Title: Lost and Found

Category: Drama, Episode-related: Switchman

Summary: Five years ago, James Ellison had to become lost to become found.

Rating: PG--nothing you wouldn't find on the air

Disclaimer: The Sentinel, his guide, and their story don't belong to me. No money made,

no infringement intended.

Notes: Many thanks to the wonderful betas who volunteered-Becky, Ronnee, Kim,

Kelly, Toni. And a huge hats off to their work. It was a humbling experience

to be betaed by TS sibs-of all the betas I've had, this fandom has the best, hands-down.

Any remaining errors and problems are entirely my responsibility and no

reflection on their help.

Email me-I'm a work in progress!

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

...And if you could hear the whispering of

the dream you would hear no other sound.

Kahlil Gibran

The Prophet

The jungle was alive around him.

He could hear it breathe, feel it move, taste its sweetness, watch it dance. It was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. He reveled in it, allowed it to fill and surround him. Intoxicating and sensual.

Okay, that was just sappy. It was how you describe a woman, not a collection of plants and rocks and animals. Maybe it was a sign that he'd been alone a little too long.

Then again, as he smelled the sweetness of flowers floating on the breeze gently brushing against his cheeks, he thought that analogy might be just about right, after all.

Slowly, the feeling faded away to become the ordinary sounds and smells and textures of the jungle. Birds chittered away above him, lizards slinking their way below him. Rodents climbed in and out of the trees, searching for food and shelter. The gentle, almost constant, swoosh of leaves as the soft wind of the morning rustled the landscape was a background hum. Somewhere close by--left, and behind him a little, yep, there it was--a creek casually wound its way down a slew of rocks. A large cat carefully lapped at a small, still pool near the bottom. He couldn't quite tell the gender, but it was large, probably close to fully grown. He listened to it for a while as he carefully worked his way up the hill he had been scouting.

There were other sounds in the jungle--the sounds of the few intrepid humans who called this place home. To the west, the careful footsteps of the three other warriors scouting the area early in the day. Almost silent, the men were nearly as stealthy as he was. They should be--he'd trained them. South of them all, the sounds of the Chopec village waking up: women cheerily chattering on about village gossip as they prepared the morning meals, men doing the same over morning chores, albeit in less obvious ways, and children playing, both with each other and with the animals. The light sounds of the children he lingered on--their laughter softly carrying through the dense jungle foliage. It warmed him briefly. Children were universal, their simple joy the best reason to keep trying to make the world livable.

Off to the north, he could hear a single engine. A lonely, stuttering cough turned into a labored wheezing drone. Probably an old, retired army jeep bought for more than half dozen of the decrepit things were really worth. Transportation in this remote region was almost nil, which made anything with a motor incredibly valuable. He listened to it begin to navigate the nearly impossible jungle 'roads'--little more than animal paths or dry river beds--until he had tracked it to its location: a camp that housed a couple government lackeys, supposed to be making contact with the locals. He had watched them set up camp days ago, assessed their threat potential, made a mental map of the camp itself, and let the other warriors know of the outsiders in their territory. Yesterday, one of the warriors had come back from scouting with the news that one of the men was sick. He had asked the tribal elders if they wanted him to go offer assistance, but they'd said no. They wanted the warriors to continue to watch the camp only. Maybe the movement of the jeep away from the area meant that the interlopers were going for help. He decided to go down this afternoon and see if his theory was correct, maybe take the initiative if help was still needed. Help could be in short supply out here.

To the east, hunters. They had been out all night, tracking. He had wanted to go along-he really enjoyed hunting. Perhaps it was a bit primal, but he felt so alive when he was out, alone, matching wits with an animal in that animal's turf. It was exhilarating. He finally really understood the cliche, the 'thrill of the hunt.' However, one of the elders had taken him aside yesterday morning and suggested it was not a good idea. The younger hunters needed to do this alone, without him. The elder had said something about them feeling intimidated by him. He hadn't understood that, but no matter--he did understand the need for the young men to prove themselves, perhaps most importantly, *to* themselves.

So, he was scouting this morning instead of hunting. He did still look forward to the kill they would bring back, a triumph the whole village would share. A good meal, good friends, music, dancing, drinking. This tribe had stuff that beat the best American liquors hands-down. Yep, it would be quite the party. The tribe knew nothing if not how to have a good time. There had been a wedding celebration a few months ago that had gotten rather out of hand, and he still turned a slight shade of red remembering being assisted back to his home by a very, very amused shaman.

The idea of a party brought a smile to his lips. He could use a good party right about now. He was tired. Really, bone-deep tired. It wasn't just physical, the kind that was cured by a good night's sleep. That, he could deal with. This was beyond sleep--it was the kind of weariness that drained his will to keep going, ate at his determination to survive. It had started weeks ago, the feeling of ease here in the jungle starting to drain away. The shaman had mumbled something about being prepared, but refused to give any more than that. Damn frustrating man, that one.

For whatever reason, though, keeping going was getting harder every day. Some mornings, only duty and obligation got him out of bed. Maybe he was getting too old for this sort of thing. Maybe it really was too big a task for one man. He didn't know. But the growing concern only made him try harder--meaning that, lately, it seemed he worked all the time. When he wasn't scouting, he was patrolling the territory of the tribe. When he wasn't patrolling, he was setting and maintaining defenses around the pass. When he wasn't defending, he was hunting. When he wasn't hunting, he was helping build homes, dig for water, prepare meals, watch the children. It was a job designed for eight soldiers, and now being accomplished by one.

It was tiring. Damn tiring.

He scrubbed a hand across his face, cleared the cobwebs.

It wasn't that he regretted any of it. He wanted to care for the tribe. They had been good to him, had taken him in when he needed it the most. They'd given him a home, a family, friends, a purpose--some things that he hadn't had in a very long time, and some he'd never had at all.

But, it was a lot for one man to do. One man who was getting more weary as time progressed.

He stopped to take in the view from the top of the hill before descending. The jungle spread out below him, smooth and thick and green, gentle rolls of terrain, sharp spikes of rock. This quiet, isolated spot was where he came to be recharged, rebuilt. As badly as he'd felt lately, he did still love this place--this whole jungle. He'd spent time in jungles before, in wildernesses large and small; but this place felt so *right*, so natural. So *home*. He almost laughed at the realization that he had to get lost to find home. It was crazy.

"Enqueri."

The man turned at the sound of his name. Not the name he'd been given at birth, but the one he'd been given by the tribe. He'd been christened following a particularly nasty skirmish with local guerillas, when he'd defended the tribe almost single-handedly after they were caught off-guard. The name was part of an adoption process that they had rewarded him with. It had been probably the most honored and humbled moment in his life.

It was also the moment he realized that it wasn't just a name-it was an identity. He *was* Enqueri. James Ellison didn't belong here, but Enqueri was born here--this was his home. He belonged. At some point, the Army captain with a mission had given way to the warrior with a people to protect. What did that make him? Who was he, really? He'd heard of a man without a country, but what was a man with two countries? What would it make him on that day when he had to leave? Was Jim Ellison still lurking underneath, unchanged? Or was he never going to be that man again? Did he want to? What would happen to Enqueri when that time came? What did he want to happen?

It was a hell of an identity crisis.

Then again, why make things more difficult than they already were? It didn't matter--he was here, and here was right. He'd deal with the future when it happened.

He smiled at the approach of his visitor. His friend was welcome company. He'd listened to the man make his way, eavesdropping almost from the bottom of the hill. They both knew this. His companion could be easily heard grumbling to him quietly as he'd climbed the rocky terrain.

"Incacha."

The tribe's shaman breathed deeply and looked out over the jungle, speaking in soft and reverent tones to the spirits. He waited quietly as the shaman expressed his appreciation. He felt it, too, but the older shaman was so much better at putting things into words. Sometimes, he enjoyed just listening to him speak.

"You should offer your thanks more often, Enqueri."

"I think the spirits know how I feel." He laughed, clapping the other on the shoulder.

"It does not mean you should not tell them. It is respectful." A gentle chiding.

"I will do better, friend." He fell easily into the language of the shaman. Although it was not his native tongue, he had picked it up pretty damn quick. Not very surprising, considering he'd been dumped unceremoniously into a situation where he had to learn to communicate to survive and fulfill his mission. Basic field survival tactic-adapt to the new situation or you won't live to regret it.

"You have been out here alone too much of late, Enqueri."

"I have been busy."

"You have been hiding."

"I have been working," he insisted.

"You use your tasks to hide from yourself."

"I do what I am supposed to do. What you taught me to do."

A sigh from the shaman, and a step closer. "Come back to the people, Enqueri. Others can take the watch. You have done enough."

"It is my responsibility. You know that. It is just something I have to do."

"You always believe that. Even a Sentinel cannot be everywhere at all times."

That word--Sentinel--it was a strange thing. He'd heard it the first time shortly after being brought back to the village after the crash that left him stranded here. It sounded remarkably like English, and he wasn't sure if it was a bastardization of an English word or just a strange coincidence of languages. Either way, Incacha had used it when introducing him to the other warriors. He didn't know what it meant, but the other warriors had nodded in understanding and invited him into their circle freely after that. In fact, they seemed to defer to him, even in matters unrelated to his mission to defend the pass. He was a total outsider, and their behavior belied everything he'd expected. Not that he was complaining--it made his job much easier.

Still, it was strange.

"I can try." A smile to lighten the mood.

"And I can try to make you reasonable, friend. Although it is an unending task." The shaman laughed heartily this time. He gently hit his friend with a small stick he carried and was rewarded with an answering smile.

"Come. You must at least eat."

The two turned back down to where the village waited. They traveled in amiable silence, broken only by the older man's brief remarks on the life in the jungle. He listened to the shaman talk, mind still on duty, listening and feeling and smelling their surroundings. The shaman only knew part of the truth about him taking on too much. Truth be told, he was never *off* duty. He never relaxed his guard, not even in sleep. He wasn't sure exactly why he had this compulsion. He wasn't even really a part of the tribe. Not by blood or by birth, but only by an accident and sheer dumb luck. Still, he felt some incredible need to watch over them, to help them. It just *was.*

They reached the village easily just as the sun was beginning to shine in patches over the small clearing. Their arrival was noted by sentries, but otherwise they were paid no attention. Incacha led him over to a small arrangement of food, being heartily tucked into by Incacha's nieces and nephews. They were chattering on excitedly about things only children could find interesting. He smiled at them before digging into a light breakfast.

He still marveled at how easily he'd been accepted into the family. The shaman had taken him under his wing, for reasons he still didn't understand, and that meant that his family had as well. He was generally included with the family at meals and at tribal gatherings. Incacha's sister made sure his things were washed with the family's clothes, and that he didn't stay up all night working. Her children liked to play with him, liked to listen to him late at night telling stories about the outside world.

The strangest thing, though, was her attention to what he ate. It was more than her occasionally chasing him down in the forest to make sure he *did* eat. It was that anything he ate that she hadn't prepared or sanctioned was almost...well, inspected. It was as though she was worried he'd eat something he was allergic to, which made no sense considering he didn't have any allergies. He'd *never* had allergies.

He'd been given an empty hut near Incacha's, bordering the eastern edge of the village. It was small, but that suited him fine. It wasn't as though he needed much--he had always lived a fairly Spartan lifestyle. Not to mention that most of his few belongings had been destroyed in the crash.

He didn't end up using the hut often, anyway. It housed his weapons more often than it housed him.

Most of his time was spent off in the jungle encompassing the tribe's land, keeping watch. Incacha had apparently made it his goal to convince him that it wasn't a good way to exist, but he just did what he did. He'd always worked hard. It was just the way he was, whether as a teenager or in college or in the Army or now with the Chopec. Hard work was solid. It was dependable. It was how he survived.

"This is better, hmm?"

It was Incacha, directly behind him. Damn. How could the man still sneak up on him? No one else in the village could, not even the most experienced warriors and hunters. He could sense them coming a mile away. Well, maybe not a mile, but darn close.

It had been a strange thing--the longer he spent in the jungle, the easier it got to feel and hear and see things. It was as though the jungle was opening up to him. Maybe it had something to do with the clean air, the lack of pollutants in water and soil. Maybe it had to do with the lack of distractions of city life. Maybe he was just born to be here, in the jungle. Incacha had smiled and said that the spirits of the forest were welcoming him into his new life. Whatever that meant. In any case, he had felt better here than anywhere else he'd ever been. He'd felt connected. Alive.

"You have to stop worrying about me. I. Am. Fine."

"You cannot keep this pace. You will not last. And you cannot continue to do this alone." The older man had turned serious now, all trace of humor gone.

"I have to do my job. Both for your people and for my people."

"I have no wish to bury you with your men."

"Don't." The word came out in English as anger grabbed him. His whole body tensed, jaw clamping shut over the word. All thoughts of breakfast vanished. He couldn't believe his friend would say that. "Do not use them in this. How dare you...." The thought of his men, buried back there below the pass next to the skeletal remains of the helicopter, made him sick. Nauseated. He tried not to think of that time--a hellish nightmare of waking up in the smoking hulk, finding the dead and dying, burying them all one at a time over the next days, and finally standing there alone trying to fathom why he was the only survivor. He resolutely turned those thoughts away now, just as he had done for over a year.

"It is the truth, Enqueri. You cannot do this all alone. It will be the end of you."

"We have many warriors. I am not alone."

"You need someone to help *you*, not just the tribe. I am too old to do this for you."

"You are not old, Incacha." A brief attempt to derail the conversation by opening a different argument.

"I am not young enough, or stubborn enough, to keep pace with you." His friend would not be diverted.

"I do not need anyone, Incacha. I do fine on my own. I have been for a long time."

"You will understand someday. I hope it is before it is too late."

He sighed, his anger dissipating. Incacha meant well. And they had gone around and around with this before. "If it will make you feel better, I will talk to the other warriors, okay?"

"No."

"Excuse me?" Wasn't this what they'd just been arguing about?

"No. You need a spiritual guide, not another warrior. You still do not understand this."

"Incacha, I do not have the same beliefs as you. You know that. I do not need a spiritual guide. It is not a consideration. This is just about doing my job."

"We all have need of spiritual guidance. Especially Sentinels."

There it was again, used like it meant something. Maybe he meant 'sentries'. He did a lot of sentry work. It was a taxing job, one that might call for some help--if only to keep him awake sometimes. Still...not quite right. He never felt he had that word fully understood. And something always kept him from asking.

It did, however, remind him that this little discussion was costing valuable daylight. "Look, can we talk about this later? I have to get back out."

"You cannot."

"Why?"

"You must stay near the village today. Your world comes for you."

"What do you mean?"

"The spirits have told me. Your people come for you."

"It is two summers soon, Incacha. What makes you think it will be today?"

"I do not think this. The spirits tell me. You must stay near the people."

The spirits. He sighed, "Fine." It was better to just give in on this subject. This was another old discussion-despite the shaman's firm belief in his spirits, it was a view they would never share. Enqueri preferred the solidity of the real world, things he could hear and see and touch and taste and smell. Things he could deal with. Reality had taught him a long time ago that this was all that mattered. Doing his job, completing his mission, fighting off intruders. "I'll stay around. I need to check the pass anyway."

He turned to head out of the camp again.

"Enqueri."

He stopped, turned to face the shaman again.

"Do not fight the spirits' guidance. They are your best allies."

He nodded his head, not quite sure what the other man meant. Didn't really matter, though--it wasn't like the spirits were going to show up to talk to him.

Now, *that* would be crazy.

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

It was late morning when he heard the first sounds intruding on the silent cacophony of the jungle. He stopped his inspection of a booby-trap and listened. The regularity of the noise meant it wasn't natural. Human sounds. More specifically, white man sounds. Only a machine could achieve such precision. He carefully concentrated, all the other sounds of the jungle falling silent as he did so.

Engine noises, the regular staccato of rotors. Helicopter. Big, by the sounds of it. Flying low, making several passes.

Which meant one of two things: military or illegals. No one else would have come so far into tribal territories. They'd have to be suicidal or insane, or both.

He hastily put the trap back together and headed off in the direction of the helicopter. He could easily track its noise as he moved through the jungle. The other warriors were converging on the helicopter as well. From the distance he figured, he would be among the last to reach the new threat. That was fine, though. The tribe's warriors were the best he'd ever worked with, and they'd handle the intruders well.

It quickly became clear where the helicopter was hovering, where several occupants had been disgorged. He knew the place by heart.

Damn. Why'd it have to be here? All this perfectly usable jungle and they, whoever they were, had to pick this spot. Damn.

The crash site. The twisted, overgrown remains of a US Army helicopter--the pathetic memorial to seven men buried nearby. Seven men he'd buried with his bare hands. Seven men he was responsible for. Seven men with families. Sons, brothers, husbands, boyfriends, fathers. And he hadn't even been able to tell their families. It had been the least he owed them, and he'd been denied the chance.

The sole consolation he had was that they hadn't died in vain. Dammit, he'd made sure of that for a year and a half now, and he'd keep it up for as long at it took.

He could just make out the swish of multiple arrows now. Shit, they were hostile. This wasn't going to be his day. Starting it out by arguing with the shaman had probably offended whatever the hell jungle gods there were. He was pretty much convinced they were out to get him by now, anyway.

He unslung his weapon and slowed down as he approached from the north, careful not to make the least noise. There had been a quick barrage of gunfire from automatic weapons after the arrows, then silence. They probably had figured out that they were shooting at invisible targets--he could see the warriors were still carefully concealed. He smiled. Whoever this was, they were in for a rude awakening. The warriors had surrounded them easily, maintaining the high ground around the crash. The intruders were effectively pinned down, able to be picked off as the warriors saw fit.

Coming around to get a better view, he saw the Mexican standoff that had developed. His warriors had revealed themselves and were surrounding the enemy, who had apparently ordered a cease-fire, realizing that they could've been killed at any time if the Chopec wanted them dead.

He looked down the hill at the men. Green camouflage fatigues, paint, automatic weapons. He focused in on the closest one, looking for identifying marks. It was so easy, just to look--really look--and find that he could see whatever he needed to.

Special Forces. Ranger. Airborne.

The sleeve patch brought it all into focus. These weren't intruders. These were his relief.

Incacha had been right, after all. His world had come for him on this sunny morning.

Problem was, he wasn't sure if he welcomed it, or dreaded it. As usual, just when he was getting comfortable in a situation, it had all started to go to hell again. You'd think he'd learn after all this time not to bother getting attached to anything.

Damn, he must really be tired; he was starting to be morbidly cynical, even for him.

Slinging his weapon over this shoulder, he headed down to meet them. On each side of him, the warriors waited patiently, silently, for him to decide how this would go.

He found the apparent leader and made his way over to the man. Stuck out his hand to a stunned-looking black soldier. "Captain James Ellison. O. D. A. 731." And the obvious question, "You my relief?"

"Your relief?" If anything, the soldier's confusion had grown worse.

He quickly outlined his orders to organize the militia, nodding with pride at the assembled warriors around him. "And quite frankly, Captain, I'm kinda tired," reluctantly admitting the weakness he'd been battling with for a long time now. He regretted it almost as soon as it was out of his mouth, but maybe it would explain to the confused man why he was so interested in his relief.

Kinda tired. Hell, that didn't even begin to cover it.

"I think we need to talk, Captain. We *really* need to talk."

He would soon find out what the man meant.

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

The bright summer sun of Cascade blinded Jim Ellison as he climbed out of the plane, hefting his duffel bag down the stairs. It was beautiful this time of early summer, the rain having given way to the moderate temperatures that would stay most of the season. He'd always loved this time of year here.

The file of passengers led away from the plane towards the terminal, some in an obvious hurry and others with no particular place to be. He fell into the latter category now, much to his discomfort. He hated the idea that he had no obligation, no duty, no appointment, no urgent needs. It made him anxious, worried. Life wasn't supposed to work like that.

In sharp contrast to the beauty of the outside, the terminal was suffocatingly full--people navigating around each other in their haste, with a few on the fringes trying to catnap in the hard plastic chairs. Jim made his way easily from his gate down and out to the front curb with the familiarity borne of growing up with this airport. Several cabs were idling at the curb, their drivers eagerly watching the emerging patrons, looking for any sign that any of them wanted a ride into the city proper. It was like watching cheetahs hungrily eyeing a pack of wildebeest at the watering hole.

Damn. One too many National Geographics on the ride up here.

He waved to the one in front of the line, gladly giving up his bag to the obsequious little man. Jim gave him the name of his hotel and promptly disappeared into the back seat. No, he told the man, he didn't need to know the highlights of the city. No, he didn't want any tips on sightseeing. No, he knew where the good restaurants were located. No, he didn't want to make small talk. Eventually, the driver gave up and concentrated on weaving in and out of the interstate traffic.

Jim watched the city coming at him, heaving a great sigh. This was really insane. He had no idea what had ever possessed him to come back here. Home. He hadn't been back since he'd joined the Army, and now he was intentionally returning.

Why? He honestly didn't know. He had plenty of reasons not to come here, of all places. It wasn't like it meant a great deal to him; more bad memories than good ones.

Still, it was his home. Maybe it was just the fierce urge to be somewhere he knew, where he felt comfortable and connected. Like he'd felt in the jungle--a feeling he'd discovered just in time to lose it. Gone, evaporated like it had never been.

He'd tried to find it again--in duty, in relaxation, even in an exotic and beautiful woman's arms--but it was nowhere for him anymore. He was left feeling empty, like something had been taken from him and he didn't even know what. And cold, but not the sort of chill that a bright sunny day in the Northwest could alter. No, it was an empty sort of chill he remembered from the first time he lost a member of his unit, or the first time he had taken a life.

Or the first time his father called him a freak.

Wait a minute, where the hell did that come from? The fleeting thought died instantly, and he was unable to call it up again. He had no idea what the circumstances around that memory were, but he could clearly recall the feeling of a ten-year old boy growing colder inside as his father yelled at him.

Damn. This was ridiculous. He didn't need to be dredging up who-knew-what sort of childhood crap that lay contentedly buried in his past. He was getting needlessly maudlin and it wouldn't do him any good. And he sure as *hell* wasn't dealing with dear old Pops on the first day back home.

So, the here and now, then. Okay, first things first, he needed to find a place to live. He'd have to get a newspaper and start looking soon-no need to spend an enormous amount of money paying for a hotel room. He did have some government pay to work with, but he wasn't really a spendthrift by nature. There were some decent, quiet neighborhoods that wouldn't cost him a fortune. That's where he'd start tomorrow, bright and early. Maybe getting out and seeing the city would help rid him of this cloying sense of loss and unease.

Then, he'd have to see about work. That was the really hard part. Trouble was, he had no idea what to do with himself now that he'd left the Army. It had been all he'd known for the better part of his adult life, not counting unknown time spent in the South American jungle, of course. And he'd just divorced it.

So, what exactly do former soldiers do in the private sector? What do you do when your marketable skills run in the direction of field-stripping weapons, tracking enemies through underbrush, and being able to kill a man with your hands? That was a hell of a resume. What's more, he really couldn't see himself putting on a tie and going to an office every day. No, he shuddered at the mere thought. It would have to be something where he could get out, get out from being under anyone's microscope as he did his job. Eighteen months on his own had left him with little tolerance for being under command.

If nothing else, that became apparent in the months following his 'rescue' from Peru. Startlingly, painfully clear. He no longer could be the willing and dutiful soldier that he'd been before the mission, no longer could be bound by rules and hierarchies and ranks and drills and waiting. He'd had to get out before he was brought up for insubordination or, eventually, having to up and kill someone out of boredom and stifling claustrophobia.

Not to mention the disturbing flashbacks and dreams he'd been having. Bizarre dreams filled with voices and sounds and smells. Half a dozen times, he'd awakened needing to vomit. Afterward, it wasn't even anything he could remember. Feelings, sensations mostly-fear, loss, anger, failure, confusion. The feeling that everything around him was muffled, closed in, almost like he was trapped in a box--a shrinking, soundproof box he couldn't get out of. A base shrink had chalked it up to being back in 'civilization' and out of the jungle, but Jim knew there was more to it. But, like waking up from a dream, his memory of the jungle was clouded more each day until little was left to him.

And with it, he knew, his answers were disappearing fast. Hell, he hadn't even figured out the questions yet.

So, here he was--back in the city he'd grown up in, looking for something to do with the rest of his life. It was a tall order, and getting taller by the mile as the city began to surround him.

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

The second afternoon of house-hunting went as dismally as the first. The only apartments he'd had any actual interest in were out of his current price range. He had only a limited store of money to use until a regular paycheck became forthcoming, and until any back pay for the last year and a half came through, if ever, that wasn't much to work with. One place had been promising, but he'd been itchy as soon as he'd walked in, feeling a surge of claustrophobia. Ceilings seemed to press in on him, walls closed him off, small windows blocked off the outside. He'd just discovered a new requirement that he'd never had before--space. Lots of it, above and below and around. And he didn't know why. Another puzzle with no answers.

The upshot was that, by crossing off all the ads in today's paper fairly quickly, he was left with spare time to actually sit back and enjoy his hometown.

Without a doubt, his favorite place in Cascade was Bayside Park. He remembered coming here occasionally as a kid and watching the boats enter and leave the Harbor, or hanging out down by the private boat docks and talking to the pilots and owners. Fishing boats, whale-watching boats, pleasure boats, Coast Guard boats, cargo ships-it was a colorful cross-section of the maritime world. He allowed himself to get lost in the memory as he sat on a bench overlooking the ocean. The steel and glass monoliths across the bay seemed impossibly far away; they couldn't affect the tranquil ease of the oceanfront park. A couple of boys played with a Golden Retriever not far away, and Jim contentedly watched them while the music of the lapping ocean hummed in the background.

It was serene. It was perfect. It was a small piece of him that had been missing.

One piece down, a jigsaw puzzle to go.

"Jim?!"

The sound of his name, his given name, broke the spell. He squinted up at the face blocking the sun. "Matty?"

"Jim, it is you! How the hell are you, man?" The other man proceeded to trap him in a bear hug, full of back-slapping and arm-punching.

"Matt, God, it's been a long time." He returned the hug he was drowning in from his best high school friend. Matt. It felt like a lifetime since he'd seen the kid. "I'm fine, how about you?"

"Me? Hell, I'm okay. But you! Hey, I saw you on the cover of all those magazines last month! I mean, hit the big time, huh?"

"Oh, that." The media frenzy that descended on him when he arrived back on the local military base was not his favorite subject. Reporters shoved at him from all directions, fighting over space like dogs slavering over a particularly meaty bone. He was the butcher-block special of the day. Cameras, lights, microphones hurled in his face. Tired, out of sorts from leaving the tribe, uncertain and claustrophobic, he staunchly refused to give any of them more than a growl. But once the debriefing was finished, he was 'encouraged' by his superiors to talk to the reporter from News-to give her a nice Hero of the Day article to write up about the US Army operations in the jungle. So, he'd put himself aside and done his duty.

"Yeah, that." His old school buddy hadn't noticed the lapse. "I still have the News with you on the cover. That must've been a hell of a time down there, huh?"

The magazine in question was one of the first things that had greeted Jim when he'd landed in the US. He'd barely gotten off the plane when he was pinned by a dozen pairs of his own eyes, staring at him. A magazine stand covered in his face. It gave him the creeps. He'd had to take a good, long look at it to even recognize the man on the cover. God, was that him?

The photo was taken right after he'd been airlifted out of the mountains, still wearing camo paint and fatigues. Looking as tired and haunted as he'd felt. He'd only been aware of the cameraman with the telephoto lens after he heard the click of the shutter. But by then the damage was done-the damn vultures had stolen his most naked moment and captured it on film forever. He felt violated. Two weeks later, the reporter asked if they could splash his vulnerability across the cover of their rag and the Army brass agreed for him. It was the start of the end of his tenure with the military.

"Hey, Jim. You with me? Man, you look a little off. You okay?"

"Yeah, Matty. Sorry, I'm fine. I'm still a little jetlagged, I guess." It was as good a lie as any.

"Yeah, well how 'bout drinking it off, like the old days, huh? C'mon, what do you say?"

"I don't know, man."

"C'mon, Jim. It's been like ten years. You too good to drink with me again?"

"Moving speech, Matty. Fine. Mallory's still open?"

"No. Some coffee house there now. Coffee drinkers are taking over the world. How about Jake's down by the U."

"Not the college. That's really not my scene."

"C'mon. We used to love that place."

"Yeah, when we were twenty."

"Twenty, thirty. What's the difference? C'mon, there'll be women, alcohol, music, women, bad lighting, women, did I mention the women?"

"You trolling, Matty? What happened to Kelly?"

His friend came in close, adding in a conspiratorial whisper, "Kelly wants to get married. Married! I told her I'm not ready for the ol' ball and chain."

"Matty, you ever gonna grow up?"

"Not likely, Jim. C'mon, let's go have a good time. My treat--I won big today."

Jim smiled at his friend. Despite his faults, Matty was always great at having a good time. Maybe it was just what he needed.

Matt put an arm around his shoulders, reading his mind. "Jim, my good man, you are going to find just what you need there. I feel it, you know? Exactly the cure for what ails you."

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

Ironically, it was Matt who found what he was looking for at Jake's. She was a redhead with big green eyes and a skirt that shifted farther up her thighs each time she moved. It was working magic on Matt after a few drinks. Jim eventually found himself leaning alone against a sticky bar, wincing from the booming music and seriously considering ditching his friend. He felt like the club's designated chaperone.

Bored beyond comprehension, he took to idly watching the crowd. Had it been this long since he had gone bar-hopping? Earrings he could handle, but belly-button rings and pierced noses? Tattoos had apparently made a comeback. Of course, kids getting drunk and picking each other up still looked the same as they had when he'd been doing it.

"Excuse me."

A coed. Young, pretty, all blonde hair and blue eyes, wriggling into a spot next to him at the bar to wait for the bartender. She smiled a bit shyly at him, apologizing again. "Crowded in here, huh?"

"It is." He wasn't going to encourage a conversation with her-she was probably jail bait anyway. Fortunately, it didn't take long for her to draw another interested party-a small, stringy guy whose eyes looked a little glazed. She didn't seem to mind, shifting to let him stand next to her and giggling self-consciously.

Kids. Whatever.

"Hey, Jim, man, you're not having a good time." Matt slapped him on the back with the arm not wrapped around the redhead.

"I'm not really into this tonight, Matty. I think I'm gonna go."

"No, don't. Linda here has a friend." He waggled his eyebrows meaningfully. Jim just rolled his eyes. Matt's speech was starting to slur; which, of course, meant that Jim would at least have to stick around long enough to know whether Matty needed a ride home or not. The guy was great at obscure trivia and solving math problems but not worth a damn in taking care of himself.

"I don't think so, Matty. I'm gonna hang out over here for a while. See what turns up."

"Oohh, I get it. Keeping your options open. 'Kay, whatever." Matt had wandered off towards the dance floor before he even finished the sentence.

Jim turned back to the bar. Maybe he'd chat up the coed a bit now that he was staying longer.

She had disappeared. "Maybe not." Through the crowd, he could just see her over in the corner near the side entrance, the stringy guy all over her.

Kids. Whatever.

He signaled the bartender for another drink, settling in for the long haul.

"Jennifer? Yo, Jen!" Some college kid with long, slightly frizzy hair had appeared at his elbow, eyes searching the surrounding crowd. Jim didn't look at him too closely, not wanting the responsibility of knowing if this kid was on anything. "Excuse me, man, you see a blonde over here? About my height, blue sweater, drinking some fruity thing?"

Unable to ignore the kid any longer, he gave up watching for the bartender. "A minute ago. She's over there," he pointed toward the side door, only to find the stringy guy tugging the girl outside. She looked scared. The kid beside him swore and lit off after the two, pushing his way through the crowd. Jim stood there a minute longer, debating what to do. This wasn't really his business.

Then again, when exactly was a potential assault not anyone's business? He tossed his drink back on the bar and headed off after the long-haired kid now just disappearing out the door.

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

Just outside the door, in a shadowed niche in the smelly alley, he saw the long-haired kid shoving the stringy guy off the sobbing girl and yelling some vile things at him. Some other guy was already running off into the darkness, the second regaining his feet and taking off after him. Great, some sort of sick scam. That made the decision for him. No way in hell this guy was getting away.

He stopped briefly by the woman and her rescuer. "You okay?" He kept half an eye on her attacker while he asked.

"Yeah, she's fine," the long-haired kid filled in. "Go, man, get that SOB. Go!"

Jim did a double-take on the voice of authority coming out of the little hippie.

"Go!" he repeated, waving Jim down the alley.

"Relax, Chief, I'm on it." He felt a tiny half-smile at his incongruous helper before putting his Army training to good use in a sprint after the sicko who'd attacked a perfectly nice young girl.

Hauling ass down a dark and gritty alley, Jim began to feel something build. Blood coursing through his veins, his adrenaline pumping, his mind and body shifting into high gear. Everything working together, his whole being focusing on catching this lowlife. His prey. It was a feeling he hadn't had since he'd left his jungle home behind.

It was the feeling of being alive. It was purpose.

The guy had gotten around between the next set of apartment buildings before Jim got close enough to tackle him. He made a flying leap that he'd learned in junior high football and caught the man squarely between the shoulder blades, bringing him to the ground easily. Puffing a little, he leaned his full weight on the man and pulled both his arms behind him. He quickly found himself sitting on top of the man, wondering just what he was supposed to do with his catch now.

"Off him. Now."

The voice caught him off guard. He looked up to find himself staring at the barrel of a handgun. Damn. The first attacker.

Damn again. That was stupid. He'd been caught with his pants down; he was unarmed, in the dark, and stuck on the ground with no available cover. Stupid!

"I said, off 'im."

Jim was about to comply when a new voice boomed out. "Let's try something else. How about, 'Police! Freeze!'"

He now found himself between two drawn guns, though he vastly preferred the new gun to the one he'd been threatened with up to this point. A gray-haired man stood his ground near the entrance to the alley, holding out a badge with his left hand and a gun in his right. A plainclothes police officer. Jim sighed with relief. He was afraid he was going to have to use some of his unmentionable skills with this petty moron.

Unfortunately, said petty moron wasn't realizing it was over. He'd shifted the gun to threaten the officer, who was slowly inching forward.

"No way. I'll shoot...swear it. I will."

The guy was clearly on something. He was shaking like a groom on the way up the aisle. Jim almost laughed at the contrast between his pathetic look and his Dirty Harry words. He was waving the gun at the cop, employing all the cliches he could come up with.

"I'll waste you here, man..." Another attempt to keep the gun level while the hand holding it jittered around.

"Look, I can't even explain how bad an idea this is." The cop slid closer to him, at the same time moving away from Jim. Removing the civilian from the line of fire. Civilian. Jim was illogically insulted by the insinuation that that was what he had been reduced to. A damn civilian.

"Oh y-yeah? Seems fine t'me...Look, back off, man. Just back off."

"Let's just both back off here, slick. You put it down and then we'll go sit in the car and talk about it."

"The car?! Like we'll take a ride, man? Joey, he got busted and never seen 'im 'gain. No, no way."

"You haven't got anywhere to go, okay? Just give me the gun and we'll all walk out of here."

"No, I'm gonna go outta here alone, man..."

Jim almost laughed again. This idiot actually thought the cops were gonna let him walk away from a sexual assault and threatening an officer with a deadly weapon. He almost deserved to be removed from the gene pool then and there.

"Not gonna happen, slick. Know why?" Jim saw the cop smile briefly, an infinitesimal flicker of his eyes to the left.

"W-why?"

"'Cause you forgot something."

"What, man?"

Suddenly there was movement behind the gunman and something was sticking out of his left cheek. As Jim's eyes adjusted to the sudden shift in the scene, he realized what that something was.

A gun.

Specifically, the barrel of a police-issue sidearm.

"His partner." A whisper, deadly soft and predatory, barely audible over the sounds of sirens and arriving police cars. The gun's owner, said partner, was holding still the now-much-more-subdued gunman by the cold barrel pressed up against his cheekbone. The guy stood there another few seconds, clearly recalculating his options. Even high, he realized that the odds had just changed. He was screwed.

"Okay, man, here. Here." He handed his gun to the cop at his side.

"Never forget the partner, kid."

"Need any help here, Jack?" A booming voice interrupted the cops' cuffing and mirandizing the guy. Jim saw a tall black man coming down the alley now, also in plainclothes. Rather stylish plainclothes at that.

"Uh, nope, Cap, I think we've got it all covered. Junior here was just rethinking this whole 'resisting arrest' thing." The gray-haired cop shook the guy just a bit.

"Good." The man turned to look at Jim now, making him feel a bit foolish there sitting on the ground on top of the second man. "And you are?"

"Ellison. James Ellison."

"He ran this guy down for us, Cap."

"He did, huh? Well, Mr. Ellison, as much as the city appreciates your assistance," he pulled up Jim's trophy by the collar, giving Jim an exaggerated smile that made him feel irrationally small, "that was a damn foolish thing to do."

"You're welcome," he responded dryly.

"Hey, Cap, what about the girl?"

"She's fine. Her friend is going to the hospital with her. He's already ID'd the suspects. Should be a nice open-and-shut case."

"Good," the one named Jack slung an arm around the captain's shoulders. "I'd hate to have my last case in Narcotics be anything less than perfect."

The third cop, the partner, handed his cuffed man off to another uniformed officer. "You know you're gonna miss us up there playing with the big boys in Major Crime, Jack."

"Like hell I will. Finally I can be with detectives of my own caliber, Pete." He brushed imaginary dust off the other's lapel and turned to head toward the street.

"Just wait until I get the command, Pendergrast, and we'll see how fast you want to get bumped back down into the trenches again."

"That mean you're gonna stay, Cap? Wasn't it just two weeks ago, you said nothing could keep you here permanently? I *told* you we'd get to you."

"Hell, I didn't know you needed so much help. I think it's a damn good thing I'm here. I've got my work cut out for me."

"Makes me glad I'm getting out while I can, Pete."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so smug, Jack. I'm thinking that office in Major Crime would fit me just about right."

The three had almost reached the street entrance, a flurry of red and blue lights waiting for them. Jim watched them with an uncomfortable feeling of envy. The easy camaraderie, the comfortable familiarity, the ease of teammates, the high of a job well done. Damn, he missed that.

The big black captain turned around to Jim. "You all right, Mr. Ellison?"

"Uh, yeah." Jim smiled. "Fine." And for the first time in months, he was. And he was going to stay that way.

Of all the strange things to have happened to him in the last two years, this had to beat all. James Ellison, formerly of the United States Army, once a warrior for the Chopec tribe of Peru, long-time prodigal son of Cascade, Washington, realized he'd found what he was looking for. Having traveled across and around the whole damn globe, he found it here in a grimy alley a dozen blocks from his elementary school.

Matty had been right, after all, when he'd said he'd find what he needed here tonight.

"Something funny, Mr. Ellison?"

"Nope. Nothing." He hurried to catch up with the officers. "Tell me, Captain. How do you like being a police officer..."

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

The Beginning