"You sure you're okay with this, man?" Blue eyes tinged with uncertainty stared up at Jim Ellison.

It was all Jim could do to disguise the grin threatening to explode and blow his carefully constructed demeanor. Sandburg looked positively stunned.

Sometimes it paid to do the totally unexpected and keep the kid off-guard. The rewards were definitely worth the price. Jim poured his second cup of morning coffee and sipped it slowly. Gratefully. Last night's seven hour stakeout had lasted about five hours too long.

Glancing up at his partner and roommate at last, Jim pointed out casually, "It's not a big deal, Chief. Just drive the truck over to Hal's Garage and leave it there for the tire change. It's only a couple of blocks from there to Rainier. You pick it up again after your last afternoon class. I'll meet up with you at the station this evening after Simon and I get back from court."

He took another slow sip of the rich, aromatic brew. One of the best payoffs for being a Sentinel was the enhanced aroma of coffee. If the entire country had enhanced senses, there'd be a Starbucks built in every block. They were practically halfway there already. "You have wheels for the day since your 'classic' is in the shop, my truck gets new tires, and I get to ride to court with Simon and give him a hard time about his cigar smoke irritating my senses." Jim flashed a smile, breaking his studied look of indifference at last. "What could work out better?"

"Nothing," Blair agreed with a casual shrug, sipping his own morning coffee. A blend of hazelnut and vanilla, Jim surmised. Nice. He might have to raid Sandburg's stash sometime while the kid was at Rainier. "Just took me by surprise, I guess. You usually don't let anyone drive your vehicles, man."

"And don't expect it to happen often, Chief," Jim cautioned, pointing a warning finger at his friend, only half in jest. "This is purely a one-time time offer."

Blair set his coffee cup in the sink, turned on the hot water, then quickly washed it out. "Right. I get it, Jim. It's okay for me to drive your truck when you need a favor."

The unmistakably hurt tone in Blair's reply didn't go unnoticed, but Jim refused to rise to the bait cast out by the younger man. He sipped his coffee casually, suppressing a smile at Blair's tried-and-true methods. Sandburg wasn't the only one with expertise in chain-jerking.

"Okay, man," Blair conceded at last, drying his hands on a towel, tossing it on the counter then picking up his backpack from beside the door. He swung it easily over his shoulder. "All right, man, I give up. Sandburg Vehicle Delivery Service is on the job. I'll be done at the U by 4:30. By the time I pick up the truck, I should make it to the station by 5:15 or 5:30."

"Sounds good, Chief," Jim agreed with a wave from the kitchen table. "With any luck, I'll be done by 4:00 and be back at the station. Simon mentioned trying that new Italian place over on Fourteenth." At Blair's approving nod, he added, "See you later then."

It had all seemed so normal, so ordinary, Jim reflected later. If only he had known...

Blair was whistling an upbeat tune as he hoisted himself into Jim's old truck. He couldn't quite place the melody, but it was something he remembered from childhood. Maybe something his mom had sung to him? It didn't matter. It was a beautiful morning, and the melody pleased him. To top it all off, he had wheels.

As much as he enjoyed ribbing his friend about his seeming lack of faith in Blair's driving abilities, Sandburg was grateful for the use of Jim's Ford. He had several committee meetings scattered across the campus during the day, his regular office hours to keep, not to mention two undergrad classes to teach and an important meeting with his dissertation committee at the end of the day. With his own car in the shop for one of its many frequent repairs, not having to bum rides to and from campus was a relief. The day ahead was shaping up to be busy enough as it was.

And although Blair wouldn't dare show his partner how much it pleased him, Jim had actually trusted him with his prized Ford. That trust wasn't something Blair took lightly. Jim bordered on being obsessive about his truck. Of course, Jim bordered on obsession about quite a few things, Blair mused.

Grinning at the thought of his friend's peculiarities, Blair slammed the door behind him, stuck the key in the ignition, then adjusted the seat. "Man, you have long legs, Ellison," he muttered, as he pulled the old bench seat into a more comfortable position. He turned the key, and the truck's engine roared to life.

A sudden, cold pressure against the back of his neck diverted Blair's attention from his seat position to whatever the hell was going on in the back seat. "Wh...?"

"Shut up and drive!"

The voice was hard - strongly commanding - and instinctively, Blair turned his head slightly to see. "What the hell...? Hey, man, you have no idea whose vehicle you're..."

"I'm not asking you again to shut the hell up! Don't make a mistake you won't live to regret, kid," growled the voice, smacking his neck roughly with the cold steel of the gun barrel. "I said drive."

Stealing a hopeful glance up at the loft, Blair slowly pulled away from the curb. C'mon, man! Are you listening? Jim? Hey, Jim! I could use some help here!

There was no sign that his mental messages had been heard by the Sentinel. Apparently, Jim had yet to develop mental telepathy as one of his talents. Sighing, Blair carefully merged into traffic. "Where to, man?" he ventured.

"Take Jefferson onto East Bay," the voice commanded. "That's all you need to know. Now drive!" There was another forceful jab of cold steel against his neck, and Blair decided that for the present, his wisest course of action was to obey.

Risking a quick glance in the rearview mirror earned him nothing. The mystery man's face was covered by a nylon stocking that twisted his features grotesquely. For now, Blair thought helplessly, his options were limited to trying to survive. With a quick, silent prayer to whatever Being protected trouble-prone Guides and their Sentinels, Blair followed his captor's instructions and drove slowly down Jefferson Avenue.

Toward what end, he hadn't a clue. He could only hope that Jim's perfect track record of always finding him in time wouldn't end any time soon.

Tapping his pen on his desk, Jim glanced up in irritation at the clock on the wall over Simon's office. Where the hell was Sandburg? Not to mention his truck. It was six thirty. Al's Garage would have shut down a half hour ago. "You better have my wheels, Sandburg," Jim muttered, tossing another folder on the stack of completed files. Not only was Blair late, but Jim had been stuck doing all their paperwork. Not his favorite part of the job.

The paperwork was irritating enough, but the gnawing feeling that had invaded his gut about lunch time was worse. He'd had the undeniable feeling that something was wrong, that his partner was in trouble. It had only been the memories of the times Blair had chided him for being overprotective that had kept Jim from checking in on the younger man.

He wasn't overprotective. Not really. Just... cautious. After all, he had every right to be concerned, didn't he? Sandburg had a definite knack for finding himself in some pretty dangerous situations.

Jim stared at the clock again. Another three minutes had passed and still, no sign of Sandburg. His gut twisted once more.

As if reading his mind, Simon's voice intruded on his thoughts. "Relax, Jim. The kid's always running late. You know that. No point working yourself into an ulcer. Especially not when you have work to do, Detective."

Jim smiled tightly as Simon's amused words reached his Sentinel ears from behind the captain's closed office door. His boss and friend knew him too well. Knew them both too well, for that matter. Simon was right. Blair was frequently late. The kid would show up any time now, breathing hard from running from the truck to the elevator and talking a mile a minute about his day while apologizing for being late.

There was nothing to worry about.

Taking a slow, deep breath, Jim flipped open the next file and began to read.

Blair would be here soon.

He'd better be.

Then the phone rang. "Ellison!"

"Jim? Been expecting that wreck you call a truck all afternoon. Did you forget you had an appointment today?"

At Al's words, Jim's heart plummeted. He muttered a fast apology, slammed down the phone, then immediately picked it up again. Quickly, he dialed in the number for Blair's office, but he wasn't surprised when the machine picked up.

When would he learn to listen to his gut?

Oh, man... his head hurt.

Why did his head hurt? Shouldn't he remember something so simple? Had it been hurting all day?

Was it day? Night?

What the hell was going on anyway? Where was he? Why did he have a headache?

Whatever was happening, it sure was dark. Must be night. But he didn't seem to remember anything about the day.

What was going on?

Staring into the blackness, Blair slowly realized that what he was seeing - or not seeing - was the back of his own eyelids.

Oh. One mystery solved anyway. It was a beginning.

Okay, maybe opening his eyes would be a good place to start figuring things out.

Or not.

The shooting pain attacked his temples with a pounding vengeance. It started in the back of his head, spreading within seconds to attack his temples and behind his eyes. Like someone beating on a pipe with a hammer. Or a really, really major attack on frozen ice cubes with an ice pick.

Put simply, it hurt like hell.

Blair waited several minutes for the worst of the pain to subside enough to enable him to think logically again.

Whatever was going on, keeping his eyes shut was becoming more and more appealing. Who needed to see anyway? Dark was good. Dark was quiet and peaceful. He could definitely do dark.

Now that he was still and relatively pain-free once again, Blair began to hear things around him. Was that the way Jim's senses worked for him? Close off one sense and focus on another that becomes stronger? Maybe if they tried...

Blair shook himself inwardly. Not the time to be planning more tests for his Sentinel.

Listening...

That was what he should be doing. Focusing on where he was and how he might possibly get out of this mess. If he didn't focus more effectively that this, he couldn't figure out what was going on, and he sure as hell couldn't help himself.

What did he remember anyway? With some effort, accompanied by a substantial increase of the throbbing in his temples, Blair remembered the disembodied voice in Jim's truck. He remembered the gun striking his neck. He remembered driving away from the loft.

And that was about it. The rest was a fuzzy, painful blur. Probably better not to push the issue. So, forget the details. Focus on the present.

Listen.

Blair could hear the low hum of what he supposed was a window air conditioning unit. It was... what?... late July? Yet, the room was fairly comfortable in temperature. That made sense then.

What else?

Voices. Low and buzzing, like some distant, busy insects, annoyingly present, yet fluttering just out of reach.

What were they saying?

Annoyed that he couldn't understand the voices, Blair struggled to focus, to reach out with his hearing as he'd urged Jim to do so often. He'd have to cut Jim some slack next time they worked with his hearing. This focusing bit really wasn't easy.

There... he could make out a few words. Hey, Jim! It really works, man! If only Jim would get here so he could share his small victory.

So what exactly were those words saying?

Ellison... Kaufman is going to blow... furious... wanted Ellison, not some kid... his old man's not gonna pay... gotta face the music... might as well be now... Kaufman's place... sure he's secured?... not going anywhere... hit him pretty hard... be out for a while.

The words faded as Blair heard the slamming of a door. Oh, man. He hadn't heard much, but it was enough. He'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Again. They'd been after Jim. Apparently to hold him for ransom, counting on wealthy William Ellison to pay up to save his son's life.

The wave of panic triggered by discovering his circumstances was followed by an equally powerful surge of gratitude. Thank God, Jim hadn't been in the truck. Who knows how the kidnapping - the blow to the head - might have affected his senses?

It was time to do something. The bad guys - whoever they were - apparently had gone to report to the head goon how their plan had gone wrong. What was his name? Had to remember that. Kaufman. Yeah. He'd have to tell Jim that once he was free.

It sounded like they'd left. Now was the time. Blair moved to sit up.

And found himself unable to move an inch.

He twisted against the bonds securing him to the twin bed. Handcuffs, from the feel of the hard circles around his wrists. He jerked his legs, meeting resistance. His ankles were bound together and apparently tied down somehow to the bed. He was helpless to move.

Blair's eyes opened wide, no longer fearing the pain. Again, only darkness greeted him. A heavy, stifling darkness. Shadows upon shadows, leaving only the vague impression of something tight over his eyes.

Oh. He was blindfolded. That was sensible, he supposed. Couldn't have the wrong victim identify the bumbling idiots who'd screwed up so royally. With his mind focused at last on his own predicament, Blair moaned softly, the sound barely audible through the sponge gag stuffed in his mouth and covered tightly with another cloth. He could feel the hard knot beneath his head.

He tried again to make a sound, this time focusing on volume. Only a soft keening emerged.. "Mmmm... mmmm... mmm."

Now that he was aware of it, the gag filled his mouth, puffing out his cheeks which were pressed back by the cloth tied across his face. He moved his head from side to side, trying to dislodge the gag. If he could get it off, he could cry out for help. Somebody would hear him. Somebody had to hear him.

It was no use. The sheets on the bed were too soft, and the gag tied too expertly.

Blair tried crying out again. "Mmmm... mmmm... mmmm!" No one could hear that. He could barely hear that.

Suddenly terrified, he bucked against his bonds and cried out from behind the gag with all his strength. The cuffs cut into his wrists, and he felt the hot, sticky blood that flowed.

Maybe he could use the blood as a lubricant! Excited by the possibility, Blair focused all his strength on pulling his wrists through the handcuffs.

Please... please... c'mon! He moaned with the effort, almost glad he was gagged. At least no one could hear his cries of pain.

Surely there was enough blood now. His wrists throbbed with pain, and the blood had dampened the mattress beneath his head. Blair jerked again and again against the steel, as hard as he could, but the cuffs were too small.

His kidnappers had planned carefully.

At last, exhausted and hurting, Blair could fight no more. He lay still panting heavily and softly moaning in pain and from the overwhelming fear that suddenly attacked him. He couldn't get free. He was trapped here, alone. His struggle to free himself had left him breathless, and Blair fought desperately to breath.

He couldn't breathe! The gag was suffocating him; the sponge filling his mouth, absorbing his saliva. There was a last helpless flurry of panic as Blair threw his body hard against his bonds, screaming out helplessly behind his gag.

Blair felt a sharp pain in his right ankle quit struggling abruptly.

He had to stop. Had to conserve his strength. If he broke an ankle, he'd never be able to escape.

Fighting for control, Blair forced himself to take slower breaths, concentrating on breathing through his nose, trying to ignore the sponge filling his mouth. He couldn't afford to panic. If he passed out, he could choke to death. Almost as important, he had to maintain some semblance of calm if he wanted to stand any chance at all of escape.

Alone, bleeding and terrified, Blair lay still, straining to hear anything.

Anything at all beyond the pounding of his own heart.

"C'mon, Simon! You know better than this!"

Jim whirled away from his boss, both in frustration and to prevent himself from saying something he might later regret. Striding toward the window, Jim made no effort to keep his voice down. If the entire bullpen heard, so be it. Hell, let the city hear! Maybe he'd get someone to listen!

Staring out at nothing, Jim argued, "Sandburg doesn't just disappear! He said he'd bring the truck back from Al's. Al said Sandburg never showed. Never called. Nothing. That's not like him, sir, and you know it. The kid runs late, sure, but eventually, he checks in. It's nearly 8 PM, and I haven't heard a word from him since breakfast."

Pacing back to his captain's desk, Jim met Banks' dark eyes directly and held firm. Somehow, he had to convince Simon of what he knew in his heart was the frightening truth. Something had happened to Sandburg. "I'm asking as your friend, Simon... as a cop... as Blair's partner... put out an APB. Get the uniforms looking for him. Every minute that passes..." Jim couldn't finish the thought.

"You know this?" Banks asked, his dark brown eyes unwavering in their scrutiny of Jim's expression. "You're sure he's in trouble? What is this, some kind of Sentinel/Guide thing?"

Jim shrugged. "Maybe. Stranger things have happened. Or maybe it's just a friendship thing. Damn it, Simon, I gave up trying to analyze whatever the hell it is Sandburg and I have a long time ago. It just... is." He shook his head in frustration, looking at his watch for the hundredth time that hour.

"And you know something has happened to him?"

"Yes, sir." Jim held his breath in anticipation. He almost had Simon convinced; he could feel it. "Trust me on this one."

Simon didn't move for a long moment, then he nodded. "Okay. Good enough for me. I'll authorize the all-points. Take Joel and get out there. Start the investigation. Talk to his friends... his students and co-workers." Simon picked up the phone, waving Jim off with his free hand. "Hell, what am I telling you for? You know the routine."

Jim grinned despite the knot in his gut, able to breathe again. "Thanks, Simon," he called back, already half-way out the door. "I owe you one."

"You owe me more than one, Ellison," Simon muttered, but the words were clear to the Sentinel's ears. Jim merely smiled softly. Simon was right, and he didn't mind admitting that he owed his captain and friend much more than could ever be repaid.

"Joel!" Jim called to the older detective, working at his desk. "Let's roll. I'll fill you in on the way."

Jim caught Joel's quizzical look as the former bomb squad captain moved quickly to join him. He was grateful for the other man's company, particularly on this particular mission. Joel liked Blair, respected him, and Jim was certain he would spare no effort to bring the young man home once more. For the first time, Jim felt a small spark of hope.

They didn't make it to the door. Jim stopped cold in his tracks, eyes widening at the unexpected sight of two familiar figures entering the bullpen, their faces solemn.

"Pop? Steven? What are you doing here?"

A cloud of disbelief hung heavy over the small group clustered around the conference table in Simon's office. Jim's eyes were closed, and the Sentinel appeared to have aged a decade in the ten minutes since William Ellison and his son, Steven, had arrived.

Simon watched Jim's impassive face. He knew the man's emotions had to be churning, yet nothing of that inner turmoil was revealed on Jim's face. Ellison was a master of concealment, but Simon knew he paid a price for that calm façade.

Hell, when Jim's senses came on-line, he'd thought the man would lose it completely. Simon had witnessed anger and fear before, in all their myriad of combinations, but never had he seen a man so volatile, so desperate. Sandburg had saved Jim, emotionally, mentally, and physically. He was the only one in the room who understood the truth of Blair's importance in Jim's life, and the burden of that secret was a heavy one.

Simon would never kid himself into believing that he might be able to act as the bulwark between Jim and the darkness that awaited him should his senses erupt again with no Blair there to bring him back to control and sanity. He was Jim's friend, of course, but Blair was... Blair. The Guide. The only Guide.

Anyone else was merely a substitute.

Simon forced his attention back to the question the elder Ellison was asking. "What's going on here, Jimmy? What is this tape all about? You're here. Safe. So what is this man talking about? What's the problem?"

Jim's eyes opened a slit as he gazed at his father across the table. "Play it again."

"We don't need to hear it again, Jimmy," William disagreed. "I just want some answers as to..."

The hooded blue eyes glittered dangerously, and Simon jumped into the exchange. "Jim's a detective, Mr. Ellison," he explained patiently. "It's his job to examine evidence carefully, to be certain he has ascertained all the information possible."

Although Jim's father seemed pacified at that explanation, as Simon reached across to hit the 'play' button on the cassette recorder in the center of the large mahogany conference table, he knew the real reason for Jim's request. The Sentinel wanted to try to find what lay beyond the words, to listen for some hidden sounds that might provide a clue to his Guide's whereabouts.

Simon started the audio tape.

The chillingly cold, mechanical voice filled the room.

"Obviously some sort of technical voice manipulation," Steven commented.

Simon held up his hand to request silence, and Jim's brother fell quiet.

William Ellison. We have your son. Do not call the police. Do not try to contact the FBI. To do so will be to sign his death warrant. You should begin immediately to gather one million dollars in unmarked , circulated bills and in mixed, small denominations, nothing larger than fifties. Go to World Adventure Luggage at the corner of Vine and Sixteenth. There you will purchase a large brown leather suitcase, stock number 64239. Place the money in it and wait. You will be contacted with further instructions in forty-eight hours. Remember, if you contact the police, your son will die. His body will never be found, and I assure you, his death will not be an easy one. Get the money and suitcase, then wait. You have forty-eight hours.

There was a click, then Simon shut off the machine. "What time did this arrive?"

Steven spoke up. "Sally found it in the mailbox about six. Dad opened it around seven and called me. I phoned the station and asked for Jim. I got one of the detectives up here, and he said Jim was in Captain Banks' office. Once I knew he was safe, we met here."

"So we really don't know when the forty-eight hour clock began ticking," Simon observed glumly.

"Call your banker. Get the ball rolling." Jim's voice was dull, almost as mechanical as the one on the tape.

William's eyes turned slowly toward his son. "What? You want me to..."

"I want you to gather the money," Jim snapped. "We're going to do everything possible to find Sandburg before the deadline, but just in case, we need to have the money to use as a negotiation tool."

"You don't even know that these men have Mr. Sandburg," the elder Ellison protested, his fingers drumming out a nervous rhythm on the polished surface of the table. "And if they do, I'm just thankful it wasn't you. Regardless, Jimmy, you can't seriously expect me to hand over one million dollars when this Sandburg isn't..."

Jim's face was livid, his blue eyes burning with an intensity seldom seen in a man normally so absolutely composed. Simon reached out to restrain Jim, but the reaction came too late, and Simon cursed inwardly.

The furious Sentinel lunged across the table, reaching for his father's neck, but William instinctively drew back, just out of reach of his son's grasp. William's eyes were wide with surprise and fear. Steven had one hand on his father's shoulder, pulling him back out of his brother's reach.

Jim leaned heavily across the conference table, his face only inches from his father's, his eyes shooting angry sparks as William drew back further in his chair. "Don't you dare say it! If you say one single word about Blair not being 'family' or about your precious money, I swear, Pop, I'll..."

"Jim!" The man had gone too far. Simon wouldn't allow a free-for-all in his office, regardless of the circumstances. "Jim! Sit down and take a deep breath! We're all on edge here, but losing your temper won't accomplish anything."

When Jim remained in place, leaning over the table and glaring at his father, Simon barked, "Detective! Sit down! Now!"

The vignette remained unchanged, poised on the brink of violence, for a long half-minute. As he waited for Jim's next move, Simon speculated if he would have to challenge Jim physically. He wasn't sure who would win that battle. Somehow, given Jim's training and the extreme circumstances of the moment, Simon had to admit to himself that he doubted he would emerge the winner.

Thankfully, Jim spared him the knowledge. He eased slowly back into his chair, but those cold blue eyes still glittered dangerously as he glared at his father.

Never underestimate a Sentinel whose Guide is threatened, Simon thought, watching Jim with a mixture of admiration and awe. Apparently whatever emotional bond connected Ellison and Sandburg was significantly stronger than the bond of blood, even the blood that flowed between father and son.

The tension in the room was palpable. Simon caught Joel's eye and read the silent question there. No one at the station knew much about Jim's relationship with his family. Simon shrugged slightly and turned to William. "Jim is right, sir. You should begin gathering the money. If they do have Sandburg, then it won't take them long to discover the connection between him and Jim. It's a reasonable assumption that they'll simply change their ransom demand from Jim to Blair. We will need that money as a bargaining chip if our investigation doesn't yield results within the forty-eight hour time frame."

"Doesn't the police department provide funds for these kinds of incidents? In fact, we don't even know if these people will extend the same demands now. The message was about Jimmy, after all. Once they've realized their error, perhaps they'll want much less for Mr. Sandburg." William's voice was steady, completely controlled, despite the emotional outburst from Jim only moments before.

"Damn it, Pop!" Jim half-rose from his chair, but Simon was prepared and faster this time.

Clutching Jim's arm firmly, he warned, "Jim, take it easy. Let me handle this." Simon fought to remain professional. The man's attitude was getting to him, too, but despite his own concern for Sandburg, it was his job to stay in control of what could easily turn into an unmanageable situation.

"Mr. Ellison, we don't have the resources to come up with that kind of money. You do. And after all, it was your son they were after in the first place. Your pockets are the ones these guys decided to pick. There's probably a reason for that choice, and we'll do our best to figure out what that reason is. Right now, my best advice is to begin making some calls to get the wheels in motion for that money to be delivered. I'm betting that these people will keep their demands high, even though their victim has changed."

Simon's eyes flicked to Jim then back to William. He probably was venturing into dangerous territory, but there was something else that needed saying. Jim could have his hide later, if he wanted. "You were about to say something earlier about family. Let me assure you that Blair is family to Jim. And to us here in Major Crimes. If you care for your son, you'll do whatever you can to bring Sandburg back to him safely."

Their eyes held for a long moment, then William nodded slowly. "All right. Let me make a few calls."

Blair wasn't sure how long he'd been bound to the bed. After his violent, fruitless struggle for freedom, time had ceased to have any frame of reference. His wrists throbbed with pain, as did his ankle. He didn't think it was broken, but a severe strain was likely. There was no light, little sound, no means of communication with his captors.

Blair heard footsteps approaching and turned his head in the direction of the sound. Longing to be able to see, he focused all his attention on his only remaining useful sense - his hearing.

The footsteps drew nearer, and Blair heard moist breathing from above. Was he imagining that he could feel the warmth of that breath on his skin?

"I know you can hear me. Nod if you do." The voice was flat, without inflection.

Slowly, Blair nodded his head even as his mind whirled in anticipation. What were they going to do? Helpless, he lay still and waited, willing himself to stay calm.

"I see you've been working to free your hands. All you've managed to accomplish is to mangle your wrists and get your bed bloody. Don't expect us to treat them for you. You're probably hungry by now. Would you like to eat? Have something to drink?"

After a slight hesitation, Blair nodded, slightly hopeful. Maybe, if he could get the chance to see, have the opportunity to talk, he could find out something, maybe even convince these people to let him go. He'd had enough obfuscation experience, after all.

"These are our terms. The blindfold stays on. Any attempt to dislodge it, and you die. Understood?"

So much for seeing. Blair nodded once. There was still a chance he could talk them into letting him go.

"Good. I will remove your gag only long enough for you to eat and drink. You will not speak. Not one word. If you do, you forfeit the privilege of eating. You will neither speak nor fight me when I put the gag back on. If you do, it will be replaced with one much more uncomfortable and will not be removed again. Do you understand?"

There went his hope of talking them into release. Blair nodded, a heavy feeling of defeat weighing down his heart.

They were true to their word. The cloth tied around his face was removed and someone jerked the wet sponge from his mouth. Blair worked his jaws painfully. He yearned to say something, to try to make his captor see the hopelessness of his plan, but he feared the punishment the man had described. He needed whatever food they offered. He had to keep up his strength to survive.

The first man left, and another - the one who kidnapped him in the first place - took over. The hands were rougher now, the voice colder... angrier.

He was given some water and a few bites of tepid soup. From a box. Not exactly his idea of nourishment, but Blair ate it gratefully. It was amazing how thankful one could become for small favors.

Once he'd eaten his meager meal, the gag was immediately stuffed back in his mouth and sealed tightly with the heavy cloth between his lips. This time, a large knot had been added over the sponge, forcing it even deeper into his mouth. It was wrapped around his head and tied roughly behind, knotting into his hair and pulling it painfully. Blair grunted in protest.

"Shut up! Kaufman... the boss... he don't want no noise."

Kaufman! Blair's heart leaped in triumph. He had his first clue. He filed away the name, hoping to have the chance to use it eventually.

Blindfold intact, he was unbound and escorted, a gun shoved in his back, to the bathroom where he was allowed to relieve himself in the presence of his guard.

When he was done, he was escorted back to the bed and shoved down. One pair of hands jerked his legs back together and his ankles were quickly bound and secured to the bed. His torn wrists were cuffed once more.

After his captor left, Blair tested the strength of his bonds. Tugging hard against the ropes binding his legs and the cuffs securing his wrists, he found himself as helpless as before. Again, he rubbed his face against the bed, trying to dislodge his gag.. It remained securely in place.

A tear escaped the blindfold and trickled down Blair's cheek. He lay alone in the darkness and listened for anything that might help win his freedom.

"Is there anyone you can think of who might hold a grudge against you?" Joel asked as William took a sip of coffee. He studied the man sitting beside his desk. The resemblance between father and son wasn't great, but Joel could definitely see Jim in his father's eyes. God knows, Jim was there in the older man's demeanor. It was obvious that Jim had inherited his ability to remain icy calm in the midst of turmoil from William.

At that moment, the elder Ellison was as calm as his son ever was. "Many people hold grudges against me. I'm a successful businessman. You don't arrive at my position in life without making some people angry."

Cool. Deliberate. Seemingly emotionless. Almost proud of the fact that he had a rather lengthy enemies list. The man could play a green-blooded Vulcan convincingly, Joel thought, suppressing a grin. "I'll need a list," Joel said, not giving away his amusement. "Everyone you can think of. The more recent names first, please. And any contact information you can provide. Place of residence. Phone number. Whatever you have." He pushed the yellow tablet across the desk to Jim's father.

Familiar blue eyes regarded him shrewdly. Apparently, Jim also inherited some investigative skills from his father as well. "Do you also like this young man? This Sandburg?"

"Blair is a unique man. I've never met anyone as intelligent. Or as funny." Joel hesitated, unsure whether or not to get personal with this stranger. But the memory of Jim, at first hurt, then furious, as he lunged across the table at his father overrode his reluctance.

Joel took a long breath, then plunged ahead. "Look, Mr. Ellison. It's not my place to give you advice, but I've known Jim a long time now. Blair means an awful lot to him. Why, I'm not sure any of us understands, but the reason isn't really important, is it? Bottom line - Jim needs Blair. If you care for your son, and I know you do, don't cross him when it comes to Sandburg. There's a lot there we don't understand, and maybe we don't need to understand it. Just accept it. Respect it. Then, maybe, you and Jim can find some common ground."

Was that a flicker of regret - of hope - in the unfathomable blue depths? If so, the spark died before it could flame. "My son and I have never met on common ground, Captain Taggart. I doubt we could ever do so over Blair Sandburg."

Leaning back in his chair, Joel regarded him wisely. "If you help Jim get Blair back, I think you'll be surprised, sir."

"Why do you always jump on him like that?"

His brother's question jerked Jim back from whatever side road his thoughts had taken as a detour from hard reality. Jim glanced guiltily at Taggart, sitting with his father as William jotted names on a yellow pad. He was grateful to Joel for taking his father off his hands right now. Already, William had placed several phone calls, and the wheels were in motion to round up the ransom money.

Even after hours, William Ellison's influence got results.

Jim rubbed his eyes wearily. They felt like sandpaper, coarse and tired and dry. He'd run out of the moisturizing drops he usually kept in his desk. For two days, Blair had been bugging him to stop in a drug store for more, but Jim just hadn't found the time. Now he was paying the price. "He just pushes all my buttons, Steven. Always has. When we were kids, he did it on purpose. Now, I don't know. I think it's just second nature. Maybe he doesn't even know he's doing it." Jim didn't know what else to say. He was so damned tired. Just speaking took too much effort. He rubbed his eyes again.

"You look beat," Steven commented with obviously sincere concern. "It's after eleven. Why don't you head on home? I'll wait here until Pop's done with Captain Taggart. There's really nothing more you can do here tonight, is there?"

Wasn't there something he should do? For the life of him, Jim couldn't figure out what. Not at midnight. Steven was right, and Jim knew it. There wasn't much he could do right now. The hard reality was that he was no good to Sandburg this exhausted in the middle of the night. In the morning, the lab guys would be back, and they could begin serious analysis of the audio tape.

The tape. Audio. Sounds.

Damn it!

How on earth had he ever earned the title of detective? Much less that of Sentinel.

Jim shot from his chair, striding toward Simon's office. He slammed the door behind him, and Simon looked up from his computer screen, irritation engraved all over his face.

"Jim? What the hell...?"

Jim grabbed the cassette player and held it up. "I need to hear this again, sir, this time without anyone else in the room."

Simon shook his head tiredly. "You've heard it twice already, Jim. The lab crew will be back in the morning, and they..."

Impatiently, Jim interrupted his boss. "No, sir, I haven't listened to it. Not really. Not as a Sentinel. I tried earlier, but there were too many people around for me to really focus. There still may be something there, on the tape, that could lead us to Blair. I just need to..."

Simon shook his head firmly. "No way. I don't know a hell of a lot about this Sentinel thing, but I do know that Sandburg says concentrating too hard can make you zone. The last thing I need - the very last thing - is a zoned detective."

Swallowing his impatience, Jim did his best to explain. "That's true, Simon, but I won't zone, not if I have help. You can help keep me focused, and I promise, I won't go in too deeply."

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm not Sandburg, Jim," Simon protested. "I don't know how to guide you or focus you or whatever the hell it is Blair does. Damn it, Jim, I don't want to know!"

"I'll show you exactly what to do, sir," Jim promised, not willing to take no for an answer as he motioned Simon to the table. "Please, Simon. I need your help here."

Rolling his eyes in obvious frustration with the determined Sentinel, Simon settled unwillingly into one of the conference chairs. "Now what?"

Jim considered, trying to think like Sandburg. A dangerous thing to attempt, he mused with a half-smile. "I'll be using my sense of hearing exclusively," he thought out loud. "So I need you to anchor me to this room with a different sense. Let's try touch. That should be simplest."

He rotated his chair so his back was to Simon. "Put your hand on my shoulder and squeeze lightly. That should be enough sensory input to keep me aware of where I am and prevent a zone-out. I'll also try to focus on the scent of your cigar over on the desk." Glancing back at Simon and grinning wickedly, he added, "That should be strong enough to keep me in the here and now."

"You're bucking for a transfer, mister." Beneath the mock sternness of Simon's reply, Jim could feel the captain's reluctance, but a moment later, a strong hand squeezed his shoulder.

Jim nodded. "Good. Now, don't talk to me because I need to focus on the tape, on what lies beyond the voice. Just keep up that pressure." Closing his eyes, Jim began the tape, setting the machine on automatic loop so that the short message repeated again and again.

William Ellison. We have your son. Do not call the police. Do not try to contact the FBI. To do so will be to sign his death warrant. You should begin immediately to gather one million dollars in unmarked bills and in mixed, small denominations, nothing larger than fifties. Go to World Adventure Luggage at the corner of Vine and Sixteenth. There you will purchase a large brown leather suitcase, stock number 64239. Place the money in it and wait. You will be contacted with further instructions in forty-eight hours. Remember, if you contact the police, your son will die. His body will never be found, and I assure you, his death will not be an easy one. Get the money and suitcase, then wait. You have forty-eight hours. William Ellison. We have your son. Do not call the police. Do not try to contact the FBI. To do so will be to sign his death warrant. You should begin immediately to gather one million dollars in unmarked bills and in mixed, small denominations, nothing larger than fifties. Go to World Adventure Luggage at the corner of Vine and Sixteenth. There you will purchase a large brown leather suitcase, stock number 64239. Place the money in it and wait. You will be contacted with further instructions in forty-eight hours. Remember, if you contact the police, your son will die. His body will never be found, and I assure you, his death will not be an easy one. Get the money and suitcase, then wait. You have forty-eight hours.

His body will never be found, and I assure you, his death will not be an easy one... body will never be found... his death will not be an easy one... body will never be found... his death will not be an easy one. His body will never be found, and I assure you, his death will not be an easy one... body will never be found... his death will not be an easy one... body will never be found... his death will not be an easy one. His body will never be found, and I assure you, his death will not be an easy one... body will never be found... his death... his death ... his death ... his death ... his death ...

Jim caught himself halfway down the slide into the void. His body jerked abruptly as he forced himself to break away from the hypnotic voice on the tape.

"Jim! Jim! Stop it!" Simon's frantic voice overrode the mechanical tones of the kidnapper. Simon slammed his hand down on the machine, ending the voice's torment.

"I'm here," Jim muttered vaguely, shaking his head to clear it and cursing the beginnings of a headache the concentration had triggered. It was already housed in his temples, throbbing there like a sore tooth. He rubbed the sides of his head in an attempt to ease the pain. "I'm all right."

The pressure on his shoulder disappeared as Simon leaned back in his chair, releasing his pent-up breath slowly. "Did you hear anything?"

Turning to face his friend, Jim shook his head, discouragement heavy in his heart. "Nothing. I tried, but there's just nothing there."

"We'll get Derrick to take a listen in the morning. Derrick Rowe's the best there is with audio enhancement and video. If anyone can find something, it's Rowe." Simon's voice was sympathetic. "For now, the best thing you can do is head home and get some rest. You won't do Blair any good if you're dead on your feet in the morning."

Jim stood up and stretched his tired muscles wearily. "Yeah. Maybe you're right."

Simon regarded him carefully. "You need a lift home?"

"Sure." Jim glanced out at the bullpen. Everyone was gone. His father and brother must have slipped out while he was focused on the audio tape. Just as well. He didn't feel up to another confrontation with his father tonight. One headache at a time was enough.

The two men trudged toward the door, both tired and weighed down with worry. Simon grabbed his coat and flipped off the lights, plunging the bullpen into darkness.

If he kept busy, maybe he wouldn't notice the silence. If he allowed himself to listen to the silence, Jim knew with absolute certainty, this night would never end. Keeping busy seemed a logical alternative.

At least, that was the plan. First, Jim cleaned the kitchen. Nothing escaped his attention - counters, floors, cabinets, appliances - all were scrubbed with an intensity they'd never received before. By the time he finished, you could eat off the floor.

Next was the bathroom. Soon it sparkled brightly enough to star in its own commercial touting the virtues of various cleaning products.

He started on the living room. From floor to ceiling, and everything in between, Jim vacuumed, dusted, polished, and shined. His last stop was the bookshelf. Each and every book and knick-knack was pulled from the shelf, dusted and carefully restored to its proper placement.

On the last shelf, Jim froze, fighting against the unexpectedly powerful emotions that threatened to bring him to his knees. He picked up the small object in his hand and stared at it through eyes that no longer had the ability to see clearly.

He held a small leather pouch, and the memories flooded back in an uncontrollable tide.

"Hey, Jim! I'm home!"

The tiny black jaguar was perfectly carved. Jim traced its contours with his fingertip, committing each line and indentation to memory. As he held it, a warmth swept through him, and he looked at Blair and nodded. "It's mine," he said simply. "Thank you for bringing it home."

As time passed, they had each added to their medicine bags. Jim picked up his pouch and felt the soft white leather. He carried both bags to the couch, sat down and carefully spread the contents out on the cushion beside him.

A particularly beautiful, tiny shell discovered on the beach... a small river rock, worn smooth by years of travel downstream... a few dark blonde hairs, gathered as a small boy from his mother's hairbrush soon after she'd disappeared from their lives... an old liberty dime he'd found on the floorboard of Jack's treasured car... his military dogtags... a small black shark's tooth Blair had spotted at the beach the previous summer... a chip of weathered gray stone taken from the jungle floor in Mexico at the base of the temple of Sentinels.

And of course, the black jaguar fetish. Beside it lay a second Zuni fetish, this one of a gray wolf. Jim had spotted the wolf at an antique shop in Cascade one Saturday while he was out killing time while waiting for Blair to finish up some work at Rainier. He'd never told Sandburg about it, just placed it reverently in his medicine bag, along with a quick prayer that the energy and spirit of the jaguar would join with that of the wolf to keep his Guide safe.

He repeated that prayer, murmuring the words as he clutched both animals tightly in his fist. "Keep him safe. Look after him when I cannot be there. Let him come back to me, whole and safe. Please..."

He did not open Blair's medicine bag. Its contents were private, for Sandburg's eyes alone. But Jim fingered them through the supple tan leather, and he smiled when he found the form of the wolf.

Without warning, he felt dizzy, his head spinning wildly. Jim leaned back hard against the soft couch. His body had rebelled. He just couldn't fight it any longer.

Jim needed to sleep.

It was nearly 2 A.M., and Jim knew if he expected to accomplish anything worthwhile in the investigation the next morning, he had to rest. But that meant facing the silence of the loft, braving the darkness without the knowledge that his friend, his Guide, was sleeping just below.

It wasn't that he was afraid of the dark. Of course not. It was the demons that sometimes haunted that darkness that Jim preferred not to confront alone. Demons with names like Starkville Prison... Galileo... Cyclops Oil... Lash... Alex.

When he'd wake up drenched with sweat, his powerful muscles reduced to trembling piles of Jell-O, Jim would take comfort in the fact that he wasn't alone. That he had not been a complete failure. Blair was safe, sleeping peacefully in his room below. He might even open his hearing, focusing on the reassuring heartbeat marking time so steadily. If the nightmare had been particularly terrifying, Jim had found himself on more than one occasion padding down the steps to stand at the door of Sandburg's room, just reassuring himself that Blair really was all right. That they were both safe and secure.

Tonight, there was no such reassurance.

Blair was gone, taken from him by an unknown attacker, intent on revenge against his father. Why the hell did Blair have to pay, not only for Jim's mistakes, but, apparently, for William Ellison's as well?

Jim walked to the bookcase, intending to place both medicine bags back in their usual positions. He stopped, staring down at the two small leather pouches, remembering the balance they represented, and made up his mind. Until Sandburg was found, he'd keep both medicine bags with him. Maybe their energies would help.

It certainly couldn't hurt.

A few minutes later, he'd brushed his teeth and changed into his boxers for bed. Reverently, he placed both bags on his bedside table, then, with a weary sigh, Jim crawled between the covers. He punched his pillow in frustration, then turned on his side, staring out at nothing. What if Sandburg didn't come back? What if this silence, this emptiness, was all he had left?

No! Jim flipped to his back, angry at himself for the traitorous thought. He would find Sandburg and bring him home. There simply was no other option. If he caught any breaks at all, tomorrow night would find Blair safely in his own room again. Well, Jim conceded, possibly a night in the hospital might be in order, but after that...

But if he didn't sleep, he couldn't expect to find Blair. Shutting his eyes, Jim tried the deep breathing, relaxation exercises he'd learned from his Guide.

A few minutes later, an exhausted, lonely Sentinel drifted off to sleep.

He awakened to an annoying ringing. Moaning as he turned in the bed, Jim glanced over at his clock. Five A.M. Who the hell was calling him at...?

The memories flooded back with no regard for the hour.

Jim snatched the phone and barked, "Ellison!"

"Jim... we've got your truck. Meet me at the station garage." Simon clicked off, and Jim was already halfway down the stairs, pulling on his shirt as he ran.

"The crime lab boys are already working it over," Simon said, sipping from a steaming cup of coffee. "So far, they haven't turned up anything unusual. I thought you'd probably want to take a look yourself, so I sent them away for breakfast. We've got half an hour at least."

Jim nodded, too distracted for a response. He stared at his truck, so familiar, yet now, a crime scene. That damned truck... He made such a fuss over it, and look at where it had gotten him. Absently, he touched the medicine bags around his neck. That morning as he quickly dressed, he had slipped them both beneath his shirt. It was a comfort somehow to have a tangible reminder of their animals spirits so close to his heart. The spirits of jaguar and wolf had helped them survive so much danger before. Surely the spirit animals wouldn't fail them now.

"Jim?"

His attention refocused, Jim muttered, "Yeah, let me see what I can find." He pulled on the gloves that would protect against contamination of any evidence left behind. Approaching the vehicle slowly, he scanned the exterior for anything that didn't belong, that didn't seem familiar. He dialed up his Sentinel sight, determined not to allow even the most minute piece of evidence to escape him. The intense concentration would undoubtedly cost him a headache later, but what the hell.

Twenty minutes later, Simon's coffee cup was drained. So were Jim's hopes.

"I'm sorry, Jim." Simon's genuine disappointment was evident. "I figured we'd have to find something."

"Yeah. Me, too." He tossed the gloves into the trash and sighed heavily at the sight of the lab team combing the truck. They wouldn't find anything either. Jim was sure of it.

A dead end.

Jim felt Simon's heavy hand on his shoulder, and he appreciated the intent of his encouraging words. "Look, this is just the start of the investigation. It's almost eight. We should get over to your father's house. See if we hear anything there."

Simon was right. There was nothing more to accomplish here. "Let's pull through and pick up some more coffee on the way, sir. I have a feeling it's going to be a long day."

The call came through to William's home office promptly at nine. Simon and Jim had arrived an hour earlier, both men believing that they were sure to hear from the kidnapper again. Surely, greed would not allow such a person to give up easily on his dreams of fortune.

Apparently, they were correct.

"Mr. Ellison," the mechanical voice grated. "It seems we have a problem."

Jim leaned forward expectantly, staring at the speaker phone as though he could see through it to the man holding his partner.

"Yes," William agreed flatly with a quick look at Jim. "We do."

"I would guess that your son, the police detective, is there with you now."

"I am." Jim's voice was harsh, even to his own ears. "What is it you want?"

"My demands have not changed. One million dollars, same as before. The way I figure it, you'll force your old man to pay up. From what I've been able to find out, you and your young hippie partner are close. Very close. It doesn't matter to me for whom the ransom is paid. The results will be the same. I get my money. The illustrious William Ellison loses what he values most. His money. It's time he made some payment on his debt to me. And you..."

"What about me?" Jim asked harshly.

"My quarrel is not with you, Detective. You were and will remain merely the means to an end. It is your father who owes me. You will use your influence to see to it that I get what I want. Or your friend dies. The clock is still ticking. My instructions remain the same. You will hear from me again two hours before the deadline. Be prepared. Is that clear?"

"Look!" Jim protested angrily. "Like it or not, you're dealing with me now! I want some proof that Sandburg's still alive. No proof, no payment. Clear?"

For a moment that endured forever, Jim feared he'd pushed too hard. Finally, the odd voice replied, "All right. You'll receive a package within three hours. Once you've seen the proof of Mr. Sandburg's continued good health, you will resume preparations for the payment. But the delay will cost you. The clock doesn't stop, Detective."

There was a click, then silence. A silence that lengthened and deepened until one of them spoke at last.

"What I don't understand," William said thoughtfully, "is why they'd want to go after Jim in the first place. He's a cop. That would make him more difficult to kidnap. Looks like Steven would have been a more practical target."

"Gee, Dad," Steven muttered with a sharp look at his father. "I really do appreciate winning your vote on this one."

Simon filled in the gaps quickly before William could reply. "The way we figure it, Steven's on the road a lot, always traveling. His schedule is very erratic. Jim was much more predictable. That made him an easier target, regardless of the risks they'd be taking going up against Jim's training and experience." Simon added pointedly, "It could have easily been either of your sons, Mr. Ellison. I'm sure you're thankful they are both here, safe and healthy."

"Of course. That goes without saying. He certainly had a detailed list of demands about delivery of the ransom. Do you think these men are professionals?" William's question was quietly spoken, and his eyes were fastened on Jim. It was as though the wind had died, and his sails rapidly deflated.

Jim shrugged. "Probably not. Seems to be more of a vendetta against you. I doubt that would be a professional. As for the detailed instructions, it's probably a control thing. He wants to believe he's jerking you around as much as possible. That's not a sign of a professional."

"That's good, then," William pointed out with an undeniably hopeful look.

"Maybe. Maybe not. Makes them more prone to stupid mistakes. More likely to panic. On the other hand, maybe it also makes them more hesitant to kill."

A part of Jim appreciated his father's concern, but a stronger part of him didn't want to voice the fears that had been building continuously since Sandburg's disappearance. Who knew what these men were capable of doing? Who could predict how they might react?

Simon broke the extended silence. "How are you coming along with the money, Mr. Ellison?"

The elder Ellison glanced at his watch. "My people are working on it now. It should be gathered and ready at my office by 3:00 this afternoon. Steven will go out as soon as we're done to purchase the suitcase."

Simon nodded. "Good. Jim, I guess we should head back to the office. Derrick Rowe's already working on that tape." He flipped open the small recorder attached to William's phone and removed the mini-cassette, replacing it with another. "Now we can add this one to his agenda."

Both officers stood, and William rose from behind his large, antique desk. "Rafe's staying here, Pop," Jim said, nodding toward the chair behind them where the younger detective waited. "If the phone rings and caller ID doesn't show a number you recognize or if the number's blocked, let him get the recorder ready first. Don't answer the door to anyone you don't know. Bottom line, Rafe's in charge." Jim didn't miss the look of consternation that flashed across William's face. His father was not a man accustomed to being out of control.

Maybe that particular trait was inherited.

As he passed Rafe, Jim grinned tightly. "Good luck. I wouldn't have your job for the world."

This time when the kidnappers entered his room, Blair sensed a different feeling in the air. Neither man spoke more words than necessary, but the one in charge seemed to be a bit more nervous than usual. His legs were freed, then his wrists. There was no time to enjoy the relative freedom, however. Immediately, his hands were roughly pulled behind his back and cuffed.

"Your partner is extremely persistent." The voice was cold and matter-of-fact. "He demands proof that you're alive."

Behind the gag, Blair tried to smile. That was Jim. His friend would try any possible angle to gain a clue.

The voice continued. "We are going into the other room. I will remove your blindfold and gag only long enough to make a brief video tape. You will reassure Detective Ellison that you are unharmed. If you try to give him any information you think you've figured out about your whereabouts or our identities, I will put a bullet through your brain. On tape. Then that video will be delivered to your partner." A moment of silence. "Think about how that memory will haunt him before you try anything stupid. Do you understand?"

Blair nodded even as his heart soared. He had just been handed his first opportunity to shape his own fate.

Now if he could just figure out what to do with it.

While police work as shown on TV and in the movies is brimming with excitement and suspense, the work of a real world detective is much tamer. A few minutes of adrenaline rush are more than likely preceded by months of tedious monotony. Following up on clues, no matter how remote, is part of the job.

He didn't have much hope for a break in the case by following up on the demand for a specific suitcase, but Joel Taggart was waiting when World Adventure Luggage opened for business. If it helped them find Blair Sandburg, there was no clue too mundane to pursue.

The young man opening the door appeared mildly surprised to have a customer already at the door at nine o'clock. About twenty, with dishwater blonde hair that hung over his eyes, the clerk eyed Joel with half-hearted interest. "May I help you?"

"Yeah, you can." He followed the kid over to the counter where the young man took a seat on a high stool. Joel flashed his ID. "Cascade P.D."

The blue eyes widened. "Hey, man, I ain't done nothing..." He hesitated, then seemingly having decided that the truth might be the best course of action, added, "At least, not lately."

He didn't have time for it, but for a fraction of a second, Joel entertained the possibility of jerking the kid's chain. "This has nothing to do with you..." He checked out the name tag on the plaid cotton shirt. "...Jerry. I want to know if you've had a customer in here showing a particular interest in a..." Joel consulted his notes. "A large brown leather suitcase with the stock number 64239."

The kid shook his head. "I don't keep up with the numbers, man."

Joel's tone hardened. "I think you need to check. This is important. A man's life depends on finding the guy who was looking at that suitcase. Now we can do it here, or I can contact your boss and..."

"No... no," Jerry protested, sliding from the stool. "Old man Kramer doesn't like to be bugged about the business, man. He'd fire me in a second. Let me see what I can find."

Taggart left the store a half hour later, his slim hopes of turning up a viable lead at the luggage store crushed. No employee remembered anyone showing an inordinate interest in that particular suitcase. Apparently, the demand had merely been a way for the kidnapper to assert his control over the powerful William Ellison.

He headed back to the station to figure out what to do next.

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

His kidnapper had been good as his word. The taping had proceeded swiftly, but Blair had been hit with sudden inspiration as to how to drop subtle hints to Jim. He hadn't had much time, but Blair was still riding the wave of hope that the clues he'd tried to provide Jim would be received. Surely the Sentinel would figure them out! Jim was an excellent detective, after all, and the addition of his Sentinel senses made him truly awesome.

Jim would figure it out.

Jim would come for him.

For what seemed like hours, Blair lay in nervous anticipation, his anxious thoughts jumping between hope and despair. What if, on viewing the video, his kidnappers also figured out what he'd done? Had he tried to help Jim find him only to sign his own death warrant?

When he heard the approaching footsteps, Blair instinctively tensed. Although, so far, he hadn't been harmed when his two captors fed him and allowed him water, there was always a first time. He was here, after all, being held prisoner against his will. They had been capable of kidnapping and threatening to kill him. Who knew what else they might do?

Unable to see or speak, Blair waited helplessly. Usually, they worked together when he was fed. This time, there seemed to be only one. When his visitor laughed harshly, Blair's blood ran cold.

"So, pretty boy, we're all alone at last."

His heart pounded in his chest. This definitely was not good. What the hell did this guy want? Blair pulled at the ropes binding his ankles to the bed and jerked his wrists hard against the handcuffs, but the bonds held tight.

Cold laughter greeted his efforts. "Still trying to get loose? Don't you know you don't do anything unless we allow it? How does it feel being completely helpless? I can do anything I want to you, and you know it."

The voice hardened. "You really think you're something, don't you? Parading around with that hair... that face... those big wide blue eyes? Damn, boy, you've got Ellison wrapped around your little finger. We've done our homework, after all. I've been curious about how you managed that ever since we found out about you two. Just exactly what is it you've got that keeps a guy like Ellison so interested? Well, I intend to find out."

A hand found his belt, unfastening it roughly, then moving to his zipper. Blair screamed into his gag, shaking his head from side to side. This couldn't be happening! It couldn't be happening! He'd already been kidnapped. Wasn't that enough? Now, his captor's intentions were too clear.

He was about to be raped, too.

The rough hands shifted position now, and Blair felt the ropes tying his ankles together loosen. "We're gonna change your position just a little now, pretty boy. I like to see my ladies all spread for me. We'll start this way, then flip you over when I'm ready."

His legs were free. Scarcely taking time to think, Blair kicked out, putting all his strength behind the blow. His captor yelped loudly in pain as Blair felt his feet connect with flesh. He kicked again and made hard contact. A third kick found only empty air.

Screaming and sobbing under the gag, fighting to be heard, Blair pulled hard against the handcuffs, struggling desperately to get free. "Mmmmm... ! Mmmmmm... !" The pain in his already raw wrists was pure agony, but Blair ignored it, jerking desperately against the cuffs.

"You little bastard! You'll pay for that!"

A hard blow to the side of his head stunned Blair. It was followed by another, and another, until at last, Blair quit fighting and lay still, breathing hard. His head pounded, and he felt the hot flow of blood soaking into his blindfold and gag. He was teetering on the brink of unconsciousness, but fought to stay awake.

He might get another chance to fight.

The cruel hands were working on his jeans now, attempting to yank them down from his waist. They caught on his skin and his genitals, sending more flashes of pain ripping through his body. The hard voice muttered angrily, "I was gonna take it easy on you, for the boss' sake. Kaufman don't need damaged merchandise. But now..."

A hard slap across the face was followed by another brutal blow to the gut. Blair's head spun to the side and he jerked reflexively, but he couldn't move away. His jeans were ripped all the way down then off his body, followed by his shorts. As Blair moaned helplessly, knowing what lay in store but unable to even voice his protest, his shirt was ripped violently from his body, exposing his chest.

He was now completely naked and at the mercy of his assailant. Blair sobbed behind his gag, wishing he had not fought losing consciousness. At least that way, he wouldn't have been awake as the man brutalized him.

Please... please... please. Don't do this. Please... Blair pleaded, but the gag silenced him too effectively. All his ears heard were his own pitiful, muffled moans and sobs. He moved his head slowly from side to side, tears combining with the blood in his blindfold.

"What's the matter, kid? Don't you like it when Ellison does this? You can't tell me he hasn't tied you up a few times. Used those cuffs of his on you. Or doesn't he play this rough? Bet you like it rough, though, don't you, Blair?"

The words didn't have the intended effect. If he hadn't been in such pain and totally helpless, Blair might have laughed. The bastard had no idea what his friendship with Jim was like. Jim was his brother. Nothing this cruel man could say or insinuate could touch the depth of that friendship, of that bond.

This man could wound him in many ways, but he would not be able to use James Ellison against him. That thought was a small comfort in the midst of the nightmare.

His legs were jerked apart, and tight cords bit into the flesh of his ankles. Blair fought weakly to pull away, but that only earned him another hard blow, this time to his genitals. Groaning in agony, Blair lay still.

Moments later, he was tied spread-eagled to the bed - naked, voiceless, and helpless.

He could hear his captor breathing hard above him. "Oh, yes. Now aren't you a pretty sight?"

Hot, putrid breathe burned Blair's face between the blindfold and gag, and the man's whisper sent shivers down his spine. "We're gonna have some fun now, Blair."

As hard, sweaty hands began to explore his body, Blair escaped the only way he could. The alternative was complete madness. Fighting to breathe normally through his nose, he visualized the loft, a place of safety and warmth. Turning his head away, his only means of escape from his attacker, Blair imagined waking up on a sunny morning, a cup of hot coffee in his hand. He and Jim would wander out to the balcony, in no hurry because it was Saturday. They would stand there, watching the city come alive, enjoying the easy companionship they shared.

"What you thinking about, boy? Imagining that I'm Ellison? I don't blame you. He's one hell of a man. Bet you wish it was him on top of you right now, don't you?"

The safety net of his imagination ripped apart, and Blair screamed helplessly into his gag, not at the dirty insinuation, but at the agony of losing the vision of comfort he had managed to conjure in his imagination.

"Must be him you keep trying to cry out for, huh? That's okay. You can holler all you want to. Nobody's gonna hear a thing with that gag on you. I'm good at putting those things on nice and tight. Later, if I decide I need your mouth free, you'll be all screamed out."

More hard laughter followed. "So, go ahead. You can pretend I'm Ellison. That's just fine with me. I don't give a damn what you think, but I guess you've got that idea by now, right? Enough talking. Let's get to the good stuff, pretty boy."

Oh, God, no. As the rough hands explored the most intimate aspects of his body, touching and entering places he would never have allowed the bastard access to discover, Blair jerked violently at the ropes binding his feet and the cuffs on his wrists. He tried desperately to rub off the blindfold and gag against the mattress and bucked up against the bed.

His only reward was more delighted laughter. The cruel voice encouraged his useless struggles. "Yeah! Go to it, boy! That's the way! If I have to fight for it, that just makes it more fun!"

The hands continued violating him... methodically... roughly... and Blair felt nausea rising inside. Exerting all his self-control, he forced the bile back down. He couldn't get sick, couldn't vomit. He would choke to death with the gag in his mouth. Jim? Jim, I need you, man. Please, Jim. Please!

The heavy weight of his rapist was on top of him again, and Blair's body shook with pain and fear. His hips were lifted roughly into the air, and just moments later, a sharp, unbearable pain coursed through him. Blair screamed, pleading with his attacker to stop, but the gag rendered his cries useless.

Then, he heard a cry of pain, and for an unreasonable instant, Blair wondered if he'd managed to scream past the gag. The flash of hope was followed by the sound of a body hitting the floor. Hard.

Blair lay still, breathing hard and shaking, listening intently as he tried to figure out what had just happened.

Other voices were talking.

"Damn bastard. What the hell did he think he was doing?"

"What do you want me to do with Caleb, boss?"

"In a minute..."

Then, there were hands on his body again, and in reflex, Blair jerked away as much as possible, shaking his head from side to side in silent protest. If only he could see...

"It's all right." The voice that belonged to Kaufman was quieter now, more soothing. "Believe me, I never meant for this to happen. Should have known I couldn't trust him alone with you. Look, I'm going to untie your feet and get some clothes back on you, so lie still. If you try to fight me, then I'll have to tie you back up and leave you like this. I don't think you'd like that, would you?"

Blair shook his head. Being bound here was bad enough. To be left naked and exposed was even more humiliating.

"All right. I have a gun, and I won't hesitate to use it. So behave yourself, and I'll have you more comfortable soon."

He kept his word. The ropes binding his ankles were untied. Then, the cuffs were removed, one at a time, and a wet cloth carefully cleaned the blood from the wounds on his head and body. Some kind of shirt was slipped on to cover his upper body. Not his ripped and torn shirt, Blair sensed, but it was soft, and it covered him adequately. Soon, his jeans were back on also. At least, he had some semblance of dignity back.

"You've bled a lot. I wish I could change that blindfold, but I can't take the chance. Not as much as Caleb there, though. Gotta get him out of here somehow."

The two men moved away, and Blair strained to hear their whispered conversation, but his head was still pounding. Concentrating hurt too much. He gave up and surrendered to his complete helplessness once again.

Kaufman's voice spoke again from beside the bed. He hadn't heard him come back. Had he slipped out of consciousness momentarily?

"I'm going to remove the gag and give you some water. I've got a fresh cloth, too, so you don't have to keep this bloody one in your mouth. If you cry out, I swear I'll use the gun. I cannot remove your blindfold right now. I'm sure you understand. Will you cooperate?"

Blair nodded slowly. The cloth gag was untied and unwound from his face, then the sponge ball was removed from his mouth. His captor allowed him a few sips of water. "Thank you," Blair whispered hoarsely, taking the chance that the man wouldn't kill him for a whisper of gratitude. There was no reply.

"Open," the man commanded a few sips of water later. When Blair hesitated, the voice became sharper. "Open your mouth now, or I'll force it in. Your choice."

Reluctantly, Blair opened his mouth, his jaws protesting mightily. The sponge gag was shoved back in, followed by a clean cloth placed between his lips, a large, hard knot in its center.

"Lift your head."

He complied, and the cloth was pulled tight and knotted behind his head. Blair moaned a little, testing the effectiveness of the gag, but again, he was silenced almost completely. He lay helplessly and waited.

A few moments later, Kaufman spoke again. "I'll be the only one tending you now, so I suggest you cooperate. I'm not interested in anything but the money I'll get for you, so you can relax. No one will try... this... again."

Kaufman and the other kidnapper moved away. There was the sound of something heavy... Caleb's body?... being dragged away. Then there was silence.

He was alone once again. His body ached from head to toe, inside and out. It was so hard not to lie there and think about the nightmare that had just claimed him. But Blair forced thoughts of the attack away. If he dwelled on it now, he might lose all control, might never emerge from the terror. That would be a death sentence. He had to keep his head, had to listen, to think, to take advantage of any opportunity that presented itself.

There would be time later for the pain and the tears.

He forced himself to relax, to rest. Despite the agony his body was in, the exhaustion of his mind and spirit was greater. Unable to sleep, he lay in the silence and waited.

Blair wasn't sure how much time had passed before he heard Kaufman's voice again. "I'll be back later to feed you. Rest now. This will help you."

Something soft and sweet-smelling descended over his nose. Chloroform.

Blair twisted his head, trying to dislodge the damp cloth, but to no avail. Whimpering behind his gag, he felt reality slipping away.

The darkness was a blessed relief.

The hours passed with no significant breaks in the case. Jim spent the time on the phone, tracking down Sandburg's friends and co-workers, with the slim hope that just maybe one of them might know something that would help. It proved to be one dead end after another.

Joel had done his best at the luggage store, but to no avail. He'd interviewed the kid on duty that day, plus all other employees of the business, but none remembered anyone being particularly interested in that particular suitcase.

Both audio tapes were already in the lab with Derrick, and Jim held out hope that maybe the young lab tech could discover a source of noise on either tape. That hope was slim, since his Sentinel senses hadn't found anything, but Ellison refused to completely give up hoping the tapes might lead to a break, no matter how small. Anything that could help them locate Sandburg. Derrick had certainly proven himself a virtuoso before with various forms of media. Jim could only hope that this time wouldn't be an exception. With only a few minutes until the time the kidnapper had specified was up, he moved into Simon's office, and there, the two men waited.

Exactly at the time the kidnapper had promised, Joel opened the office door and leaned inside. "Jim, this just arrived by messenger. Guy said he never saw the sender. He was told to pick it up at one of those mailboxes and shipping places - Mailboxes Galore. I'm on my way there now to interview the clerk." He held out a package in his gloved hands.

Simon pulled on a pair of gloves from his desk. "Let's get this down to the lab. I want Rowe to take a look at it with us. He's the best at any kind of video or audio analysis."

A few minutes later, Jim, Joel, and Simon had joined Derrick Rowe in his lab. The young black man placed the box on his desk and studied it carefully, bending over to get a better look. The three men gathered around it, taking in the outward appearance. Jim's name and the PD address were typed neatly. There was no return address. "I'll put money down that we don't get any prints off this," he muttered.

Derrick carefully unwrapped the box. "Joel, run this next door to Marianne, would you? There's a video in here I want to get a look at. While we're working on it, please ask her to check for prints or traces of anything at all on that paper."

Joel nodded and gathered up the paper carefully. "I'll drop it off for Marianne, then I'll be down at Mailboxes Galore. I'll let you know if I come up with anything, Captain."

After Joel's departure, Derrick carried the tape to his VCR. "Let's see what's happening, boys."

The first few seconds were only grainy static. Then, the image cleared and focused. Jim's heart plunged and he leaned forward, eyes focused intently on the image of Blair..

Sandburg sat before a curtained window. He was bound to a chair, his eyes wide and staring. A cloth gag hung loosely around his neck.

"Chief... " Jim breathed helplessly.

"Jim?" Blair's voice was hoarse, sounding painfully raw. "I'm... I'm supposed to tell you... I'm okay. It's... Friday morning. I'm... all right. Just... ready to come home, y'know?"

Blair coughed loudly, shaking his head. "Man... " Cough... cough... "Man, whatever happens, promise me you won't look over my... your... shoulder, wondering 'what if.' Punishing yourself for what you think you should have done. Don't beat yourself up, Jim. None of this is your fault, so promise me, you'll look back, okay? Look back and remember the good times. I..."

"Enough!" A harsh voice interrupted. A figure clad all in black, including its face, shapeless and completely unrecognizable, entered the picture. "Shut up!" The man slapped Blair hard across the face, and Jim winced at his friend's yelp of pain. Roughly the kidnapper stuffed a round sponge into Blair's mouth then pulled the cloth gag over his face. Reaching behind, he tightened the knot with a vicious pull, effectively ending Blair's chance of making a coherent sound. The young man's face turned helplessly from side to side, seeking relief. Pleading blue eyes stared hard into the camera, begging for help.

Facing the camera, his face concealed by a ski mask, the kidnapper barked, "You've seen him. It's time for William Ellison to make retribution. Nothing will ever cancel the debt he owes me, but the first payment is due. The clock is ticking."

The screen went black.

Jim stared at the screen, unable to speak or even move. The images were ingrained in his mind, and he seriously doubted if they'd ever be erased. He pressed his palm against the two soft medicine bags around his neck, sending out a silent plea for strength and endurance for his partner. Please... help him... help me find him in time. Wherever Blair was at that moment, Jim could only pray that he, too, felt the power of their animal spirits, giving them strength... helping them survive.

"Jim?" A soft voice called from over his shoulder. "You okay?"

He nodded numbly. "Yeah, Simon. Yeah." A moment later he added, "Run the tape again."

Seconds later, the nightmarish images played again. And then again.

Jim stared at the screen, fixated on applying his senses to this latest piece of evidence. Somewhere, there had to be a clue. Something... anything...

He tried not to focus too hard on Blair's face and voice. He couldn't bear that. If an answer was to be found, it couldn't be in the tortured image of his Guide. Forcing down his emotions, determined not to allow any distractions to keep him from finding the answer, Jim scanned the little bit of the room he could see in the video and listened to what might lie behind Blair's words.

On the fourth time through the tape, he saw it. "Simon! Run it back... there! Stop!"

He had to be certain. Leaning forward, Jim focused intently on the window behind Blair's head. There - a crack in the curtains hanging loosely. He could just make it out...

"What is it?" Simon was kneeling beside him now, peering at the screen. "What do you see?"

Jim shook his head. "I... I think... " He looked over at Derrick who had been silently watching the tape along with them. "Can you pick out the window behind Blair? Blow it up for us?"

"Sure. Give me a few minutes, would you?" He took the tape from the VCR and moved to his computer.

Jim and Simon huddled in the corner. "What did you see?" Simon whispered.

Jim glanced at Derrick but the younger man was working intently on the video and his computer. "I think I could see a building, even make out a few details. If Derrick can get it enlarged... enhanced... maybe... Blair kept saying not to look back. Over his... over my... shoulder... not to look back..." Jim thought for a minute. "What if he was giving me a clue? To look behind him through the opening in the curtain?"

"It certainly is possible," Simon conceded. "Sandburg's had enough experience..."

"Hey, guys!"

Jim and Simon hurried over to stand behind Derrick. "Look," Derrick said, pointing at the screen. "Is this what you wanted?"

His gaze locked on the image on Derrick's computer, Jim nodded. "Yeah. Give me a minute."

Derrick glanced up at Simon, and Jim heard the curiosity in his voice. "What can he see? I've enhanced it already and..."

Jim pointed. "There! That's the Wilkenson Tower!"

"Are you sure?" Simon sounded skeptical, and Jim pinned him with an impatient glare.

"I'm sure. It's..."

Derrick interrupted.. "I see the vague shape of a building in the distance, but how..."

"I've got good eyes," Jim shot back, and he didn't give Rowe time to question. "Using the tower as your reference point can you triangulate the location of the building where that window is located?"

"Piece of cake." Derrick's fingers were already flying over the keyboard. A map of Cascade popped up on the screen. Derrick muttered to himself as small arrows appeared and disappeared on the map. "Here... take the distance south... triangulate with the coordinates of the tower... " He worked silently for a few moments, then announced, "There!"

Derrick looked up triumphantly at Jim. "Here's your address - 349 Charlotte Boulevard. From the height of the window combined with the other variables, I'd say the fourth floor."

Jim was already striding toward the door, Simon on his heels.

"I'll call Henri and Joel... have them meet us there." Simon's phone was already to his ear. "Thanks, Derrick!" he called back over his shoulder.

"I'll get back to analyzing the audio tapes," Derrick replied, still grinning from their triumph with the video.

His heart pounding with hope, Jim hit the hallway at a full run. It was time they'd caught a break.

Less than an hour later, Jim was staring across the street at the building where they suspected Blair was being held. He was vaguely aware of Simon beside him, but his complete attention was focused on the rather run-down brick building. He and Simon were sheltered from sight in the alleyway, halfway hidden by two very odorous dumpsters. Out of habit, Jim had dialed his sense of smell down completely long before, and he chuckled quietly when he heard Simon's aggravated quick intake of breath.

"Phew! Damn it, Jim! Couldn't you have found a more inviting place to observe? This place is beginning to make me nauseous."

"Doesn't bother me, sir," Jim deadpanned, still staring thoughtfully at the building. "We can't afford to be seen. This seemed like a good spot."

"Right," Simon said doubtfully. "Look, Jim, I'd prefer to confirm Sandburg's presence before we go in. I've got the warrant, but I'd rather not bust down any unnecessary doors. It'll be safer for Sandburg, too, if we know his location. Can you pick up on anything?"

"Maybe." Jim took a deep breath, thankful he didn't have to inhale the malodorous garbage along with the extra oxygen. "I'm going to try to listen... see if I pick up his heartbeat."

"Don't try too hard," Simon cautioned. "Zoning out in an alley isn't exactly a great idea right now."

"Yes, sir." Jim focused on the building, filtering out extraneous noise. He shook his head, distracted. "Damn..."

"What? What's wrong?"

"Listen..." Jim jerked his head in the direction of a work crew down the street. "That damn jackhammer... I can't filter it out. Every time I open up my hearing, it blasts right through. Let me try again."

The next few minutes brought no more success, and Jim was getting irritated. He glanced at his watch. "That work crew could be here another two hours. I don't want to wait that long, Simon. We need to get Sandburg out of there."

Nodding in agreement, Simon keyed his radio. "Henri... Joel... we're joining you around back of the building. We're going in."

Behind the cover of his car, Simon briefed the team. "There's only one apartment up there on four, the floor Derrick pinpointed as the place where the video was made." Dreading the announcement of the decision he'd made moments before, he steeled himself for the protest to come. Joel, you watch the front. Henri, you're with me. Jim, you have the back door."

"No, sir!" Jim's eyes were cold-as-steel blue. "Meaning no disrespect, but you have to let me go in with you, Simon. I can't wait out here and..."

Simon summoned his best command voice, taking a step closer into Jim's personal space. Sometimes, Simon realized, you have to meet a challenge head-on in order to preserve your dominance and position as leader. Even if that challenge came from a man he respected as much as Jim. He'd given a command, and Simon would not tolerate having that command questioned. Not even from a friend. "You can, and you will, wait here, Detective. If you persist in questioning my order, I'll have you hauled out away from the scene before we make our move. What's it gonna be?"

The challenging stare held his for another half-minute before Jim relented. Simon could almost see the battle going on behind those icy eyes. The trained soldier fought an internal war with the protective Sentinel. For the moment, the soldier won out. "All right, sir. I'll wait. But not for too long."

Simon nodded, relaxing inwardly. "I wouldn't ask you to. I'll radio as soon as we're in and clear." Glancing at Joel and Henri and seeing their wide-eyed stares at the confrontation, he ordered quickly, "Let's go!"

On their way in, Henri queried, "So why'd we leave Jim outside? He's an asset in these hostage situations."

They entered the building and quietly began ascending the stairs. "He's too close. Look, we're all hoping we find Blair in there, safe and sound, and we get him out in one piece." Hating the words he had to say, Simon glanced back at his men. "But I can't guarantee that. You know what happens to most kidnap victims. If the worst happens or has already happened... well, Jim doesn't need to see that."

There was no argument.

They reached the door to the single apartment occupying the narrow fourth floor of 349 Charlotte. They building had been constructed around the turn of the 20th century and was built long and narrow, stretching back from the street. The smell of age hung heavy. Wallpaper, faded and dirty, hung in strips from the walls, and the wood floors were sticky, the remnants of too many decades of dirty feet and grime...

Guns drawn, the two men surrounded the door. "One..." Simon whispered, his weapon held up at his chest at the ready. "Two... Three!"

Getting a running start from across the hallway, Henri charged the door, placing a well-aimed kick, driving all his considerable strength behind the attack. The lock shattered, and the door flew open.

"Cascade P.D.!" Simon shouted as they rushed the apartment. "Cascade P.D.!"

Henri and Simon fanned out, checking the rooms to either side. "Nothing here!" Henri called first. Simon eased down the narrow hallway, checking out each room as he passed. Nothing.

Henri joined him in front of the last door, shut tightly at the end of the narrow, dark hall. "It's here or nothing," Simon muttered. He eased open the door.

They rushed into the small bedroom, guns raised, checking out the security of the room. Slowly, the two guns lowered, accompanied by sharp intakes of breath.

"Oh, my God," H. whispered.

Simon's radio crackled, followed by Jim's voice. "Simon?! What's going on in there? I'm coming up!"

Shaking off his shock, Simon keyed the radio. His voice shook as he replied. "No! Jim, stay down there! You don't need to see this!"

Even as he said it, he knew he was too late. The sound of rushing footsteps was already thundering in the hall.

Simon whirled around and caught Jim's shoulders. "Jim! Stay back! You might..." Suddenly aware of the presence of the other men, he bit off the warning about zoning.

Jim was staring at the large pool of blood on the floor beside the bed and another staining the mattress, near where a head would lie, his eyes wide with horror. His stunned gaze froze on the pool on the floor with its smeared red trail toward the door. "Blair...?" he croaked hoarsely.

Joel burst into the room, panting, his gun at his side. "What...?" He stopped cold at the sight of the blood and Jim's pale face.

"He's not here, Jim," Simon hastened to assure the Sentinel, grasping him by the shoulders and shaking him hard. "I don't know what's happened, but Blair's not here." Glancing over Joel and Henri, he snapped, "Get downstairs and secure the scene. Call for crime scene unit to get up here. Wait on them, then one of you bring them up. Move!"

A moment later, they were alone. Simon let his hands fall slowly from Jim's shoulders, but his eyes didn't leave his detective's face. Jim appeared shell-shocked, but not in danger of slipping into a zone-out. "Can you tell if it's his blood?"

Jim shook his head minutely, as if to clear it, then moved to squat down by the horrid red trail leading to the door. Snapping on protective gloves pulled from his jacket pocket, he touched one finger hesitantly to the blood then, his hand visibly shaking, raised it to his nose. Sniffing, Jim shut his eyes against the sudden stimulus. Inhaling again, the Sentinel was the picture of concentration, every fiber of his body alert and intent.

Simon fought the urge to hurry Jim, to find out what the Sentinel was sensing. Was the blood Sandburg's or not?

Jim moved without a word to the blood on the bed and repeated the process, using his other hand. The blood there was dried, completely soaked into the mattress, and Jim had to scrape his gloved hand across the blood to gather some on his finger. He sniffed carefully, then Jim quickly drew back, staggering backward with the force.

"Jim!" Simon instinctively reached out, supporting him with two hands on his back.

Jim looked up at him, and Simon saw the blood draining from his face. Beneath his hands, Jim's shoulders shook. "It's Blair's... this is Blair's blood. The other... isn't." Breathing hard, he stared up at Simon with haunted eyes. "It's Blair's blood."

The atmosphere in Simon's office was heavy. After the hope of finding Sandburg was crushed, along with the discovery of the blood, everyone's spirits were let down. No one had given up, yet the frustration among the Major Crimes detectives was tangible.

"The video tape must have been filmed before the injury to Blair. We didn't see any sign of his being hurt on the tape. Whatever happened, the kidnapper must have been worried he'd be discovered and moved the entire operation. He's nervous, Jim, or he'd never have taken the risk of moving Blair. So we're back to square one."

Simon's soft voice drifted through the fog in Jim's brain. The scent of Blair's blood, coppery and tangy, still taunted his sensitive nostrils. Dialing down his sense of smell had done no good. The scent was internalized now, engrained upon his sense memory.

Try as he might to erase it, the Sentinel knew the odor of his Guide's blood would be with him for a long time.

"We've got to come up with something else."

Jim knew Simon was worried about him. He saw the concern in his dark brown eyes, heard it in his captain's voice. He knew he should respond, answer his friend, but even contemplating forming a coherent sentence was just too damned hard. It took a monumental effort to concentrate, as Jim waged the battle between his emotions as Blair's Sentinel and friend versus his training as a cop.

Don't let your feelings get in the way.

Check your emotions at the door.

Jim's very words rushed back to taunt him.

He shut his eyes, and Blair's face danced before him in his memory. Yeah, right. I sure know how to shovel out advice that even I can't always follow. There's no checking my emotions when it comes to you, Chief. I'm sorry. I should have been there sooner. Just hang in there, buddy. I'm coming for you. I promise. Damn it all! It should have been me! They were after me! Not Blair!

"Jim? Are you hearing me? Don't you dare tell me you've zoned because..."

"I'm here," Jim growled. "I'm fine." The words came out much harsher than intended, and Jim made a belated effort to soften them with a smile. He realized that it probably came out more like a grimace. "What's Rafe come up with on my father's enemies list?"

"He's still at your dad's, in case the kidnapper calls there, but he's been running leads on the phone and internet. Let's get him on the speakerphone and see what he's found." Simon dialed William's number, then hit the button for the speaker to kick in. A minute later, after a brief conversation with Sally, Rafe's familiar voice came over the line.

"Captain, glad you called. I was about to contact you. We just got the call from the kidnapper with the delivery instructions. This time, the guy said something that clicked with something I remembered on the earlier tape. Each time, he's mentioned paying an old debt. Something like this being a debt too big to erase, but that this would be one installment on what Mr. Ellison owes. Right?"

"Yeah," Simon agreed, looking at Jim and raising his eyebrows. "Has Mr. Ellison connected that to anything in his past?"

"Maybe. About twelve years ago, he had to fire one of his top executives, a guy named Phillip Kaufman. It was during an economic downturn, and Mr. Ellison caught Kaufman in some kind of semi-shady deal behind his back. Nothing illegal, just... questionable. He fired him right before Christmas. Two days before, in fact."

Jim sighed heavily and scrubbed one hand across his tired eyes. "Dad's fired lots of people over the years, Rafe. What makes this guy so special?"

The reply chilled him to the bone.

"Kaufman committed suicide a couple of months later. Left a fifteen year old son. Mrs. Kaufman died less than a year later of breast cancer. Apparently, all the family's money went down the drain with bad investments and medical bills. The son, Randall, bounced around from foster home to foster home. About six weeks ago, he left Nevada, where he'd been serving time for grand larceny auto, and bought a one-way bus ticket. A bus ticket to Cascade."

Simon shook his head, obviously not convinced. "I'm sure Mr. Ellison's fired a lot of people over the years, and more than likely, there have been some very negative consequences that came along with each one. I'm just not sure..."

The answer hit Jim like a meteor. He pounced lightly to his feet, staring at Banks intently. His mind was moving faster than he could possibly explain. Could he possibly be right? "Simon! Where's your copy of the video?"

Looking at Jim as though he'd lost his mind, Simon quickly cut off his conversation with the younger detective on the phone. "I'll get back with you, Rafe. Good work. Keep things moving on your end." He snapped off the speaker phone connection then picked up the TV remote. "Here..." Simon hit the Play button.

Jim snatched the remote and fast-forwarded the tape, searching for the spot he was looking for in the now-familiar video. Even seeing Blair's frightened eyes wasn't as difficult this time. Not now that they had made a promising breakthrough. He gestured to the tape. "Listen... right here." He played a short section, then reversed and repeated it, then reversed and repeated again.

Cough... cough... "Man..." Cough... cough... "Man..." Cough... cough... "Man..."

Simon's eyes lit up, brightly shining stars against the darkness of his face, and he leaned forward in his chair, grinning broadly. "Way to go, Sandburg! Jim, he just confirmed it! Kaufman's our man!"

Jim stared at the frozen face of his Guide on the screen, pride battling with pain for dominance in his heart. As terrified as Blair must be, he was still thinking, still fast on his feet, giving them all the help he possibly could. Leave it to Sandburg to try to give them the evidence they needed to find his kidnapper and his location. I'm proud of you, Blair. Don't give up on me. I'll find you, no matter what it takes. Just hang in there for me. Hang in there, Chief.

The effects of the chloroform wore off slowly, leaving only a pounding headache in their wake. Blair had awakened, confused and near panic, fighting against the bonds holding him in place. When he'd regained enough of his mental faculties to take stock of the situation, he realized immediately that he had been moved. The odors were different here. He was no longer bound to a bed, but to a chair of some sort.

His ankles were tied tightly to the chair legs, his arms bound behind the back of the straight chair. The familiar gag was still in place, as was the blindfold, and he moaned helplessly. He jerked against the chair, but it didn't budge. Must be anchored to something stronger.

Blair forced himself to breathe deeply, coached his mind to settle down. If the opportunity presented itself, he wanted to be ready. He was going to survive this. He had too much to do, damn it! He wasn't ready to die... not like this. Not without saying goodbye to his mom... to Jim.

If only he could break free! He'd done his best to leave Jim a clue about his location, but now, he'd been moved. Still, if Jim managed to figure out that it was Kaufman who had kidnapped him...

There was still a chance.

There was always a chance.

He only had to stay calm and wait. To trust Jim and be ready when the Sentinel came for him. Jim would come. He'd never failed him before, and Blair knew beyond all certainty that his friend would die first before he'd allow Blair to come to harm.

Calmer, Blair settled back to wait, every sense alert and waiting.

Somewhere in the distance, Blair heard the scream of the jaguar, then the answering howl of the wolf. His heart soared with hope.

Jim would come for him.

Jim would come.

Night fell, but for many hours, the darkness brought no rest. Not for Blair, uncomfortably bound to the straight chair.

Nor for James Ellison. Once more, the loft was too quiet. And too empty. If their positions were reversed, Jim knew, Blair would meditate. Often the answers he sought would appear after a session of relaxation. Jim could certainly use the rest, but meditation wasn't his style. He craved action. More than anything else, Jim needed to do something.

But this time, there was little he could do but wait.

In the distance, Jim heard the chimes of the nearest church strike midnight. He had to rest. But the thought of ascending the stairs to his room exhausted him.

So who said he had to sleep in his bed tonight? Shirtless, clad in his favorite boxers, Jim stretched back on the couch, tucking a throw pillow under his head. The two soft, leather medicine bags he'd worn since Blair's disappearance rested lightly against his skin. He'd catnapped countless times on the couch. An entire night wouldn't be that different.

As he willed his body to relax, Jim raised the medicine bags above his chest, his Sentinel sight revealing clearly every detail of their construction. The memories of his Guide washed over him, and Jim's hand closed to clutch the bags tightly in his fist.

The words bubbled up without thought. "Whoever's in charge out there," Jim whispered, "if you can hear me... help me bring him home. You've helped us before... I know that... so, please... "

Not a man accustomed to prayer, Jim wasn't sure what else to say. His personal belief system wasn't particularly well-defined, but experiences with spirit guides, ghosts, and reappearing deceased shamans had proven to Jim's satisfaction that there was something out there... something beyond the here and now. It was to that undefined power that Jim entrusted Blair's life - their lives.

Without warning, there was a scream in the night. Not a human scream, but that of a cat. Of a feral jungle cat. Jim's eyes widened, and his hand tightened around the leather bags. Seconds later, a long, haunting howl raised the hair on his neck.

The wolf...

The spirit guides hadn't abandoned them.

There was still hope.

As long as the Sentinel drew breath, there was always hope.

Reassured by the voices of wolf and jaguar, Jim rested the soft leather pouches back on his chest and closed his eyes. Minutes later, his breathing slowed and deepened.

At last, the Sentinel slept.

He awakened early, too early to head to the station. It was still dark out, but Jim was filled with an uneasiness that made sleep impossible. For a few minutes, he tossed restlessly in his bed, then got up and put on his sweats and running shoes. Maybe some exercise would help clear his mind.

The darkness didn't bother him. Already, his Sentinel sight detected a slight glow to the horizon, but he didn't need the dawn to run safely. Jim set a goal of the marina and back, then set off at a slow jog.

He willed his mind to empty. He needed this time not to think, but to build up his physical strength. There was no predicting how long it would be before this ordeal was over, deadlines or no deadlines. Kidnappings were seldom predictable. If he were to survive, to stay alert and strong for Blair, Jim knew he had to stay healthy. So instead of pondering the facts of the case, he focused on his body, on the rhythmic beat of his feet on the pavement beneath him.

The streets of Cascade were virtually empty. The occasional car or delivery vehicle passed, their headlights shining eerily through the light mist of pre-dawn. Once a cat scurried across his path, darting into an alley without a sound. If he extended his hearing, Jim knew he'd pick up the sounds of early morning coffee brewing, of sleepy conversation in the darkness of bedrooms, of alarm clocks summoning sleepers back from the safe cocoon of the night.

Jim had no desire to remind himself of such normalcy. He should still be in bed, Sandburg safely sleeping in the little room below. A flash of anger caught him unaware. Did he ask for so much, really? Just to do his job, to keep his partner safe, to have his life ordered and structured, the way he liked it. Was that really too much for the powers-that-be to grant?

His feet left the pavement and sank into the softness of the grass in the park that led down to the marina. Jim was breathing harder, and as his feelings of anger and helplessness grew, he ran faster and faster, until he was at a full run. His legs churned, his arms pumped, and he began breathing heavily through his mouth. Why the hell couldn't he do just that one thing right? That one most vital, most important thing? Why couldn't he manage to keep Sandburg safe?

Jim stumbled on an unnoticed depression in the ground, his momentum making it impossible to recover in time to remain on his feet. He lunged forward, helplessly, and plummeted to the ground, face down. He hit hard, the breath knocked from his body with a sudden gasp.

He lay still, panting, his eyes closed. The grass beneath him was soft, still damp from the dew and morning's mist. All the rage he'd felt only moments before had been dispelled with the fall, and Jim lay quietly in the pre-dawn darkness, breathing in the sweet smell of the earth, listening to the wind and the water.

Finally, he opened his eyes, still making no move to sit up. Something caught his attention, only inches from his face. He studied it for a moment, then Jim reached out, taking the delicate object carefully in his hand. He sat up stiffly, then got to his feet.

There in his palm lay a small white feather.

Before Blair came into his life, Jim would have marked it up as sheer coincidence. That was another lifetime. He'd experienced too much to miss the significance of the little feather lying so lightly in his hand.

Reaching beneath his sweatshirt, Jim pulled out the white medicine bag he'd put on that morning. Opening the drawstring, he carefully slipped the feather inside. "He's coming home," Jim whispered. "He's coming home."

He turned and ran toward the loft, suddenly anxious to begin the day.

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

A few hours later, Jim stared down at the lifeless face lying on the slab in the morgue. His anger churned within him, but he resisted the urge to add one more bruise to the battered face. The man was dead. Nothing Jim could do had the ability to inflict further damage.

"A single stab wound. It went straight to the heart. Whoever killed him knew what he was doing with a knife. We matched his blood and prints to that found in the apartment where Blair was being held. His prints were already in the system. Caleb Stillman. Mostly small time stuff with one grand larceny charge thrown in for good measure. He's spent half his adult life in and out of prison."

Jim's voice was flat. "Have we linked him with Kaufman?"

"Not yet," Simon admitted. "At least not beyond both their prints being in the room. But we will. We just got the ID a few minutes ago. Whatever happened in that room, it left Kaufman in this thing alone. At least, as far as we can figure. The prints in the room only came back as Kaufman's and Stillman's. Unless a third culprit wore gloves the entire time, we're down to just Kaufman."

Simon considered the face before them, then mused, "You know, you'd think even an amateur like Kaufman would have taken more precautions not to leave behind prints. He..." The captain's voice faltered. "... must not care whether or not he's caught."

They both understood the implications. An amateur who didn't care was ten times more dangerous than a pro who cared whether or not he spent the rest of his life in prison. The simple fact that prints were left at the crime scene didn't bode well for Blair's survival.

Jim jerked the white sheet back over Caleb Stillman's face, shoved the slab back through the small door, then slammed it shut. "He's of no use to us now. Hopefully, he's already burning in hell."

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

The previous day's audio tape from William Ellison's answering machine had so far revealed nothing new that would help them track down Kaufman. The instructions were short and simple. At nine that evening, William Ellison was to bring the suitcase with the money to a roadside park up on the Pacific highway. He was to leave the suitcase under the last picnic table on the left and immediately drive away.

That was all. Except for a hard-voiced threat to Sandburg if anyone but the elder Ellison was spotted anywhere near the drop-off spot.

Jim listened to the tape several times through without turning up the dial for his hearing. The tape had to go to the lab, but not before the Sentinel had his chance with it. "I want to use my hearing to listen to this one, too, Simon. The first audio tape turned up nothing, but maybe I'll have better luck with this one."

Simon sighed. "Same routine?"

Poor Simon. He really didn't care for playing substitute guide. "Yep," Jim quipped. "You're on, sir. Time for Guide duty." He wished Blair could see the look of discomfort on Simon's face.

Once again, Jim focused all his attention on the sounds coming from the cassette. There was the mechanical voice, obviously disguised. He filtered it out immediately, not caring about hearing the words again. He knew the message by heart. He was interested in what lay beyond, in what the kidnapper may not have realized he was recording when he left the message on William's machine. Closing his eyes, the Sentinel opened his hearing.

This time, he didn't have to go as deep to find what he was looking for. Shaking his head, Jim opened his eyes to the face of his concerned friend.

"Hear anything?" Simon asked immediately.

Jim nodded. "Yeah. Something... I'm not sure what. A thumping... a rhythmic thumping noise, but it comes and goes... not constant." Jim rubbed his temples to ward off the ever-increasing headache pain. "If I could just figure out..."

"Take the tape down to Derrick," Simon suggested. "Tell him what you hear. It might save him some time if he knows there's something there."

Nodding, Jim popped the cassette from the player and headed out the door. Once again, he'd done all he could. As much as it went against his instincts, he was placing Blair's life in the hands of another.

The hours passed, ticking slowly toward the appointment at nine that evening. Not an eye in the bullpen failed to glance at the clock several times each hour; not a heart ceased hoping that a break in the case would come soon.

By late afternoon, Jim and Simon were reviewing all the background information the team had gathered on Blair's suspected kidnapper. Print-outs and files lay scattered across the conference table like fall leaves on the ground, punctuated by the remains of abandoned coffee cups. "So we have no idea where Randy Kaufman is now?" Simon asked, rubbing his eyes wearily.

"Apparently, he's been using an assumed name since he hit Cascade. Last thing we can turn up in his own name is the bus ticket from Vegas. Charged it on his Visa, but there's been no activity since." Jim looked up from the notes compiled by Rafe and the other detectives, all of whom had been furiously digging ever since the name 'Randy Kaufman' had surfaced.

Simon leaned back in his desk chair, crossing his arms behind his head, and looked reflective. "Kaufman's strictly amateur. Odds are, just getting out of the joint, our friend Randy doesn't have the resources to hire a pro to put the strong arm on your dad.. He must be coordinating the job himself. From what we've learned, Caleb Stillman certainly didn't have the expertise for something like this."

"He had to have help, even from a second rate con like Stillman," Jim pointed out, stretching his legs out in front of him. "No way he could kidnap Sandburg, make the tapes, move Blair, and plan to make the money pick-up - all alone. He may be an amateur, but he can't be that dumb. Of course, he is on his own now, if the prints at the crime scene are any indication."

"I agree, but..."

There was a quick knock at the door. William Ellison, accompanied by Steven, came in. He was carrying the suitcase, one shoulder slightly bent from its weight.

Simon asked, "The instructions said it would begin at nine P.M.? You're early..."

William set the bulky case on the floor beside the conference table, then he and his son sat down. "Yes. I have to make the drop-off at nine. Steven and I figured..." He shrugged, and Jim could swear he saw a look of helplessness on his father's usually self-assured face. "We might as well wait here..."

"We have slightly less than five hours." Simon shook his head, clearly frustrated. "Our detectives are all working to locate anything at all on Randy Kaufman since he came back to Cascade. Right now, all we're drawing are blanks. Mr. Ellison, as we discussed, there's a team in place to tail you to the park and keep an eye on that suitcase. Of course, Jim will be in place much earlier. He'll be our closest man to the scene."

"I thought the instructions were Dad to make the delivery alone," Steven commented, looking to Jim.

"We can't leave that suitcase for Kaufman to pick up without following him," Jim said tightly. "No matter what the risk. Most kidnap victims are..." He swallowed hard against the tightness created by the cold, impersonal statistics that suddenly flashed through his mind. "Most are never found alive. We can't give Kaufman a clear get-away."

Banks stood up and stretched. Jim could hear his shoulder joints pop as he stret