John Whitefeather paused as he stepped up onto the open bluff. The sun was settling behind the distant horizon, its warm, bold colors vividly streaking the darkening sky. A warm, dry breeze lifted his dark hair as his eyes settled on the still figure silhouetted against nature's brilliant display. It made John nervous that the old man still made his way to this bluff despite his failing eyesight and declining health. But arguing with him would be useless, and John could only hope Two Eagles would accept the growing limitations of his frail body before it was too late.

Without moving a muscle, the old shaman acknowledged his arrival. "Even though my eyes cannot see as they once did, the beauty of the earth and sky still fill my soul with wonder."

John smiled affectionately at the old man. "I believe you still see things better than most people, Two Eagles."

The old Indian nodded and turned toward his young friend. "Most, but not all, John Whitefeather. Sometimes what I see with my eyes is less important than what I see here." He lifted a withered hand to his chest, his expression showing deep concern.

John stepped closer and placed a hand on the old shaman's arm. "What do you see, Two Eagles?"

The shaman closed his eyes, wisps of silver hair playing in the breeze around his weathered face. "I see a wolf, confused, tired, in pain. He is lost, and he has no path to follow." The old man took a deep breath before continuing in his soft, melodic voice. "I see a jaguar, also alone, moving silently through the jungle. The wolf stops, no longer able to continue his journey. But the jaguar will not allow it to quit. They meet in a blinding flash of light. Their souls touch and the wolf takes what it needs. The cat gives of itself freely, but then it leaves the wolf to flounder, unsure of where its newly found path will lead. They are still alone. They are still afraid."

John nodded slowly as he listened to the old man, his eyes squinting in thought. "They need guidance."

Two Eagles smiled. "You are a wise man, John Whitefeather."

John shook his head. "No, I'm a cop, Two Eagles. I simply interpret facts. It is you who are wise." At Two Eagles' nod of appreciation, he continued. "I assume you asked me to meet you here for a reason? Does it have something to do with your vision?"

Two Eagles smiled. "As I said. You are a wise man." He turned back to the view, his eyes staring into the distance. "You must go to Cascade."

Whitefeather's eyes widened as he quickly put the pieces together. "Ellison and Sandburg?" He chuckled as he recalled the Cascade detective and his energetic young partner. It had been nearly two years ago that they had come to the reservation and inadvertently helped him solve a year-old jewel theft case. He had watched in amazement as the two distinctly different men had balanced one another, each one supporting the other without words, without conscious thought. They had been a complete contrast in appearance, attitude and interests, but they seemed to complete each other. John had never seen such a pure, yet complicated, friendship in all his days.

Two Eagles nodded, pleased his friend remembered the pair. "I'm afraid something has happened. Something that has altered the path they were on. Our friends are gifted, but they have turned their backs on their gifts -- and on each other. I must help them find their way back."

"You're coming to Cascade with me?"

Two Eagles shook his head, smiling sadly. "No. I am an old man, my friend. I cannot make such a journey easily."

He opened his hand to reveal a small, black stone. John reached out and took the stone, surprised at the warmth it radiated. He turned the stone in his hand, mesmerized by the shimmer that seemed to come from deep within.

"It is onyx," Two Eagles continued, "a powerful stone which radiates strength from the earth. You must take this to Blair. Tell him of my vision. Tell him I can help him understand his new path if he would allow me."

John stroked the stone in his hand, feeling its warmth radiating through his body. "Blair is the wolf," he concluded. He looked up into the knowing eyes of Two Eagles.

"You are a wise man indeed, John Whitefeather."

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

Darkness had never felt so heavy, so thick. It pressed down upon him, suffocating him. He could not breathe, could not think. Only suffer in horror. Everything about the darkness assaulted his senses. If fear had a stench this would be what it smelled like - sweat and tears, acerbic and pungent. Air disappeared and he struggled with something in his hands. Something soft, warm. Like…

Flesh.

With a strangled cry, Blair shot up, reaching out into the darkness that swallowed him. Blinking away the sweat dripping into his eyes, he wrestled with the light switch on the lamp beside his bed, nearly knocking the lamp onto the ground. Chasing away the darkness was all he could think about. His heart pounded in his ears, his breathing came out in barely controlled gasps.

A click and light illuminated the darkness, forcing the shadows deeper into his bedroom. Sucking in a shaky breath, feeling the rattle of it in his still congested chest and fighting down a cough, Blair curled up against the wall at the head of his bed, pulling the damp blankets around his even damper body, staying as close to the light as possible. The nightmare had ended as soon as he jerked awake, and even though it bothered him that he couldn't recall the details, he was also glad. Never had his dreams felt so real.

He remained curled up glaring at the darkness until he heard Jim moving upstairs. With a quick hand, Blair shut off his alarm before it went off. His body shook, but not just from terror. The blankets weren't enough to keep the chill from seeping through to his sweaty t-shirt and sweat pants. He tried to burrow deeper into the softness of his futon, but the nightmare had done its work. Even the mattress was damp.

The sound of Jim descending the stairs beside Blair's room creaked through the walls. Light feet passed by Blair's doorway, around the corner and straight to the bathroom. Blair tracked his roommate silently, waiting for the sound of the shower. Once that familiar hum started, Blair finally began to relax. Jim was up, sunshine filtered through the window above the lamp, and normal morning routines began. The shadows of his nightmare had disappeared completely with the shadows in his room.

Blair rolled out of bed and stripped, covering his mouth as a cough doubled him over. After the spell passed, Blair pulled on his flannel robe and tied it around his waist. Brushing damp curls out of his face with his hands, he took a deep, calming breath. The combination of the nightmare and coughing fit sent tremors through his hands, but he moved from the bedroom to the kitchen, hoping a hot cup of tea would calm him. After starting a pot of coffee for Jim, Blair pulled down his favorite mug and a pouch of green leaf tea. Putting the kettle on the stove for water, Blair leaned a hip against the kitchen island and peered around the loft.

Sunshine slanted through the blinds of the balcony windows, infusing the loft with a warm glow that Blair hungrily absorbed. Weather in Cascade, Washington, had been decidedly sodden for an entire week. Not even a sunbeam could be found. The gray had only added to the illness that had bedridden Blair soon after returning to Cascade from that physically and emotionally draining trip to Mexico.

Blair sighed, rubbing his tired eyes. Being comatose with infection and fever had made it pretty easy not to think about the events surrounding Alex Barnes and Mexico. And being dead.

The whistle of the kettle broke into Blair's darkening thoughts and he gratefully filled a mug with steaming water then sat at the dining room table. Wrapping his cold hands around the mug, Blair huddled over the warmth, waiting for the tea to steep. The heat chased away the chill in his fingers, but did little to dispel his thoughts. Breathing in the steam, he couldn't stop his thoughts from returning to their previous musing.

Scenes of a black jaguar and a gray wolf leaping into one another played through his mind and Blair wondered when he would ever make any sense of it. Jim was usually the one with the visions. Ever since that trip to South America to rescue Simon and Daryl, Jim had been seeing his animal spirit. Helping Jim to unravel the mystery of his visions had been easier; Blair was on the outside, a clinical observer, and able to use years of studies to guide his friend in the right direction. But this vision involved Blair, introduced his own spirit animal, something Blair had never even considered before. And Blair was lost in trying to figure out what it all meant. He had made light of the fact that he and Jim had shared the vision, only partially joking for Jim to join him in wading through the insanity. Part of him - most of him, he admitted - had been deeply wounded when Jim had refused.

Shortly after, Jim had disappeared to chase after Alex Barnes, the woman responsible for killing Blair.

Cringing at that memory, Blair took a sip of tea, not succeeding in driving out of his mind the images of that short walk from his office to the fountain. Dawn had barely touched the sky that morning, the fountain, a silhouette of shadow as Alex forced him towards it at gunpoint. The whole time, while trying to convince Alex not to kill him, Blair had frantically searched for Jim. Jim would rescue him. He always did; always arrived in the nick of time.

This time he hadn't. This time it had been too late.

And Jim had left him alone to deal with the fallout.

"Morning, Chief," a deep familiar voice broke into Blair's dismal thoughts. Startled, Blair jerked around, almost overturning the mug. He yelped as hot liquid splashed onto his hand. Jim grabbed a towel and tossed it to Blair. "Good catch. You okay?"

Blair nodded, wiping up the tea and dabbing at his hand. "Coffee's done," he muttered and watched as Jim whistled his way through pouring a cup of coffee and then leaned against the cupboard. He took a deep, careful gulp of the brew and sighed.

"Good stuff, Chief," Jim sighed, smiling. He glanced around. "No breakfast?"

Abashed, Blair shook his head. "Sorry. Got to thinking about…things." He took a quick sip of his tea and stood.

Something unreadable passed across Jim's defined features, but just as quickly disappeared. "About what's waiting for you at Rainier today?"

Blair shook his head and sighed. "Yeah, Jim, that's what I was thinking about," he muttered sarcastically.

No point in getting into it right now. There had not been time to discuss the fountain and Alex and the events in Mexico since Blair had been knocked off his feet, and with the next few days promising to be hectic at school, it didn't look like a discussion was in the near future -- if at all, if Blair was reading his Ellison barometer correctly. "Even though I've only been walking around for a couple of days, the University has been on me to get back to work. From the sounds of it, I won't find my desk for at least another month. What's with your schedule?"

Jim shrugged. "I have to go to court in a couple of days on the Messlefield case, and there's that dead body that washed up under Pier 28 two days ago. We're still tracking that. With half the department out sick, Simon has us backing up Homicide and Robbery. Oh, and the paperwork is piling up." He peered over the edge of his mug, eyebrows arched mischievously.

Blair couldn't help smiling. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Tell you what, man, it's going to keep piling up until I get caught up at school. Either you learn how to type faster than one key a half hour, buddy, or give it to Rhonda."

Jim cringed. "Ouch, that sounds painful. I can already feel her fingernails in my back for even asking."

Chuckling, Jim tossed his remaining coffee into the sink and rinsed out the mug. It was good to be bantering again. Blair had missed the good-natured ribbing and easy conversations. Things had been much too solemn lately. Underneath the comfort of joking, though, Blair felt tension and understood it. Jim had carefully gathered up the events surrounding the fountain and Alex Barnes and maybe even Blair's illness, but definitely his death, and had neatly compacted it into a spot deep somewhere inside the jungles of Denial also known as Ellison's subconscious. There they would remain, leaving Blair without any source to seek resolution for the turmoil churning inside him. Jim had successfully shut that door and Blair feared opening it again. Not so soon after moving back into the loft. Not so soon after his betrayal.

"I'd better get cracking," Blair suddenly said, draining what was left of his tea and setting the mug into the sink. "I'll rinse that after my shower. Did you leave me any hot water?"

"Don't I always?"

Blair glanced back over his shoulder as he headed to the bathroom. "Jim, your definition of remaining hot water and my definition differ slightly. Let me rephrase, man. Did you leave me enough hot water to shower and wash and rinse my hair?"

"Oh." With a smirk, Jim pushed off from the counter and headed towards the stairs leading to his room.

"Ah, man," Blair moaned.

He was pleasantly surprised to have hot water to the end.

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

Jim edged his way into the small motel room, dodging a short, balding forensics tech whose name he couldn't recall. Spotting a familiar face near the heavily curtained window, he crossed the faded green carpet, running a well-trained eye over the scene.

"What've you got for me, Serina?"

The dark-haired forensics tech looked up from under her glasses and smiled.

"Hey, Jim." She glanced behind him, one eyebrow raised as she noticed he was alone. "Sandburg still out sick?"

Jim shook his head. "Nah. He's got a lot of work piling up at the University. They wanted him back." He shrugged and gave Serina a teasing smile. "Go figure."

Serina chuckled lightly before getting down to business. She took a step forward and motioned toward the sheet-covered body on the bed. "Our D.B.'s name is Edward Lansing. We found his wallet still on him. No sign of struggle and the room was registered to him."

Jim nodded and pulled the sheet up, running a practiced eye over the corpse. He was an average looking man of about 40 with sandy brown hair, dressed in a light blue dress shirt that was opened at the collar revealing the top of a white t-shirt. "Cause of death?"

Serina hugged her clipboard to her chest and shrugged. "Won't know until we do a post mortem, but it looks like it could be a heart attack or something. Like I said, there's no sign of a struggle." She frowned as she looked up at the tall detective. "If you don't mind my asking, just what interest does Major Crime have in a simple D.B.?"

Jim rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes still darting around the room. "That flu bug hit Homicide pretty hard. Simon has graciously offered our services to help take up the slack until they're back up and running at full strength."

Serina laughed, not missing the sarcasm in the detective's tone. "Lucky you. Nothing like a little interdepartmental cooperation, huh?"

Jim nodded, his brow furrowed in concentration. "I think it's more like Simon's pre-meditated method of extortion." He sniffed the air a few times, catching a trace of something that didn't fit. "Do you smell that?"

Serina frowned and shook her head. "I don't smell anything but this musty old carpeting."

Jim closed his eyes and concentrated. "No. It's something else. Smells like…smells like Sandburg's sweat socks when he leaves them in his gym bag too long." He shook his head to clear it and let the sheet fall back over the body. Turning to Serina, he rubbed his eyes to quell the sudden itching sensation. "Have the lab dust for prints. Maybe he wasn't here alone. And we'd better run a toxicology scan on him. See if anything turns up."

Used to Ellison's strange hunches, Serina simply nodded and made a note on her clipboard. "You got it. Anything else?"

"Just have R&I run his name through the system and see if anything pops out."

"No problem."

"Jim!"

Ellison turned to see Captain Simon Banks waving at him from the door. He nodded before turning back to the lab tech. "Thanks, Serina. You can go ahead and bag him."

He made his way through the technical personnel to the door of the motel room and stepped out into the hall. "Hey, Simon, what's up?"

Simon motioned for him to follow him down the hallway toward the motel's dingy lobby. "Get anything?"

"Nah. Seems pretty cut and dry. Serina's going to run some tests to see if anything shows up, but looks like natural causes. What brings you down here?"

Simon pulled a cigar from his coat pocket and stuck it in his mouth. "Someone showed up at the station for you."

Jim laughed. "And what? You decided to play tour guide?"

Simon sniffed disdainfully. "I'm the captain, my duties are broad, but tour guide is not among them. I was just trying to display some interdepartmental hospitality. Something you could try once in a while, detective."

Jim chuckled, but his eyes narrowed in curiosity. "I'll put it on my to do list." Before he could inquire into the meaning of Simon's statement, they rounded the corner into the lobby and Simon motioned toward the tall, dark-haired man leaning against the front desk.

"John Whitefeather!" Jim smiled and held a hand out to the Navajo policeman.

Whitefeather returned the smile and grasped the offered hand in both of his. "It's good to see you, Ellison."

Jim was stunned. Whitefeather was the last person he had expected to see in Cascade. He had only spoken to him once since he and Blair returned from testifying at the trial of Edward Martin almost two years ago. He had enjoyed working with the tribal policeman, and had been able to relax in the company of Whitefeather and his friend, the old Navajo shaman Two Eagles, content to watch as Blair attempted to come to terms with the legacy Incacha had left them.

Jim couldn't help but feel gratitude toward Whitefeather as his presence brought back the memories of a happier, simpler time. ­He had still been struggling to control his senses then, and Sandburg had basically relied on intuition and more than a little off-the-cuff guesswork, but they had found some way to make it all work, some sort of connection -- a connection that hadn't been too perceptible as of late. Ever since they had returned from Mexico, the normal camaraderie between himself and Blair had been a bit strained. Of course, Sandburg getting sick hadn't helped and had been a constant reminder of what had happened. Having Blair back in the loft had begun to heal the rifts, but Jim didn't know quite how to deal with everything that had happened -- or repair the damage to their friendship.

It was hard to believe everything had been so simple just a short time ago.

Or was it more like a lifetime ago?

"Well." Simon clapped Jim on the back, effectively bringing him out of his reverie. "Since my tour guide duties seem to be done, I think I'll head back to the station and take care of some of my more mundane duties -- like solving crimes." He gave them a cheeky smile before turning and heading out the door. "Gentlemen."

"So," Jim turned his full attention to Whitefeather, "what brings you to Cascade?"

John's smile faded a bit. "Well, to tell you the truth, Jim, there are two reasons I'm here."

When the Navajo didn't continue, Jim raised his eyebrows in expectation. "And they are?"

John sighed as if making a decision. "A friend of mine moved here a couple of months ago to help out his fiancée who was in a pretty bad car wreck. He left some important family stuff back on the reservation and I decided to bring it to him."

Jim crossed his arms and nodded, unsure of why the Native American was beginning to shift nervously from one foot to the other. "Okay. That's one reason. The other?"

Whitefeather took another deep breath and looked Jim directly in the eyes. "Blair."

Jim's eyebrows shot up, and he was surprised at the momentary feeling of intense protectiveness that washed over him. "What about Sandburg?"

"I have a gift for him. From Two Eagles."

"The Navajo shaman." Jim was pretty sure he didn't like where this was going.

"Two Eagles told me he had a vision that involved Blair. He would have come himself, but his health has deteriorated in the last year so he couldn't make the journey."

"I'm sorry."

John shrugged. "He's an old man. He has lived a very long, very fulfilling life."

"What kind of vision?" Jim asked carefully, leery of the answer.

John hesitated as he studied Jim's face. "Has something happened to Blair recently?"

It was Jim's turn to shift nervously as he tried to decide how to answer. "There was an incident a few weeks ago. Blair almost drowned." Almost? Jim laughed to himself, wondering just who the hell he was trying to kid. Even the paramedics had given up. Sandburg was dead. He wasn't breathing, there was no heartbeat, there was no… Blair. He was gone. Dead.

Jim's heart beat loud in his ears as the memories came flooding back. He hadn't allowed himself to think about that moment. How his breath had caught in his throat when he had turned around and seen that familiar jacket floating in the fountain. How he had sat, stunned, when they had pulled Sandburg's lifeless body from the water. How his anger had stirred when the paramedic had shaken his head and muttered those words… "I'm sorry…" How Incacha's voice had filled his senses and --

Jim shook his head, refusing to let the memories take hold. He clenched his jaw and looked into Whitefeather's dark brown eyes. There was a moment of uneasy silence. Each man watched the other, as if trying to get inside the other's head. For some reason, Jim sensed reluctance on Whitefeather's part to discuss Two Eagles' vision.

"You said Two Eagles sent some kind of gift for Sandburg."

"Yes. He asked that I give it to him along with a message."

"What kind of message?"

Whitefeather shrugged. "That's for Blair to figure out."

Jim sighed, accepting the fact that he wasn't about to get any more information from Whitefeather. "He should be at the university right now." He checked his watch. "He went back to teaching today, but his class should be over in about an hour. What do you say I take you over there and you can explain all this vision stuff?"

Whitefeather nodded, an easy smile returning to his face.

Both men stepped aside as the coroner's team rolled a gurney carrying the black body bag around the corner and past them through the lobby. Jim could still smell the strange odor in the air. After watching the attendants roll the gurney out the door, he turned back to Whitefeather, surprised to see him sniffing the air discreetly.

"What's wrong?"

John jumped a bit as if Jim's voice had startled him and gave him an innocent look. "Nothing. Just remembered I need to do some laundry." John smiled and waved a hand toward the door. "Shall we go?"

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

As they walked toward the lecture hall, Jim stretched his hearing to catch the familiar strains of his friend's voice. Blair still sounded a little congested, which was not surprising considering how sick he had been the last couple of weeks. He had started to run a fever the day after they returned to Cascade and a forced trip to the doctor had revealed a lung infection that had managed to hold on despite the barrage of antibiotics Sandburg had choked down. He had felt good enough to move from his room to the couch after the first week, and had just barely gotten to the point where he could stay upright for more than ten minutes at a time when the University called and strongly suggested he get back to work.

He was still not back to a hundred percent, but he had seemed better these last few days and had insisted he was ready to get back into the swing of things. Jim could tell there were times Blair really needed to talk -- like this morning -- but Jim believed some things were better left alone. They had both been dealing with things in their own way, and Jim could only believe that everything would eventually work itself out.

"As the ritual of the ghost dances grew, the white settlers became more and more afraid of the Sioux. Not that their way of life, which was completely foreign to them to begin with, had ever really been embraced by the white man, but now, there was a lot of superstition thrown in which basically scared the heebie jeebies out of the settlers. They didn't want to be confronted with spirits and magic that didn't quite fit into their religious views." The normally animated voice suddenly cut off, replaced by some rough coughs. Both Jim and John winced at the painful sound.

"Sorry," the voice continued as the policemen stopped outside the open door to the lecture hall. "I guess I'll have to work my way back to being long-winded."

There was a chorus of chuckles from the class and Jim couldn't help but smile. News of Sandburg's incident -- as Jim had taken to calling it -- had spread across campus quickly and Blair had been inundated with get well wishes during his brief hospital stay, not to mention the dozens of cards and notes that had been delivered to the loft in their absence. If Sandburg's popularity as a teacher had been in doubt before, the sheer volume of Hallmark cards he had stacked up in the corner of his room was evidence of his students' ardor.

"For next class, I want you all to read the chapters on the Plains Indian rituals and we'll have a discussion about the impact of them on the white settlers."

Jim and John stepped inside the room just as the mass of students began their exodus into the hallway. John watched with something akin to humor on his face as the mostly female class filed past him, some doing a double take as they noticed the two tall men standing in the doorway.

"Looks like you came on a good day," Jim said in a low voice, amused by the surprised stares his companion was receiving from Blair's students. "They like you." He chuckled as John elbowed him but returned a debonair smile to the young women.

As soon as the throng cleared a bit, the policemen made their way down the tiers where Blair sat perched on his desk, speaking to a group of students.

"It's really great to have you back, Mr. Sandburg. It wasn't the same without you."

Blair smiled patiently at the young girl. "Thanks, Gina. It's good to be back. But that means no more slacking." He let his eyes sweep the group, a teasing grin on his face. "Now all of you get moving or you'll be late for your next class. It's about time you all got back to some real work."

"Does that include the teacher?"

Blair pushed himself off the desk and looked up at the familiar voice, effectively dismissing the group of students. "Hey, Jim, I thought you were…" His voice trailed off as he caught sight of John trailing down the steps behind Ellison.

Jim's smile faded as he watched most of the color drain from Sandburg's already pale face. He hurried down the last few steps and grabbed the kid's arm just as Blair reached out his other to steady himself against the desk.

"Hey, easy there, Chief. Maybe you'd better sit down."

Blair shook his head, breathing deeply through his nose. "No. I'm fine," he lied fluently. Jim knew better and turned his hearing up a notch, focusing on his friend's racing heartbeat.

"Sandburg…"

Blair waved him off and pulled away from his support. He pushed a curl behind his ear, a gesture Jim easily recognized as a defense mechanism. "Really, man. I just stood up too fast. I'm fine."

Jim eyed him critically. His color was returning and his heartbeat seemed to be slowing to normal. "You're sure?"

Blair smiled, and it was one of the few genuine smiles Jim could remember seeing in a while. "I'm okay, Jim. Thanks." Blair patted his arm and Jim took a step back, but left his senses on alert.

"Look who dropped in for a surprise visit."

Blair swallowed hard and took a deep breath to compose himself before looking up into the concerned face of John Whitefeather. He held out a hand and grasped the Navajo's warmly. "It's good to see you, John."

John's eyes narrowed and he cocked his head a bit as he looked Blair over. For some reason, the movement amused Blair.

"I'm fine, John. Really." Blair looked from one policeman to the other and shook his head. "Just what I needed, two mother hens." The words caused both men to blush, but the humor in his voice put them more at ease. Blair looked back at John expectantly. "So, is this a social call or are you and Jim teaming up again?"

"Actually," Jim cut in before Whitefeather could respond, "John is here to visit a friend from the reservation who just moved up here."

"Really?" Blair was interested as usual. "Then you'll be staying awhile?"

John gave Jim a quick look of confusion, but nodded. "Yeah. I'll be here for a week or so." He shrugged. "I don't really have any definitive plans."

Jim sighed quietly, relieved that Whitefeather seemed to be playing along. After Blair's little episode, he didn't think telling the grad student that an old Navajo shaman had had a vision about him would be a great idea. Better to ease slowly into whatever this was about and give Blair -- give them both -- some time to get a handle on things.

"Well, then why don't you come by the loft for dinner?" Blair looked to Jim who nodded his agreement. "I still have office hours until 4:00, but I'll have time to stop by the market on my way home and pick up a few things." He returned his attention to John, his expressive face displaying his eagerness. "What d'ya say? About 7:00?"

John laughed and clasped Blair's arm. He looked at Jim, who wore an expression of fond exasperation. "How can I say no? It would be like kicking a puppy."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Tell me about it."

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

"Jim, keep your paws out of that pot," Blair warned without losing focus of his search in the cabinets.

"I'm telling you, Chief, there's not enough cayenne pepper in here."

Exasperated, Blair turned from his search to glare at his roommate but couldn't help smiling. Jim hung over the pot like an expectant father - sniffing the aromatic steam rising into the air.

"If there weren't enough cayenne pepper in the chili then I'd add it," Blair replied, finally spying the canister he wanted and taking it over to the stovetop. "But there is, and therefore I'm not."

Jim glared at Blair and then sniffed again. "Listen, Dame Edna, if this nose can't smell it, then there's not enough."

Chuckling, Blair lifted his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. I can't very well argue with a Sentinel nose, now can I?"

With a quick nod of triumph, Jim smirked. "Now you're learning."

"Just don't think I'm taking the blame if flames start shooting out of John's mouth, man," Blair mumbled as he added more pepper. Instinctively, he ducked Jim's hand that shot out to smack the back of his head.

"Good reflexes, Chief," Jim chuckled as he crossed from the stove to the door.

"Living with a Sentinel brings out the best in me." He grinned at Jim, who returned the smile with one of his own.

"Hey, John," Jim was saying even before he had the door completely open. "Welcome to the Sandburg Zone."

Blair chuckled as John Whitefeather entered the loft, dark brows creased with confusion. It amazed Blair that Jim would exhibit his Sentinel abilities so blatantly by catching the door before John knocked, but listening to the two men greet each other removed any concern. John seemed to put Jim at ease enough that pretenses didn't seem to be necessary.

"Have a seat. Can I get you a drink?" Jim asked, crossing back through the kitchen behind Blair to the fridge, cuffing Blair on the back of the head as he passed. Blair laughed quietly, shaking his head. He should have expected that. "We've got beer and beer."

John Whitefeather grinned as he settled his large frame in one of the dining room chairs. "Beer will do nicely."

As Jim retrieved a bottle from the fridge, Blair took a moment to study the two cops. The first time Blair had met the Native American policeman from New Mexico, he had been struck by the similarities he shared with Jim. Time hadn't changed that observation: both of the same height and build, tough-jawed and guarded, with eyes that took in everything around them in an instant, prepared for any eventuality. Other than John's features and the long black hair he wore in a braid, if a stranger had walked in at this moment he would think the men were brothers.

"Dinner smells good," John announced, sniffing the air. "Three-alarm chili, right? I'd put more cayenne pepper in it, though. You can barely smell it."

Blair exchanged surprised glances with Jim, although he noted that slight tilt to Jim's head that he usually did when pieces of vague clues to a case started coming together.

"Did I say something?" John asked, peering first at Jim, then at Blair.

"No, no," Blair responded, stirring the contents of the pot when he noted it was boiling.

"Just made my point, is all," Jim added, throwing the Ellison trademark I-told-you-so expression at Blair.

John gazed around the loft, taking a sip of his drink. "This is a nice place. Comfortable, harmonious."

Taking a taste of his culinary concoction, noting there was definitely not enough cayenne pepper, Blair nearly choked at the comment. The reflex shot fire down his throat and he quickly chugged some of the beer from the bottle Jim had handed him earlier. Jim rolled his eyes.

"Not you, too. What is it with all of this mystic stuff?" He eyed John with a quirky smile. "Have you and Blair been communicating via harmonic waves or something?"

John smiled then snapped his fingers. "Which reminds me." He stood, digging into the pocket of his blue jeans and pulling out a small burlap bag tied off at the opening with a leather thong. Crossing to the kitchen, he held it out for Blair, who was wiping tears from his eyes. "A gift from Two Eagles."

Drying his hands on a tea towel, Blair felt like Christmas had come early to Cascade. "No way, man. That's great! How is he, anyway?" He took the gift and held it reverently in his hand.

"He's doing well, though age is creeping up on him. He holds it at bay, though…" John's reply grew fainter as Blair opened the bag and a black stone dropped into his hand. Warmth radiated from the stone and began to fill Blair with a peace he had not felt in what seemed forever. He was vaguely aware of the others in the room, of John talking, of Jim looking at him, but everything had gone silent. Closing his hand around the stone, Blair closed his eyes and fell into the serenity that surrounded him.

When he opened his eyes, Jim was standing on the other side of the kitchen island, his expression one of concern. John stood beside Jim, one hand on his shoulder as though holding him back.

Jim's mouth moved and words seemed to slowly spill out. "Sandburg, you okay?"

Coming back to his senses, Blair smiled. "Yeah, yeah, man, I'm fine."

"You zoned out, Chief. Your heart rate plummeted and I called your name but you didn't answer. It looked like you were in a whole other world."

Blair stared at the stone. "Maybe I was." He looked up at John. "Thank you for this."

John's hand dropped from Jim's shoulder and he returned Blair's smile. "I am only the deliverer. You have become important to Two Eagles, Blair. He seems aware of you, though you are miles apart. Two Eagles is a great Shaman of my people. For him to sense your need tells me that you share his gift more so than I originally thought."

Blair felt sudden tension in the room and he glanced at Jim. The jaw started straining; a sure sign of Ellison discomfort. Nervously, Blair turned back to the pot and set it off the burner then returned his attention to John.

"Did Two Eagles explain to you what this need is?" he asked carefully.

Either unaware of or not caring about Jim's discomfort, John nodded. "Two Eagles told me of a vision he had; one that caused him great concern. He saw a wolf, lost and alone, seeking his path in the jungle." A breath caught in Blair's throat, his heart starting to dance the rumba in his chest. He didn't dare look at Jim. "And he saw a black jaguar, also alone and seeking. The wolf was unable to continue, but the jaguar helped him. They met in a flash of light and the wolf took what he needed."

Jim's cold silence seemed to occur to John at that moment. Dark, questioning eyes met flat, unresponsive blues. "Have I said something I should not? Does this vision that Two Eagles received mean something to you, my friends?"

When Jim didn't respond, Blair opened his mouth to say something. He stopped before even starting. Jim's gaze settled on Blair; though no words passed between them, Blair knew that now was not the time. Thankfully, John seemed to sense that.

"Does anyone else smell cigars?" he asked, turning to the door.

The tension suddenly dispelled, falling like shards of glass around them as both Blair and Jim gaped openly at John. A thought occurred to Blair and as Jim moved to the door, he peered over John's shoulder to eye Jim. Something in the Sentinel's expression assured Blair he wasn't losing it. Jim was having the same thoughts.

Before a knock could sound, Jim opened the door. "Hey, Simon," he greeted amiably, backing away to allow in his superior.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Jim, to wait until I -- " Simon stopped abruptly as he caught sight of John. Casting a puzzled look at Jim, Simon tucked under one arm the manila file he carried and reached out to greet John. "Hello, Officer Whitefeather."

"Captain Banks. It is good to see you again, sir."

Simon smiled at that. "Sir. See, Sandburg? Other people give my title its due respect. You should learn from this one."

Grinning, Blair shifted back to the stove top, stirring the ingredients in the pot. "Come on, Simon, I show you all kinds of respect. You don't hear me calling you sweetheart or anything, do you?"

Simon rolled his eyes. "Sandburg…"

"Did you have something, Simon?" Jim stepped in, relieving Simon of the folder then crossing to the living room and spreading the contents out across the coffee table. John joined him.

"What is this?" John asked.

"The toxicology report I requested on that body earlier." Both men remained silent for several minutes, Simon moving to the other couch and settling in. "What is this Valeriana officinalis. What is that?"

Lifting the pot and carrying it to the table, Blair smiled. "Valerian root. It's a kind of natural sedative. A lot of people swear by it but personally I could never get past the smell. It's pretty rank, like old gym socks." He settled the pot on the table then turned to the group of men now staring at him. "The Sioux used something like it in their preparations for the Ghost Dancing they did around the turn of the century. We're doing a study on the American Indian societies in freshman Anthro."

An amused smile pulled at John's lips. "This one is a walking encyclopedia."

Simon chuckled. "You have no idea."

Grinning at the compliment, Blair asked, "Is there anything else?"

Jim scanned the report then nodded. "Something called Melissa and Crataegus."

"Really? Melissa is lemon balm, Crataegus is commonly known as Hawthorne. In small doses it's used to strengthen the heart. Large doses can be lethal."

"Lethal?" Simon asked.

"Too much Hawthorne," John took up the explanation while scanning through the forensics reports, "can cause arrhythmia."

"Which looks like natural causes," Jim added under his breath. "Well, things are getting interesting. Question is, did Mr. Lansing ingest the ingredients on his own or did he have help?"

Simon leaned forward and pulled out a photograph. "I think he had help, Jim. Take a look at this."

John tilted forward, then jerked a little in surprise. That caught Blair's attention and he leaned over the back of the couch, peering over Jim's shoulder at the emblem sketched onto bare skin. His heart started pounding as recognition shook through his body, though if asked, he couldn't say what he recognized. Sweat trickled down his forehead and it was suddenly difficult to breathe.

"The ME found it painted on the chest of the victim when he started his examination," Simon expounded. "It looked right up Blair's alley and I thought maybe he could give us a clue about it."

Desperately trying to slow his pounding heart and control his breathing, Blair merely shook his head and backed away. His mouth went dry and his hands trembled. As soon as he turned towards the kitchen, the fear dissipated and his heart slowed. His brows pulled together in confusion. Why did he react like that? What was it that set it off? He couldn't think clearly.

"You okay, Chief?" Jim called.

Blair lifted a hand in response and busied himself with setting the table to cover up his reaction.

"It looks Native American in origin," John spoke up, "but it's not Navajo. I don't really recognize the exact symbol."

"Do you think this could be a cult?" Simon asked. "Maybe a new group that's moved into Cascade?"

"Could be," Jim mused. "We could start by asking about what groups Mr. Lansing has been involved with. Could be the mark has nothing to do with his death at all."

Blair didn't know how he knew, but that statement was not true. The symbol had a great deal to do with Mr. Lansing's death. If only he could put a finger on why he felt that so strongly.

"Maybe interview some of his coworkers and family," John offered.

"Mr. Lansing is recently widowed," Simon supplied. "Lost his wife and two children in a fire last month. His father came to the station just after you left and gave a report."

"Could be he fell in with the wrong group."

"Could be. Officer Whitefeather, this seems to be running right up your alley, too. Care to join Jim on this?"

Blair finished placing the cups on the table and watched as John exchanged a glance with Jim. Something passed between the two men and he wondered again if his suspicions from earlier weren't actual fact. That maybe, as he had suspected when originally meeting the Navajo police officer, John Whitefeather was also a Sentinel. The room changed just then, filling with a hazy blue light. Sitting in place of Jim was the black jaguar as familiar now to Blair as his own heartbeat; perched beside it on the back of the couch was a golden eagle. The eagle peered at Blair with a penetrating gaze that shot through him like an electric jolt. It spread its wings and sang out luxuriously. Blair felt reassured by that powerful cry. No matter what he was, John Whitefeather was right where he was supposed to be.

"If Jim and Blair don't mind," John said evenly, dispelling the vision, "I'd be honored."

Blair clenched the warm stone still tucked in his hand, uncertainty suddenly filling him. Everything seemed in its proper place. Yet why did he feel apprehension seizing his chest?

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

Jim waited, bouncing impatiently on his heels as the door of the small, two-story brick house slowly opened. A tall, thin man of obvious Native American descent stood behind the screen door eyeing him expectantly.

"Uh, hi." Jim put on what he hoped was a friendly smile. "I was looking for John Whitefeather?"

The man suddenly smiled and pushed open the screen door. "You must be Detective Ellison." He motioned for Jim to step into the house. "Come on in. John said he was expecting you."

Jim nodded his thanks and took a few steps past the man, entering a small but eclectically decorated living room. He let his gaze drift over the various photos of airplanes alongside Native American knick-knacks as his host closed the door and stepped around him into the room. He held out his hand, which Jim accepted with a smile. "I'm Greg Coyote. John told us he was going to be helping you out a bit while he was up here." Greg was a bit shorter than Jim and at least twenty pounds lighter. His hair, while jet black like John's, was cropped short and sat in spiky tufts on his head. "John should be down in a few minutes." He smiled and shook his head. "He never was much of a morning person. Come on in and have a seat. Can I get you anything?"

Jim shook his head, a bit uncomfortable at the extremely warm welcome he was receiving. "No thanks, I'm fine." He glanced around the room as the uncomfortable silence began to stretch. "So, do you fly?" He motioned toward one of the photos hanging on the far wall, hoping John would arrive soon and save him from social hell.

"Um, yeah." Greg moved to the overstuffed couch and sat down. He picked up his coffee cup, his eyes straying from the photo to the small staircase on the left side of the room. "I ran a charter business back on the reservation. You know, mostly tourists, the occasional supply run."

A soft noise from the doorway to the right caught Jim's attention and he looked over to see a woman's face peeking around the corner. Jim smiled and nodded in her direction, but the woman didn't respond. Greg hastily put down the cup, rose from the couch and made his way toward the woman. "I'm sorry, Detective. This is my fiancée, Anna Morningstar."

Jim bowed a bit in greeting. "It's nice to meet you, ma'am."

The woman stared at him for a moment, before whispering something to Greg and disappearing back around the corner. Greg watched her for a moment before turning back to Jim. "I'm sorry." He shrugged as he moved back to the couch. "She's been ill lately. She's not quite up to seeing people yet."

Jim was saved from any further chitchat by heavy footsteps on the stairs. "Hey, Jim. Sorry I kept you waiting." Whitefeather stepped onto the landing at the bottom of the stairs, still tucking his denim shirt into his jeans. "I suppose Greg has been boring you with stories of a misspent youth?"

"Yours or mine?" Greg asked smoothly.

Jim laughed politely. "Actually, we hadn't gotten quite that far yet." He checked his watch, hoping he didn't seem too obvious in his desire to leave. "How about we catch breakfast on the road? I'd like to get started tracing some of Lansing's known associates and see if the lab has come up with anything on the symbol they found on the body."

A sudden fit of coughing erupted and both Jim and John looked at the other man with concern. Greg was placing his coffee cup onto the table, his eyes wide and his face flushed.

"Hey, you okay?" John's voice was concerned, but his face held an expression of slight amusement.

Coyote returned his grin and waved a hand as he tapped his chest with his other hand. "Just went down the wrong pipe." He coughed a few more times before he was able to take a deep breath and relax back into the couch cushions. "Sorry, guys." He smiled sheepishly. "I'm still working on walking and chewing gum, too."

John shook his head and grabbed his jacket from where it was flung over the railing. "And people trust him to fly a plane. Amazing. Come on, Jim. I'm sure you know the best donut shop in town. My treat."

Jim smiled, glad to finally be moving. "That's an offer I can't refuse." He turned back to Greg, who was looking much better. "Take care, Greg. It was nice to meet you."

"Yeah, you, too." He motioned toward John as he followed them to the door. "Keep an eye on him for me, huh? You never know what kind of trouble he'll find."

Jim laughed again and stepped out the door, John close on his heels.

As soon as they were seated in the truck, Jim looked back toward the house. His eyes were drawn to one of the upstairs windows where Anna stood, partially concealed by the dark curtains. She noticed Jim watching her watch them and quickly pulled the curtains closed.

"She's a little odd," John was leaning forward, following Jim's line of sight. "She wasn't always like this. But after what she went through, I guess I can't really blame her."

Jim kept his eyes on the window. "You said she was in some kind of car accident?"

John sat back. "Yeah. Her car collided with a van carrying a bunch of pre-school kids. Two of the kids died. Two others were paralyzed. It turned out the van driver had failed to yield, but Anna took it pretty hard. Greg said she blamed herself."

Jim stared at the window a few seconds more, shamed at the quick judgment he had made about the woman. "That's rough."

"Yeah."

There was an awkward silence for a few moments until John clapped his hands loudly and rubbed them together. "So, Kemosabe, where's the nearest donut shop? I don't know about you, but I always work better with a jelly filled bismarck in my stomach."

Jim laughed and shook his head as he started the truck. "Not a lot of Krispy Kreme's on the reservation, huh?" With a chuckle he pulled out onto the road.

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

Blair shot forward, muffling a scream. His chest heaved with every breath as sweat poured from his forehead and limbs. The nightmare, like all the others, disappeared as soon as his eyes opened, but the effects still painfully lingered. Rubbing his eyes, Blair began deep breathing. A very simple act to do that people performed every single day without too much problem, but it always took a few moments after the nightmares before Blair got the hang of it again.

He started coughing almost immediately and grabbed the tissues from his nightstand to wipe the thick mucus that came up. His chest hurt from more than the coughing bout, though. Tossing the used tissue into the full wastebasket by his bed, Blair slumped against his damp pillows.

"Damn," he muttered, wiping the sweat from his forehead and raking trembling fingers through his hair. He needed to figure out what was going on. These nightmares were tying him into as tight a knot as his curls, not to mention making him do laundry more often. No matter how hard he tried, though, images of the nightmares stubbornly refused to come forward.

With some effort, Blair pulled his tired body out of bed. He glanced at the clock. Nine A.M. Grumbling, using words like "idiot" and "oaf", he grabbed a clean pair of briefs and stumbled to the bathroom. He didn't have class until eleven-thirty, but he had wanted to get into school early enough to tackle the piles of paperwork that had accumulated during his illness.

Turning on the shower, Blair scoffed at the word "illness". Why was it so difficult to just say it? He had died. And even though illness had eventually claimed him and still lingered, it all came down to those three simple words. He had died.

And now his life seemed to be spiraling out of control because of it. Nightmares were raking at his already weary soul and what was up with all the zoning out? Like yesterday, when John appeared with Jim in the classroom. What had caused the blood to drain to his toes? And last night: everything had been going well - except for John's unexpected announcement about the jaguar and the wolf, that is. Even after John and Simon left, Jim refused to discuss it. Instead, he had quietly done the dishes and then said goodnight. Sometimes living with that automaton strained even Blair's patience. Despite all of that, though, last night had been okay until that symbol forensics found on a corpse. Blair had wigged out over that.

Blair's body suddenly trembled, even though the water beating down on him was hotter than normal. Another coughing fit took him, but the steam seemed to be doing its job. He could feel the coughs working at the tightness in his chest. Spitting into the toilet, Blair buried himself under the hot water again, trying to get rid of the chill setting up house in his bones. His thoughts went back to that symbol.

There was something achingly familiar about it; a familiarity that brought out the same reaction that those nightmares did. Damn, if he could only remember. This was driving him nuts!

Slamming the shower knob down and twisting off the water, Blair stood silently in the steamy bathroom, allowing the water to drop off his still aching body. Heavy drops streamed from his sodden hair, trickling down his shoulders and chest. A chill seeped into the bathroom as the steam rose and began to dissipate, but Blair remained unmoving.

Something had to change. Something had to give. He couldn't do this alone; he wasn't ashamed to admit that. Unlike his remote roommate, Blair thrived on talking through his feelings. It was how he dealt with distress and discarded it. There were times he lied about his pain, yes. Obfuscating had become second nature over the years; moreso since hitching up with a certain Major Crime detective. Except about the really important things.

Well, this had just warped into the realm of the "really important". If he didn't talk to someone soon, he'd burst. But who was left? Simon was just as bad as Jim. His reaction to Jim's visions in the past, including the visions that took Jim to Mexico, only proved that Simon couldn't handle the discussion that Blair needed to have. Hell, Blair had died, for heaven's sake! Who could possibly handle…?

A smile crossed Blair's lips as his head jerked up. Of course. John Whitefeather. John had mentioned the vision Two Eagles had. The same vision Jim and Blair had shared. Yet, when John spoke of it there had been no discomfort. Maybe…

Grabbing his towel, Blair stepped out of the shower and started drying off as he continued to think about his friend. John had grown up around the spiritual. It was part of his heritage, true, but Two Eagles was also a good friend. A close friendship with a shaman had to bring about all sorts of enlightenment, right?

Blair grimaced as he pulled on his briefs. Then why hadn't it made a difference with Jim? Immediately, Blair knew the answer to that question. Because Blair wasn't a shaman. Sure, Incacha had passed to him the way of the shaman, but what had Blair done with it? At one time he had jokingly referred to himself as the Shaman of the Great City. But it was just that, a joke. When Jim had needed spiritual guidance with the whole Alex ordeal, Blair had been just as confused about Jim's reaction as Jim had been. And it hadn't been Blair who guided Jim through the temple of the Sentinel. It had been Incacha's spirit.

Shaking those thoughts from his head, Blair finished toweling off his chest and back as he raced to his bedroom. A lot of guilt attended those thoughts, and Blair didn't necessarily want to deal with that right now. One step at a time.

Before leaving last night, John had asked Blair to lunch since Jim would be in court most of the afternoon. The thought of taking time away from school at this precarious period didn't seem like a good idea, but Blair had found himself agreeing to the invitation. Now, he was glad he did. Perhaps John could be that source of security that Blair needed. If he was willing. He and Jim were so much alike, what if they shared the same emotional shutdown button?

No. John had grown up accepting things that were not normal. And if Jim had anything to say about it, Blair was as not-normal as they came.

Blair chuckled, pulling on a flannel shirt over his white t-shirt. Grabbing his wallet from the nightstand and stuffing it into his back pocket, he started towards the bedroom door when he noticed the onyx stone beside his alarm clock. Recalling the peace that had accompanied the warm stone, Blair closed his hand around it.

A bright light flashed across his eyes, jerking him slightly. A hazy face that looked vaguely familiar appeared, creased in agony, tears streaming from pain-filled dark eyes. A flash of his dark chest, something drawn in gray…

Wrenching free of the strange vision, Blair's hands trembled slightly. He peered at the onyx in the palm of his hand then shook his head.

"C'mon, Sandburg, get a grip," he muttered, shaking his shoulders dramatically. Shoving the onyx into his front jeans pocket, he headed out the door, the images already fading.

But not the fear.

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

It felt good to get outside. He hadn't realized how long it had been until John came by the university for their lunch appointment and suggested they go to an outside café a friend had recommended. Soaking in the late spring sunshine, eyes closed as he listened to the chatter around them, Blair felt the chill that had settled in his bones over the past few weeks dissolve.

"You are friends with the sun."John's deep voice penetrated Blair's revelry.

"Yeah, we've had our moments," Blair grinned, then opened his eyes. John smiled at him. "Hadn't realized how much I missed it until now."

"The illness was bad, then."

Blair shrugged, picking up his iced tea and sipping for a moment. "You could say that," he finally replied. "Jim and I came back from a trip to Mexico and I got hit with a major infection that wiped me out for a while. I was hospitalized for a time when it seemed touch and go, but…" His voice trailed off as he glanced around the busy area.

"I see why Jim is concerned for you. During class yesterday it was all I could do to keep up with him when you blanked out."

Shrugging, Blair settled deeper into his chair, but said nothing. Yes, he knew Jim's concern was real. Sometimes, though, Blair wished he understood the intent behind it. Why was it that Jim could show concern over his physical well being, but when it came time to talk about something deeper, the great Ellison shut down? Deep down Blair knew the answer to that. Hell, he knew Jim better than almost anyone. But just because he knew it and accepted that part of his friend, didn't mean he had to like it.

"You are strong, Blair Sandburg," John was saying. "I sensed that in you when we first met."

Blair scoffed at that then grinned his most charming as the cute waitress appeared with their order. He recognized her from his Anthro 101 class. "So, Della, how's the term paper coming along?"

Della rolled her eyes as she set plates of food in front of Blair and John. "Slow. God, Professor Sandburg, this is only a freshman term paper. If I'm struggling with this, how am I ever going to get through four more years and then my diss?"

"You'll do just fine, Della. Papers come one assignment at a time. Well, most of the time." He grinned and watched as she noticeably relaxed. "Look, why don't you pop by during my open office hours and I'll take a look at what you've got so far?"

Della's grin was luminescent. "Really? I mean, you have the time? After being ill, I thought…"

"I always have time for hard working anthro majors who serve me food, Della."

"Thanks, Professor Sandburg. You're the best." She lifted the empty tray and moved to leave, then turned back. "We really did miss you, Professor. It's good to have you back."

Blair's smile genuinely filled his face. "Thanks, Della. It's good to be back."

She giggled and left. Blair followed her form, admiring what he saw. "Man, sometimes it sucks being a Teaching Fellow." With a chuckle, he refocused on his friend, who was laughing at him. "What?"

"I find it amusing how many girls sign up for your classes, Professor Sandburg."

"Hey, when you got it, you got it. What can I say, man?" Blair's eyebrows danced roguishly.

The two men chuckled as they dug into the food. After several moments of comfortable silence, Blair sat back. He had only eaten half of his lunch. With his fork, he pushed the remaining ingredients of his chef salad around on the plate. The sound of silverware grating on glass allowed a distraction. A dark hand folded over his, relieving Blair of the fork. When he looked up, John was cringing as he placed the liberated fork on his side of the table.

"Food not any good?" John finally asked, finishing off a dripping hamburger and washing it down with a generous swig of beer.

"Yeah, it was fine. Can't eat a lot right now, though. The doctor promises my appetite will return soon, but after two weeks of nothing but antibiotics, juice and soup, solid foods and I are still getting reacquainted. No big deal, man."

Wiping his mouth with a napkin, dropping it onto his plate, John studied Blair for several moments. "May I ask you a personal question, Blair?"

The tone in his friend's voice put Blair on immediate defense. Despite his thoughts from this morning, he feared bringing up the topic looming so vast in his mind. There was no question about trusting the man. In the short span of their friendship, John had earned almost the depth of trust Blair had in Jim. But there was so much he himself didn't understand, how could he expect John to?

"Sure, man, go ahead." He hoped he sounded as calm as his words.

"Last night, when I explained Two Eagles' vision of the wolf and jaguar, you and Jim reacted strangely. Did I offend you?"

Blair pushed his plate out of the way. "No, man, please don't think that. It's just…well, let's just say this past month has been a little odd. For both of us." When John didn't reply, Blair took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Did Two Eagles happen to mention anything that might have surrounded the vision he saw of the wolf and jaguar?"

"He only mentioned that something had happened that altered the path you were on."

"That's an understatement," Blair scoffed. The movement caused a coughing fit that took a moment to control. When at last he found his voice, he managed a weak smile. "Sorry. Still trying to get over this thing."

"I understand."

The gentle compassion in those words brought Blair's gaze up. John had pushed his own plate to one side and had leaned forward, his face an unreadable mask, hands clasped and resting on the table. There was no recrimination in his features, in the way he held himself, not like how Jim reacted when the subject was brought up.

That wasn't fair, Blair thought to himself. Perhaps if Jim weren't so personally involved in all of this he would react as John reacted now.

"About a month ago," Blair began, dropping his voice so only John could hear, "Jim and I…" How was he supposed to explain this without giving away every secret he and Jim had worked so long to keep safe? Ideas spun expertly through his mind in an effort to find the best obfuscation. "I got involved in a case that Jim was working on. I wasn't paying too much attention and managed to fall in with the criminal Jim was chasing. She wasn't a very good guy."

John smiled at that description, but said nothing. Blair took another deep breath, blocking out the buzzing of conversation around him as he focused on the man across the table. Somewhere, deep inside, Blair felt almost like he was betraying Jim. If John were a Sentinel, as Blair was beginning to suspect, would telling him about Alex and the visions betray his partnership with Jim?

"I need a partner I can trust!" Those words had haunted Blair since they were spoken during that heated argument in the bullpen. Was this the same kind of betrayal?

For the life of him, Blair couldn't figure out how. It was not like he would be telling John everything. Nor was it like Alex. Blair had kept Alex's abilities a secret from Jim, had been training her without Jim's knowledge. This wasn't the same, was it?

"Jim and I had a pretty bad argument about the whole thing and…um…I kinda moved out of the loft over it." Moved out? He hid a scoff by drinking some tea, pushing back the same sick feeling that had twisted his gut the night Jim had kicked him out of the loft. It had felt like his world came crashing down around his feet, and there wasn't a clean-up crew large enough to put it back together again. "She figured out he and I were connected and came after me." Images of that hazy morning appeared, replacing the attentive features of John Whitefeather with the carved beauty of Alex Barnes. She had been honestly sad about needing to kill Blair. He remembered how that had touched him and how he had tried to play on what little compassion she showed. In the end it hadn't mattered, except that she didn't shoot him. He had managed to keep her from doing that at least. Instead, Alex had marched him out into the gray morning…

"Did you see the fountain outside Hargrove Hall when we left?" Blair asked. John nodded and Blair mentally kicked himself. Of course he saw it. Everyone coming to Hargrove Hall saw that damn fountain. It stood there mocking Blair every time he walked to his office, calling up memories he wished to plant deep and forget. "This woman marched me out to that fountain at gunpoint really early one morning and dazed me with a blow to the head. When I fell in face first she held me under until I stopped struggling." He could still taste the rancid water from the fountain. "She…" He swallowed and took a sip of tea. "She killed me that morning, John."

It took several heartbeats before Blair could look at his friend. He didn't know what to expect. Maybe the same blank expression that Jim used every time Blair brought up the fountain; maybe even mocking disbelief. Whatever it was he expected or feared, it wasn't there. Instead, John leaned in further, his deep voice guttural as he dropped it to a whisper.

"Two Eagles said that the wolf was in pain, unable to continue his journey. I see now what he meant."

Relief flooded through Blair so palpable he could feel it lifting the weight that had been pressing down on him for weeks. Leaning forward, he went on, grateful to be speaking openly about the subject, even though a part of him wished the person sitting across from him was a certain detective. "One moment I'm thrashing for my life, man, and the next I'm a wolf wandering in a great forest, alone, seeking for something but not knowing what. It felt like I would be alone forever when I saw…" His voice faltered.

"The black jaguar."

Blair rubbed his eyes, hoping to hide unshed tears of relief from John. "There is no way I can tell you what it felt like when I saw that cat, man. And I'm supposed to be the one who can talk myself out of anything!" He mirthlessly chuckled at that, remembering the elation that swept through him when the jaguar appeared. They had run towards one another, had leapt…

"That was the vision Two Eagles saw," Blair went on. "Of the jaguar and the wolf. We leapt into one another and somehow that jerked me back and the next thing I know I'm spitting up water."

John slowly sat back, arms crossed over his chest as his dark features became unfocused for a moment. Blair feared he had gone too far, said too much. When John's attention returned, however, a smile pulled at the older man's lips.

"You have been given a great gift, Blair. I see now why Two Eagles is fearful for you."

Movement beside them broke the bubble of silence they had managed to pull around them and suddenly a din of voices attacked Blair's eardrums as he became aware once more of the busy restaurant. He peered up at Della who stood uncertainly beside their table.

"I am so sorry to interrupt your conversation, Professor Sandburg," she said, her hands wringing nervously. "You seemed so intent, but I…my shift ends any minute and before the new waitress comes over I just wanted to make certain you didn't need anything more."

Pasting on his best smile, Blair dug into his pocket. "Don't worry about it, Della. Mr. Whitefeather and I were just leaving."

John picked up the ticket Della had laid on the table and put down a twenty. "My treat, Blair." He smiled up at the waitress. "Keep the change, dear."

Della's eyes widened and an energetic smile lit her features. "Thank you, sir, Mr. Sandburg. Have a nice day!"

Shaking his head at John, Blair stood. "You didn't have to do that."

"I was the one who invited you to lunch, Professor Sandburg." A brilliant smile dug across his dark face. "It was well worth the price to see your power over struggling female students."

Chuckling, Blair followed John out of the restaurant, grinning foolishly at the relief he felt. Could John possibly know how indebted Blair was to him? Probably not, and that was okay.

They remained silent as they walked to the parking lot and got into Blair's car. When he started to turn the ignition, John laid a hand on his arm to stop him.

"Let's talk a moment," John offered. Shifting his large bulk in the passenger seat, he turned to face Blair, waited for Blair to finally look at him. "I do not know all that Two Eagles knows. He is a great shaman, but very mysterious. Even after all these years I don't really know him. But one thing I have learned, one does not suddenly become a shaman because the way is given to him…or because it is expected of him. A great event must occur; the veil must be lifted from the shaman's eyes to allow him to see beyond the mortal plain. This great thing happened to Two Eagles."

"Really?" Intrigued, Blair shifted into instant anthropology mode. "Can you tell me what happened?"

John shook his head. "It is a sacred thing and is told only when the shaman believes it must be shared. My grandfather, though, remembers when Two Eagles went into the desert and was not seen for two weeks. When he returned, he had changed. He had been a young man when he left, lighthearted, fun loving. When he returned, a single lock of his black hair had been changed to white, and the youthful mischievousness had been replaced with wisdom."

Blair's hand went to his left earlobe. After the incident at the pool he hadn't put back in the two silver loops that normally adorned that lobe. Somehow he felt he had grown beyond that mark, matured a little. He honestly hadn't thought about it until now.

"Two Eagles said that the Great Spirit had shown him the path of the shaman and he chose to walk that path. Our tribe's shaman took him in and walked part of the path with him, teaching him, preparing him for when the way of the shaman would be completely his own."

Remembering Incacha's frantic need to pass along the way of the shaman, Blair peered down at his left forearm. He recalled the sound of the words Incacha used, the grip on his arm, the bloody handprint that remained when Incacha's last breath had been spent. And he remembered Jim's voice, thick with emotion, as he interpreted those words. The way of the shaman had been passed to Blair to guide Jim. For months after, Blair had waited for something more dramatic to change within him or around him - something to make him feel like the shaman he was supposed to be - but nothing had come.

Had dying been the change he sought?

"Two Eagles has issued an invitation to you, Blair Sandburg, if you choose to accept."

Blair snapped out of his contemplation. John watched him with compassion. "An invitation?"

"He wishes you to join him in New Mexico so that he may walk part of the path of the shaman with you, to help you understand this new path on which you find your feet."

Excitement bubbled very near the surface and Blair nearly found himself accepting the invitation. He had so many questions and hoped that maybe Two Eagles could help him understand the nightmares. But as soon as he opened his mouth to say yes, reality swept in. He had been out of school too long as it was; his classes, both teaching and as a student, were suffering miserably. He had already used up more than his allotted sick time and rumblings out of administration told him that he needed to tread a little more lightly.

How did one choose the way of a shaman and yet survive in the real world?

"I'll have to think about that, John," Blair replied dismally, shoulders slumping as he shifted to peer out the front windshield. "How long will you be staying in Cascade?"

John shrugged. "I had only planned on visiting my friend for a few days and delivering the gift and invitation from Two Eagles. Now that Jim has asked my help on this case, it will depend on when it is solved."

Nodding, Blair started the Volvo then sat back in his seat, not moving. His mind and heart quarreled. His heart desired to drop everything and fly to New Mexico immediately, hoping that Two Eagles could interpret the dreams and relieve the weariness he felt each morning. His head reminded him that it would be impossible; not only did he have to wait until this session was completed, but he was committed to summer sessions as well. It would have to wait until they were over - if then.

"You needn't make your decision right now, Blair," John's voice broke into Blair's thoughts. "I will be here at least another couple of days. Think about it." His train of thought skipped quickly as he grinned. "Besides, it will be good to work with Jim in his element. Never before have I met someone so keenly aware of his surroundings as your partner. Did you know he can smell Simon's cigars even before Simon arrives?"

"I noticed last night that you did, too, John." Blair tilted his head, arching an eyebrow in John's direction. He had wanted to bring that up.

John smiled at Blair, one eyebrow arched slyly. "Can't you?"

Stunned, Blair shook his head while clues continued to click into place like a jigsaw puzzle. Was it really possible that John was another Sentinel? He remembered joking with Jim about a time/space continuum converging together around them to explain how two Sentinels had found Blair. Considering what may be happening again, maybe that wasn't so far fetched.

Blair put the Volvo into gear and backed up, easing the car onto University Avenue towards the station. He peered occasionally at John, thoughts of shamanism and visions shoved to the back of his mind as questions and ideas grew and took hold. If John Whitefeather were a Sentinel, then why didn't Jim react as he did with Alex? Was it because Jim felt the malevolence in Alex? Did Sentinels have the ability to tell if another Sentinel meant ill towards his tribe? Was there something instinctive that told a Sentinel whom he could trust and whom he couldn't? Blair's mind reeled with the implications. He needed to talk to Jim. He couldn't let the events that happened after Alex happen again. But how did he approach the subject when Jim was so dead set against talking about it?

Finally, Blair took a deep breath and let it out. "I think I'll accept Two Eagles' invitation, John."

"Good. Two Eagles will be pleased, Blair."

He smiled at the Native American cop, ignoring the twisting in his stomach. He'd work it out with Rainier somehow. Maybe he could claim his grandmother died. Nope, used that excuse already. Maybe a brother?

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

Jim poured himself a cup of coffee, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Another body had turned up last night, this one a couple of days old, but definitely with the same M.O. The toxicology report had shown the same mix of herbs and the same strange symbol painted on the chest of the victim. Any doubts that Lansing was murdered were now put to rest.

The victim, a 58-year-old woman by the name of Merla Jean Joyce, had been found at a hotel on the southside by the police when her daughter had gotten worried after not being able to reach her for several days. A computer check showed that Joyce had not had so much as a traffic ticket, but her name did come up concerning the accidental drowning of her four-year-old grandson nearly a year ago.

According to the daughter, Mrs. Joyce had been so distraught since the boy's death that they had been keeping close tabs on her, fearing she would take her own life due to her guilt over what had happened. Although that is what the daughter initially believed had happened, the M.E.'s report and the discovery of the symbol on the body made it obvious that this case was connected to the death of Edward Lansing.

It had taken most of the night to get the reports and confirmations back. Jim had dropped John Whitefeather back at Greg Coyote's house a little after 2 a.m. and had dragged into the loft at nearly 3. Sandburg had been sound asleep and Jim, after checking on his roommate, had trudged up the stairs and fallen into his bed. 7 a.m. had come way too soon, but Jim wanted to get an early start in finding some kind of connection between Lansing and the Joyce woman.

He tilted his head as he heard some signs of life from Sandburg's room and managed a fond chuckle as the grad student trudged out to the kitchen in a pair of sweats and an old Rainier sweatshirt. He deftly moved out of the way as Blair made a beeline for the coffee pot, watching in amusement as the younger man managed to pour some into a cup with his eyes still closed.

After a few sips and sighs of contentment, Blair managed to wedge his eyes open and seemed to notice Jim for the first time.

"Morning," he grumbled as he shuffled back to the dining room table. He pulled out a chair and plopped down onto it, his body leaning forward to rest on the table.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you it's not polite to lay on the table, Chief?"

Blair lifted his head and took another sip of coffee before fixing the detective with a glare. "My mother never worried much about proper etiquette. Besides, we never really ate at a table anyway."

Jim laughed, a picture of Blair and Naomi seated on bright cushions eating sandwiches of cow tongue popping into his head. "That explains a lot."

Blair's face contorted into a frown. "Just what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Jim held up a placating hand while he placed his empty mug into the sink. "Hey, I was just making conversation, Sandburg. I guess I should have waited until you finished your coffee, huh?"

Blair stared at him a moment before sighing and sitting back on his chair. "I'm sorry, man." He brushed his hair back from his face and stared morosely into the coffee cup. "I guess I'm still a little off center."

"Maybe just a little," Jim agreed. He could still hear the congestion in Blair's lungs and winced at the rough cough he attempted to contain. But he knew the lung infection was only a small part of why Blair's emotions had been careening out of control. He could tell from the look on Sandburg's face that the kid was thinking way too hard about something, and it wasn't much of a stretch for Jim to guess what that something was.

Ever since John Whitefeather had mentioned Two Eagles' vision the other night, Jim had felt a growing sense of dread whenever he and Blair were alone. He knew the kid wanted to talk about it, but Jim just couldn't bring himself to acknowledge what had happened at the fountain. Whatever it was -- a vision or a shared hallucination -- Jim was not sure what it was supposed to mean. Wasn't that Sandburg's area? Wasn't he the one who was supposed to be able to interpret all this hocus pocus crap and make some kind of sense out of it?

Jim had never felt comfortable with the mystical side of the sentinel business. It had been different, somehow, when it was Incacha. He had trusted the Chopec shaman implicitly. Incacha had given him a sense of well-being, a real base for his new found abilities. Maybe it had been the fact that he was in the jungle -- in his natural element, as Sandburg would probably put it -- but he had been able to follow Incacha's lead without hesitation, his faith in the Chopec never wavering as he learned to free his senses.

Was that the problem? He had trusted Incacha because he was a foundling in the Chopec's world. He needed Incacha to survive, so he was able to give more of himself. But here in Cascade it was a different story. He knew this world. He knew these streets. He trusted Blair to help him figure out his senses, but did he really trust Sandburg enough to give him the kind of control he had easily given Incacha?

Shaking his head in an attempt to banish the uncomfortable direction of his thoughts, he looked up to see Blair sadly watching him. Not able to meet the grad student's expressive blue eyes, Jim moved around the kitchen island, grabbing a jacket from the hook near the door.

"It's not gonna go away, Jim."

Jim paused with one sleeve partially on. He closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath, but couldn't force himself to turn around. He heard the chair slide back on the wooden floor and tensed as Blair padded softly across the floor to the sink.

"We're gonna have to talk about it sooner or later, man." Jim turned slightly in time to see Blair duck his head, his long curls obscuring his face. "I need to talk about it." His voice shook with restrained emotion, almost pleading with Jim to listen. He pushed his hair behind his ear and looked up. Jim didn't miss the anguish in his eyes.

"I know, Chief." He slid his arm into the sleeve and pulled the jacket down snugly. He dipped his head, his voice low. "I just…"

"Can't." Blair finished for him. He nodded, a grim smile lifting one corner of his mouth. Jim tried to ignore the look of disappointment that flitted across Sandburg's face, but he wasn't entirely successful. "It's okay, Jim. I can wait."

Jim nodded in return, his hand reaching out and finding the handle of the front door. He paused, glancing back at his friend, noting the weariness that hung on him like an old sweater.

"It'll all work out, Chief. We just need to give it a little time."

Blair laughed softly and gave Jim a sad smile. "Yeah. Time"

Jim pulled the door open and slid out into the hallway, not missing the soft voice as the door closed between them.

"But will there ever be enough?"

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

"The white settlers had completely freaked over the strange rituals of the Indians," Blair continued, turning from the chalkboard. "Everything about them was different. They spoke another language, they believed in a Great Spirit that moved through every living thing, they even smoked herbs that put them in tune with nature." He grinned. "Much like some of you, I'm sure."

The students chuckled, some of them elbowing their neighbors. A hand went up.

"Yes, Rodger?"

A short, round young man with drooping hair stood, pulling nervously at the sweater vest he wore. "Mr. Sandburg, if the American Settlers feared the Indians so much, why did they attack them? I would think that they'd want to stay as far away from them as possible."

"That's a good question, Rodger," Blair replied as he moved to stand closer to the front row of empty seats. Sliding his hands into his pockets, the smooth onyx stone given to him by Two Eagles slipped easily into the palm of his right hand. He closed his hand around the warm stone. "And you'd be right, if it weren't for the natural tendency of man to destroy things they fear, and fear things they don't understand. If you look at it from an observer point of view it makes sense that if you fear something as much as the white settlers feared the Native Americans, you would leave it alone. However, history is filled with instances that state the opposite of that theory. For instance…"

A painful jolt shot through Blair's arm, cutting off his words as a dark room replaced the engrossed faces of the students, a salty breeze billowing through ripped curtains. He moved with practiced ease across the room, but knew that it was not his legs that carried him. Heart pounding against his rib cage, he watched as gloved hands mixed together several bright colored paints into a wooden bowl. He inhaled through nostrils that were not his own. A familiar rank scent permeated the stale air of the room. Like old gym socks. He turned and saw the still form of a young woman lying on a filthy bed, arms at her sides, blank eyes staring up at the ceiling. The woman's blouse was unbuttoned part way, the pale chest lifting and lowering at an alarming rate. At once compassion overwhelmed his senses, but it was a strange compassion. It didn't feel right. It felt almost angry.

The gloved hands - hands that he felt moving but were not his - continued to stir the now grayish paint as he sat on the edge of the bed. He began to chant foreign words, his voice mingling with another he didn't hear as much as he felt. One glove was slipped off and trembling fingers dipped into the wooden bowl. Gray paint dripped from his fingers and he began to draw a symbol upon the woman's chest. Her skin was cold beneath his hands, the woman's breathing slowing. He could barely feel the heart beating. The chanting fell from his lips more rapidly, louder, as the symbol took shape.

The young woman gasped and turned dark eyes upon him; eyes filled with agony. And fear. A tear flowed from the outside corner of one eye, down the woman's temple to drip upon a soiled pillow. A jagged breath left her lips and she breathed no more.

Blair screamed in outrage, struggling to be free of the power that held him in that dim room and to somehow help the victim. The eyes of the young woman bore into him relentlessly, burning the image of her tormented expression into his mind. Squeezing his eyes closed against that image, his hands clenched. Something smooth and warm pressed into the palm of his right hand. Concentrating on that sensation, drawing energy from the stone, Blair tried to escape the vision.

With a cry, his body jerked and he opened his eyes, finding himself back in the auditorium. Sweat streamed down the sides of his face; his heart pounded in his ears. Ignoring the wide-eyed astonishment on the faces of the students, Blair stumbled and fell against the podium, gasping for breath. Using the podium for support, he labored to calm his racing heart, and regain control of his trembling body. The same terror from his nightmares swept over him and Blair nearly passed out.

The smooth stone seared into the palm of his hand, forcing him to drop it. It fell to the floor, echoing in the strangely silent auditorium. Blair stared at the stone, images of the vision pulling at him, urging him to follow. His breathing still shallow, Blair slowly crouched, reaching out to the stone with a trembling hand. The compulsion to flee grew stronger the closer his hand came to the stone. Quickly he snatched up the stone, images clarifying in his mind. He knew what he had to do.

"Class dismissed," Blair barked. Without looking up or waiting until he was obeyed, he stood and ran from the auditorium, leaving behind a stunned group of students.

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

Jim looked up from the computer just as John Whitefeather slid through the doors of Major Crime, holding both coffee laden hands up as he nearly collided with Henri Brown.

"Whoa, sorry 'bout that, man."

Jim rolled his eyes and shook his head as Brown continued on his trek out the doors. The detective was on his way to a lunch date with his newest quest and, from the looks of it, was running more than a little late.

"Is it always like this around here?" John set one of the cups on Jim's desk as he glanced around the bustling squad room. Uniformed officers as well as detectives, lab personnel and civilians moved around the room depositing, picking up and working on files and reports for the various cases assigned to the department.

Jim took the mug and leaned back in his chair, smiling ingenuously. "Nah. Sometimes it gets really chaotic." He took a sip of his coffee. "A little bit different than the reservation, huh?"

John nodded as he took a seat in the chair next to Jim's desk. "Did you find anything?"

Jim placed the cup back on the desk and turned the monitor to the left so they could both view it. "According to the records, neither of the victims knew each other. Lansing worked in a new office complex just south of the airport, while Mrs. Joyce rarely left her home in the suburbs. Both of the hotel rooms were registered in the victims' names, but the desk clerks can't remember actually seeing them."

"So what were they doing in those dumps anyway?"

Jim sat back again and shrugged. "We don't know. About the only connection I've been able to find between them is that they both saw the same therapist, a C.L. Stiverson."

John's eyes widened at the information. "That's an interesting connection."

Jim merely shook his head. "Not really. The Joyce woman saw this therapist for a couple of months, but she stopped going two months ago. Lansing had only been seeing him for a week before he was murdered."

John took a sip of his coffee as he pondered. "Sounds like a lead worth checking out."

"It's the only thing we've got at this point."

The phone on Jim's desk buzzed and he leaned forward on his forearm as he pulled the receiver to his ear. "Ellison."

He frowned as the voice on the other end exploded. "Jim, man. I don't know what's going on. I saw it, but -- oh man, I must be going nuts! I thought they were just nightmares, but they're real. She's real. Oh my God, Jim. I can't believe this --" Harsh coughing replaced the almost incoherent stream of words.

"Whoa, whoa, Chief. Slow down." Jim tensed as his attention focused on the painful sounds coming over the line. "Just breathe, Blair. Calm down."

He looked at John who was watching him intently. He noted the sudden concern in the Navajo's eyes and gave him a slight shrug before turning his full attention back to the call. Sandburg had stopped coughing, but Jim could still make out the sounds of distress in his breathing.

"That's it, Chief. Nice and easy."

He heard Blair take a deep gulping breath and slowly release it. Turning up his hearing a notch, he could make out the kid's racing heartbeat and felt his concern move up a notch.

"Come on, Chief. Just take it easy. You need to calm yourself down."

"I'm okay, Jim." Sandburg's voice was still shaky, but Jim could tell he was breathing easier.

"What's wrong?"

"Oh, man, Jim. I saw it. I thought it was just a weird nightmare, like the others, but I found her."

Jim could tell Blair was starting to get agitated again. "Easy, Chief. Found who?"

"I don't know! I just --" The voice stopped abruptly and Jim could hear more coughing on the other end of the line. He put a hand to the receiver and looked up to see most of the other members of Major Crime watching him. He caught Rafe's eye and lowered the phone. "Trace this." He quickly pulled the receiver back to his ear as the younger detective raced to his desk to place the order.

"Blair? Blair? Come on, Chief. Talk to me." Jim waited while the coughing on the other end faded into harsh breathing. After a few moments Blair was able to speak, but his voice was barely above a whisper.

"What the hell is happening, Jim?"

Jim took a deep breath and forced himself to remain calm. At the moment, all his instincts were screaming at him to find Blair and protect him from whatever it was that was scaring the hell out of him, but he couldn't allow himself to lose control. Not now. Not when Blair was counting on him.

"Where are you, Chief? Can you tell me that?" He kept his tone even, hoping to keep Blair calm enough to give him his location. He looked at Rafe who was on another line trying to get the trace. Rafe shook his head, letting Jim know they needed more time.

"Blair?"

"Yeah, Jim. Sorry, man. This is all just freaking me out a little."

Jim forced a laugh, relieved to hear a bit of normalcy creep back into his friend's voice. "No kidding, Sherlock. You're doing a pretty good job of freaking me out, too."

Jim was relieved to get a rush of laughter from the line. "Well, you know how I hate to freak alone."

Jim laughed for real this time and relaxed a bit. "What's going on, Chief? Where are you?"

"Um, I'm at a hotel down by the docks. The Steamship Inn."

"I know it." Jim frowned, his mind scrambling to come up with a reason the grad student would be in a dive like The Steamship instead of back at the University where he belonged. "What are you doing there?"

There was a shuffling sound and Jim could almost see Blair shaking his head. "I don't… I can't…." Jim waited while another deep, shaky breath was released. "Jim, just get down here. Now."

"Okay, Chief. Just stay right where you are. I'm on my way."

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

Jim pulled the pick-up into the parking space directly in front of the motel's small office. From the cab he looked across the small cement lot, his eyes riveted on the solemn figure seated on the concrete curb. Blair's head was down, his long curls obscuring his face from view. Both hands rested listlessly in his lap, his back rounded and shoulders slumped forward.

Jim and John exchanged a look of concern before both men opened the doors and stepped out of the truck. They walked across the parking lot, John hanging back as they approached. Jim dropped down into a crouch directly in front of Blair whose eyes remained fixed on the cracked cement by his feet.

"Hey, Chief." Jim ducked his head in an attempt to get a look at his friend's face. "You want to tell me what's going on?"

Blair still didn't respond and Jim ran a hand down his face in an attempt to mask his frustration. "Dammit, Sandburg--"

"Jim."

Ellison looked up at John's summons. The Navajo was standing just outside the open doorway to a motel room directly behind Blair. Whitefeather tilted his head toward the room, silently beckoning Jim to join him. With a defeated sigh, Jim pushed himself up to join Whitefeather. The strong odor hit him before he made it to the door.

Inside the drab room, a young woman lay on a dingy bed. Jim could tell without stepping inside the room that she was dead. The strong odor of old gym socks was the same one he had noticed at both the other crime scenes.

"Valerian root." The odor was fairly strong, but he couldn't help show a little bit of surprise when his comment was met with a nod of agreement from John.

Whitefeather pretended not to notice. "What do you want to bet we'll find a symbol painted on her chest?"

It was Jim's turn to nod. He turned, his eyes narrowing as his gaze returned to the quiet figure in the parking lot. At least this explained Sandburg's frantic phone call. But that was all it explained. Jim's mind raced with a multitude of unanswered questions. Just what the hell was Blair doing all the way out here? And what was he doing sitting here next to a dead body?

He hoped like hell the kid had a few good answers.

He felt a hand on his arm and he forced his eyes away from the slumped form of his friend. He turned to the grim face of John Whitefeather, whose dark eyes were filled with concern. "I'll go call this in to Captain Banks." He looked toward Blair and gave Jim's arm a squeeze. "Go slow."

Jim nodded his understanding and waited until John had moved off toward the truck before returning to crouch before Blair.

"We need to talk, Chief."

Blair snorted softly through his nose. "I thought that was my line." He raised his head and gazed at Jim through red rimmed eyes. "She's dead."

It was more of a statement than a question, but Jim nodded anyway. "Yeah. She's dead."

Blair sniffed and ran a hand across his eyes, lowering his gaze back to the cement ground. "Who was she?"

Jim's eyes narrowed in confusion at the question. "You don't know?"

Blair merely shook his head, his long curls waving in the salty ocean breeze. "No. I didn't even go in the room." He shoved his hands into the pocket of his jacket and hunched his shoulders a little more.

Jim swallowed and glanced around the parking lot, spotting Blair's Volvo parked at the far end by the road. "What are you doing here, Sandburg?"

Blair shrugged. He shook his head and gave a sad little laugh. "You won't like it."

Jim's voice hardened a bit. "Try me."

Blair looked up, a strange gleam in his eyes. "I saw it happen."

Jim's eyes widened in shock. "You were here? You saw the killer?"

Blair stood, took a step away. "No. I was at the University."

Jim shook his head, trying to navigate his way through the Sandburg zone. "You're not making any sense," he replied, hiding his irritation as he rose to stand behind the kid.

Blair looked out into the distance, his voice quiet and calm. "I was giving a lecture to my freshman Anthro class and then suddenly I was here. I saw her die, man." He pulled his hands from his pockets and held them up in front of him. "I saw his hands. The gloves. I felt them like they were my own. He drew the symbol on her chest." He peered over one shoulder at Jim, who had taken a few steps back. Blair's eyes shone brightly with unshed tears. "She knew, man. She knew what was happening. I tried to stop it. I tried, but I couldn't."

Jim was shaking his head, his eyes closed tightly against the image Blair was painting. "No. Stop it, Sandburg!" There was no way he was going to get sucked in. No way. This was a murder investigation. There was no room for anything but facts. No visions. No magic. No mystical illusions. Just facts. He wasn't in the jungle anymore. All that metaphysical crap had no place here. This was his world, and he was going to live in it on his terms.

"Jim, please. You have to believe me. Something happened to me. Something I can't explain. It started at the fountain and --" His voice broke off as Jim grabbed him roughly by the front of his jacket.

"No, Sandburg. I will not take any more of this!" He shook the smaller man, their faces inches apart. "No more of this hocus pocus. No more visions. There is a woman in there that is dead. Do you hear me? She's dead! Someone is killing these people and it's my job to find out who it is and stop them. No hallucination is going to help me do that. So get yourself together, dammit, and tell me what the hell you're doing here!"

Blair struggled, finally freeing himself from the enraged detective. "How can I? You don't want to hear the truth, man! You just want to hear what's gonna fit into your neat little box." Blair's voice had risen in volume to match Jim's. Both men stood facing each other, fists clenched, their bodies tight with tension. "You think I'm enjoying this? You think I'm having a good time? Well here's a news flash, Ellison. I'm not! I hate this! I don't have any answers. I don't even know where to start finding the questions! I've tried like hell for the last month to get you to face up to everything that's happened but you keep walking away. Well, guess what, Jim? Time's up! It's time to take the blinders off and see things how they really are."

Jim's jaw clenched as he breathed harshly through his nose. "And just how is that, Chief? Huh? You want to know what I see? I see you, here alone with a dead body. That's what I see."

Blair laughed, his eyes hard with anger. "Good, Jim, that's real good!" Hands shaking, he roughly curled a loose tendril of hair around an ear. "You can't see what's really happening because you refuse to look! For a guy who can see a headline in a newspaper a half a mile away, you can't even see what's right in front of your damn eyes!" Blair slumped as his anger suddenly left him. "Man, Jim, I don't want to fight with you. I just want you to give me something -- anything -- so I don't think I'm going crazy! It was real, Jim, what happened to us at the fountain. I know it was. It was just as real as what I saw today." He looked back at the detective, his eyes pleading with him. "Please, man. Help me out here."

Jim glared at him for a few moments and then turned, not trusting himself to deal rationally with Sandburg right then. He swallowed hard and walked away a short distance to compose himself. Maybe the kid was right. Maybe it was time to get it all out in the open. He'd been ducking the issue ever since -- hell, he still couldn't say it. Ever since Sandburg had died in that damn fountain. He'd tried to push it all away in the hopes that he could go on believing things were what passed for normal in Cascade.

Right. Normal. That was a subjective word if he'd ever heard one.

What was really normal for them? Jim had had visions before. Visions of the black jaguar had occurred on more than a few occasions and he had little trouble accepting them and the messages they sent. So why was he having so much trouble with what happened at the fountain? What was he so afraid of?

Maybe he was afraid of what had happened because he had been too late to stop it. Maybe it was his own failure he was trying to keep from dealing with. He had given a part of himself to bring Blair back and he just wasn't ready to accept anyone into his life that far. Maybe he was -- maybe he was just being a stubborn caveman who was too stupid to see what was right in front of him. Whatever it was, he suddenly realized he was more afraid of losing it than he was of finding out where it would lead.

He ran a hand over his short-cropped hair, his eyes searching for answers in the distant waters. Maybe Blair was right. Maybe time was up. Maybe it was time to stop running from what he was -- what they were -- and deal with it. Maybe -- oh hell. Maybe he needed a beer.

Movement near his truck tore his focus from the gray waters. Simon stood there with John, the two men speaking to one another. Jim hadn't noticed the captain's arrival, but he felt his face flush as both men turned away trying to pretend they hadn't heard every word that was said. Beyond them, Jim could see the crime team pulling in. "We'll talk about this later, Sandburg. Right now I've got work to do. Meet me back at the station."

Blair's head snapped up, blue eyes flashing, but Jim ignored him. Without another word, he strode away.

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

It hadn't taken long for people in the Major Crime bullpen to steer clear of the silently fuming observer sitting at Jim Ellison's desk. Megan Conner had made the mistake of asking Blair if he was okay. His waspish reply sent her scurrying away, but not without her sending a warning glance around the bullpen. Blair saw it but said nothing. He was too busy looking through Jim's files on the murders.

And reliving every nightmare he'd had for the past few days.

Edward Lansing, forty-two, recently widowed after his wife and two children had been killed in a fire while he was working late. It had been an accident. Blair closed his eyes, the nightmare flooding his sight…of Mr. Lansing lying on a scummy floor, eyes staring at the ceiling, knowing he was about to die…the gloved hands mixing paint…the pungent odor, so powerful it caused his eyes to water just thinking about it. That nightmare had been searing hot, making it hard to breathe. He remembered feeling Lansing's chest beneath his hands…clammy flesh…

Blair shook his head, forcing himself to breathe deep and slow, holding the fear at bay. Quickly he pulled out the other picture of an older woman with pepper gray hair. Merla Jean Joyce, fifty-eight. Eyes peered up at Blair from the black and white photograph, unseeing eyes that swam before him until they were no longer gray but a brilliant blue, watching him from a wrinkled face void of emotion. But not the eyes. Fear filled those damned eyes that watched him as soft chanting filled the stifling room.

His breaths came in short, quick gasps as he closed his eyes against the onslaught of images, but they played over and over, ending with the tears falling down the side of a young woman's face. The young woman Blair had found at The Steamship Inn. All of them had known. They had known what was about to happen and had been powerless to stop it. He had been powerless to stop it.

Blinking, Blair caught the scribbling of a name on a yellow sticky. C.L. Stiverson. A therapist. The document attached to the sticky had notes written in Jim's crisp handwriting stating that both Lansing and Joyce had been patients of Stiverson at one time. Knowing Jim, that would be the next place he'd check out. Under any other circumstances, Blair would be right there beside him.

Taking off his gold-rimmed glasses and tossing them to the desk, Blair sat back with a frustrated growl, raking his hands through his hair. Damn, this was frustrating. How could he make Jim understand the importance of these visions if they didn't make any sense to him? More important than Jim was the fact that Blair had failed. They hadn't been nightmares; they had been visions. Visions! Why didn't he realize that before? If he had, maybe he could have at least saved Mrs. Joyce and the most recent victim. He could have made a difference.

Dropping his hands to rest on his legs, Blair peered at the pictures and papers strewn across Jim's desk. The latest victim would make three, but that number didn't seem right. Hadn't there been more nightmares? It felt like it. Maybe, if the other victims hadn't been attacked yet, Blair could do something about saving them.

He leaned forward to go over the notes once more when a familiar voice carried through the doors from the corridor. Steeling the anger still fuming inside him, he grabbed his glasses and put them back on.

"Hey, Ellison," Rafe called out from his desk as Jim entered followed closely by John and Simon. "We got a hold of Dr. Stiverson's office. He said he'd be available anytime you need him; just call ahead."

"Thanks, Rafe." Jim paused a moment, a thoughtful frown on his face. "Can you call him back and check on this woman?" He handed over a slip of paper. "See if she was ever a patient of his."

Rafe glanced at the paper. "Another one?" Jim nodded grimly and Rafe sighed. "You got it. I'll see if I can get a list of his recent patients. Maybe we can find a lead there."

Jim patted him on the shoulder as he continued past. "Good thinking." He walked behind Blair and hung up the light jacket he had been wearing earlier, then stopped. It took a moment before he spoke again. "Hey, Chief."

"Hey," was all Blair could muster.

Jim leaned forward, reached out with a hand to move the pictures and papers. "Snooping in my files again, eh, Sherlock?"

Blair rolled his eyes and stood. "Just wanted to see what you have that's better than what I gave you." Before Jim could reply, Blair greeted John. "How did the crime scene go?"

John pulled a chair from an empty desk and straddled the seat, resting his forearms on the back. "Same as the other two. That valerian root smell was there, no doubt."

"As was her ID," Jim interjected. Finishing up some keystrokes on the computer, he sat back in the chair Blair had vacated, watching as the screen changed and a picture of a young woman with dark brown hair came up. "Michelle Herman. According to this she's a student at Rainier. Heard of her, Chief?"

Blair shook his head, moving to stand at Jim's shoulder to get a good view of the screen. "Mathematics major. Other side of the campus."

The bullpen dimmed as images from Michelle Herman's death struck Blair; one hand gripped the back of Jim's chair as an anchor to keep him from falling completely under the power of the vision. Now that he knew what was happening, Blair allowed himself to be pulled along.

Gloved hands stirred dark mixture in a clay pot, chanting flowing in and out of the air. One glove was removed, the fingers dipping into the pot and drawing a symbol on Michelle's chest. Over the heart. A symbol…

Shuddering free of the vision, Blair squinted against the blaring light of the bullpen, focusing on Jim's concerned features. Jim had him by the shoulders, shaking him a little.

"Chief? C'mon, buddy, c'mon back." Jim's hands tightened on Blair's shoulders. "Blair?"

"I-I'm fine," Blair managed to choke out before coughing. He bent over, hand clenching his chest, as the coughing fit grew. Weakened, he slid into the chair Jim had vacated. Once the fit passed, his gaze fell on the pictures scattered across Jim's desk.

"John, can you get some water?" Jim asked as he crouched beside Blair. "Sandburg?"

Blair's vision focused on the symbol painted on the victims, vaguely aware of movement around him, blocking out the chatter and telephones common with the bullpen. A feeling gnawed at him about that symbol…

"Cleansing," he breathed, then shot forward, snatching up the photos, studying them for a moment before he grabbed a pencil and sketched something onto a piece of paper.

"What are you talking about?" Jim asked but his voice fell away as Blair completed the symbol. "Sandburg…"

Blair looked up. "It's all about the symbol, Jim. The symbol ties all three murders together."

Jim rose then bent over, one hand on the back of the chair, the other resting on the desk, as he surveyed what Blair was pointing to. "Good, Sandburg, but we're still trying to find out what the symbol means."

"These symbols represent cleansing, Jim. It's important in the Native American culture to be cleansed before performing certain rites. The cleansing prepares the individual for whatever the Great Spirit has in store for him. Now, it's believed that the tribes stemmed from a single culture and then divided, thus giving us the different nations we have today. Through the division, and over time, languages morphed…kinda mutated." Blair's excited chatter brought a smile to Jim's face, but Blair ignored it and went on. "Even the written symbols that represented their language probably were the same at one point and changed over the generations."

Jim shook his head in confusion. "What does all of that mean?"

"This particular symbol is an ancient form of this." He picked up the paper on which he had sketched and held it up next to Mrs. Joyce's picture. "The difference is subtle, but it's there, man. Whoever the killer is knows ancient writing, particularly Native American ancient writing."

"The murders are rituals then," Jim murmured.

Head tilted, Blair thought about that a moment. "In a way, yeah. Rituals are performed to achieve enlightenment, or to move from one social structure to another. Boyhood to manhood, marriage, so on."

"So we need to find out why the murderer is cleansing his victims," John Whitefeather broke in, coming up on Blair's other side. He handed Blair a glass of water.

"Thanks, man."

"Now that's something we can work with, Chief," Jim muttered, patting Blair on the shoulder. "Since you've seen these symbols before, maybe you can find out their exact origin. That could give us a lead."

Slowly rising, Blair looked at John and then Jim. "I've never seen these symbols before now, Jim." The excitement from just moments before was gone, replaced with dread. Another confrontation was on its way.

Jim's brows furrowed. "How do you know what they mean, then? How did you know to draw that symbol?"

Holding Jim's gaze, Blair said nothing. He knew he didn't need to. Jim would get it. And when Jim did finally get it, the gaze leveled at Blair intensified. Blair cringed, but didn't move.

"I've seen every one of these murders, Jim," he whispered. "I thought at first they were nightmares. Hell, man, they were nightmares, but now I know they're not. You gotta believe me." He grabbed Jim's shoulders. "These visions are real."

Jim shirked away from Blair's grip. "We're not getting into this right now, Sandburg."

"Dammit, Jim, if these visions are going to help you find the murderer than what have you got against them?"

"Can you tell me one thing that your visions provide about the murderer, Sandburg?"

"What about what I just gave you? This guy knows ancient writing."

"Good, Chief, now provide me an address and a visual and we're all set."

Blair stammered, but came up with nothing. Even though he witnessed the murders through the murderer's eyes, he still knew nothing about the person.

"Didn't think so. What about why the murderer chose these particular people?" Before Blair could answer, Jim bore on, "Or maybe you can tell me why you are connected to this person? Do you know him? Have you met him? What about…"

Blair turned away, the anger that simmered earlier now reaching its boiling point. He grabbed his jacket and jerked it on.

"What, Chief, no answers?" When Blair moved to leave, Jim grabbed his arm and turned him back. "I'll tell you what I do have. You at a murder scene and knowing things about each murder."

"Then haul me in as a suspect, Jim," Blair spat, getting in Jim's face. "If you can only go by the facts, then throw me into an interrogation room." Jim didn't answer, so Blair went on. "I don't get you anymore, man. After everything we've gone through, after all your own visions…" His voice dropped decibels as he glanced around the suddenly quiet bullpen, noting that even the phones had stopped ringing.

He jerked free of Jim's grip, grabbed the taller man by the forearm and dragged him out of the bullpen. They were silent until they reached the break room. Blair pushed Jim into the room and slammed the door.

"After everything that has happened even just these past few months," he started in again, not giving Jim a chance to speak, "how can what I'm experiencing be so far out of the realm of possibility?"

Rage colored Jim's expression, his lips pursed in a thin line. Blair shuddered under the impact of that icy gaze, but stood his ground.

"Do you deny the visions you've had?" Blair asked, his voice seething. Jim attempted to leave, but Blair shoved him back. "Do you deny what Incacha did for you in the temple at Mexico?" He hated bringing that up. It still hurt that it had been Incacha's spirit that guided Jim through the events in the temple, and not him. He hadn't been with his Sentinel when his Sentinel needed him the most. Suddenly, the anger fled. Blair's shoulders slumped. "Can you deny the vision that led you to me?"

Jim's glare softened instantly. He scrubbed a hand down his face, a gesture Blair had come to call the "frustrated with Sandburg" motion. An affectionate smile stole across his lips at that thought.

"No," Jim whispered. "I can't." Relief flooded through Blair at those words. "Look," he sighed, resting both hands on Blair's shoulders. The gesture sent a wave of warmth through Blair and for the first time in a long while he felt their partnership click into place. And it felt good. "I don't doubt what is happening to you, Blair, but I just can't solve a murder with hocus pocus."

"Hocus pocus," Blair murmured. "With you, it's visions. With me, it's hocus pocus." He shrugged out of Jim's grip and backed away. "How can I guide you, Jim, how can I be the shaman that Incacha asked me to be if you don't trust me?" He took a deep breath. "Something happened to me at that fountain. I know you don't want to face it, man, you don't want to talk about it, now is not the time, but it's true nonetheless. I don't have the answers to your questions. Hell, I don't have the answers to my questions. But I know the answers are in here somewhere." He patted his chest. "I wish you could trust me to guide us both to find them."

Those words hung between them and Blair couldn't help feeling the chasm that separated him from his friend. A rift that would take time and effort to mend. Time and effort he hoped Jim would be willing to give. Blair turned away, opened the door to the break room.

"I'm gonna head home. Maybe I can make some sense out of all of this now that things are clearer."

"Hey, Chief?"

Blair stopped but didn't look at Jim.

"Call me if you come up with anything."

Blair nodded, hiding a reassured smile. He had asked Jim at the murder scene to give him something - anything -- that would keep the insanity away. This was it, and Blair clung to it.

Closing the door behind him, Blair headed down the hallway to the elevator, ignoring the looks aimed at him. Obviously, news about the confrontation that began in the bullpen had gotten around. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket, he found John Whitefeather standing at the elevator, jacket on. John pushed the down button of the elevator as Blair approached.

"I have an appointment with my friend," he offered by way of explanation. "Can you drop me off at his house?"

Blair nodded. "Have you been waiting for me?" he asked in confusion.

John shrugged, shifting his gaze to look at the numbers above the elevator. "Sort of."

Tilting his head in thought, Blair glanced around the corridor then back to his friend, trying to figure out how John knew he was leaving. The exaggerated expression of innocence on John's face helped. John knew when Blair was coming because he had heard the entire break room discussion. And the only way he could have heard that from the bullpen was with really excellent hearing. Blair shook his head. He had to find a way to get down to New Mexico, for more reasons than just spending time with Two Eagles.

"I should have realized earlier what was happening with those visions," Blair admitted with a dejected sigh. "If I had been paying closer attention, Mrs. Joyce and Michelle Herman would still be alive. Maybe even Mr. Lansing."

"Shamanism isn't a perfected art, Blair," John advised. "Even Two Eagles makes mistakes. Of course, I'll deny it if you ever tell him I said that." He grinned as the elevator dinged and passengers disembarked. "There is no guarantee you could have done anything. Don't let your guilt defeat you." Glancing over a shoulder at the bullpen, he added, "I left a note for Jim." He and Blair entered the elevator and he pushed the button for the parking level. "Think he'll see it?"

"I'm certain he will. Jim has extraordinary eyesight, man." Blair watched as the elevator doors slid shut, blocking the view of Major Crime. "Except when it comes to seeing things of the heart," he muttered under his breath.

A warm hand squeezed his shoulder. "Give it time, Blair. Remember, you both came away from the fountain changed. He's still dealing with his own."

Blair curled a lock of hair around one ear as he mulled over those words. He hadn't thought of that. He'd been so busy trying to sort out his own life, he'd forgotten what Jim had gone through. Shaking his head, he wondered what kind of shaman he could possibly be if he couldn't even open his own vision to the pain of his friend.

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

Jim had unconsciously kept his hearing tuned to Blair as he tried to sort through the mire he presently found himself engulfed in. Wasn't this how it all started to unravel before? This damn defense mechanism that popped up whenever he didn't want to deal with something he didn't understand had kicked into overdrive, had caused him to push Blair farther and farther away until he had pushed him right out of the loft -- and straight into the sights of Alex Barnes.

No matter how he tried to rationalize it, his pushing Sandburg away had almost destroyed everything they had spent the last three years building. He couldn't afford to let that happen again.

"Do you think you could've handled all this sentinel stuff by yourself?"

Simon's words had haunted him ever since they had found Blair floating in that fountain. He had fooled himself into believing that he had everything -- sentinel powers included -- under control. But that was a lie. He had learned that the hard way. He knew a good portion of the control he had was due to the fact that Sandburg was there to back him up. He was his lifeline. Jim would never have the confidence to use his senses so freely without the knowledge that Blair was there to reel him back in if he went too far. So he couldn't afford to risk that safety net again. He couldn't afford to risk Blair.

But that meant he would have to find a way to deal with … whatever it was that had happened -- that was happening -- between them.

Blair had said that something had changed him at the fountain. Well, dying had a way of changing things. But Jim knew he wasn't talking about that. Dying and coming back to life was enough to send anyone off their rocker for a while, but, he had to admit, Sandburg wasn't just anybody. The kid's amazing capacity to adapt had astounded Jim from the beginning. He had a natural resiliency that kept him from being overwhelmed by the extraordinary phenomena that seemed to surround their everyday lives. And that made Sandburg's obvious trepidation over what was happening now all the more disconcerting.

Blair was scared.

He was also royally pissed off and more than a little frustrated, but Jim could tell these visions -- if that's what they were -- had really thrown the kid for a loop.

He made his way out of the break room and back to Major Crime. He could feel the stares of the others in the squad room, but kept his eyes on his desk, not in the mood to have to explain the little drama that had just been enacted in front of them. Wisely, no one said a word and he managed to reach his desk without incident. His eyes were drawn to a yellow Post-It stuck directly in the center of his computer screen.

When one path is lost, another must be found.

It took a moment for the handwriting to register. Jim smiled sardonically. Sometimes John Whitefeather could be as cryptic as a certain Chopec shaman… and sometimes he could be as clear as day.

Jim pulled the note from the monitor. John Whitefeather was a very perceptive man.

There had been something about the Navajo policeman that had made Jim feel at ease when they had first met in New Mexico two years ago. Despite their obvious differences -- and, perhaps because of their thinly veiled similarities -- Jim found it easy to work with Whitefeather and had, in fact, felt a surprising but much welcomed sort of brotherhood with the man. Blair seemed to feel the same way.

He was grateful that John had had the insight to know that Sandburg needed a friend after their latest encounter. He knew Blair would be able to talk to the Navajo and get some of the bottled up frustration out. He made a mental note to thank John the first chance he got.

Sensing someone's attention focused on him, Jim raised his head to see Simon standing in the doorway of his office. His arms were folded across his chest and his eyebrows were raised expectantly. Without uttering a word, the captain stepped to the side, effectively conveying his request for Jim's presence.

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

As soon as the office door closed behind them, Simon turned, his posture transmitting his obvious displeasure.

"Would you mind telling me just what the hell is going on, Detective?"

Jim sighed and leaned forward, placing a supporting hand against the large office window. "I think this falls under the category of things you don't want to know, sir."

Simon took a deep breath, pulling his glasses from his face as he released it. "I was afraid of that," he muttered under his breath. He moved to the desk and perched on a corner. Slowly replacing his glasses and folding his hands across his thighs, he watched Ellison stare morosely out the window. "Okay, Jim. Spill it."

Jim shook his head slowly but didn't move from the window. "I don't know, Simon. I thought after we took care of Alex, after we got back from Mexico, everything would go back to the way it was before…"

"Before Sandburg died," Simon finished for him.

Jim ducked his head and breathed deeply through his nose. He didn't answer, but that was answer enough.

"But," Simon prodded after a few moments of silence. "Things aren't the same?"

Jim finally turned from the window and crossed to the chair directly in front of the desk. He dropped into it and rubbed a hand over his face as he chuckled ruefully. "No. Things are definitely not the same."

"Look, Jim. I know Sandburg's been pretty sick these last few weeks and you and I both know that the kid is pretty far out there on a good day, but maybe --"

Jim laughed and waved a dismissive hand in the air. "I don't think this has anything to do with Blair's physical well being, Simon."

"Well, then that leaves his mental state -- not that I care to wade into those waters." Simon's attempt at levity faded instantly.

"Blair's been having visions."

"Visions?"

Jim leaned back in the chair and leveled his gaze at the captain. "That's what he says." He shrugged. "I know he's been having nightmares, but he never really seemed to want to talk about them and I just assumed they were related to what happened with Alex."

"But they're not?"

Jim shook his head, his eyes suddenly losing their focus as his thoughts drifted. "Blair's been pretty shook up, but he's never connected these nightmares to the murders until today."

"Sandburg's nightmares are connected to these murders?" Simon was doing his best to keep up, but Jim was losing him.

"According to Sandburg, he saw Michelle Herman's murder." He