the same genetic heritage -- if he hadn't also heard some neighbours talking at Janey's father's funeral just before they'd left on the eventful trip to Sweden. Neighbours of her parents, people he didn't know, had been looking at Janey and her sister and reminiscing about how Janey had been adopted at the age of four when her parents had been killed in explosion in the foundry where they worked. A lot of kids had been orphaned at the time, apparently, and the other townspeople had taken them in, making them part of their own families. He'd shrugged off the knowledge at the time, not one inclined to judge given that he was illegitimate, and had just been happy that his beloved coach had found a way to keep her son close.

Now, that son was legally hers again -- and was missing. Maybe worse, he thought morosely, feeling sick but taking care to keep his thoughts off his face.

"I'm a-afraid s-something has h-happened to him," she stammered, overwrought and clearly fighting to control her emotions. Taking a breath to steady herself, looking up at Sandburg, she insisted, "He's a good kid, Blair. He wouldn't just not show up, not call, not when he knows people are counting on him." Pausing, thinking about how he'd known a skater was missing, she frowned. "How did you hear this? I didn't think Perkins was going to report it, and when I called the police, they said they wouldn't even take the details until at least forty-eight hours had passed."

"I went to the arena before I came here," Sandburg replied slowly. "Heard a few things. Noticed that it doesn't look like a happy group."

"It's not," she affirmed heavily. Sighing, she shook her head and raked her fingers through her short, salt and pepper hair. "Morale has been bad for the last few months. So many 'accidents'. And Perkins is a jerk -- keeps saying the show isn't breaking even, even though we've been playing to packed arenas all along the west coast. He keeps threatening to cancel the show, so it lurches along, people tense and worried, some starting to feel scared, either about losing their jobs or about getting hurt. Equipment has been faulty, skates have had damaged blades that have resulted in spills. Little things, mostly, sprains, a broken arm -- except for the one kid who got burned pretty badly and Tommy's disappearance."

"And your concussion," Blair added tightly. "How'd you get hurt?"

She shrugged and shook her head. "Someone banged into me from behind, tripped me, when I was on the ice yesterday. Nobody really saw what happened because there was a lot of action going on, everyone moving as we rehearsed the act, and nobody admits being the one who slammed into me. Might have been an accident -- but I'd had a run-in with Perkins about an hour before, telling him in no uncertain terms that I thought something had happened to Tommy and I was going to find out what."

"What do you think happened to him?" he asked, his voice low with concern.

Tears filled her eyes and she shook her head. "I don't know," she rasped brokenly. Looking away, lifting a hand to cover her trembling lips, she fought for control. Blair handed her a tissue and she swiped at her eyes.

"When was the last time you, or anyone you know, saw him?" Sandburg probed, trying to keep her focused on facts and distract her from her evident fear for the missing man's wellbeing.

"Two days ago, at the arena," Janey recounted, frowning in memory. "It was after rehearsals finished for the day and the others had changed and gone. We were talking in the locker room, both of us speculating about what was going on. Tommy said he had some ideas that he wanted to think about, but he wouldn't say what they were. The place seemed empty when we walked out -- it was after six, dark already. He dropped me at the hotel where the cast and crew are staying and he said he'd either call me later or we'd talk the next day, and he drove away. Nobody has seen him since."

Blair thought about that. "So he definitely wasn't planning on taking off," he mused, looking away, thinking it wasn't sounding at all good. Two days was a long time to be missing.

"No, he wasn't, and that's why I'm so worried, but Perkins just keeps trying to downplay it," she stated forcefully. "God, I loathe that man. Gives me the creeps."

"Yeah, he's got kind of a sleazy manner," Sandburg agreed, his upper lip curling with distaste. Taking a breath, he straightened and said, "It sounds to me like we've got two major issues here. First and foremost, we need to find Tommy, and I really think we need the police to help with that. I'll ...." He hesitated to swallow his pride and his own need for avoidance and then continued swiftly, "I'll call Jim. He may have a contact in Seattle, someone who'll take this seriously and get involved right away. In fact, if you don't mind me using the phone," he nodded toward the telephone on the bedside table, "I'll call him right now."

When she urged him to go ahead, he tried the office first and then the loft, but got no answer at either number. Wondering if Jim had been assigned another case, worrying uncomfortably about that but pushing his own anxieties aside, he decided not to try Ellison's cell number in case he interrupted something important. Instead, he just left messages at the office and loft numbers with the salient details, his voice carefully modulated to hide his uncertainties about their relationship, asking if Jim knew of anyone in Seattle who could help, and saying he'd call back later to find out. Seeing the anxious disappointment in Janey's eyes as he hung up the phone, he said matter-of-factly, "He'll get one or the other message, and you know he'll do everything he can to help as soon as he does." When she nodded, to distract her, he went on briskly, "Okay, well, the other thing we have to do is to find out what's going on with the show, because that seems to be at the heart of everything." Looking away, he added almost diffidently, knowing she wasn't going to be happy with what he'd done, "I got a job there this afternoon, so I'll be able to snoop around from the inside."

"You what?" she snapped, her eyes flashing with sudden animation. "Oh, no, you don't. It's too dangerous. We don't know what's going on, but it's not good."

"Too late," he replied with a shrug, and gave her a sideways grin. "I'm in and I might as well find out what I can while I'm there." Sobering, he went on swiftly, to forestall further objections, "Even if Perkins, or whoever is behind the accidents and Tommy's disappearance figures out we have a history, there's no reason for them to think we've seen each other in years, or that we have any kind of connection. So far as anyone there needs to know, I'm just a skater who once had possibilities and who'd like to follow a dream before he's too old."

"You got a job as a skater?" she demanded, her eyes widening.

He nodded, chagrined by her very apparent astonishment. "I'm Tommy's replacement," he admitted finally with a sigh.

"But you're not in shape for that," she protested. "Blair, sweetie, you're good. God, you were great. But it's been years since you've done anything that strenuous. And if ... if whatever is going on is about disabling key performers, you've set yourself up as a target. No," she said categorically. "No, you can't do this."

"Janey," he contested gently, taking her hand again. "I'm not fifteen anymore. You can't make those decisions for me now. Some bastard has hurt you and maybe hurt your son. I'm going to do everything I can to find out who's done this and make him pay for it. That's just the way it is."

Her gaze dropped away at his reference to Tommy, and she sat pale and rigid, her lips thin with fear and frustration. When she didn't say anything, he went on cajolingly, "So, you gonna help me, Coach? Keep me from making a perfect fool of myself? Give me some tips on the routines?"

She closed her eyes and shook her head, but the starch went out of her shoulders. "You're really going to do this, aren't you?" she asked, her voice low, filled with regret.

"Yeah, Janey, I am," he asserted calmly. When she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, he quirked a winsome smile, cocked a brow and ducked his head to gaze up at her soulfully through his unruly curls and long lashes. "So -- will you help me?" he appealed wistfully.

Well recognizing the plaintive look from days long past, she couldn't resist a tired smile. "You are such a brat, Blair Sandburg," she complained with wry forbearance. "You haven't changed a bit, you know that? You're still pushing the envelope, and still trying to charm your way into getting what you want."

"Yeah, well, why change a winning strategy?" he teased impishly. "C'mon. You know you won't let me screw this up. I have to look like I have some clue when I get out on the ice tomorrow."

"Have you done any skating since I was in Cascade eighteen months ago?" she demanded. "Because, if you haven't -"

"Minimum twice a week, Coach," he cut in smartly. "Well, in the winter, anyway," he added, more truthfully. "It's good exercise and you know I always loved to skate -- it was like a miracle to be able to do it again and, well, I didn't want to stop."

"They give you the binder?" she asked grudgingly.

"It's in the car."

Sighing, she nodded, if still reluctantly. "All right, hotshot. Go get it and we'll walk through the routines."

Leaping to his feet, he swooped over her to lightly kiss her brow. "I knew I could count on you!" he exclaimed, as if this really was a dream he hoped to fulfill and not a perilous undertaking on her behalf.

But she caught his arm before he could turn away, holding him firmly and fighting back tears as she said, her voice cracking, "Thank you."

Covering her hand with his own, his gaze softened. "I'll call Jim again from the hotel when I check in. We'll find him, Janey, and we'll find out what's going on," he said gently.

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

As he'd missed lunch and it was getting close to dinner-time, Blair picked up a sandwich, an apple, and a carton of milk in the cafeteria on his way back from the car, and he munched companionably while she picked at the bland food on her tray. During the m eal, she described the overall show to him, the huge production numbers interspersed with single skaters or doubles, enacting a variety of fairytale scenarios. His appetite, not great to begin with, disappeared altogether as he came to understand how very much time he was going to be on the ice, and how many fast costume changes he was going to have to make. It sounded exhausting -- and the routines sounded like they'd push his rusty skills to the limit and probably well beyond.

Giving up on their respective dinners as a waste of time, they turned their attention to binder, to go over the choreography details for each act. She talked and he listened as he studied the graphics, nodding, concentrating hard on visualizing what he would have to do, on remembering the feel of doing it. Janey briefed him on when to skate hard and fast to build momentum and sweep around the rink, when to slow, stop dramatically, moving with the music under the spotlights, occasionally humming or singing bits of the songs softly, to give him a sense of the rhythm and pace of each act. The production numbers were going to be very tricky -- so many skaters on the ice, everyone moving fast in complex patterns. He'd be lucky if he didn't create complete chaos by missing a maneuver, or performing some part either too fast or too slow. About the only good thing about any of it was that taking him through the details was distracting her from worrying about Tommy. Man, he only had two days to whip himself into shape -- and then he'd have to go straight into Friday night's performance! He'd be lucky if he could move by then, let alone skate. His muscles were going to make him pay dearly in the next few days and he was going to have to be very careful to keep himself as limber as possible, to not pull or wrench something by tightening up.

And there'd be no time for any kind of covert investigation at least until the company packed up on Monday to move to Cascade, for the five shows there later in the next week.

They were so focused on their discussion that they didn't realize they were no longer alone until a soft rap on the open door caused them both to look up sharply. Janey smiled when she saw Jim Ellison standing in the doorway, looking concerned and almost shy, holding a small plant of blooming violets in one hand. Blair paled in startled surprise and he simply gaped for a moment before his gaze fell away and he shifted uncomfortably.

"Jim!" she welcomed him. "I didn't expect you to come down here, too."

"Hey," he replied, his tone warm, "when I heard you were hurt, well, I left as soon as I could finish up at the office. I'm just sorry I couldn't be here sooner." Moving into the room, he placed the plant beside the flowers Blair had brought and bent over her to kiss her cheek. Straightening, placing a light hand on her shoulder, he observed, "I'm glad to see you look like you're going to be okay. But, uh, Blair said there might be some kind of trouble?"

"Didn't you get my phone message with more details before you left?" Sandburg asked, his voice tight, his gaze not quite meeting Jim's.

"Message? No," the detective replied, very conscious that Janey's unconscious smile was gone, and her eyes were haunted with dark anxiety -- and that his partner was avoiding eye contact. "What's going on?"

"Janey has been working with the Ice Follies for about six months," Blair summarized, his tone controlled to low neutrality. "The company has been plagued by a series of increasingly serious 'accidents' and two days ago, before she was hurt -- we think deliberately -- the principal male skater in the ensemble disappeared." Flicking a look at Jim, he clarified, "Tommy, the skater? He's Janey's son."

Ellison's expression flattened and his posture stiffened. "Any ideas about what's behind these so-called accidents and your son's disappearance?" he asked briskly.

She shook her head. "No more than speculation. It could be someone inside, trying to sabotage the show, for any number of possible reasons; could be an unhappy employee wanting some kind revenge for some reason, or maybe insurance fraud." Looking up at Jim, she explained, "If the show gets shut down because of accident or injury, then insurance pays what the probable take for the season would have been. But I have no idea why Perkins, the producer, would want to shut down the show -- even though I've got a gut feeling that he's behind it all."

Frowning, he urged, "Tell me what you know about Tommy's disappearance."

After she had related the same details she'd given Blair, he probed, "You say he wanted to do some thinking before he drove away? Was there anywhere local, a place he liked to go, for some quiet, where he wouldn't be interrupted or disturbed?"

Janey's gaze drifted to the window as she thought about that. "There's a lookout above the city that he liked. When he was a kid, we used to go there whenever we were in Seattle, to see the channel and the islands during the day and the city lights at night. Whalers' Point, it's called. Other than that, no, I have no idea where he might have gone. Or if someone ... someone took him, is holding him somewhere, for some reason."

Jim's lips thinned and his gaze dropped. "If he was kidnapped for ransom, whether money or something else, you or the show's management would have probably heard by now," he told her as gently as he could. "Has anyone gone up to the point, to see if he got there? What color and model of car was he driving?"

"A black Sunbird. I'm sorry, I don't remember the license. It was a new model -- rented. When I realized he'd never come back to the hotel the night before, I drove up yesterday morning, but I didn't see any sign of him," she reported, her voice hollow. "You think he's ... he's probably ... probably ...."

"I'm not thinking anything yet," Ellison cut in reassuringly. "Just trying to figure out possibilities. Did you notify the police?"

"They told her that until he was missing for forty-eight hours, they couldn't do anything," Blair said quietly, understanding the procedure but still thinking it was stupid. "Do you know anyone on the Force here who might be able to help?" he asked, still not looking directly at his friend.

"Yeah, I know some people," Jim affirmed. "But I think I'll also look around a bit myself. Do you, uh, want to come with me?" he added, his tone oddly diffident as he turned his attention to his partner.

Hesitating, Blair looked at the binder on Janey's lap, but she closed it and handed it to him. "We've gone through it all once," she said firmly. "You can go over it again tonight and then just do your best tomorrow. The main thing to remember is to stay loose -- if you tighten up from nerves, you'll hurt yourself. Please, Blair, if you can help, go with Jim. Please try to find him."

Standing, shrugging into his jacket, he vowed, "We'll do our best, Janey." Taking the binder, he tenderly kissed her cheek and then hesitated, waiting for Jim to lead the way out.

"We'll call you later," Ellison assured her, with a puzzled frown at the binder in Blair's hand. "What's this, about tomorrow?" he asked, turning toward the door.

"I'll, uh, explain while we're looking, okay?" Sandburg replied, his eyes downcast as he waved Jim out ahead of him, anxious to forestall any conversation between them until they'd left Janey, not wanting her to have anything more to worry about.

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

Once in the hallway, Jim shortened his stride and slowed, to allow Blair to walk beside him rather than a step behind, but Blair only then moved a little ahead, leading the way to the elevator. When Ellison reached out to lightly grip his arm, Sandburg flinched away and held up his hands.

"I know you have some things to say to me, man," he murmured, his voice low and hoarse, his gaze averted, "but I think for now we should just concentrate on helping Janey, okay? Whatever you need to say can be said when this is done."

"Chief, why didn't you join Simon and me for lunch? I left you a note on where to find us."

Turning away, Blair punched the elevator button and studied the floor light indicators above the closed double doors. "I was late getting away from Rainier, and then got stuck in traffic. I ... I was just late."

"Rafe and Brown told us they saw you arrive less than a minute after we'd left," Jim pushed. "They said you were racing to catch up with us. What made you stop?"

The elevator doors opened and Blair moved into the crowded box, Jim sliding in beside them, both now silent, along with everyone else who simply watched the floor indicators and waited to escape. On the ground floor, not wanting to answer Jim's question, Sandburg hurried ahead toward the exit. "My car or your truck?" he asked over his shoulder. "It's going to be dark on the drive to the lookout, so it might be easier for you to just watch for any sign of Tommy."

"Your car," Jim decided, a troubled expression on his face. On the way across the parking lot, he asked unhappily, "How much did you hear in the stairwell, Chief?"

Blair's determined stride hitched briefly and then resumed more slowly, but he wouldn't look at his friend. "Okay, okay," he allowed, sounding hunted. "I heard enough, more than enough. But I really don't want to talk about it now. It's too ... distracting. We need to focus on Tommy and Janey."

"Sandburg, I don't think you understand -" Ellison tried, vastly uncomfortable and feeling unpleasantly guilty.

"I understand just fine, Jim," he cut in sharply, as he unlocked the car door and then moved around the back to the driver's side. "Dammit, let it go. I'm not up for this right now, okay?"

"No, I won't let it go," Ellison snapped as he slid into the car. When Blair slammed his door shut and switched on the ignition, Jim grabbed his shoulder. "Whatever you heard, I didn't mean it. I was sounding off, that's all. You weren't supposed to hear any of that."

"Yeah, I figured that out for myself," Sandburg grated, his jaw tight, as he drove out of the lot. "And you meant it, man. I could hear it in your voice. You weren't just grousing about how I won't stay in the truck, or that I talk your ear off, or that you're sick of all the tests. You were calling it quits for some very ...." he throat thickened and he had to swallow. His voice was thin with strain when he continued, "Very substantial reasons. And, yes, we will talk about it, when I can think straight and I'm not worried sick about Janey and Tommy, okay? So, so just give me a break, Jim. Don't make me go over it all right now." Taking a breath, he redirected the conversation before Ellison could keep harping on what had happened earlier that day. "So, how'd you find out so fast? And why'd you come down here?"

Looking away, his hand falling from Blair's shoulder, Jim said flatly, "She's my friend, too. You should have told me she was in trouble. You had to know I'd help."

"I didn't know how bad things were until I got here," Sandburg sighed, his focus on the traffic and watching for his turnoff. "That's why I called you. I knew I couldn't handle it all on my own. You still didn't say how you found me so fast."

"Checked the loft's phone record, got the hospital to give me the names of non-elective admissions in the past seventy-two hours," Jim grunted, looking out the side window, pissed off that Blair wouldn't let him just explain and be done with it. "I checked for skating events in the area, found out about the Follies and gathered some of the information the two of you just told me. Sounds like something decidedly criminal is going on."

Blair nodded, his expression grim. "You decided to come before you got my call. Guess that's 'cause you figured I'd just screw stuff up, right? That I couldn't help Janey on my own."

"Being here isn't a commentary on your competence, Sandburg. I want to help," Jim grated. "And I want to talk to you, when you're ready to hear what I have to say. That's it. End of story." Shifting restlessly, he said more mildly, "I didn't know Janey had a son."

"She adopted Tommy when her older sister and her husband were killed in an accident, years ago," Blair supplied distantly, not inviting more conversation.

They'd been gradually driving out of the city, leaving the brighter lights behind. Uneasy silence fell between them for the next five minutes, and then Sandburg turned onto a road that climbed steeply around tight curves. On the left, across the two lane roadway, there was a guardrail on the edge of a steep, nearly sheer dropoff and on the right were tall shrubs backed by a thick pine forest. The pavement was slick in places, and the only illumination was the bright beams of the Volvo's headlights splitting the darkness.

"If he went off over the edge, there'd be a break in the guardrail," Blair murmured with a frown. "Somebody would have noticed by now. So if he made it this far, if he came this way at all, he had to have gone off on your side."

"Uh huh," Jim grunted, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the road ahead and the bushy verge, his vision wide open. When the headlights from an approaching vehicle swung around the curve ahead, he flinched, a hand quickly covering his momentarily blinded eyes.

Immediately, Blair slowed to a virtual stop and reached out reflexively to ground his friend. "You turning down the dial?" he asked, his voice low. "Just till you can see okay again."

Nodding tightly, his jaw clenched, Ellison focused on getting his sight back under control. Sighing, he nodded. "Okay, you can keep going," he muttered, squinting into the darkness.

"You think we'll find him out here?" Sandburg asked anxiously. "I mean, he could be anywhere."

"If he was moving under his own stream, he's probably somewhere near here," Jim replied distantly, his concentration on the road. "People are creatures of habit. If they have certain rituals, like going to a specific place to be alone to think, they'll usually always head to that place when they want to think."

Three minutes later, he suddenly reached out to grip Blair's arm. "Slow ... stop!"

Sandburg hit the breaks and eased just off the road onto the narrow shoulder. "You see something?" he asked hopefully.

"Maybe," Jim muttered, getting out of the car. He strode forward a few steps, then hunkered down to study the greasy pavement. When Blair came up beside him, he pointed. "Skid marks." Shifting his gaze to the shrubbery, he frowned and then straightened to move closer. "Faint tire tracks skidding over the gravel into the bushes. Some broken branches here, but the plants bounced back up, hiding where somebody went off the road."

"I've got a flashlight in the glove compartment," Blair called, already jogging back to the car, returning a moment later. Conscious of not mucking up what might be a crime scene, he handed the light to Ellison and stayed a step behind, one hand lightly resting on Jim's back.

Cautiously, Jim pushed the shrubbery aside to move through and past, but he quickly pulled up. "Pretty steep ditch here," he muttered. He sniffed, frowned in alarm and swept the light forward along the ditch, freezing the beam when they both saw a battered, black car lying tilted half on its side, the hood crunched and resting against the thick trunk of a tall pine.

"Oh my God!" Blair gasped. "Is ... is there anyone alive."

"I've got a faint heartbeat, Chief," Jim replied, pulling out his cellphone. "Call 911 while I check more closely."

Punching in the numbers and then speaking to the operator, Blair followed in Ellison's wake, both of them sliding carefully into the hidden gully. "One victim, young male," Jim called over his shoulder as he peered in through the windows. He tried the door, but it was jammed. When he shone the light inside, Blair's throat tightened.

"I think it's Tommy," he said uncertainly, "though with all the blood on his face, it's hard to tell. Right age, though. Right color hair."

"Looks like his legs are caught under the crushed dash -- that'll be why he couldn't get himself out, especially with this door stuck and the other one blocked," Jim muttered, frustrated to be so close and not able to help. "How long before help gets here?"

"They said ten minutes," Sandburg muttered. "Look, I've got blankets in the trunk -- maybe you could layer them over him through the shattered windshield."

"Good thinking, Junior," Jim agreed and Blair took off running, scrambling up the slope back through the screen of bushes to the road. When Sandburg returned, he was also carrying his tire iron. While Ellison gingerly climbed up onto the hood to ease the blankets inside over the unconscious man, Blair started working on the door, trying to lever it open. Rejoining him on the ground, lending his strength to the effort as well, they managed to force an opening, enough for Jim to reach inside to begin inventorying injuries while Blair held the flashlight.

"Hey, Tommy?" Jim cajoled softly, calmly, his nose wrinkling against the stench of old blood, urine and excrement as he lightly touched the kid's face, head, neck, chest and abdomen. "Is that your name? Can you hear me?" When he scrunched lower, to check the legs for broken bones, the kid moaned softly.

"Thirsy," the guy slurred.

"I've got some water in the car," Blair offered softly.

But Jim shook his head. "Can't let him drink anything until he's checked for internal injuries." Raising his voice, he called again, "Tommy? Is that your name?"

The kid mumbled something even Jim couldn't catch. "He's disoriented, only semi-conscious," he observed thinly.

"Good thing the nights haven't been freezing cold this week," Sandburg sighed, raking fingers through his hair.

"Yeah," Jim agreed, both of them knowing that, having survived the accident, the victim was lucky not to have died of exposure. If this was Tommy, and he'd been stuck there for two days, he was damned lucky to still be alive. Cocking his head, Ellison m muttered, "I hear sirens."

"Okay, I'll go up to the road to flag them down," Blair offered. He turned away, then paused, looking back over his shoulder, meeting Jim's gaze for the first time. "Thanks, man -- nobody else could've found him in time. Thanks for coming as quickly as you did."

And then he was gone, disappearing into the dark shadows beyond the beam of the flashlight.

Jim scrubbed a hand over his mouth and looked back into the vehicle. Finding the kid alive was one thing -- but it was too soon to tell if he was going to survive. Unable to do more for the victim without the right equipment, Ellison concentrated on the car, noting the bashed in side panels. Looking back up toward the road, he didn't see anything that would account for that kind of damage on the driver's side of the vehicle. Swallowing, his expression grim, he focused in more tightly, looking for traces of paint from the car or truck that had forced this kid off the road.

Because it sure as hell hadn't been an accident.

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

They split up when they got back to the hospital. Jim headed toward Emergency to learn what he could, however he could, about the young man's condition, and to touch base with the patrolman who had followed the ambulance in. Blair hurried back upstairs, stopping first at the nurses' desk to alert them that they needed to get Janey's doctor's permission for her to be taken by wheelchair down to Emergency, to hopefully identify her son, who'd been in an accident. And then he loped along the corridor, slowing when he neared his Coach's room. When he walked in, she looked up at him, hope and dread mingled in her eyes.

"We think we found him," Blair told her calmly, as he hastened to take her hand. "He's hurt and down in Emergency, being taken care of. He was in a car accident. Jim, uh, spotted where he went off the road, and we found the Sunbird in a low gully, out of sight of anyone driving by. We're going to need you to identify him because he's unconscious right now."

Tears spangled in her eyes, one spilling onto her cheek. "Alive?" she whispered raspily, afraid to believe what she'd heard.

"Alive," Blair confirmed with a small smile. "But we don't know yet how badly hurt he is, and he was in that ditch a long time."

Janey swallowed heavily and looked away, aghast. "I drove right past him," she said tremulously.

"Listen to me," Sandburg urged, gently turning her face back to him. "You couldn't have known he was there. Only ... only someone with Jim's skills could have spotted the skid marks and checked. Janey, please. There's no way on this earth that you could have seen where his car went off the road."

She pushed off the blankets and sheets, twisting to sit on the side of the bed. "I have to see him," she stated urgently.

"In a few minutes," Blair soothed, keeping his hands on her shoulders, not allowing her to stand. "The nurses are going to bring a wheelchair for you -- we can't have you getting dizzy, falling over and cracking your head again, okay? And they'll need a bit of time downstairs to clean him up a little, and to examine him to see how badly he's hurt."

When she pushed against him, struggling to stand, wanting, needing so badly to go to her son, he wrapped his arms around her in a tight hug. "Easy, easy, Coach. Take a few breaths. We're going to take you to him. It's okay, Janey. It's okay. We found him."

Suddenly, she was clinging to him, sobbing brokenly, the walls of her tenuous control demolished by overwhelming relief. And he held her, comforting her, while she wept.

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

Jim stood to meet them when Blair pushed Janey's chair into the Emergency waiting lounge. "Anything?" Sandburg asked, his brows quirking as he discreetly pulled on an earlobe and tilted his head toward the back hallway, where the treatment rooms were.

"Uh, I think he's okay," Ellison replied hopefully, lowering his gaze to Janey. "No one has come out yet, but his injuries seemed mostly superficial when they got him out of the car. He, uh, he banged his head though, so may have a concussion and he's still unconscious. He'll be suffering from exposure."

Pale, her eyes dark and large in her face, her hands trembling, she nodded mutely. Janey glanced toward the closed doors, wondering what was going on, how her son really was. Biting on her lip, she looked back over her shoulder and lightly clasped Blair's arm, drawing him around until he was standing beside Jim. "Whatever happens," she said, looking from one to the other, "thank you for finding him. Because of you, the two of you, Tommy might ... Tommy has a chance now. I don't know how I'll ever repay you for that."

Jim dipped his head briefly and lifted an arm to loop around Sandburg's shoulder. The kid flinched, but at least he didn't pull away. With a smile on the corner of his lips, Jim replied with tones laden with emotional meaning, "You don't owe us a thing. Friends help one another. Like you helped us not so long ago."

Blair nodded, his head bowed and his hair a curtain that hid his expression. He had to swallow the lump that had arisen at the mention of that time when the future seemed so bright, when he'd been so certain that Jim would always be there for him and that he'd be there for Jim. How had they lost that? When had things changed? Slipping away from Jim's touch, unable to bear reminders of what had been and now was gone, forcing away his personal hurts and preoccupations, he hunkered down in front of Janey. "You doing okay? You need anything?" he asked solicitously.

"I just need someone to tell me how he is, that he'll be alright," she murmured, but summoned a wan smile. "Don't worry about me, Blair. I'm fine." When Sandburg patted her arm and then stood, moving to stand beside her, away from Jim's side, her gaze flickered from him to Ellison, and a small frown creased her brow at the way Jim was watching Blair with worried frustration. Glancing back at the younger man, one she knew as well as her own son, she noticed the taut tension of his body and the way he carefully looked everywhere but at his friend. Sighing, thinking she knew why they seemed at odds, she began, "I guess you've told Jim what you -"

But Sandburg interjected quickly, "Uh, no, actually. It's okay. Don't -"

"Told me what?" Ellison cut in, frowning.

"Blair's taken -"

"Janey," Sandburg intervened sharply, "don't worry about that now, okay? Right now, what's important is that Tommy be all right. The rest can wait."

"If you haven't told him, then what's going on between you two?" she demanded, confused. "I can see something's wrong."

Ellison glanced uncomfortably at Sandburg and, shoving his hands in his pockets, shrugged, hesitating to reveal the conflict between them, worrying that it might just make things worse.

Blair looked away and swallowed. Before he could decide what to say, a woman in a lab coat, a stethoscope hooked around her neck, came through the closed doors to the treatment rooms. She looked around and then approached Jim. "Are you the man, Jim Ellison, who came in with the John Doe?"

"Yeah, that's me," he replied. Gesturing toward Janey, he went on, "We think the accident victim is Tommy Tarkington, and this is his mother, Jane. Can she see him now?"

Turning her attention to Janey, the woman said, "I'm Dr. Worth. Let's see if this young man is your son, and then we can talk about what happens next."

Blair again pushed Janey's chair while Jim walked ahead, to hold the door open for all of them, and then followed along. Dr. Worth led them to a treatment room and, when they entered, Janey's eyes filled with tears. "It's Tommy," she whispered brokenly, gazing at her unconscious son. His face showed a number of superficial abrasions and scrapes, and his skin was very pale. Looking up at the doctor, she demanded tremulously, "How is he?"

"Lucky," the doctor replied dryly. "The cuts are superficial and should heal without scarring. He has a moderately severe concussion but isn't deeply unconscious and should rouse in the next few hours. A couple of cracked ribs and a broken arm. Other than that, he's suffering from shock and exposure to the cold and damp. Mostly? He's exhausted. But I think he'll be fine."

"Doctor, there's some evidence to suggest his car might have been forced off the road," Ellison said soberly. "The local police want to be informed as soon as he wakes up, to see what he remembers about what happened."

Janey's gaze flashed up at that. "Someone tried to kill him?" she demanded angrily. "This wasn't just an accident?"

"Might have been a joy-rider or a drunk," Jim replied calmly. "We won't really know until Tommy tells us what happened."

"He might not remember," Dr. Worth told them. "Head injuries can be tricky and short term memory loss of events immediately prior to the trauma is not uncommon."

His lips thinning with understanding, Jim nodded. "We'll just have to hope he does remember," he sighed. "In the meantime, I don't think he should be left alone. If someone attacked him deliberately, he could still be in danger."

"I'll stay with him," Janey stated firmly.

"Coach, you can't, and you know it," Blair replied, holding up his hands for peace when she glared at him. "You're still recovering yourself and Tommy wouldn't want you taking any chances with your own health."

"I'll stay until the Seattle PD assigns a guard," Jim offered. "If he wakes up, I can take his statement."

"We'll set the fracture in his arm before sending him upstairs," the doctor said. "I'll ensure you're informed when we're ready to move him." Turning to Janey, she added, "If you give me your room number, I'll note that on his chart, so that you will be called as soon as he wakes. But, in the meantime, your friend is right -- you look like you should be back in your own bed as soon as possible."

Reluctantly, Janey agreed. After providing the information to the doctor, she pushed herself out of the chair and, dizzy, she leaned on Blair's support to stand beside her son, to touch his face and briefly hold his hand, before she agreed to be returned to her own room.

Jim followed them back into the waiting lounge and caught Blair's arm to restrain him for a moment. "You'll come back down here after you get Janey settled?"

When Blair hesitated, Janey supplied, "Yes, he will." Catching his mulish glance, she went on, "And if he doesn't tell you what he's gotten himself involved in, come see me and I'll tell you."

"Janey," Blair growled warningly.

"Don't 'Janey' me, young man," she countered, her eyes narrowing as she rubbed her temple, evidently in pain, her limits of tolerance and energy eroded by relief. "I don't know what's going on with you two, but whatever it is can be sidelined until this is over. I nearly lost my son to those bastards, whoever they are, and I don't like the risks you're taking. Jim needs to know."

"Fine," he conceded with ill grace. "Once you're safely in your room, I'll come back here." Without a glance at Ellison, he turned to push her chair out of the lounge toward the elevators.

Jim watched them go with an expression of exasperation overlaid with worry. What was she talking about? What had Blair gotten himself into now? Striding to the bank of public telephones along the wall, he called the PD to arrange for an officer to return to the hospital, to stand watch over Tommy Tarkington. Whatever was going on, he had a feeling he didn't want to be stuck at the hospital indefinitely, waiting for the young man to wake up.

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

Ellison was impatiently pacing when Sandburg ambled reluctantly through the broad portal into the lounge. Though Blair's demeanor was deliberately casual, his coat hanging open and the long navy scarf loose around his neck, the pallor under the dark stubble of his five o'clock shadow belied his manner. Tension fairly vibrated off his tight frame, and his hands were stuffed in his jean pockets to hide their tremble. He waited in the entry only long enough to catch Jim's eye before retreating back into the foyer in front of the Emergency entrance. Loping out to join him, the detective demanded with barely contained anxiety, "Okay, what's going on?"

Blair's eyes lifted to meet his briefly, but then Sandburg's gaze slid off to stare over his left shoulder. "I got a job as a skater with the Follies," he replied tightly.

"You what? When?"

"I stopped by the arena before coming to the hospital earlier," he replied flatly. Once again, he met Jim's eyes but didn't hold the gaze. Shrugging, he half-turned away. "I've got a lot of stuff to go over, so I gotta get going, man."

But Jim grabbed his arm, holding on tightly. "Just hold it a minute, Junior. Not so fast. Where are you staying? And tell me more about this job. Aside from the obvious, why's Janey so worried?"

"They got me a room where the rest of the company is staying, at the Holiday Inn Express near the arena," Blair replied distantly. "And I guess she's worried because I'm ... I'm Tommy's replacement."

Jim gaped at him for a moment, blinking and slowly shaking his head. "Are you out of your mind?" he demanded angrily. "What the hell kind of game do you think this is, Sandburg?"

"A dangerous one," Blair snapped back, finally meeting Jim's eyes, his own flashing with anger. Pulling away from Ellison's grip, he held up a hand to stave his friend off. "You don't have to like it -- and, frankly, this has nothing to do with you. It's the only thing I could think of to try to find out more about what's going on."

"And just what do you think is going on?" Ellison demanded, irate.

"Same as you, probably -- someone is trying to shut down the show, any way that they can," Sandburg replied heatedly. "There's no other reason for anyone to have gone after either Tommy or Janey. They don't know anything. So the assaults had to have been to remove them, not silence them. If I'm right, then Janey at least should be safe here, because she has no clue who shoved and tripped her. But Tommy could be in danger, if they think he recognized whoever ran him off the road."

"You got any ideas who this mysterious 'they' are, Sherlock?" Jim asked scathingly.

Shrugging, Blair shook his head. "No proof, that's for sure," he muttered, then squared his shoulders. "Perkins, the promoter, gives me the creeps. He could have bribed a skater to bump into Janey. But I have no idea why he'd be trying to shut down his own show unless it's some kind of insurance scam and he needs the money. But he'd make more on the gate, so that doesn't make any sense. Maybe there's someone with a grudge against him or something." Meeting Jim's glare, he tossed out aggressively, "You want to help? Maybe your cop friends here in town can dig into his background, maybe come up with a motive."

"Janey's right, this is too risky," Jim growled, shaking his head. "Lead skater? Are you in any shape to do that? Less than three months ago, you took a bullet in your leg."

"Yeah, well, that's why I'm going to have to spend the next two days on the ice, to get ready for the weekend shows that start on Friday night," Blair replied, not backing down. "I'll manage."

"Regardless, it's too dangerous. If you're right and someone is trying to shut the Follies down by taking out key personnel, you've just painted a target on your back."

"If I don't skate, the show will close and we'll never catch who is behind it all," Sandburg argued.

"Sandburg, this isn't your problem!" Ellison countered abruptly. "You're not a cop!"

"Yeah, so I've heard," Blair replied hollowly. "Repeatedly. But you know what? I don't have to be a cop to do this. I just have to skate."

Exasperated, Jim rolled his eyes and he cajoled bitingly, "C'mon, you're too smart to be this dumb."

"Yeah? Well, I'm also nearly thirty years old and not accountable to you or anyone else," Blair retorted, and then added with deliberately hurtful sarcasm, his eyes dark and his voice twisted with the pain he'd been repressing all day, "What's your problem, man? You told Simon you wanted to put me on ice, right? Well, guess what, Jim -- Santa must've been listening, too, 'cause it looks like you get your wish."

"Dammit, Chief!" Jim exclaimed, wounded by the well-placed barb and his fists clenched in hurt frustration.

Before either of them could say more, a nurse called into the waiting area behind them, "Ellison? Jim Ellison?"

"Sounds like you're being paged; they must be ready to move Tommy upstairs. And that's my cue to take off," Blair observed pointedly, backing toward the exit, triggering the automatic doors that slid open behind him, letting in a blustery gust of cold wind. "See you around, man." Wheeling away, he hastened through the open portal into the bone-chilling night.

"Sandburg!" Jim bellowed, taking a step after him but, breaking into a jog across the pavement to his car, his long hair whipped by the wind, Blair didn't look back.

"Jim Ellison?" the nurse called again, stridently, impatience clear in her tone. Cursing under his breath, Jim strode back into the lounge.

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

"Shit," Sandburg swore as he steered out of the parking lot, his eyes narrowed against the glare of snow swirling in the headlights, disgusted with himself for having baited Jim, for lashing out in hurt anger. Jim wasn't the one who had screwed everything up, getting in the way, not knowing when to back off. Jim wasn't the one who had gotten an old friend killed. Hell, if Jim hadn't shown up when he did, they never would have found Tommy and the kid would have died if he'd been out another night, especially as it was clear that the temperature had dipped below freezing. He was out of line taking his hurt out on Jim, way out of line, and he regretted his meanness.

"The good news is that both Janey and Tommy will be okay," he muttered to himself and then added with a poignant ache, "And that Jim cared enough to figure out where I'd gone and followed me down here."

He thought about what Ellison had said as he drove across town to the hotel, that he hadn't meant what he said, how it sounded. But, swallowing, Blair didn't believe that. Figured Jim just felt badly because, though Ellison could be blunt, it wasn't really in his nature to be deliberately cruel. In truth, Jim hadn't said anything to Simon earlier that day that Blair hadn't already thought, more than once, himself. He hadn't been much help when they went after Quinn. He had gotten in the way, complicated things. Simon could have gotten out the back of the mine with Jim if he hadn't have been there, gunshot and slowing them down.

And Janet. Oh, God, Janet. Blair knew he'd never be able to forgive himself for her death.

And he had suppressed important information in the investigation of Orvelle Wallace for murder.

So Jim had every right to rethink their deal, to want to call it quits. Every right. Deep down, Blair knew he had more than enough data to complete his dissertation and that there was no reason to keep hanging around. Except that he didn't want to quit. Didn't want to stop working with Jim, or leave the home that the loft had become. Didn't want any of it to end. But that was just plain selfish -- not to mention completely unrealistic. It had to end sometime. Why not now?

When he got to the hotel, he got his bags out of the trunk and stuck the book of skating routines into his backpack. His reservation was ready and waiting so, in minutes, he was on his way through slightly grungy halls to his room. Flicking on a light, he closed the door and looked around the cramped but adequate space. There was a beat-up desk, an unimpressive armchair that looked dingy and uncomfortable and a slightly sagging queen-size bed. Sighing, he dumped his bags, peeled off his jacket and sat at the desk to again go through the routines, picturing them in his mind, concentrating on the work to mute the sorrow in his heart.

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

Ellison sat in the darkened room, his arms crossed over his chest, watching Tommy sleep. In the silence, he played over the day's events and grimaced dejectedly. All the things he'd done right in the preceding hours -- tracking Sandburg, helping to find this kid while he was still breathing -- paled before the single great wrong thing he'd done. He should never have given voice to his pent-up feelings to Simon; should have just dealt with them and moved on. It wasn't like he hadn't been afraid for Sandburg before. Hell, since day one, his partner had flirted with danger, pulling him under that garbage truck, following the Switchman onto the doomed bus, confronting Kincaid when trapped in the building and finally caught. Standing with him against the murderous twins, facing down the gang who threatened Earl's grandmother -- nearly being murdered by Lash. Caught in Brackett's web, jumping out of a plane over Peru. The list went on and on. And every time, every damned time, Jim had rethought Blair's involvement in his life, so the cold fear that twisted in his gut whenever he thought about how close it had come again yesterday -- shit, was it only yesterday? Well, it wasn't new. Far from new. Was, in fact, getting old. And he should be able to handle it better, except it only seemed to grow worse, more strident.

Sighing, he scraped a hand over his face and then leaned forward, his fingers clasped between his knees and his head bowed. He felt as if they were on a runaway train that was going faster and faster, out of control. And one day, that train was going to crash and ... and Blair was going to end up dead.

The thought clawed at him, churning up nausea and tightening his chest. Jim didn't know what he'd do, how he'd handle it, if that day ever came. Oh, sure, he'd lost others, lots of them. His men in Peru. Jack. Danny. But they were all professionals. They'd signed up for the risks and knew what they were getting into. Hell, it was their jobs. They got paid to play death's game.

But Sandburg? Sandburg hadn't had a clue was he was letting himself in for, wasn't trained, and sure in hell wasn't getting paid a dime for his trouble. And it had already cost the kid dearly, in injuries, in nightmares -- in the guilt over his friend's murder. It wasn't right. None of it. Sandburg shouldn't have to keep putting his life on the line because of their dumb deal. The help Blair had given him to manage his senses from the beginning and every day since was more than enough to earn the right to use the research toward his doctorate.

So fear and guilt warred for supremacy in Jim's heart every time they had a close call. Kept him awake nights and left his palms clammy with anxiety. Yeah, yeah, he'd discussed it, sort of, with Sandburg. Perpetually urged him to stay in the truck or out of the line of fire. Did his best to protect the kid. But Blair never paid any attention. Well, that wasn't exactly fair, but the kid never stayed back, out of danger. Sandburg just kept insisting that he had to be close or he was of no use; and he'd proven his point time and again, when over-stimulation or distraction left Jim helpless, even if only for a brief moment -- but long enough to have been disastrous if Blair hadn't yanked him back from the edge.

So, yeah, he'd mouthed off at Simon that day, given vent to his deepest fears, his inescapable, increasingly urgent need to protect the kid -- and it had been a colossal mistake. Damn. Why, of all things, did Blair have to hear that? Sandburg had been deeply hurt, that much was clear. So hurt he wasn't ready to believe that none of it had been true.

And now Blair was doing it again. Marching straight into the mouth of hell, daring the fates to screw with him. Shaking his head, Jim didn't know if the kid was terminally na�ve or terminally brave. Either way, the 'terminal' potential of Sandburg's inevitable willingness to risk it all for the right reasons chilled him to his soul. And this time, Blair was heading into a situation where Jim had no way of protecting him, no means by which to stand between him and danger. His partner was putting himself right smack on the line with no defense, leaving himself wide open and vulnerable to attack. Way too vulnerable.

Exasperated, scared, Jim scrubbed his face with his hands and sat back to again stare at Tommy, willing the unconscious young man to wake up and tell him who had run him off the road. Because the only way Ellison could think of to scoop Sandburg out of the way of the runaway train was to stop it in its tracks. Find out who was behind what was going on and arrest the bastard before he could do any more damage.

And the only person who might be able to help him do that was Tommy.

If he'd just wake the hell up.

And if he remembered anything about what had happened on that curving, mountain road.

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

Bundled up against the weather, Blair arrived at the arena very early the next morning. The locker room was like an icebox and, as he tied his laces with hands numb and blue with cold, he reminded himself wryly of the single downside to skating that he always managed to forget from one year to the next. God, he hated the cold!

After doing his stretches to loosen and limber stiff muscles, he went out onto the rink. Dressed in loose layers, looking more like a bulky scarecrow than the new lead male skater in the ensemble, he began with circuits along the boards, getting a feel for the ice and the dimensions of the oval. Slow at first, then faster, working in various preliminary moves like single jumps, skating backwards, sliding to abrupt stops that raked up the ice under his blades and swooping into whirls. After an hour, he'd warmed up enough to take off one layer of clothing.

And then it was back on the ice, to consciously work through the specific routines he'd committed to memory the night before. The show was a typical extravaganza comprised of a number of scenarios loosely linked under the theme of 'Fairytales', and geared to appeal to both the children and the adults in the typical audience. During the course of any given performance, Blair would begin as Peter Pan, cajoling Wendy out of the safety of her bedroom (he leered to himself, chuckling about anyone mistaking Peter for a prepubescent boy uninterested in girls), and subsequently fighting the evil Captain Hook with sabers over her honor and to save the lives of all the little ones who wanted to remain eternally young. As he slashed his imaginary sword through the air, skating backwards, ducking and lurching from equally imaginary thrusts by his enemy, slid and fell, rolling back to his feet and pressing his own attack forward, he wondered if that's who he was inside. Peter Pan. The guy who never wanted to grow up. Who always wanted life to be full of fun and adventures, eternally reluctant to take on adult responsibilities.

Sighing, he shifted into his next major role: the knight in shining armor who fights the dragon to rescue Sleeping Beauty from her overgrown tower. Was this why he loved working with Jim so much? Because he got to help slay dragons and rescue damsels and other innocents in distress? Got to do something real, something more important and meaningful than banter around ideas? But he was an academic, not an adventurer, wasn't he? Of course he was, which is why he'd become a burden to Jim, why he couldn't ultimately keep up. And as for rescuing damsels in distress, he thought with bitter recrimination, he'd not been able to wake Janet from her eternal sleep.

His skating slowed and he stopped to swallow some water and calm his breathing. He needed to focus on what he was doing, not upon all that he'd failed so spectacularly in real life. Sighing, he rubbed his face and drew in deep breaths. Returning to the ice, he moved through his next major segment in the program. He was the Beast who was tamed by the Beauty, lumbering and awkward, pantomimed actions large and gruff, full of anger. Just being able to play out that sense of being doomed, of self loathing, was a catharsis of sorts. He couldn't finish the act on his own -- he'd need 'Beauty' to attach the wire to the loop that would be in his costume, part of the harness under the clothing, before he could practice the slow twist in the air and the shedding of the beast to become the prince hidden within.

Other skaters began to appear on the ice, and he stopped to introduce himself and learn who they were, where they were from, how long they'd been with the show and, if they were talkative, to push a little and see what they had to say about the run of bad luck the company had been experiencing.

He didn't mention to anyone that Tommy had been found.

By noon, the scar on his thigh was a constant burn radiating through his leg, and he was sweating with exertion. Trembling with weariness, he left the ice to do more slow stretching exercises before he went in search of the canteen and lunch. Though his appetite was practically non-existent, he knew he had to keep pushing proteins and fluids to fuel his body, or he'd never have the stamina to keep up his act. Climbing into the stands to munch on cheese and an apple, to watch others working out and getting a sense of the larger company acts where movement needed precision coordination, he found himself wondering if Tommy had woken up yet, and how Janey was that day. Better, hopefully. More able to recover with her fears about her son alleviated. And he wondered if Jim was still in town -- like he'd've gone before checking out the arena. Yeah, sure, right.

Steps clomping down the risers behind him drew his attention, and he looked around and up, trying not to stiffen with aversion when he recognized Perkins. Nodding, he turned his attention back to the action on the ice.

The promoter slid into the seat beside him. "I was watching you," Lyle said, his tone light, pleased. "You're doing pretty good for the first day out. I think you'll actually be ready, or at least credible, tomorrow night."

"Uh, thanks," Sandburg acknowledged, forcing a smile. "The routines are well documented. If you've got a video of the show that I could watch tonight, that would help me get a sense of how the whole fits together."

"I can get you a copy," Perkins agreed. "Drop by the office on your way out today and it'll be at the desk."

"Good, appreciate it," Blair acknowledged, wondering why he found Perkins so ... slimy. Maybe it was the too-ready smile that never reached his cold, calculating eyes. Or maybe it was the way he leered at the youngest girls down on the rink, nearly salivating over their lithe young bodies. Or maybe he just wasn't a particularly personable man -- unpleasant, certainly, but not necessarily a monster in disguise.

The promoter clapped him companionably on the shoulder, and then rose to amble back the way he'd come, back up to the 'gods', where he could watch and not be clearly seen.

Stretching, hearing aging joints pop, Blair sighed and told himself he really was too old to be doing this, but he rose and went back to the locker room, to once again tie on his skates. When he went back to the rink, he leaned on the half wall and watched the clowns go through their routines, laughing at their antics as they played little pigs cowering away from the wolf, and mice chasing up and down a massive clock, taking pratfalls and spills with impeccable timing and their own odd, gangly grace. What they did took real skill to avoid injury and be funny, and Blair thanked the gods that he hadn't had to replace one of them. He got more of the spotlight, but the work he had to do was far less challenging and much less likely to cause him permanent injury.

When the clowns cleared the ice, he went back on, and this time he met his alternate, Amelie Baker, the principal lead female skater who would be pairing with him during their ensembles. She was pretty with long blond hair tied back and cornflower blue eyes that appraised him candidly. She had the body of an athlete, strong and supple, and he thought, with a cheerful, irrepressible bubble of anticipation in his chest, that working with her wouldn't be too bad.

Might even be fun.

Or could have been, he amended his thoughts as their practice progressed, if she'd ever remember how to smile and was ready to encourage what he was doing right rather than endlessly compare him unfavorably with Tommy, who had apparently -- and increasingly tiresomely as his abilities were lauded nonstop throughout the afternoon -- never done anything wrong.

But then, Tommy was years younger and at the top of his game. Not an aging has-been pushing his limits of remembered skills and endurance.

It proved to be a long day and not a particularly satisfying one. Oh, he was managing the routines credibly well. With another full day of practice, he wouldn't make a fool of himself during the show the next night, but he hadn't learned a single useful thing that might explain what was going on. And he felt like a cad for not letting on to Amelie that Tommy was no longer amongst the missing, for the young woman was clearly worried about him and absolutely certain he wouldn't have simply run off, leaving them all high and dry. Well, more than worried, actually. Blair was pretty sure she was in love with the kid.

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

A uniformed patrolman had been standing watch in phlegmatic silence since midnight, and Janey had found her way, without the need of a wheelchair, to the room by nine AM. Just before noon, a detective from the Seattle PD showed up, introducing himself as Matt Dunn. He had a rugged, outdoors look, solid and dependable, with intelligent brown eyes and casual, comfortable clothing.

"Detective Ellison," he acknowledged warmly, after greeting Janey, "I understand we have you to thank for finding young Mr. Tarkington last evening. Good work spotting those skid marks. You must have amazing eyesight." Jim shrugged and nodded agreeably but, when he didn't speak, Matt went on. "We found traces of burgundy paint in the scrapes along the driver's side of Tommy's vehicle. It's pretty clear he was rammed several times before being forced off the road, so that makes this a case of attempted homicide. What can you folks tell me about the situation?"

Janey explained everything as best she could, and he frowned at her story of being tripped and injured. "You think it was deliberate?" he probed, double-checking as he jotted down notes in a small book that fit the palm of his large hand. When she said she thought it had been, that nobody had admitted knocking her over, he frowned. "And the skater that was burned when the electrical wiring in their suit shorted out? You're saying you think that was deliberate, too?"

"At first, we just thought we were having a run of bad luck," she sighed, pushing her fingers through her short hair. "But when all the accidents started adding up, bringing the show to the point of cancellation, a lot of us began to wonder if something else was going on. Something deliberate."

"I see," he mused, his expression thoughtful as his gaze slipped to Tommy. "Do you have any suspicions of who might be orchestrating all this bad luck?"

Her lips thinned and she shrugged. "The promoter, Lyle Perkins, is an unpleasant individual but there's no obvious reason for him to try to shut down his own show."

"Blair said last night that he'd get more from the gate receipts than insurance, so money doesn't seem like much of motive," Jim interjected.

"Blair?" Matt asked. "Who's Blair?"

"Blair Sandburg. He's my partner," Ellison replied, "a civilian who works with Major Crimes while conducting research for his doctorate in anthropology."

"And he's here in Seattle, too?" Dunn clarified.

Nodding, Jim confirmed, "Yeah. He's uh, decided to try to gain some insider info by taking a job as a skater with the company. He's down at the arena, practicing for tomorrow night's show."

"Uh huh," the detective grunted. "Not sure that's a great idea."

"Neither are we," Jim agreed, his voice tight, "but Blair can be stubborn. And he could be right."

Scratching his cheek, Dunn asked carefully, "You mind me asking how two Cascade PD detectives got involved without us knowing anything was maybe going down?"

"I called the Seattle PD first," Janey intervened, her tone brittle. "I couldn't get anyone to listen to me or help me when I said my son was missing. I was told he was an adult and not enough time had passed for there to be any concern. So I called Blair and Jim, who are personal friends, and asked them for help."

"And it looks like a good thing that you did," Matt replied, backpedaling from his inclination to be irritated at having other cops messing around on his patch.

She nodded grimly and then, when Tommy groaned softly, turned her attention back to her son. Awakened by the voices, he blinked and frowned, looking around in confusion. Finding his mother, ignoring the two strange men for the moment, he rasped, "Mom, what's going on?"

"You were in a car accident, honey," she told him gently, stroking his brow. "But you're going to be fine." Looking over her shoulder, she said, "This is Jim Ellison -- he found you in your wrecked car."

"Ellison? Oh, yeah, you're Blair's friend, right?"

"Right," Jim allowed with a small smile.

"And this is Detective Dunn from the Seattle Police," she carried on. "Tommy, do you need anything? Something for pain?"

"Uh, just some water," he replied, his voice thin, strained. She held a cup and straw for him to take a few swallows. When he was finished, she asked, "Tom, we need to know if you remember what happened?"

Scowling in thought, he sighed. "Not much, I'm afraid. Mostly just being stuck in the car and being afraid nobody would find me," he murmured with a slight shiver. Looking up at Jim, he said meaningfully, "Thanks, Mr. Ellison. I thought I was going to die out there."

"No thanks necessary, Tom," Jim replied soberly. Taking a step toward the bed, he asked, "Do you remember anything about going off the road?"

"Uh, yeah, some," he replied, frowning. "I wasn't drunk or anything. Hadn't had anything to drink, actually. I'd just dropped Mom off at the hotel after rehearsals and went for a drive. It was dark, not much traffic, but I noticed headlights behind me, coming up fast. Sorry, I don't know what kind of vehicle, but when they started to pass, I've got an impression of a dark sedan. Anyway, the guy didn't pass! He rammed me a couple times and I was like, totally stunned, you know? Tried to keep the car on the road but he rammed me again on a curve and I hit the shoulder -- only there was a ditch, and I smashed into a tree. The car was crushed, crumpled -- I was caught by the dash and the steering wheel and couldn't get out."

"You get a look at the other driver?" Dunn asked.

Shaking his head, appearing dismayed to be so little help, Tommy said, "No, sorry. It was so dark, no light except for the headlights. I've got an impression of a man, but that's it."

Jim looked down and away, trying to hide his disappointment. He'd been badly hoping for a lead.

"Detective Ellison," Dunn called quietly. "Could I have a word with you outside?"

In the hallway, Matt asked, "So, what do you think? Just a lot of bad luck or something going down?"

Jim's mouth twisted as he shook his head. "I know it all sounds coincidental and circumstantial," he replied quietly. "But I've got a feeling it's not all just bad luck. Something's going down here, but I've got no clue as to what or why. I would like to know more about this Lyle Perkins -- and, well, if I was back in Cascade, I'd run a check on all the people involved with the show. Maybe it's as simple as a disgruntled employee out for revenge on the boss."

"In other words, you're dying to get involved but don't want to offend the locals," Matt paraphrased the meaning if not the words, a smile quirking on his lips. "Well, since we dropped the ball and you've got some handle on these people already and it's your partner who's gotten himself a job with the show, not to mention one hell of a lot of legwork to check out the whole cast, let's join forces, shall we, Detective Ellison?"

Smiling, relieved at the easy acceptance of his involvement, Ellison nodded. "Sounds like a plan. I've got another day or two before I have to be back in Cascade. And the name is Jim."

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

Blair wasn't a quitter by nature, but by the time practice ended and he'd done his final stretches, he was ready to consider dying as an acceptable alternative to going on with the show. He knew he should probably go by the hospital to see Janey, and he did wonder if Tommy had regained consciousness, but the feelings of obligation and concern were distant, muted and muffled by the exhaustion that weighed him down. His whole body ached, and he knew it would only be worse in the morning if he didn't do everything exactly right -- which meant more stretches when he got back to the hotel, a warm, not hot bath, and still more limbering of his muscles. Man, what he wouldn't give for a massage but he'd just have to live without it.

As for dinner? Well, yeah, his mind thought numbly, dinner was a good idea. He needed the food for energy. But then, he needed energy to go in search of food and, somehow, the lure of his bed was stronger than the attraction of nourishment. Maybe he'd order a pizza for delivery to the room later.

Or maybe he'd just sleep.

When he got back to the hotel, dragged himself in and out of the tub, did his stretches, and crawled into the bed with still damp hair, he wondered idly whether Jim was still in town, or whether he'd gone back to Cascade. Still around, Sandburg thought muzzily, burrowing into the pillow, not sure why he was so certain of that, and too close to sleep to worry about it.

He didn't hear the key in the lock or the door open and close. The brief flare of light from the hallway didn't rouse him, nor did the rustle of paper bags. But the delectable smells of his favorite Chinese dishes invaded his sleep and drew him toward awareness. A single lamp burned on the desk, casting soft illumination over the room and the cartons of food. Blinking, he glanced around and found Jim sitting quietly on the single armchair, watching him.

"Uh, hey," Sandburg muttered with a yawn and a wince as he sat up. "How'd you get in here?"

"Told the desk clerk you were my partner and I'd come down from Cascade to surprise you. The fact that we live at the same address helped convince him -- along with twenty bucks," Jim replied. "The security in this place stinks."

"You brought food," Blair observed, easing himself to the side of the bed, trying not to appear too stiff -- which was hard, since every single muscle seemed to have turned into wood. "What time is it?"

"Not quite ten," Jim told him. "I figured you probably skipped supper."

Nodding, Sandburg studied his friend and decided he no longer wanted to take out his hurt on Jim -- it wasn't Ellison's fault that he had a propensity to screw up royally, or that Jim neither needed nor wanted him underfoot anymore. His angry shot the night before still embarrassed him -- it had been so patently unfair. He was just damned lucky that Jim hadn't written him off completely. "Thanks," he murmured, subdued, waving in the general direction of the food and then vaguely at the room in general. "For checking on me," he clarified solemnly when Jim didn't seem to get the whole message. Wincing, he started to push himself to his feet and moaned softly.

"Stay there, Chief," Ellison directed, standing. "I'll bring it to you."

Shifting to lean his back against the head of the bed, Blair watched Jim serve up two meals on paper plates. "Tommy wake up?" he asked, stifling another yawn.

"Yeah, around noon," Jim replied, bringing him the plate, a fork and setting an open beer on the bedside table. "He's okay, and he remembers the accident, but he didn't get a good enough look to know who it was."

Blair grimaced and shook his head, and then tucked into his meal, a subvocal sound of appreciation at the taste vibrating in his throat. Swallowing, he ventured, "When are you going back to Cascade?"

Jim shrugged as he chewed, and then took a sip of beer. "Simon gave me a couple days, so not until Saturday, at least. Maybe not till Sunday night." His gaze falling to his plate, he went on, "Seattle PD has assigned a detective to the case; Matt Dunn. Good guy, solid. The two of us ran Lyle Perkins and the crew and cast of the Follies this afternoon and evening. Came up with zilch."

Blair thought about that as he ate. "Doesn't make any sense," he muttered. Setting the empty plate aside, and picking up the beer, he thought out loud, "Maybe it was all just accidents and bad luck. Maybe some drunk clipped Tommy and it was just a coincidence."

"You really think that?"

Looking around the room, Blair shook his head. "No. My gut tells me something stinks here, but none of it makes any sense. Why would anyone want to shut down a show that's making money?" Finger-combing his mass of unruly hair, he asked, "What do you think?"

"I think you've got good gut instincts," Jim replied. "We have to dig deeper. You pick up anything at the rink?"

"Well, aside from the fact that Tommy's skating partner, Amelie, is nuts about him and badly resents having to work with a lesser talent, no, not much," Sandburg told him, frustration in his tone. "Right now, to be honest, I'm pretty useless as an undercover agent -- I'm spending all my time on the ice, just trying to get the routines down." Sighing, he rested his head back on the wall and closed his eyes. "Maybe I'll pick up more on the weekend. How's Janey?"

"Better. They'll discharge her tomorrow, but I think she's planning to camp out in Tommy's room until they let him go on Monday," Jim reported, studying his friend. "You're hurting pretty bad, aren't you?"

"Oh, yeah," Blair allowed with a crooked half smile. "But it's nothing more than I expected."

Ellison scratched his cheek and then finished off his beer. "Lie down and I'll give you a massage."

Sandburg's eyes blinked open in surprise. "Why?"

"Because it'll help. If you stiffen up, you'll be useless on the ice tomorrow."

"No, that's not what I meant," Blair returned, frowning in confusion. "I mean, why are you here? Why would you help keep me on the ice? Earlier, I got the impression that you'd be happy if I couldn't do this and got fired."

Looking away, Jim shrugged and sighed. "Don't get me wrong -- I don't want you doing this. I think it's too dangerous. But ... you're right. You're not accountable to me. And if you're going to do this, then I want you in the best shape possible. You might have to duck or run really fast at some point, and you're in no shape to do more than crawl right now. And," he added reluctantly, "you might be our best bet for getting the information we need to stop whatever is going on."

"I don't get it, man," Blair said softly, weariness heavy in his voice and eyes. "I mean, yesterday morning, you sounded like if you never had to see my face again, it would be, like, great, you know? And you were right. Everything you said. You were right. I've screwed up one time after another. But then you track me down to the hospital and show up here with food and TLC ... I appreciate it, Jim. Even if it didn't sound like it yesterday. But I don't understand."

"I know," Jim replied quietly, his gaze averted. "What you heard was ... out of context." Looking up at Sandburg, seeing the tight way he held his body, and the dark shadows under his eyes, he shrugged and suggested, "Look, you didn't want to talk about all that until this case was done, right? And you're too tired and sore to get into it tonight. Roll over. Let me work on those muscles."

Unable to resist the allure of a massage, Blair gave him the ghost of a grateful smile and nodded mutely as he rolled and shifted, to lie facedown on the mattress. "Where're you staying?" he mumbled and then groaned in appreciation as Jim began kneading his shoulders and neck.

"Seems there're no rooms at the Inn, Chief," Ellison replied quietly, not really concerned. "Or anywhere else in town. I'll head to SeaTac -- there're always rooms at the airport."

"Mmm," Sandburg murmured, already drifting off. "If you don't mind sharing, you can crash here, man," he mumbled blissfully at the magic Jim was working on his stiff and sore body. "S'good, man," he whispered huskily, "Thanks," as he slipped into sleep.

Jim worked on his friend's body for an hour and a half, loosening tight muscles and easing away tension. While he kneaded and massaged, he thought about what Blair had said, about believing his comments in the stairwell had been right and just. His jaw clenched with anger toward himself for the damage his careless expounding had wrought. But his own tension eased as he cared for Sandburg, the rhythmic massaging of muscles relaxing him as much as his hands were soothing Blair's aches and pains. The fact that Sandburg hadn't sent him packing was a good sign and the kid's willingness to allow him to both help and to stay the night gave him hope that they'd work their way through this latest misunderstanding. But he couldn't let Blair go on believing that all that he'd said had been true.

By the time he finished, it was after midnight and he had no urge to go back into the cold night. Taking Blair at his word, he accepted the offer of half a bed and crawled in beside his partner, asleep within seconds of hitting the pillow.

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

They had breakfast in the room the next morning, to avoid anyone seeing Ellison with Sandburg.

"Matt, the Seattle detective, and I are going to start asking questions of the troupe today," Jim said as he blew over his hot coffee to cool it. "Maybe someone saw something, or has some ideas that aren't occurring to the rest of us."

"Okay, good," Sandburg replied, shoveling in scrambled eggs for the protein and energy he'd need as the day wore on. "Just being around and asking questions will shake people up -- I might pick up more that they might not tell you, but that they wouldn't talk about at all if you guys didn't rattle the bushes."

Jim winced at the mixed metaphor and Sandburg waved a hand at his coffee, mutely signaling he was only half awake and his synapses weren't firing at full speed yet. It occurred to Jim that they knew one another so well that they both understood so much without words.

The meal finished, Sandburg finished dressing and hauled on his coat, moving easily, without pain. "Thanks for the massage," he said with very sincere gratitude. "I hardly feel yesterday's workout -- and I would've had trouble moving at all, if you hadn't stopped by." Glancing at the bed, he offered, "Feel free to stay here again tonight, if you want." His lip quirked in the barest of impish grins, as he added, "I'm likely to be in even worse shape after the show than I was last night."

Jim chuckled and nodded. "Works for me," he replied agreeably, opening the newspaper. "Saves me the commute."

"See you later, man," Blair cal