Rating: Strong PG-13, mostly for angst and violence.

Category: Case Story, Drama

Warning: Heavy doses of owies for all involved. We've got Jim whumping, Blair thumping, Simon thwapping. Plus a few others get their fair share. Spoilers for various episodes.

Notes: This story was published as a novel-zine by Agent With Style last year and is now available on the web. It is a labor of love, beginning in the fall of 1999 and finally ending in spring of 2001. I want to thank my four betas Shelley Knepley, Franziska, Toni Rae, and Kimberly Workman, for all your hard work and inspiration. And a special thank you to Mysti, for believing a long story could be a novel.

Disclaimer: Characters of "The Sentinel" belong to TPTB. I claim the bad guys and some of the good guys that help out along the way.

"Sandburg? Sandburg!" Jim Ellison repeated the name over and over as he wove his way through the gathered crowd of police officers and curious onlookers. In the midst of the shoot-out, he had seen his partner go down on the other side of the road. Now that the fire fight was over and the Contino family was in custody, Jim needed to find Blair Sandburg--anthropology grad student and Guide to his Sentinel roommate--and make sure he was all right.

Jim's sensitive ears picked out a familiar heartbeat in the midst of a circle of paramedics. The heartbeat was strong, but too fast for Jim's liking. Then a smooth, tenor voice cut above the ruckus; it was music to the Sentinel's ears.

<"For the umpteenth time, I'm fine. It hit the vest. Now will you let me go? I have to find Jim.">

The irritation in Blair's voice made Jim grin. It was just like Blair to worry about others when he was also surrounded by medical personnel. His Guide was a natural caregiver, never stopping to take note of his own injuries if someone else was in need.

Jim pushed past a paramedic and found Blair perched on the edge of a stretcher, pulling his shirt down over taped ribs. The curly-haired man shot to his feet when he spotted his partner.

"Jim!" Blair yelled, the concerned expression of a few moments ago melting away at the sight of his unharmed friend. The sudden movement evoked a yelp of pain so soft only Jim could hear it. But it was enough to make him worry.

"You okay, Chief?" Jim asked, averting his ice blue eyes from the frayed hole in Blair's T-shirt, just below the younger man's heart. //That was too close. //

"I'm fine, man. Kevlar to the rescue. How about you?"

Jim sensed the unspoken question beneath those words. Detective Ellison had been undercover in the Contino family for almost two months, getting close to one of the most powerful organized crime families in Cascade. It had been grueling work, even for an ordinary detective. It was harder on Jim, being separated from his Guide for so long. He knew Simon had threatened Blair several times with a jail sentence to keep him away from the family. The case was too important for any foul-ups. Jim had gone through hell and back to get the Contino's to trust him; they were too careful to accept two outsiders at the same time.

Jim had almost zoned out on several occasions, but Blair's soft voice in the back of his head, guiding even in his physical absence, had been enough to prevent them. Seeing Blair shot just ten short minutes ago had twisted his guts into an icy lump that only now began to melt. Both men were ecstatic to be back in each other's company.

"Looks like we came out on top," Jim said lightly, indicating the scene around them. "Only two of our guys shot, to five of theirs." He sighed deeply. "I still wish it had gone down better."

Blair looked at his best friend with luminous blue eyes. He knew Jim couldn't have been so close to those people for that long without making some sort of attachment, whether he wanted to or not. And Jim took his attachments seriously.

"Hey, Jim, man, they were the enemy," Blair said slowly.

Jim nodded. "I know that, Darwin. But Kevin was so young." Jim watched a body bag roll by on a gurney. "He wanted to be a chemist."

"And he was shooting at cops, Jim. He was shooting at me." He knew it was a low blow, but if anything, Blair knew that would bring Jim back to the job at hand. And it worked like a charm.

Jim's jaw clenched. "You're right. Man, I am glad this job is over."

"Don't worry, Jim. I think Simon said something about a vacation..."

Both men turned their sapphire gazes toward the tall, black man directing the scene several yards away. His booming bass voice, delivering orders left and right, drifted back to the pair of men. Captain Simon Banks was in his element.

"Ellison!" Simon called.

Jim told Blair to meet him by the younger man's Volvo, then turned to his captain.

"I need you to come in tomorrow morning to fill out some reports of the last few days," Simon ordered. "Then you’ve got five days vacation, no arguments."

"Hadn't planned to argue, sir. This case wiped me to the bone. Besides, Blair and I have barely spoken in two months."

"Well, get him a hobby or something, would you? He's spent the past seven weeks underfoot in the bullpen looking like a lost puppy. Between his classes and worrying about you, the kid's probably as wiped as you are."

Jim managed to crack a grin at the mental image of the detectives of Major Crime tripping over his longhaired partner. It was good to be back among friends.

"I'll see what I can do, Simon," Jim said as he walked away, still grinning.

~*~

The next morning, Jim walked out of Simon's office and into a heated argument. //Well, as heated as such a silly argument could get, // Jim mused. He watched his Guide, perched on the edge of Jim's desk, flail expressively with his hands as he continued his dialogue with Henri Brown.

"Aw, come on, man," Blair moaned. "Everything was tied up at the end. TNG left everything open--no closure there."

"That's why it was so good!" Brown insisted. "They left it open for three more movies, which were really cool, I might add."

"Not arguing that, but the finale sucked eggs!"

"Oh, okay, and we're supposed to believe that Sisko would--"

"Guys!" Jim shouted into the din.

Two pairs of eyes, blue and brown, locked onto those of the Sentinel. The objects of his attention had the intelligence to look rather sheepish, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Jim just stared at them.

"What are you two arguing about?" Jim asked, thoroughly confused. "Movies? Finales? Who's Sisko?"

Blair and Brown exchanged looks. Jim could have sworn Blair blushed as he mumbled his answer.

"What was that?" Jim asked over-dramatically. "I didn't quite hear."

Blair raised his eyebrow, but repeated himself. "Star Trek."

"What about it?"

Brown scratched his chin, avoiding eye contact as he explained. "We were arguing about series finales."

"Uh huh." Jim had no real interest in what the men had to say about an underrated space show. He just liked to see his partner and friend squirm under his scrutiny. It was kind of fun.

Blair seemed to catch onto Jim's game and switched his tone to one he used with students that still didn't understand the material after his third explanation. "You see, the series finale for 'Deep Space Nine' was on a few weeks ago. It was really awesome, man, you should have seen it."

Jim raised an eyebrow and Blair continued. "Anyway, earlier I made a comment, then H made a comment. He thinks the finale for 'The Next Generation' was better."

"They left it open, man. DS9 practically shut down shop," Brown added, still adamant that he was right.

"What do you think, Jim?" Blair asked.

Jim shook his head. "Personally, I think you're both nuts." A sly smile spread across his lips. "The original series was classic, though."

Blair snorted. "It is classic, Jim," he said sarcastically. "That show was done in the sixties, before they were even capable of a decent Klingon mask. They looked like poorly dressed roadies with bad haircuts."

Henri stifled a laugh.

At that moment, Rafe walked by the trio. "I kinda like 'Voyager' myself," the impeccably dressed detective commented.

Blair made a face. "Don't they show that on UPN?"

"Yeah, man," Brown agreed. "That network couldn't keep good programming if it was staring them in the face."

Rafe grinned and backed away, his hands open in mock surrender. "Just expressing an opinion."

Henri stroked his chin thoughtfully and said, "Although, that Borg chick is kinda cute."

"Brown! Rafe!" The beckoned men's heads snapped up to see Simon standing in the doorway of his office. "Are you two looking for work, because I can have some more paperwork in your boxes-."

"Sorry, sir," Rafe said, scurrying away.

"I was just, ah, um, I'll go do that thing…." Brown trailed off as he headed for his desk.

Simon turned his attention to the mismatched pair standing near Jim's desk. "You two go home. I don't want to see either one of you for five days, is that clear?"

Two heads nodded. Satisfied, Simon turned and was about to return to his office when he remembered the reason for his trek into the bullpen.

"Anyone seen Connor?" he asked.

Sentinel and Guide automatically looked at the young Australian Inspector's vacant desk. The curly-haired woman always seemed to be around. She rarely took sick days and probably had as many saved vacation days as Jim. It struck them as odd that they hadn't noticed her absence before.

"I haven't seen her all morning, Simon," Jim said, a hint of worry in his voice.

"It isn't like her to not call," Simon commented.

"Maybe it was a family emergency or something," Blair offered.

"Yeah, maybe," Simon echoed, not fully convinced.

Joel Taggert chose that moment to saunter into the bullpen, a stack of envelopes in one hand, a white rose in the other.

Henri let out a low whistle. "Hey, man. You got a secret admirer or something?"

Joel grinned and dropped the flower on Megan's desk. "No, but I think Connor does. The card's for her, but it was in my mailbox."

"Maybe Megan has a secret admirer," Blair mused.

"Could be. Just says, 'To Megan, From Me,' in big block letters." Joel shrugged. "Kinda cryptic."

Jim's eyes never left the rose. The sweet scent emanating from the flower tickled his senses, pulling at his memory. There was something familiar about the smell, something dangerous. If only he could put his finger on it. If only--

"Jim," Blair hissed again. "You with me?"

Jim blinked and looked into his Guide's concerned face. He looked around, glad to note that no one was paying attention to him and Simon had returned to his office. "Yeah, it wasn't a zone. The rose triggered some sort of memory, but I can't place it."

"Really? Why don't we--?"

"No tests, Darwin," Jim admonished playfully. "Nothing but peace and quiet for the next five days. Let's get out of here."

Blair nodded his approval and snagged his coat from the tree behind Jim's desk.

Rafe eyed Simon's closed door and stood up at his desk, stretching his lean muscles. "I don't know about you guys, but I am in desperate need of a good caffeine fix. I'm heading for Starbucks. Any takers?"

Jim shook his head and grabbed his keys off his desk. He and Blair exited the bullpen while Joel placed his order in that strange coffee language that Jim could never understand. //What ever happened to large coffee with cream and sugar? Now it's a tall, no-fat double mochacino latte, or whatever. // Jim grinned. Right now, all he wanted to think about were the five days that loomed before him: no cases, no responsibilities, no tests on his senses. Just lots of rest and relaxation.

~*~

Simon Banks glared at the clock on his wall. A tiny part of him wished the hour hand was just extremely fast, but he knew better. Daryl was late--two and half-hours late, to be exact. The police captain had been in a meeting for the better half of the afternoon and had returned expecting a lecture from his son on being on time. Instead, his office was empty and no one in the bullpen had seen the teenager all day. Simon was worried.

He called several of Daryl's friends, but no one had been in contact with him today. As a last-ditch measure, Simon dialed his ex-wife's number. //Maybe she forgot it was my weekend to see Daryl. // Unlikely, since they had just spoken about it three days ago. More likely, Daryl had lost track of time and hadn't left yet.

Joan answered on the second ring. <" 'Lo?">

"It's Simon. Has Daryl left yet?"

<"Simon? He left here almost three hours ago. Said he wanted to surprise you by being early for a change.">

Simon grunted. Joan heard the sound and was alarmed.

<"What? Isn't he there yet?">

"He's a little late, but it's probably nothing. I'm sure he just ran into some friends and lost track of time." He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.

<"Maybe. Hey, Simon, does Daryl have a girlfriend?">

The sudden topic change threw him for a moment. "No, not that I know of. Why?"

<"I found a white rose taped to the door a little while ago. There was a slip of paper on it that said, 'For Daryl, From Me.' Think it's a secret admirer?">

The familiarity of those words hit Simon like a block of ice. He thought back to the other recently delivered rose now sitting on his absent detective's desk. Simon fought back a screeching sense of panic to say, "Maybe. Listen, I have to go. Daryl might try to call."

<"Fine. Let me know when he finally gets there. Okay?">

"Sure, Joan. Bye."

Simon hung up before she could utter a reply. He sprang from his desk and strode out of his office. As he neared his destination, Simon could see the white rose propped up next to an empty coffee mug on Megan's desk. The black man snatched up the flower and read the attached note, his eyes widening as he read the nearly identical message.

//Something screwy is going on here, // Simon thought bitterly. He quickly scanned the bullpen. His eyes landed on Detective Brown, hunched over his own desk with a pile of paperwork. The captain strode over to his detective.

"Brown!" Simon barked, spooking the younger man in front of him. "Where's your partner?"

Henri Brown looked slowly around the bullpen, genuinely surprise that his partner wasn't present. He hadn't even noticed Rafe's absence. He'd been totally absorbed by the pile forms and reports he was attempting to put a dent in. Henri looked at Simon, his brown eyes filled with amazement.

"Jeez, Cap, I didn't even know he wasn't here." He paused, racking his brain for hidden information. "In fact, I don't remember him ever coming back from Starbucks."

"And that never struck you as odd?"

"I haven't looked up from these forms in that last three hours. A marching band could have come through playing 'Bring in Da Noise' and I wouldn't have heard them. Wonder where he is."

"Call his cell phone," the captain ordered.

Brown nodded and dialed Rafe's number. When the phone service announced the user was not answering his or her cell phone, the discouraged detective hung up. "No answer." He called Rafe's home number and the number of his current girlfriend. The result was the same. "No freakin' answer," he muttered. "Where the hell is he?"

A thought struck Simon and he bolted from the room. Brown hesitated momentarily, then followed his captain out of the bullpen. The younger detective finally caught up with his superior in the mailroom. He paused in the doorway; actually, he was blocked from moving any further. Simon had stopped a few steps inside the room and was staring at something just beyond his line of sight. Brown stepped carefully to the side of the taller man, his jaw going slack at the sight of his own mailbox. Placed carefully inside was a white rose. A simple paper tag carried an inscription of four words: For Rafe, From Me.

"Shit."

"Ditto."

~*~

Jim stared at the car chase through heavy eyelids. He was stretched out on the couch, trying to watch "Die Hard" for the umpteenth time and failing miserably. He was just too tired. His eyes drooped for a minute that stretched into two, three, four. The scratching sound of a chair against the floor jolted the exhausted Sentinel awake. He looked behind the couch and met the eyes of his Guide. The younger man flung a red pen into the garbage can and glared at the pile of papers spread across the surface of the kitchen table.

"Damn it! That was my last pen, too." Blair stalked into the kitchen and began rummaging through the cabinets.

"What did you lose?" Jim asked, watching Blair with amusement.

"Are we out of coffee?" he returned, his head stuck in a cabinet.

"How should I know?"

"Good point." Blair straightened up and strode to the front door, grabbing his jacket from its hook.

"Where are you going?" Jim inquired as Blair shrugged into his jacket.

"I need coffee if I'm going to stay awake and finish these tests," Blair answered, indicating the papers he had just abandoned. "I can get more pens while I'm out, too."

"Finish them later. You've had a hard time of it these last few months, too, you know. You need to rest. How are we supposed to function as a team if I'm rested and you're asleep on your feet?"

"Point taken, man, but I promised my students I would have these finished and posted by tomorrow. It'll take all of ten minutes to walk down to that little grocery store a few blocks away. Add maybe another hour to mark these, then I am ready to relax, I'm telling you."

Blair's over-exuberance made Jim grin. "Ten minutes?"

Blair returned the grin. "Ten minutes, Jim. Want me to bring you a candy bar?"

The curly-haired anthropologist slipped quickly out the door, effectively dodging the airborne magazine that Jim had hurtled at him.

Jim focused his keen hearing into his Guide's heartbeat, the familiar rhythm echoing in his ears. He had missed that sound greatly during his long stretch undercover. It was something he had become accustomed to hearing, a pulse too precious to lose. The heartbeat had stopped only once before, leaving a desperate and panicked Sentinel in its wake. Jim had been sure his own heart had stopped. But Blair's heart had not been silenced for good; the pounding in Jim's ears was proof of that. Jim extended his hearing to the limit as he followed Blair out of the building, letting the sound of his friend and partner's heartbeat lull him into a peaceful sleep.

.... a raucous noise in the Sentinel's ears. With his hearing still stretched to the limit, the sound sliced through his head like a hot knife. Jim's hands automatically clamped down over his ears, while he simultaneously dialed down his sense of hearing. With the painful noise under control, the wide-awake man reached for the phone seconds before the machine picked it up.

"Ellison," he barked. His voice echoed around the loft, alerting Jim to the fact that he was alone. Blair hadn't returned from the store yet.

<"It's Simon. Look, we've got a problem.">

Jim groaned inwardly. "What now? Is it something with the Contino case?"

<"No, it's not that.">

Jim sighed with relief. //I--no, we have all worked too damn hard and too damn long on this case to see it screwed up now. But if that's not it-- //

<"Rafe's missing. And Megan, too. We can't locate them and their cells are turned off."> The police captain paused and Jim could almost see the man pinching the bridge of his nose. <"I think Daryl's missing, too.">

//Damn. //

Simon relayed the messages on the three roses.

//Double damn. // Jim remembered his reaction to the rose on Megan's desk that morning. A mental image slammed into his mind. He saw roses, all colors, scattered around the floor of an empty warehouse. "There were roses there."

The random statement caught Simon off guard. <"What?">

"I'm not sure, sir. The rose on Connor's desk this morning triggered something, a memory of some sort. I just got a clear vision of a pile of roses in a warehouse, but I have no idea where."

There was a muffled voice on Simon's end of the line. <"One second, Jim. I've got another call.">

Seconds ticked off into a minute before the captain came back on.

<"Jim?">

The Sentinel heard the hesitancy in Simon's voice that immediately set off alarm bells. "What happened?"

<"Judy Palmieri was found murdered in her home.">

Jim's heart skipped a beat. //No. // He'd gone to the Academy with Judy. She'd graduated fifth in the class and had had a promising career to look forward to. Just two years after joining the Cascade Police Department, her knee had been shattered in a random drive-by shooting. The leg had been amputated and she moved to Tacoma with her husband. Jim hadn't known that she'd moved back to Cascade until a chance meeting three weeks ago while he was undercover. He'd meant to get up with her now that the Contino case was wrapped up....

<"Jim?">

"I heard. I'll meet you there."

<"You are off duty--">

"She was a friend of mine, sir." Jim knew the captain could order him to stay away, but that wouldn't do much good. He'd get involved with this investigation no matter what. "Besides, it sounds like you're down a couple of detectives."

Simon sighed. <"All right. Everything about this is making me nervous, anyway. The address is 1034 Collegiate Drive.">

"I'm there." Jim committed the information to memory and disconnected before his superior could respond. He grabbed his keys and coat and charged out the front door. He was so focused on the task at hand he was only vaguely aware of something being out of place. It wasn't until the Sentinel was seated behind the wheel of his truck that he looked over and realized what was amiss: his Guide was not there.

//Dammit, Chief. Couldn't you have picked another day to dilly-dally at the store? // The thought echoed through Jim's mind as his Ford sped through the streets of Cascade.

~*~

The first thing that struck Jim was the smell. It filtered over to him the second he exited the truck and grew steadily stronger the closer he walked to the house. Yellow tape had already cordoned off the yard and police cars surrounded the one-story rancher. Jim slipped under the tape and approached the house, careful to dial down his sense of smell as he went.

He entered the front door and followed Simon's voice. It led him down a sparsely decorated hallway to the kitchen. The captain was standing in the doorway, watching two forensics techs sweep the room. Jim could have sworn the black man's skin was shaded green. Simon saw him coming and blanched.

"It's pretty bad in there, Jim," he warned.

Jim nodded and stepped into the room. Bile welled up in his throat as he took in the scene, the grisly murder of someone he had once known. Large blood smears covered the surface of the white wall cabinets, creating a sort of tie-dyed effect. Red was splattered on the counters and across the refrigerator. A deep pool of blood oozed across the linoleum floor.

Taking a deep breath, Jim moved to the other side of the island. He blinked once at the sight of broken bones, torn flesh and matted hair, then looked away. He'd never seen anything like it. //One human being did this to another. Jesus. //

"We're trying to find her husband," Simon said. "Brown's asking the neighbors if they saw anything."

Jim's eyes swept across the floor and landed on a piece of cooking equipment. "He killed her with a frying pan," Jim said, squatting next to the blood-caked item.

"Looks that way," a forensics tech said.

Henri Brown appeared in the doorway, unwilling to venture farther into the room. "Got something interesting from one of the neighbors. Seems Mr. Palmieri has been in a hospital for the last four years."

"What hospital?" Banks asked.

"They didn't know, but he hasn't been home in that time. Chronic care ward, they think."

"Find him."

"I'm on it," Henri said, disappearing once again.

Simon's cell phone chirped to life. "Banks."

Jim ignored the call and turned to the tech. "Any sign of forced entry?"

"Nope. The damage is limited to the kitchen and nothing seems to be stolen, so burglary is out."

"Jim!"

Jim turned towards his captain's voice. Simon was putting away his cell phone. "Detective Dills traced those roses to Second Street Florists. It's almost closing time, so we've got to go."

Not wasting words, Jim followed his captain out of the house.

~*~

The burly, ex-Ranger cop and the glowering captain would have intimidated anyone else as they strode into Second Street Flowers; but the florist was apparently not just anyone. A nasty frown greeted Jim and Simon as they entered the shop and glanced at the man behind the counter.

Simon Banks ignored the warning glare from the young man and approached him, flashing his badge. "I'm Captain Banks, Cascade PD. This is Detective Ellison."

"Roger Reese."

"We called earlier about a man who purchased some white roses," Jim said.

Roger simply looked at him. "Uh-huh."

Jim and Simon exchanged annoyed glances.

"What did this man look like?" Simon asked.

"Average height, brown hair, hazel eyes, I think. Nothing real remarkable."

"And he bought how many?"

"Four."

Jim's ears pricked up. Four roses?

"How did he pay?" Simon asked.

"Cash."

"And he never said his name?" Jim asked.

"Nope."

//Damn. No way to trace that now. // Jim focused intense blue eyes on Roger. "Did he say anything out of the ordinary when he bought them?"

Roger considered this. "Come to think of it, he kinda did. He said they had to be the best ones. I asked if they were for a girl. He kinda snorted and said 'These are for something that will give me more pleasure than any broad.' Knowing people and their weird habits today, I let it drop right there."

"Thank you, Mr. Reese," Banks said. "If it's not too much trouble, we'd like you to go to Central Precinct sometime today so we can get an official statement and have you go over the description with a sketch artist."

"Hey, no skin off my teeth," Roger agreed grumpily.

Jim left the flower shop, his keen mind turning the new information over and over. //Megan, Rafe and Daryl missing. The guy bought four roses. Four...uh oh. //

"Dammit!" Jim swore, yanking his cell phone from his coat pocket and dialing.

The outburst caught Simon's attention. "Jim? What is it?"

Jim ignored his friend's question, his attention focused entirely on the ringing on the other end of the line. //Come on, Chief, be home. Please, God, let him be home. // There was a click as the machine picked up. Jim hung up before his own monotone voice could tell him to leave a message. Fear gnawed at his intestines. Oblivious to Simon Banks' concerned voice, Jim hotfooted it to his truck and gunned the engine.

The short drive back to the loft was lost in the constant mantra in his head. //Not Blair. He's fine. He's home or at the U. He's fine. Not Blair...not again…. //

The mantra continued as Jim slammed the Ford to a stop in front of 852 Prospect and raced into the building. It diminished as Jim stretched out his hearing, desperately searching for a heartbeat in the loft. Nothing.

Barely winded from his trek up three flights of stairs, Jim paused in the stairwell as a familiar scent hit his nostrils. It was sickeningly sweet, as if mocking him. The Sentinel knew what awaited him even before he stepped into the hall and stood at his front door. The sight sent shivers down his spine and settled a chunk of ice in his stomach.

A white rose was taped to the door, with a simple note. "For Blair, From Me."

~*~

The first thing he was aware of was the chill. It seemed to envelop every inch of his body, leaving him cold inside and out. The second thing he noticed was that he couldn't move. Not that there was anywhere to go. The room was pitch black. A dull pain sliced through his skull, making him groan softly.

"Sandy?"

Blair froze at the familiar accent and turned his head toward the sound, ignoring his protesting muscles and the ache in his head. "Megan?" He squinted into the gloom, but was unable to make out any shapes. He could barely see the chair he was strapped to. "Can you see me?"

"No, why?"

"Just making sure I'm not blind. How'd you know it was me?"

"You mumble when you're asleep. I recognized your voice. Are we alone?"

An answering groan echoed in the room, giving the impression of a large, open space.

"Who's that?" Megan called out.

"Who're you?" a young voice shot back.

Blair's skin prickled. "Daryl?"

"Blair? Man, am I glad to hear your voice."

"Glad to be heard."

"Everyone okay?" a forth voice chimed in.

"Rafe?" Blair and Megan asked in stereo.

"Unfortunately," was the dry response.

"Hey, guys, what's going on?" Daryl asked, fear making his voice crack. "Where are we?"

"I don't know, Daryl," Blair said honestly. "But we're going to be fine. You're dad, and Jim and everyone are looking for us right now. We just have to be patient. Okay?"

"Okay."

Blair tugged against the cord that bound his wrists, but to no avail. All he managed to do was lose circulation in his pinkie. A chair scraped nearby.

Rafe sighed deeply. "Anybody have a clue as to why we're here?"

A long silence was his only answer.

"But that would spoil the fun, wouldn't it, Detective?" an unfamiliar voice said, startling the captives.

An overhead light was switched on, blinding the four prisoners. As Blair struggled to regain his vision, he felt his bonds loosening. He also felt the barrel of a gun press into his neck. Hot breath tickled the young anthropologist's ear.

"You're first," another voice said. "Any funny moves and we kill one of your friends."

Blair squinted against the light and was able to make out his three companions, all similarly tied to chairs placed at intervals around the large, sterile room, possibly a basement of some sort. An average-looking man, with brown hair and a thin mustache leaned casually against the frame of the room's only door, pointing a second gun at Megan. Blair glanced at the man next to him, wrinkling his nose at his foul breath. He was huge, taller than Jim and almost as burly as Joel. There was no way Blair could overpower him.

"What do you want?" Blair asked the brown-haired man, refusing to show his fear to either of their captors.

His response was delighted laughter. "Oh, but it's too good to tell now! You'll just have to wait like the rest of us. But I'll make you a deal. All of you." He spread his arm to indicate all four prisoners. "Cooperate, and I promise you go home alive. Screw with me and you go home in pieces."

"Gee, when you put it that way…." Rafe drawled.

.

The shorter man glared at Rafe, then beckoned to his companion, who violently yanked Blair to his feet. He half-led, half-dragged Sandburg to the door. Blair stared right into the brown-haired man's eyes; his defiance faltered when he saw what was in them. The man's hazel eyes glinted in the light, giving them a predatory aura, akin to a wild beast, caged for far too long. It frightened Blair. He stole a glance back at his friends. They were watching him with mottled expressions of fear and worry. Blair flashed them a smile and was pulled through. The door slammed shut behind the trio with a deafening thud.

~*~

Jim stared at the rose forever; time stoof still as the scent played on his memories. He felt himself slipping away, into a time he'd just as soon forget.

**He was standing outside a warehouse, flak jacket on, gun poised and ready. Simon and Henri were flanking him, both prepared for immediate action. Three. Two. One.

~*Crack*~

A small side door was kicked inward. Three men rushed forward, desperately seeking their quarry. Jim crept past a spot on the floor covered with roses of all colors and sizes. He sneezed, the overpowering sweetness making him nauseous. On he went, stopping outside a closed office door. Unlocked. With anger to spare, he kicked in the door, training his weapon on the man inside.

A smug face stared back at Jim from behind a shock a brown hair. He raised a rifle, grinning like a demon.**

"Ellison!"

The shout brought Jim out of his trance. He blinked several times at Simon, trying desperately to place a name with the face he had just seen.

The captain spotted the rose. "Damn."

"We arrested this guy once before, Simon," Jim said absently.

"What?"

"From 'me.' Me. M-E. M--"

"Jim, what are you talking about?"

"You and H were there when we arrested him. God, what was his name?" Ice blue eyes lit up. "McManus. Edward McManus."

Banks cocked his head. "I remember that case. He was arrested for drug trafficking, if I remember correctly."

"Edward McManus. E-M. M-E. Me. 'From me.' The asshole's taunting us."

Simon frowned. "How can we be sure this is the same guy?"

"Wait until that florist gives his statement and sits down with a sketch artist."

Banks nodded, his response interrupted by the chirping of his cell phone. He yanked it from his overcoat and flipped it open, eliciting a terse, "Banks."

Jim ignored etiquette and listened.

<"Sir, it's Brown. We tracked Mr. Verne Palmieri to Keaton Psychiatric Hospital. He was a patient there for the last six years. Apparently he left two days ago without signing himself out.">

"He leaves right before his wife is found murdered." Simon sighed. "I'm sending a Forensics team to the loft. Sandburg's gone and someone left Ellison a gift. You meet the team here. Jim and I are heading out to that hospital--"

Jim was instantly down the hall and into the stairwell, not waiting for his captain. One friend had just been found murdered and another was missing. He was not a happy Sentinel.

~*~

A ten-foot stone wall loomed in front of the Sedan. Barbed wire looped across the top of the barrier, giving the wall an impenetrable air. A wrought iron gate was the only entrance, punctuated by a small brick hut with two uniformed men inside. The car approached slowly, as if hesitant to get too close to the building hiding within.

A security guard met the car, clipboard in hand.

Simon flashed his badge at the stern-looking man. "We're with the Cascade Police. We have an appointment here to meet Sheriff Johnson."

"What is this in regards to?"

"Verne Palmieri's disappearance," Simon replied.

The man checked his keyboard. "Captain Banks and Detective Ellison?"

Simon nodded.

"Drive straight up to the main building," the guard said. "Go in the double doors to the receptionist's desk. The Sheriff will meet you there."

"Thank you."

The guard walked back to the small building. A minute later, the gate crept open. Simon maneuvered his car through the open gate and up a winding gravel drive. Tall willow trees lined the road, blowing gently in the afternoon breeze. They coasted over a small hill and a sprawling building made its appearance.

Keaton Hospital reminded Simon more of an old-fashioned monastery than a professional building. The three-story brick structure had a large porch, its roof held up by arched pillars. The front of the hospital stretched for a rough three hundred feet; it was impossible to tell how far back it spread. The roof raised and peeked several times, each peek accentuated by a small round window.

//The only windows in the place that don't have bars on them, // Simon thought bitterly. He glanced at his companion as he parked the Sedan. Ellison's disdain for the place shone obviously on his face.

"Doesn't look like a place you can just walk out of, does it?" Jim asked thoughtfully.

Simon parked the car. "No, it doesn't. Looks more like an old mansion than a hospital." He sighed and pocketed his keys. "Let's go."

~*~

Moans, screams, wails, curses--all of these sounds assaulted the Sentinel's ears, further lowering his opinion of the hospital. He knew his companions couldn't hear what he heard and he considered Simon and the sheriff lucky. Picturing dials as his Guide had taught, Jim turned down his hearing and focused on what was in front of him.

The cell was small and sparsely furnished. That fact alone was disturbing, but there was more. Jim ran his hand along the made-up bed, feeling the stark coldness of the sheets and blanket. He opened his nostrils to the hidden scents of the linen and immediately sneezed. It was covered with a coating of dust, unusual for a room that had been occupied up until three days ago. Pale spots marred the grayish wall where several news clippings had been removed.

Jim also identified another out of place smell: Pledge. The room had recently been dusted, but whoever had done it forgot to shake the bed linen. He let his eyes travel across the room, picking over the obvious, trying to identify the hidden. His sight zeroed in on a spot near the scarred, wooden desk. He was vaguely aware of his companions following him as he made his way across the room.

"Anybody got tweezers?" Jim asked no one in particular.

The item in question made its way into his hands and, with them, he produced a piece of hair snagged on a crack in the wood. He held the hair up to the light for the other's benefit.

"Looks like your team missed something," Banks commented to the local sheriff on his right. Sheriff Johnson merely grunted.

"It's blonde," Jim said, his voice hinting at annoyance. "Palmieri has black hair." He carefully placed the hair in an evidence bag and slipped in into his coat pocket. He turned his attention to the sheriff. "Could you excuse us?"

The sheriff nodded and left the two men together.

"What is it, Jim?" Simon asked.

"This whole thing feels wrong, sir," Jim started. "The room has been recently dusted, but someone missed the bed. It hasn't been sat on, much less slept in for weeks, at least."

"So this guy supposedly cold-cocks a guard, steals his uniform and walks right out of the building, unnoticed. I don't like it," Simon finished. "Not to mention the fact that no one seems to know anything about it. No one saw anything, heard anything or is saying anything."

"Have they pulled up the security tapes for us yet?"

"That's our next stop," Simon answered, motioning his detective to follow him out of the room.

On the way to the security office, Jim had a sudden realization. "Hey, how come the Feds weren't called in instead of the locals? Isn't this a state hospital?"

Simon frowned. "Seems most of the money this place gets is from private donors, not the government. Places this case under local jurisdiction."

"County sheriff," Jim spat. "And Sheriff Johnson doesn't seem particularly thrilled that we're here. Or is it just me?" he deadpanned.

"On any other day I'd say it was you," Banks said, masking a grin.

"Thank you, sir," Jim said sweetly.

"Don't mention it. We're here."

Simon rapped his knuckles against the door frame and walked in without waiting for an invitation. A portly rent-a-cop was perched behind a bank of video monitors, each set on a different part of the hospital. A larger screen, set apart from the others, was the only one not on. The security guard grunted at the intrusion and stood up, eyeing the newcomers.

The police captain raised his badge. "Captain Banks, Cascade PD. My associate," he pointed, "Detective Ellison. Do you have the security tapes I asked for?"

"Eddie Boraz," the guard said. "Yeah, the tape's ready to play. Nothing there to help you, though."

"Humor us," Simon ordered, coming across less gently than he'd intended.

The gruffness wasn't lost on Eddie. His fingers danced across a keyboard, bringing up a paused image on the lone screen. He waved at the men; they gathered around, staring intently at the monitor.

"This is just before Todd went into the guy's room," Eddie explained.

"Todd Manx is the guy that got hit, right?" Jim asked.

Eddie nodded.

"And why was he going into Palmieri's room in the first place?" Simon inquired.

"Don't know," Eddie answered quickly. "None of my business."

"See no evil, speak no evil," Jim muttered.

The three men watched the grainy, black and white images on the screen. Todd entered the frame. His build was similar to Palmieri's. He was dressed in a white orderly's uniform, his hair color hidden under a white baseball cap. He had an object of some sort in his hands, but with his back to the camera, it was indistinguishable.

Jim's sensitive eyes wandered over the screen, trying to see what he knew the others couldn't. His gaze stopped when he saw a barely noticeable flash of light near Todd's left ear. //An earring, probably. //

The action progressed. Nurses and orderlies passed Palmieri's door, no one paying attention to anything that may have been going on in the room. After several minutes, a figure emerged from the room, dressed in Todd's uniform. The man was nearly identical to Todd in every way. He looked around, then proceeded to walk out of the camera angle, but not before Jim saw the flash of light. This man wore an earring also.

"Do you have the tape of the nurse finding Manx?" Banks asked, rather impatiently.

"Yeah," Eddie said, his fingers typing away. "It's on a different tape. Take a minute to bring up."

While Eddie worked, Simon leaned close to Jim and asked, "What do you think?"

Jim turned to his captain, his voice low, and said, "Not sure. This whole thing feels wrong somehow. I can't explain it now."

"As soon as you can, you do. Got that?"

"Absolutely, Simon."

"Ready," Eddie announced from his seat.

Three sets of eyes once again fixed themselves to the screen. They watched a nurse knock, then enter Palmieri's room. She ran out. Security guards ran in. People seemed to be everywhere. A stretcher went in and came back out with a body strapped to it--Todd, they assumed. A medic blocked the victim's face. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Jim looked at Eddie. "Has Todd Manx been back to the hospital since the incident?"

"Not that I recall," Eddie responded, cocking his head in thought. "I think they gave him a couple weeks leave."

"Can you get me copies of these tapes?" Simon asked the security man.

"Here," he said, pulling a cassette from a section of the equipment set-up. Eddie slipped it into a case and handed it to Simon. "Thought you might want one."

"Thanks for your help," Jim said as the pair left the security office.

~*~

//This is getting us nowhere, // Jim thought bitterly.

Dr. Arnold Wayne was sitting behind an expensive, carved cherry desk, his hands folded neatly across his lap. His expression gave away no emotion, beyond the obvious disdain he held for the officers of the Cascade Police Department.

"Mr. Palmieri is manic depressive, but he had been improving these last few years," Wayne repeated, still holding his ground.

"Yes, we know that," Simon shot back, his patience with the man at its limits. "You've said that twice and still not answered my question. When can I expect those files?"

"I'm sorry, Captain, but I cannot share that information. Doctor/patient confidentiality, you see."

"No, I don't see."

Jim took a step closer to the seated man, letting his six-foot frame loom over the doctor. "Your client has escaped custody and is the prime suspect in the murder of his wife. If you don't want to be slapped with aiding and abetting, and interfering in an ongoing investigation, we expect a bit of cooperation."

Wayne glared at Jim as he stood, then turned his attention to Banks. A head shorter than Simon, he craned his neck to look the captain in the eye. "I know the law, Captain Banks. Get a warrant."

Simon bristled. "Count on it."

A shadow under the office door caught Jim's eye. He watched it pause, then hurry away. The distinct scent of roses filtered up to meet his nostrils, setting his teeth on edge. Jim stood and yanked open the door, ignoring questions from Simon. The outer office was empty, but the smell lingered. He tracked it into the corridor and down a hall that ended in a small lounge.

Two orderlies were eating sandwiches at a small round table. They gave the intruder questioning looks that were immediately ignored. The Sentinel's attention was drawn to the Formica counter across the small room. A vase of white roses sat unassumingly on the smooth surface, four flowers in all.

Jim crossed the room, aware that Simon was right behind him. A small, blue envelope was nestled among the blossoms. Jim plucked it out. The name on the outside was "Verne Palmieri." He tore open the envelope and read the short message on the card, written in the same block letters as their previously received notes. "For Verne. Sorry it didn't work out. From Me."

His jaw twitched as he handed the card to his captain. Simon skimmed the words, an unreadable expression on his face. "Son of a bitch," he muttered.

"Looks like the two cases are connected," Jim said icily.

~*~

"Captain Banks!"

Jim and Simon stopped not a foot inside Major Crime, turning towards the source of the voice. Detective Dills was quick-stepping it to them, a piece of paper clutched in his hand.

"Mr. Reese finished with the sketch artist this morning," Dills reported. "This is what we got."

Simon snatched the paper from his detective and held it so Jim could see. Two pairs of eyes stared at the sheet, disbelief registering in both.

"It's McManus," Jim breathed. He'd know that face in his sleep. In fact, it had haunted his sleep quite a few times over his first few years in Major Crime. But why would the man suddenly show up now?

Simon gripped the sketch tightly and marched towards his office. Jim shadowed him, closing the door halfway before taking his normal stance against the conference table.

"What do we do now, Simon? We don't have enough evidence for a warrant."

The captain dropped into his chair. "I know."

There was a sharp rap on the door to Simon's office, startling the men inside. Before the Captain could say anything, Joel Taggart had the door open and was handing a faxed report to the Captain. "You’re not gonna like this, Simon. According to this, Edward James McManus spent two years in Keaton Hospital before he died in 1995."

Jim stared open-mouthed. "That can't be."

"It gets better," Taggart said. "Apparently, a van transporting him and another patient hit a patch of ice and slid into a river. No bodies were recovered."

"So he survived and escaped?" Simon asked.

"Seems so."

"I supposed we'll have to add McManus' files to that warrant," Simon said.

Jim studied the information in front of him. "Did he have any contact with Verne Palmieri during the time he was in Keaton?"

Joel shook his head. "Palmieri was...um, committed five weeks after McManus supposedly died."

"So that--" Simon's words were cut off by the ringing of his phone. He snatched it up. "Banks.... Good job, Detective. We'll be here."

Two expectant faces watched the captain hang up the phone.

"Well, gentlemen," Banks said, standing up. "We've just been given a break. Brown arrested Palmieri a few minutes ago in a bar down by the docks."

"How'd they track him down?" Jim asked.

Simon cleared his throat. "Anonymous tip."

Jim raised an eyebrow.

"Joel, I need you to do something else," Simon said. He pulled the bagged card from his pocket and handed it to Taggart. "While we were there yesterday, four white roses were delivered to Mr. Palmieri at Keaton. I need you to track down the flower shop and see if it was McManus again."

"Will do," Joel replied.

~*~

Verne Palmieri was a shivering, twitching mess as far as Jim Ellison was concerned. The man seemed to sink into the plastic chair he was seated in, becoming part of the furniture. Bloodstains marked his dirty clothes, but he didn't seem to notice them. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, his breath coming in short gasps. Palmieri darted looks around the interrogation room, as if expecting an attack from all sides at once. The man's heartbeat was off the charts.

//He's going to hyperventilate if he doesn't calm down, // Jim thought bitterly. //Not that he doesn't have a reason to be upset. He just butchered his wife, after all. //

"Are you going to be calm?" Simon asked quietly.

Jim tore his gaze from the two-way glass and stared into his captain's eyes. "Absolutely."

Simon looked ready to protest, then acquiesced. "All right."

Taking that as his cue, Jim left the observation room and entered the interrogation cubicle. Palmieri watched him like a hunted animal, his shivering increasing minutely. A shaky hand brushed away a thin sheen of sweat from his forehead.

"You're Jim Ellison," Palmieri stuttered. His voice was firm, almost awestruck. "Judy talked about you a lot."

"Really," Jim said flatly. "Let's talk about Judy for a while."

"Okay."

The Sentinel's jaw twitched. He zeroed in on the man's heartbeat and asked, "When's the last time you saw her?"

"She came to visit me last weekend. The heartbeat remained steady, then spiked when he realized something. "Did something happen to Judy? Is she okay?"

Jim blinked at the man, his anger compounding. //How could he be playing dumb so well? // His lie-detection abilities weren't an exact science, but had often proved to be correct. Still, Palmieri showed no signs of being untruthful, only concerned. Jim decided to throw a curve ball.

"Do you know whose blood is on your shirt?"

Palmieri looked at his flannel top, surprise flashing across his features at the sight of the deep crimson stains criss-crossing the blue plaid. He turned terrified brown eyes onto Jim. "N-n-no. God, is it Judy's? What did he make me do? What did that bastard make me do!"

"Who are you talking about?" Jim asked, crouching in front of the upset man. "Who made you do what?"

Palmieri's voice rose to a hysterical level. He began to cry, deep resonating sobs of one in absolute anguish. Arms wrapped around themselves, drawing the man deeper into himself, rocking slowly back and forth.

Jim threw a bewildered glance at the mirror. //What in hell just happened here? //

"Edward, you bastard," Palmieri muttered between sobs.

Sentinel ears pricked at the name, but he knew it had been loud enough to be heard by everyone listening. //Edward. Edward McManus, possibly. // Jim's eyes narrowed dangerously as two officers came in and led the blubbering man away. Simon passed them and marched over to Jim, Henri and Joel at his heels.

"McManus is involved, Simon," Jim said forcefully. "And Keaton Hospital is the only lead we've got right now."

"Did he kill her?" Banks asked.

Jim sighed. "I don't know. If he did, I don't think he remembers it."

~*~

Taggart strode into Maurice's Flowers that evening, his brown eyes immediately searching for the clerk. A young woman with red curls and flashing green eyes stood behind a counter heaped with various cut flowers. She sized him up and smiled pleasantly.

"Can I help you?" she asked in a singsong voice.

Joel flashed his badge and approached the counter. "I'm Detective Taggart, Cascade PD. I just have a couple of questions."

"Of course. I'm Sara."

Joel shook the offered hand. "Did one of your workers deliver a vase of four white roses to a man named Verne Palmieri at Keaton Hospital?"

"If we did, Chad did it. He handles deliveries. Let me check." Slim, manicured fingers danced over the register's keyboard, her eyes darting to different parts of the screen. "Chad Hart delivered to Keaton yesterday morning."

"Did you see who placed the order?"

She shook her head. "The order was phoned in. I took the call."

Joel's shoulders slumped a bit, but he wasn't finished. "How did they pay?"

"Credit card. The information should still be here." Sara hit several more keys. "A Mr. Blair Sandburg made the purchase on his Master Card."

The detective couldn't keep his jaw from falling open slightly. "That's impossible. Can you give me a printout of this information?"

"Sure thing," she replied, a bit puzzled by his reaction.

While the woman worked, Joel yanked out his cell phone and dialed. "Simon? It's Taggart...yeah, I am and you're not going to believe this."

~*~

Sheriff Johnson tossed several manila folders onto the table. "Here's those files and court reports you wanted."

"Thank you," Jim replied sourly. He and Simon had been kept waiting in a stuffy Sheriff's Office conference room for nearly an hour. Neither man had slept well the night before and their patience was already stretched thin. The news of Sandburg's "purchase" had been all the proof Jim needed that McManus had their friends. Consequently, the Sentinel had passed another long, sleepless night filled with much pacing and ulcer-inducing worry.

The sheriff nodded and left the two men alone to peruse the new information.

"June 9, 1995," Jim read aloud from the first folder. "Officer Dwayne Harris, Jake Taminy and Edward McManus are officially pronounced dead when a six-day sweep of the river produces no bodies. Johnson ruled that the current was too strong for anyone to have survived and the bodies had probably been swept downstream to Puget Sound."

"All supposition," Simon muttered.

"Kind of like our connection between McManus and Palmieri?"

Simon frowned, but said nothing.

Jim picked up a new folder. "Dr. Dudley Malcolm, psychiatrist for the defense; testified that McManus was schizophrenic, temporarily insane and not responsible for his actions. Died in a car crash three years ago. His break fluid leaked out, causing the car to hit a tree at 75 miles an hour on a mountain road."

"Sounds suspicious, too," Simon commented.

"Not to the sheriff, apparently. He ruled it an accident."

"There wasn't an investigation?"

"None."

Simon grunted and picked up another folder. "Bruce Sykes, junior partner at Wellington and Wentworth, Defense Lawyer for Edward McManus," he read aloud from the top folder. "He committed suicide eleven months after the trial ended. Sliced his wrists in a bathtub."

Jim accepted a stack of crime-scene photos from Simon. There were several angles of the body, laid out neatly in a tub of water, blood pooling on the floor. Jim examined a close-up of the wounds.

"Simon, what's the coroner's report on this say?"

The captain flipped through several papers until he found the right one. "Cause of death was shock brought on by massive blood loss. Cuts on his wrists were made elbow to wrist and-."

"Say that again, sir," Jim interrupted.

"Cause of death-."

"No, the second part."

"The cuts on his wrists were made elbow to wrist…." Simon trailed off as the meaning of the words clicked. He looked at Jim, who was shaking his head.

"It's pretty damn hard to cut your arms away from yourself, Simon. Especially with a knife that dull," Jim said, pointing to the paring knife lying in the puddle of blood.

Jim focused in on Sykes's left hand, then snatched the coroner's report from Simon.

"What is it?" Simon asked impatiently.

"We need to talk to the coroner," Jim said, not lifting his eyes from the report.

"Why?"

"Either she needs to go back to Med school," Jim looked Simon in the eye. "Or they purposely failed to note that three fingers were broken on Sykes's left hand."

Brown sticking his head inside punctuated a rap on the door. He'd spent the last few hours at Keaton and was told to meet Jim and Simon at the Sheriff's Office when he was through.

Jim waved him in. "H, what did the staff have to say about McManus?"

Brown snorted, slumping into a chair across from Simon and dumping several new file folders onto the present stack. "Not a hell of a lot. Either they didn't know him, they didn't work in his ward or they're new here. No one seems to know anything."

"There's a lot of that going around," Jim snapped.

"Wayne finally gave up his files on Palmieri and McManus," Henri said, pointing to what he'd brought with him. "Damn boring to read, though. Lot's of shrink mumbo-jumbo."

Jim retrieved the top file and opened it--Palmieri's. He scanned the contents, skipping over the large words and technical phrasing. //Sandburg would know what all this means, // Jim thought tiredly. He absently glanced at the empty chair to his left, the one his partner should be filling. It never ceased to amaze the detective how much Blair was a part of his life until he was gone.

The Sentinel shuffled through the reports, noting the uniformity of each one. He opened his sense of smell, pushing out the odors of coffee, sweat and Henri's aftershave. The scent of ink was strong, as if someone had just printed all of the reports recently. Jim brushed his fingertips over the paper. The report in his hand was dated October 5, 1995, but the paper couldn't have been that old. It was too crisp, too new.

"H, are these the original copies of the files from '95?" Jim asked, looking at the man across the table.

"The doc said they were. Why?"

Jim shook his head. "The paper's too new and the ink is still fresh."

"You think they're copies?" Simon asked.

"They're not four years old, that's for damn sure," Jim said. "Everything about this case so far seems to be one lie after another, one deception that keeps getting compounded. And it's starting to annoy the hell out of me."

"Amen," Brown muttered.

"So what else do we have?" Simon looked from one detective to the other.

Henri reached for a folder near the bottom of the stack. "McManus has no living family that we know of and no friends left that we can find. I do have a lead on an old college roommate, though. We're tracking him down. McManus's old house was bulldozed when the city built that new mini-mall over on 12th Avenue. All of his belongings were donated to Goodwill, so nothing there."

"I want all old girlfriends, ex-friends, enemies and classmates questioned. Any little thing could help us out here."

"I've got Taggart questioning Palmieri's relatives and friends," Brown said, "but nothing he's gotten so far labels this guy as a killer. And none of them know the name McManus."

Jim pulled a red folder from the pile. "I called Jack Thames, the prosecuting shrink six years ago. He said McManus never showed any signs of mental illness or instability before or after the trial."

"He also testified to that affect at the trial," Brown added. "Didn't seem to make much difference then."

"That's because Sykes did a little song-and-dance about the cops and their shrinks sticking together to get what they want," Simon sneered. "At least he didn't try and pull some 'thin blue line' bullshit."

Jim couldn't help it--his thoughts automatically switched to Sandburg and the younger man's first meeting with Simon. <"I've always been fascinated by the concept of 'the thin blue line',"> he'd said, his voice dripping with enthusiasm. Jim fought the urge to grin at the memory. He'd had to tell Simon that Blair was his cousin to convince the police captain to let an inexperienced grad student ride along with him. //God, was that really three years ago? //

"Jim? You there? Jim?" Brown waved a hand in front of Jim's face, startling him out of his reverie.

"Sorry, guys," Jim said. "Got lost in thought for a minute. What did you need?"

"The coroner?" Simon prompted, sounding somewhat annoyed that Jim had lost focus.

"Martha Lansing did the autopsy on Sykes. Small county, so she was both the coroner's office and forensics department for Sheriff Johnson at the time. Moved away two months after Sykes's death. We're trying to track her down now."

"Somebody's covering up something," Simon observed. "And it seems they did a pretty piss-poor job of it. If we can figure this out, maybe someone will be able to tell us if McManus is really still alive."

"And where our people are," Jim added solemnly. He flipped open one of Palmieri's files and noticed something. Jim blinked, letting his memories play back, back to the Palmieri investigation. He pictured Palmieri's face, his ears. It suddenly dawned on him. "I need to see those security tapes again."

"Something you missed?" Simon asked.

"Yeah, an earring."

Jim explained what he had noticed as the trio gathered their collective paperwork and walked toward the exit.

~*~

The plate of food smelled enticing, yet it still made Blair sick to his stomach. The stark room he was in reminded him of a prison cell sans toilet and bars. There were four white walls, a bed, table and chair. Dinner had been waiting after his return from...where? He couldn't remember. Actually, he couldn't remember much of the past few days. He wasn't even sure how many days it had been since his abduction.

All Blair was sure of was that his head hurt. In fact, he couldn't seem to remember a time when it didn't hurt. Headaches and nausea were his world now. He hadn't seen Rafe or Megan since their initial encounter in the basement. He vaguely remembered hearing Daryl's voice once, but wasn't certain.

He stared at the roasted meat and baked potato for a while, before deciding not to eat it. The food would probably end up puked all over the floor like his last three meals had. //Or was that four? It was so hard to count the passage of time in this place. Where are you, Jim? //

~*~

Simon knew as soon as his phone rang that it would be bad news. He could feel it in his bones; his bones didn't let him down. Snatching the small item from his coat pocket, he flipped it open with one hand, the second clutching the steering wheel. Maneuvering his Sedan into an empty space in the department garage, he barked, "Banks."

<"Simon, it's Taggart.">

The older man sounded breathless...and worried. "What is it, Joel?"

<"Palmieri is on his way to the hospital.">

"He's what!"

<"The sick bastard was down in lock-up and he started screaming and banging his head against the wall. Knocked himself unconscious before a guard could get to him.">

Simon groaned and put his car into reverse gear. "I'll meet you there." He disconnected, then dialed Jim's cell number.

~*~

Jim strode into Cascade General's ER in time to see Simon shake hands with a doctor. The white-coated man walked away as Jim approached the captain.

"What's going on?" he demanded.

Simon shook his head. "Damn idiot busted his own head open. Doctor says he's in a coma. They don't think he's going to come out of it."

"Dammit!" Jim's fists balled up tightly against his sides, his jaw clenching.

"It gets worse."

//How could it possibly get worse? // "What now?"

"Joel called back after I called you. He said all of Palmieri's known associates checked out. There's nothing to connect him with McManus."

Jim's mind automatically flashed to Judy Palmieri. There was no question that, willingly or not, her husband had killed her and she would never see justice for that. //C'mon, Ellison. The guy's a vegetable. What more do you want? //

Why? That was what he wanted to know. Verne wasn't telling and neither was Judy. Right now, it seemed like the only person who could answer the question was Edward McManus. And for the time being, he wasn't talking either.

~*~

Jim knew he was making the man nervous, but he couldn't help it. His own nerves were fraying and he preferred pacing the small interrogation room to sitting on one of the hard plastic chairs. Simon kept glaring daggers at him, but Jim ignored it. His attention was focused on Liam Wright.

Wright was in his late thirties, but looked fifty-five. He was slumped into a chair, nursing a mug of steaming coffee, brushing loose strands of greasy hair from his face. Three years of living on the street had given the man darting eyes, suspicious of everyone--especially cops.

"Mr. Wright," Simon said gently. "Do you remember college, when you roomed with a man named Edward McManus?"

Wright turned weepy eyes on the black man in front of him. "College? Man, that was a lifetime ago. I barely remember what I majored in, let alone who I lived with."

"You majored in business accounting," Jim offered, hoping to jog his memory.

Simon slid a photo of McManus across the table. "Does he look familiar?"

Wright studied it a moment, recognition brightening his green eyes. "Sure, I remember him." The man's entire demeanor changed as he was transported into a past more pleasant than his present. "Nice guy. A little funny, though."

"In what way?" Jim asked.

"Wasn't too sociable. He liked to read more than anything. Read a lot of psychology and hypnotism books, I think. He hypnotized me once--made me bark like a dog whenever I heard a church bell." Wright laughed at the memory, then sobered almost immediately. "He scared me, too."

"How?" Simon prompted.

"Said one day he would be able to make the world listen to him, do what he wanted. He would be able to control their emotions. I thought he was a part of some new-age militia or something. Then he started talking mind control and I started looking for a new roomie."

"Did he ever go into detail on anything?" Jim inquired.

"Naw, he was real secretive about his stuff. Besides, we didn't pal around enough for me to care much. Sorry I don't have more. My memory fuzzes up a lot nowadays."

"No apologies necessary, Mr. Wright," Simon said. "You've been a big help."

An officer came in and led Wright out. Jim and Simon stayed behind, staring blankly at each other. Simon shook his head, as if resigned to some horrible truth.

"Instead of finding answers," Simon said. "We've just opened up a whole lot more stinking cans of worms. I've got more questions about this case than ever."

"I know how you feel," Jim replied. "In an hour, I doubt Mr. Wright will even remember we had this conversation."

~*~

Jim gripped the steering wheel of the Ford truck, his knuckles turning white from the effort. He had driven this route so many times in the last three days he was sure the vehicle could drive itself to Keaton. But even the amusing thought did nothing to calm the Sentinel's nerves.

Sheriff Johnson had refused to give any straight answers regarding the lawyer Sykes's death or the whereabouts of Martha Lansing, the coroner. Jim had monitored the man's vitals--he knew the sheriff had been nervous. They just had to figure out what he was so nervous about. Simon already had someone working on a warrant to access Johnson's bank records.

"You're going to break that steering wheel, Jim," Simon commented from the passenger seat. The intended levity fizzled out before it had a chance. There were a few moments of silence before Simon ventured to ask, "How're you doing?"

Jim knew the hidden meaning behind the inquiry. Simon didn't need to add the "without Sandburg" to end of the question. Jim liked to think he had a handle on his senses--he hadn't had an actual zone-out in months. He was certainly coping in that capacity. But that wasn't what Simon meant. Jim had come to see Blair as much more than someone to talk him out of a zone or offer advice on his senses. They were partners as much as any two cops in the department. They were roommates and best friends, depending on the certainty of each other's company. He missed his friend. He'd had him back for less than a day before they were torn apart once again and was worried to death about the young man's safety. Of course, he wouldn't admit this to Simon.

"I'm fine, Simon," Jim answered, checking the rearview mirror to make sure Brown was still behind them. "They'll be fine, too. How are you?"

Simon Banks turned his brown eyes on Jim, more emotion in them than any other time Jim could recall. "Scared as hell."

The admission surprised Jim and he placed a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. "Me, too, Simon. Me, too."

The rest of the drive was spent in companionable silence.

~*~

"We're working every angle we have on this case, Mr. Keaton. I'm sure you understand that and are willing to do whatever possible to help us along."

As he spoke, Simon's tone was pleasant enough, but there was a warning under it that only his close friends could easily detect. Jim heard it and watched Lucas Keaton--head of the psychiatric hospital founded by his grandfather--praying silently that the man would cooperate.

Keaton smiled amiably and placed his elbows on his desk, steepling his fingers. "And what angle would require that particular paperwork, Captain Banks? The list of our private donors is not something to be given out lightly."

"That's privileged information, Mr. Keaton," Jim answered, trying a new approach. "But as head of a very prestigious psychiatric institute, I'm sure you understand all about the word 'classified.'"

Keaton blinked at the grim detective in front of him, silent for a few moments. "All right, I'll have my secretary copy the necessary documents. But I want your word that you won't go around harassing any of our investors and patrons. Many of them have a...personal...interest in this facility."

//You mean they have crazy family members locked up that they don't want the world to know about. // Jim glanced at Simon, knowing the captain was having the same thought.

"Thank you for your cooperation," Simon said as he stood.

"My pleasure. I hope you find what you're looking for. Those papers should be ready shortly."

The former statement didn't sit right with Jim, but he shook Keaton's hand and followed Simon out of the room. The Sentinel was glad to be out of the man's office. He couldn't figure out why, but the place gave him the creeps. His senses had shown nothing out of the ordinary, but the feeling still plagued him. <A heightened sixth sense,> Blair would say.

Jim and Simon sat in the small, sparsely decorated waiting area while Keaton's secretary went about her business of making copies.

"What'd you think?" Simon asked in a low whisper.

"At least he was more cooperative than most of the people here. Something bothered me, though. Something I can't quite put my finger on."

Simon knew from past experience to trust his best detective's instincts. "When you do figure it out…."

"You'll be the first to know, sir." The exchange was becoming repetitive.

"That's what I like to hear. Brown should be reporting back soon, shouldn't he?"

Jim extended his hearing, letting it search out the other detective. He picked through the voices of the hospital staff, the squeak of med carts, the scrawling of a pencil on paper--all familiar sounds, yet not what he wanted. Conversations were picked up, then filtered out. A snippet of dialogue caught his attention.

<"...About NeuroDynamics. I guarantee it.">

The Sentinel zeroed in, but the voice was silent. There was a loud banging sound and Jim flinched as he dialed down his hearing. The door to the waiting area opened and Brown stuck his head inside.

"You guys ready?" Henri asked.

Keaton's secretary strode in and handed Simon a folder containing several sheets of paper.

"Thank you," Simon said, standing up.

Jim also stood and followed Simon and Brown out into the corridor, the name "NeuroDynamics" still stuck in his mind, strangely familiar.

"What did you find out?" Simon asked, stopping Brown halfway down the hall.

"None of the other orderlies working today wear earrings," Brown said. "But one guy does." Henri handed Simon another folder. "Our resident victim, Todd Manx. He's worked here exactly six years and is an almost dead-ringer for Palmieri, except for his blonde hair. I've tried calling his house, but still no answer."

Simon opened the new folder and scanned its contents. "We'll have to get Sheriff Johnson to put one of his deputies on that house until Mr. Manx comes home."

Jim shook his head. "I don't trust that sheriff, Simon."

"Well, Jim, I don't trust him either, but this is his jurisdiction. You know that."

Jim did know that; but that didn't mean he had to like it.

A blue-clad security guard turned the corner and strode in their direction. He stopped in front of the trio, his gaze shifting between them.

"Who's Captain Banks?" the guard asked all three.

"I am," Simon said gruffly.

The security guard took an unconscious step backwards at the captain's tone. "Uh, there's a phone call for you."

"Where?"

"If you'll follow me...." the guard started down the hall, three members of the CPD in tow.

The guard led them down two different corridors, then stopped in front of a small nurse's station and pointed to a desk. "Line one." With that, he left.

Simon snatched up the receiver and pressed a button. "Hello?....Now? Can't it wa--....Of course not. We'll be there." He slammed down the phone, eliciting a glare from a nearby nurse. Simon turned angry eyes onto Jim.

"We need to get back to Cascade. The D.A. wants to go over some details of the Contino case with us."

"Now?" Jim groaned. It was strange. He had been working on the Contino case for over two months, but it had flown out of his mind the minute his Guide disappeared. Once proud of the case, he now silently cursed it for taking his valuable time away from finding Blair and the others.

"Now," Simon ordered grimly, his frustration mirroring Jim's.

~*~

Jim leaned back in his chair and rubbed his tired eyes, stiff from hours of staring at a computer screen. He'd been at the station since dawn doing research. Hell, he'd been up the entire night anyhow, wound up after his meeting with the D.A. She was tenacious, he would give her that, but her grilling had left him sour and pissed about wasting so much precious time. Time that could have been better spent searching for his missing friends.

He had probably slept a total of eight hours in the past four days, fear of never finding his missing friends keeping him up at night. The loft felt unnaturally quiet without Sandburg's natural ability to fill it with some sort of sound, be it random chatter about a test he was proctoring, the tapping of his keyboard, or even the steady staccato of his heartbeat. Jim much preferred the constant noise of the station to the horrible silence that greeted him every time he went home to shower, shave and change.

Last night Jim had been plagued by the name NeuroDynamics. It was so familiar, yet so far away. He'd come to the station and logged onto the net, hoping to find something, anything. Every search he had tried came up empty. So Jim Ellison sat behind his desk, feeling useless, wondering if the worrying of the last week was beginning to culminate in an ulcer.

"Jim?"

Blue eyes looked up and stared into the depths of concerned, brown ones.

"Morning, Joel," Jim greeted, mustering up all the energy his over-caffienated body could manage.

"How're you doing?" the burly man asked, making use of the extra chair Blair usually occupied.

Jim let out a long-suffering sigh. "Why does everyone ask that?" Before the other man could answer, Jim plowed on. "Because they know I'll say I'm fine and that'll be the end of the conversation and no one really wants to talk about it, anyway. So I'm fine, Joel. Want to ask anything more specific?"

"Have you slept?"

The concern in Taggart's voice threw Jim for a minute. He hadn't expected his friend to be so forthright. Then again, maybe he should have. Jim paused to fight back a monster yawn.

"Not much. The loft is too quiet."

That simple sentence said more to Joel Taggart than a five-minute speech could have. He knew how much Blair meant to Jim. They seemed to be a constant presence in each other's lives, not quite happy if the other wasn't around. Joel remembered the pre-Sandburg Ellison very well and he honestly preferred the man he knew now to the old Jim. He didn't know what Jim would do if Blair didn't return whole and intact.

"We'll find him, Jim," Joel said with mustered confidence. "We'll find all of them."

Jim managed a short smile, then let his eyes drift across the bullpen to Simon's office. The blinds were drawn, the door shut. The captain had come in less than an hour ago, silent as a statue and not set foot outside his office. When Rhonda came in, she had attempted to enter the office, but a sharp retort from Banks had sent her scurrying for her desk.

Willing to bear the brunt of what was probably a fight with Joan, Jim stood and walked towards the captain's office. Fresh cigar smoke greeted his nostrils as he paused outside the door and knocked once. Without waiting for an invitation, Jim walked in.

Simon was standing stiffly, staring at the television set up near his desk, mumbling something. Jim dialed up his hearing to identify it.

"Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.…" streamed from Simon's mouth.

Alarmed, Jim stepped around Simon and looked at the television, shifting his attention to the man on the screen. A reporter was standing in front of the police station, apparently already in the middle of his broadcast.

<"...A police observer, and Daryl Banks, son of Cascade Police Captain Simon Banks. Again, we have no official word of their disappearance, but sources say that the four persons have been missing for almost four days now. More as it develops. This is Max Peterson, for Channel Five Eyewitness News.">

"Dammit!" Simon screamed, slamming a fist onto the table. "How the hell did the press get in on this?" The captain turned, noticing Jim for the first time. "Did you see that?"

"The tail end of it, sir. And I'll bet my next pair of Jags tickets that McManus is leaking this out himself."

"I wouldn't doubt that." Simon moved across the room with the weariness of a seventy year-old. //God, he looks ancient, // Jim thought sadly. The taller man poured himself a mug of coffee, then offered the pot to Jim.

"No thanks, Simon. I drink any more and I'll be pissing coffee for the next week and a half."

The joke managed a weak laugh from Banks. He sobered quickly and stared into the depths of the dark liquid in his hands. "You know, when I was a teenager, I hated coffee. Couldn't stand the smell of it. Now I can't even get started in the morning without a cup."

"It's amazing sometimes--the things that manage to worm their way into your life."

A warm moment passed between the two friends, the double meaning of Jim's statement vividly clear. It passed all too quickly.

"Megan's father called me last night," Simon said randomly.

"From Australia?"

"Yeah. Guess he forgot about the time difference here," Simon griped.

"I didn't know her father had been told."

"I had to call her boss in Sydney when she disappeared. Left the decision of telling him completely up to them."

"So what did Mr. Connor have to say?"

"He screamed about 'damn Yankee cops' and the criminals they breed or some nonsense like that."

Jim snorted. "And what did you say?"

"That we were doing everything in our power to find her and that we would call as soon as we had any news. Speaking of which, now that the secret's out, we'll need to be more careful. Don't want any reporters getting too nosy and tipping off our suspects."

"Suspects?"

"Yes. Until we figure this out, that whole damn hospital could potentially be involved in this...whatever it is. Did you find anything out on that Neuro-thing?"

"NeuroDynamics. No, sir, I couldn't find squat on the net or in any of our databases. I'm going to start hitting up my informants soon."

"Then get to it."

"Yes, sir."

With that, Jim left, closing the office door gently behind him. A twinge in his stomach reminded the Sentinel that he hadn't eaten all morning. He dug into the pocket of his jeans, producing enough loose change get a snack from one of the vending machines. As Jim skirted his desk, he noticed a manila envelope that hadn't been there before. "James Ellison" was neatly typed onto the front. Below his were the names "Henri Brown" and "Simon Banks."

Jim stared at the envelope, dread washing over his body. He opened his senses, letting his nose identify the chemical smell emanating from it: recently developed photographs. Jim picked up the foreign object gently and stared close, but was unable to detect any fingerprints. A hand settled on Jim's shoulder, startling him for the second time that morning.

Joel removed his hand and pointed to the envelope. "You gonna stare at it or open it?"

Jim shifted his gaze from Joel to the envelope and back. "Did you see who put this here?"

The older man shook his head. "Nope. Didn't see anybody."

"I don't think I want to know what's inside," Jim mumbled, louder than intended.

Joel raised an eyebrow. Jim Ellison, afraid to open a letter? "Says it's for Simon and Henri, too. Give it to one of them. Maybe they'll look inside."

Jim glared at Joel, angered by his friend's comment. When he saw the slight twinkle in those dark brown eyes, Jim knew he'd been tricked. Still fighting an as-yet-unjustifiable fear at what it contained, Jim tore open the envelope. It's contents slid easily into Jim's waiting grasp. A small stack of 8x10 photographs was lying face-down in his left hand. Jim placed the envelope on his desk. Slowly, he turned the photos face-up and looked at the one on top.

A choked gasp escaped his lips and Jim had to brace himself on the edge of his desk. With shaky deliberation, Jim looked at the second photo, then the third. He hesitated on the forth, not sure if he could look at what was sure to be there.

"Jim? Jim, what is it?"

It was no longer just Taggart's voice that asked that question; Simon and Henri's now joined the repeated questioning. The voices seemed to come from another place, far from where Jim was at the moment. The Sentinel pushed aside his fear, bottled up his emotions as best he could, steeled himself, and looked at the last photograph.

He was sprawled out like the others had been, eyes closed as if in sleep. Tangled hair covered part of his face, but not enough to hide his youthful features. And the blood. It seemed to be everywhere, spreading and oozing even in the still life of the picture. The redness of it drew Jim in, deeper and deeper. //Don't zone out....don't zone out....don't-- //

"DAMMIT!" The scream erupted from deep within James Ellison, bringing him back from the edge of his zone. The photos dropped to the floor. Jim rubbed his hands across his ashen face, thousands of emotions flashing through his suddenly exhausted form. He slumped into his desk chair. //Nononononononononononononononono…. // Nothing registered in his mind but that single word, as if the constant denial would somehow change the evidence in his possession.

Jim was vaguely aware of the people around him, their uttered curses and cries of grief and outrage at the photographs he had abandoned. Time seemed to stand still.

Jim drew in a ragged breath, trying desperately to clear his mind and focus on the people around him. Simon was frozen in place, his trembling jaw the only thing in motion. His vice-like grip on a photograph had it crumpled in his hands. Henri paced between desks, swearing and rubbing at his eyes, as if that could erase the torturous images from his mind. Joel was leaning against a desk, looking for all the world like he was going to be sick.

Other members of Major Crime were staring at the foursome, their eyes asking questions they were afraid to verbalize. Conversations had stopped; no one moved. With control he never knew he had, Jim stood and addressed the unit.

"Everyone here has work to do!" he bellowed in his best don't-screw-with-me voice. The order was punctuated with a patented Ellison Glare. Activity immediately returned to the bullpen.

Jim swallowed against the nausea building in his stomach and snatched one of the photos from the pile that had been re-deposited on his desk. Anger boiled to the surface when he looked at the picture. His partner, backed against a brick wall, terrified; a shadow in the foreground of a hand clutching a gun--the sight made him sick.

<These things are easy to fake. Authenticity's the key. Check details.> Blair's voice repeated these phrases in Jim's mind. Jim tried to remember when he'd heard the young anthropologist utter them before. He had been muttering about some artifact he was studying for the university, a Macedonian urn or some such thing. It didn't matter now. Instead of analyzing the words, he listened to them.

Jim studied his friend's face. His mouth was open in a half-scream, as if begging someone to end the torture. The fear in his cerulean eyes was heart wrenching, but there was something else. For all appearances, he looked terrified, but his eyes held another secret. They were slightly unfocused, pupils dilated and slightly glazed as if he was sleep walking. Jim frowned and sorted through the pile until he found the fourth picture he had looked at. This time he didn't zone on the blood. In fact, he ignored it. Instead, he focused on the sprawled body, the details. A strange sort of relief flooded through him as the pieces clicked into place.

"They're not real," Jim stated with certainty. Three pair of questioning eyes fixed on Jim. The Sentinel continued, his voice never wavering. "They're not dead."

"What the hell are you talking about, Jim?" Henri asked.

"Look at this." Jim stood up and pointed to the photo in his hands. "His nostrils are flared. Dead bodies don't exhale through their nose."

"Jim--" Simon started, his voice betraying bottled-up grief.

"That's not all," Jim cut him off, eager to explain himself before his friends thought he was nuts. "There's all this blood, but no wounds. Look at them all. No wounds."

The other detectives took a second look at the pictures, amazed to find that Jim was right. Their friend's clothes and bodies were blood soaked, but there was no evidence of any sort of wound, bullet or otherwise.

"Here's exhibit B," Jim said. "Blair doesn't own a flannel shirt like this. He was wearing a green sweater when he disappeared."

"And Rafe was in a suit that day, not jeans," Henri commented quietly.

"They could have been given a change of clothes," Joel said, uncertainty evident in his voice.

Jim spread three photographs on his desk, all similar to the one of Blair backed against the wall. He pointed to the pictured faces. "Do they look afraid?"

It seemed like a stupid question, but the three detectives gave Jim the benefit of the doubt and studied the faces of their missing friends.

"Jim, I don't know what--" Joel started, picking up the photo of Megan.

"They're eyes are completely unfocused," Jim interrupted. "Look at them. It's like they're in a daze or something."

"They're all like that," Simon said, hope creeping in to replace the grief in his voice.

Jim folded his arms across his chest. "I don't think they're real. This asshole is screwing with our minds. The whole through-the-mail thing, it's not McManus' style. He'd want to be there to see our reactions. What good is revenge if you can't enjoy it?"

"So all this," Brown swept a hand across the spread of photographs, "is just to freak us out? What kinda sick game is this creep playing?"

"I don't know," Simon spat angrily. "But if he hurts my son, I'm gonna rip his heart out through his damn throat." With that, the captain slammed the picture in his hand onto Jim's desk and stormed into his office, slamming the door firmly.

"I'll take these down to forensics," Henri volunteered. "See if they can find anything."

Brown gathered up the photographs and envelope, tucked them under one arm and left the bullpen.

Jim stood quietly at his desk, vaguely aware of Joel moving away. His world had come crashing down moments ago and Jim was still trying to process it. Yes, there was an excellent chance those photographs had been faked and everyone was okay. Yes, he believed they would get to their friends and family before any permanent damage could be done. But he still got cold chills at the memory of Blair's prone body, covered in blood, still as death. He could have just lost the most important thing in his life, but he hadn't. Jim would continue to believe his Guide was alive until he was faced with irrefutable evidence to the contrary.

The Sentinel blinked, returning his thoughts to the present. He opened his senses and let his hearing wander through the bullpen. He'd never ask about it aloud, but Jim could have sworn he heard muffled sobs emanating from Simon's office.

~*~

The rain had stopped some hours ago, but a damp chill remained. The sun was setting, creating pink clouds that floated like wads of bloody cotton across the sky. A lone seagull flew by, but the man on the deck chair did not notice. He was lost in his own thoughts, a forgotten beer bottle clutched in his left hand, several more empty ones at his feet.

Jim had gotten the news less than an hour ago and had left the bullpen in a frustrated rage, undirected and unbounded. Sheriff Johnson called to report that their star witness to Palmieri's escape was dead. Reportedly, Todd Manx arrived home that afternoon and turned violent when faced with two deputies. The deputies shot him in self-defense.

//Yeah, right, // Jim thought bitterly. //That whole damn hospital and sheriff's office is corrupt. //

Jim had wanted to go down and examine the crime scene, but Johnson said it had already been photographed, examined and cleaned up. That pissed Jim off more than anything else did. He would have to settle for the sheriff's sanitized reports to find out what had happened.

//Everything keeps getting more and more complicated. If this is a conspiracy of some sort, it wasn't planned very well. It's almost as if...as if they're making it up as they go. But that doesn't make any sense. Why would they pretend that McManus was dead? Or that Palmieri escaped? In actuality, Palmieri hadn't occupied that room. There was nothing there that told me anyone had lived there for weeks, months even. But where was he all those years? And where the hell have I heard the name NeuroDynamics before? //

Jim shook his head. He wasn't drunk, but he wasn't able to concentrate very well either. That was likely a mixture of the alcohol and fear. He was afraid, more so than he had been in a long time. Afraid of what McManus was doing to Blair and the others right now; afraid he would never see his Guide again; afraid of life without his best friend.

At times, Blair was able to sense his Sentinel's moods, feelings, even before Jim himself fully realized them. Jim used to pride himself on hiding what he felt, but Sandburg read him like a picture book. A neo-hippie anthropologist had cracked into the steel safe surrounding Jim's heart and found a real person inside. Blair was his Guide, his brother, his...Jim hesitated to use the word "soul mate." It sounded so, well, odd. But it fit, it fit perfectly.

Jim stretched, trying to knead the tension from his shoulders and neck. Each day of Blair's disappearance made it harder to function normally. He had become so dependent on the smiling company of his partner, ever ready with a quip or story as the situation dictated. He'd felt the absence during his stint undercover. Now worry and the uncertainty of Blair coming back alive amplified it. He was hesitant to re-enter the loft, so full of Blair Sandburg, yet so empty without his physical presence. Jim's crystal blue eyes swept the city that stretched out before him, listening, as if the brick walls and tarred roofs of Cascade could whisper to him and tell him where his friends were.

"Where are you, Chief?"

The question went unanswered, drowned out by car horns, crashing trashcan lids, and cooing pigeons. The city ignored its Sentinel, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

~*~

The light hurt his eyes, but he never flinched. In fact, he felt helpless to move at all. Every muscle had frozen in place, unwilling to flex or bend until the order was given. There were no restraints. None were necessary. He couldn't have bolted if he'd even had the strength.

"Comfy cozy?" the commanding voice asked.

He no longer knew where the voice came from. It started somewhere outside the circle of light, in the shadows his weak eyes could not penetrate.

"No," he answered truthfully. His mind felt absolutely clear, as if he couldn't dream up a colorful obfuscation if he'd tried.

One of the shadows moved outside the ring of light. When the commanding voice spoke again, it had moved as well.

"Now, Mr. Sandburg," it said, sounding for like the start of a pleasant conversation. "Ms. Connor and I had a rather interesting conversation yesterday and I was hoping you could shed some more light on a few things. Tell me about Detective Jim Ellison."

He wanted to say no, to tell the voice to go jump in a lake. Only he couldn't do that. He could only do what the voice wanted him to do. And right now, he had to talk about Jim. Cursing himself silently for not being stronger, for giving in, he opened his mouth and began to speak.

~*~

Jim tried to block out the conversation--no, the argument--that was currently in progress in Simon's office, but found himself drawn to it. Simon's ex-wife, Joan, had come in that morning and hadn't set a foot out of the large room in half an hour. The two voices had grown steadily louder as the fight became more and more heated.

<"This isn't the first time your work has gotten him kidnapped, Simon!"

"Do NOT pull that on me, Joan. You knew I was a cop when you married me and now you act like I pulled a dirty trick on you. Well, the guilt trip won't work this time."

"When has it ever worked? You didn't take responsibility for Kincaid or those men in Peru. You're son trusts you and you--"

"Yes, he trusts me! He trusts me to protect him and love him and rescue him. I am doing every damn thing I can to find him now! So why can't you trust me? Huh?"

"I trusted you once. Then I divorced you.">

Jim jumped when the office door opened. Joan stalked out and slammed the door shut behind her. The aggravated woman strode out of Major Crime, not sparing a glance at anyone.

//What is it with people slamming doors lately? // Sure, Jim was as guilty of it as anyone, but it was damn annoying, especially when his hearing was turned up.

Henri entered the bullpen and headed straight for Jim's desk.

"Did you get Johnson's bank records," Jim asked.

H shook his head. "Couldn't get a judge to sign off on a warrant. But I have a friend in the National Bank who owes me a favor. He said Johnson made several very large deposits into his savings over the last six years. The largest came two weeks after McManus' alleged death."

He handed Jim a piece of paper with scribbled writing.

Jim skimmed paper. "Have you questioned Johnson yet?"

"Can't get a hold of him this morning."

"Why does that not surprise me?" Jim muttered, leaning back in his chair. "Anything else?"

"Nope." Henri perched himself on the edge of Jim's desk. "Nothing on those photographs, either. Paper used is common enough. They could have been developed professionally or in any home-made darkroom."

"So we're still at square one," Jim said bitterly.

"Apparently. Unless something new pops-."

Jim's telephone sprang to life, interrupting Henri's comment. The Sentinel answered it before it could ring twice. "Ellison."

<"Jim, it's Serena. I've finally cleaned up that blow-up you wanted.">

"I'll be right down." Jim hung up and turned to Brown. "That 'something new' may have just popped up."

Together, the two men headed for the stairs.

~*~

Serena was hunched over a desk when the two detectives made their way into the lab. She noticed their approach and reached for a printout.

"What did you get?" Jim demanded. He immediately regretted being impolite, but decided to apologize for it later.

"Took a while," Serena started, "but I finally got a good image of that watch you spotted in the security video, though how you saw it...."

"Watch?" Henri asked.

Jim fielded that question. "I saw a watch on one of the nurse's wrists on the first surveillance tape. I just wanted to make sure that time matched up with the time of the escape."

"Just a hunch, right," the black man commented.

"Not anymore," Serena said, showing the men the printout. It was grainy and dark, but the hands on the small, quartz watch were visible enough to read the time.

"One-thirty," Jim read. "The reports say Palmieri escaped at ten forty-five p.m. So either this nurse's watch stopped--"

"--Or somebody faked the security tapes," Brown filled in.

"Exactly," Jim said. "But why would anyone do that?"

"To cover something up?" Serena volunteered.

"Something we're not supposed to see," Jim said thoughtfully. "We need to get the security tapes they have for one-thirty." He glanced down at his watch. "I have to meet somebody in a few minutes, so I can't--"

"I'm on it," Brown said, turning and walking out of the lab.

Jim nodded at the retreating detective, then turned to Serena. "Thank you."

She smiled and quietly said, "Just bring them all back."

~*~

//Dial it down. Don't let it get to you. Take deep breaths. // As hard as he tried, Jim still couldn't shake the nausea settling in his stomach. //Why the hell did he want to meet here of all places? // Sure, Sneaks preferred meeting him in diners, but this place was the armpit of the service industry. The Formica tables were streaked with permanent grease stains, the booth cushion torn and covered with cigarette holes. The smell of fried foods hung heavily in the air, overpowering even the odors of sweat and stale smoke exuded by the diner's patrons and employees.

Jim held his untouched coffee under his nose, savoring the familiar, comfortingly bitter aroma. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, letting the exercise calm his roiling stomach. Jim started when he realized someone was sitting across from him.

Sneaks grinned at Jim from his seat, taking in the detective's haggard appearance.

"Geez, man, is the food here that bad?" Sneaks drawled. A bit more seriously, he added, "You look like shit on a toast."

"Thanks for the compliment," Jim said bitterly. "What do you know about NeuroDynamics?"

Sneaks didn't seem to hear him. His head ducked under the table as he asked, "Wha'cha wearin' today?"

"Loafers." Jim rapped his knuckles on the top of the table, retrieving Sneaks' attention. "NeuroDynamics?"

"Sounds real high-tech." Sneaks glanced around the diner. "Hey, where's that partner of yours? I got a real great bonus from him last time."

Jim's patience snapped. He slammed his palms against the Formica, eliciting a few stares from neighboring tables. Jim ignored them, keeping his icy glare fixed on Sneaks.

"Listen," Jim growled. "My partner is missing. NeuroDynamics is the only lead I have right now. I know the name, but not from what or where. You get me some useful information on either that or a man named McManus and you'll get these." Jim pulled a pair of brand-new Reebok sneakers out of the bag on his left. He dangled them enticingly in front of Sneaks.

The young snitch anxiously licked his lips, staring hard at the prize in front of him. "Give me week, tops."

"Two days."

Sneaks raised an eyebrow. "What am I, a psychic? Three days."

"Tops."

"Of course." Sneaks watched Jim put the Reeboks away. "So, you gonna buy me lunch?"

Jim stood, bag in hand, and threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table. "Buy what you want," he said, walking out of the grimy diner.

~*~

The loft's phone rang a few minutes after noon.

Jim grabbed the receiver before it could ring again. "Ellison."

<"Jim? Oh, it's so good to hear your voice!"> Naomi Sandburg's voice chimed over the line, as cheery and vibrant as it had ever sounded.

"Yours too, Naomi," he said, trying to bring a little energy into his voice. This was not what he needed right now.

<"How have you been? Working on a big case?">

"You could say that." //God, Naomi, you don't know how right you are. //

<"Is Blair on it with you? It's not too dangerous, is it?">

Jim's heart caught in his throat. He didn't want to lie to Naomi about her son, but at the same time, he didn't want her to worry. Jim was worrying enough for a dozen people and she would almost surely dig into his ability to protect Blair. On top of it, she may even fly in from whatever remote region she was meditating in at that moment. He just couldn't handle that right now.

<"Jim? Is something wrong?">

Without thinking, Jim unloaded an obfuscation that would have made Blair proud…and Jim almost found himself believing.

"We're fine, Naomi. Blair's actually down in Sacramento with the Anthro department. Some new exhibit in one of the museums, a lot of pottery owned by dead people, or something like that. You know me. The details just get lost in the clutter that is his academic world."

<"Oh, okay, Jim. When he gets back, will you let him know I'm leaving Madagascar for Trinidad.">

"Will do."

<"Thanks so much. Take care of you. Ta-ta!">

She was gone before Jim could say good-bye. As he replaced the phone receiver, Jim was struck by what he'd done. //What if something does happen to Blair? She'll never forgive you for lying like that. //

He had an urge to call her, but didn't know the number. It struck him that he had no idea how to get a hold of her if something did go wrong. The cold knot of worry and fear in his stomach grew impossibly colder as he watched the rest of Lethal Weapon 3, a hard stare his only response to the antics of Mel Gibson and Danny Glover.

~*~

The shrill warning of the other car's horn alerted Jim in time to swerve and avoid sideswiping a maroon Cougar. //Dammit! // He had been so lost in thought that he'd run a stop sign and almost caused an accident. To make matters worse, he couldn't even remember what he'd been thinking so hard about.

"How exactly can matters get worse?" Jim asked aloud. The cab of the Ford was empty, but he needed to fill the space. Talking to yourself was healthy, wasn't it? He had probably been going over the arraignment dispositions he'd been forced to repeat to the D.A. for most of yesterday. For all the work he'd put into the Contino case, the whole time he'd wished he were out looking for his missing partner. After they left, the press had swarmed Jim and Simon, demanding information on the four missing persons. Simon had remained stone-faced each time, but Jim had given a few choice reporters a good tongue-lashing and made a vague threat to the rest if they didn't back off. When he was pissed-off, James Ellison was not a people person.

Today was the anniversary of the abductions--one week. And to celebrate the occasion, the case was taking a nosedive straight to hell. Not only was the Chief of Police pissed because of the press leak, but so was Simon. The captain had been forced to give an official report concerning the case to the public--he hated doing that. Lucas Keaton was threatening to sue the department for dragging the name of his hospital through the proverbial mud during their investigation. And Sheriff Johnson remained unavailable for comment or questioning.

Jim's blood boiled at the thought of the sheriff and the hospital. The police had the ingredients for a major conspiracy at their fingertips, but nothing to hold it all together and make it a viable case. The security tapes Henri had requested two days before did not exist. All the cameras in Palmieri's wing were down for maintenance between the hours of midnight and three a.m. //Security camera maintenance right after a breakout. Gee, why doesn't that make sense? // To top it all off, Verne Palmieri had died the night before from massive organ failure.

The only slivers of brightness in the whole mess were a term paper and old arrest reports. Earlier that morning, Henri had stumbled across McManus' Masters thesis while researching the man's educational background. The topic of the paper was selected emotional states and its application in the military and armed forces--scary stuff. Henri had read it and given Jim and Simon the condensed version: McManus believed emotional control was the future of the country's protection and further existence. A soldier who was "programmed" to not be afraid in a battle could win a war more easily than those plagued by fear and self-doubt.

"My God," Simon had muttered. "He's talking mind control here."

Jim agreed. The thesis had given him the creeps. It was so sterile and straightforward, so...emotionless. What if other people out there agreed with McManus?

The second discovery had less impact, but still caused the investigating officers to scratch their collective heads and wonder. Simon had put together several of the reports made during McManus' arrest and subsequent trial and found a thread no one had expanded on six years ago: the money. If McManus was controlling drug operations for half the city, where was all the money? His bank accounts were nearly empty at the time and no record of offshore accounts was found. There were no safes, locked trunks, safety deposit boxes, nothing to point them to the money. And McManus never offered them any help in that area. The lack of funds had been a major point for McManus' defense, but it never occurred to Jim as being significant to the current case until now.

The old Ford was only a few miles from home. Jim slowed down purposely, dreading going back to the empty loft. He wasn't sure how much longer he could take the silence, the coldness he felt every time he entered. //Damn you, Sandburg, for burrowing so thoroughly into my life. // Jim didn't really mean the curse, but he needed a target for his rage and Blair wasn't there to defend himself. Of course, his friend's absence was the cause of the anger, but hey, no one ever said Sentinels were logical 24/7.

Simon had sent Jim home with strict instructions to eat a full meal and sleep at least twelve hours. The sleep Jim was sure he could deal with. Food, on the other hand, had not been a faithful companion recently. Coffee and vending machine snacks were his diet. Besides, Jim didn't think he had the energy to cook anything remotely healthy. Maybe he'd order in....

~*~

Simon Banks took a large swig of Pepto Bismol and re-screwed the cap, careful to keep one hand on the steering wheel as he drove--the last thing he needed was a car accident on top of everything else. He had never been so worried in his life. It drove Simon crazy every time being a cop affected his son, but this was worse. Often, it was an accident, the wrong place at the wrong time; this time it was deliberate. A man with a vendetta had kidnapped his son and three other people, his intentions still unknown. Simon was convinced those photographs had been nothing more than a perverse tease of some sort and that Daryl was fine, but doubt still nagged at the back of his mind.

Simon especially hated to see what the whole situation was doing to Jim. He knew Jim and Blair had a special connection, more powerful than any two people he knew. Worrying about Blair was eating the man up from the inside out. The Sentinel had just come off a seven-week undercover assignment and gone straight into his most challenging case yet. Simon doubted the man had had a decent night's sleep in since the abductions. He looked like hell and sniped at everyone--like those reporters yesterday. Simon couldn't help but chuckle at the memory. Max Peterson, from Channel Five, had looked ready to piss his pants when Jim had snarled at him. Simon had wanted to yell at the press himself, but that would have gotten him into way too much trouble with the brass.

Simon tried to keep the detective company as much as possible, but Jim preferred to keep completely to himself when not working on the case. He had ordered Jim to get some sleep, but he couldn't force the man's eyes shut. Sometimes Simon wondered how Jim would function if Blair never came back, but the thoughts were too depressing to continue to entertain.

~*POP*~

Simon felt the steering wheel turn the instant after he registered the sound. He carefully regained control of the vehicle and pulled over to the side of the road.

"Dammit!" he screamed in frustration. A flat tire was not going to improve his day at all.

Simon shrugged out of his suit jacket and popped a latch on the dash. He climbed out of the Sedan and walked around to get the spare out of the opened trunk, not looking forward to changing a tire in the near-darkness of the evening. When Simon looked inside the trunk, his jaw fell open, the blood rushing from his face.

"My God," he muttered, beyond shocked.

Unconscious in the trunk, dressed in the same clothes he had disappeared in, lay Daryl Banks.

~*~

Henri Brown let himself into his one-bedroom apartment, intent on getting very drunk.

The normally laid-back detective was up to his ears in frustration and feeling very pessimistic. He had spent the last two days interviewing uncooperative Keaton Hospital employees and cops who remembered the McManus arrest and had turned up nothing. He had been unable to find the perps who squealed on McManus, so that remained another dead-end. In fact, Henri seemed to be slamming into one dead-end after another and it was giving him a headache.

He stalked into his kitchenette and yanked a beer from the refrigerator. It wasn't until he had swallowed half of the bitter liquid that he noticed how hot it was.

"What, is the damn air conditioner broke again?" he wondered, sending silent curses to the building superintendent.

Henri walked into the living room and stopped when a blast of hot, damp air hit him. He scanned the room. One of his windows was open. Instinctively, he drew his service revolver and crept over to the bedroom door. He knew his earlier exclamation would have alerted anyone who could be in the apartment, but it was habit. He checked his bedroom and bathroom and found nothing. Nothing seemed to be missing, either.

//Maybe I left it open for some reason. // It only made him nervous because that window opened up over the fire escape and he usually kept it locked tight.

Unwilling to think about it that night, Henri put his beer down on an end table and went to the window, intent on closing it. He reached up to pull it down and stopped short, staring at the heap on the fire escape.

"Holy shit," he whispered, scrambling out the window to kneel by his partner's side. Rafe was sprawled on the metal landing, one arm draped across his face. His clothes were rather dirty, but otherwise he looked unharmed. Henri checked for a pulse--steady and strong.

"Where the hell have you been?" he asked his unconscious partner, before racing back inside to call an ambulance.

~*~

As Jim neared the front door of the loft, he stretched out his hearing, unconsciously listening for a heartbeat he knew wasn't there. It was a habit he had started years ago, a way to know beforehand if Blair was home or not. More than once, the habit had saved both Jim (and his roommate) the embarrassment of walking in on Blair and his babe-of-the-week. Tonight, Jim had no expectations of hearing a heartbeat behind the loft door, so he nearly dropped his keys when he heard two.

Both heartbeats were steady and even, as if the bodies they kept alive were in a deep sleep. An undeniable feeling of hope began to rise in Jim's chest as he fumbled to unlock the front door. In his trembling haste, he managed to drop his keys twice, but finally let himself into his home.

A quick glance and senses sweep told him no one was in either the living room or kitchen areas. A chemical scent, one he couldn't quite identify, filled his nostrils. Unwilling to waste time trying to figure it out, he cleared the odor from his mind. Trying to calm his own thundering pulse, Jim located one of the heartbeats--in Blair's bedroom. He dashed for the small room, crashing through the French doors with enough force to crack three panes of glass.

A figure was lying quietly on the futon bed, covered by a bright, woven afghan. Only a few dark curls peeked over the edge of the blanket. Jim gently lowered the covering from the figure's face and blinked. It was not whom he'd expected, but he was still overjoyed to find Megan Connor sleeping in Blair's bed. On any other day, he may have laughed at any number of strange images his imagination would have come up with. But not this day.

Jim stretched out his fingers and pressed them against her neck, locating the strong pulse beneath his sensitive digits. The contact was more to prove she was real, that he was not imagining what he wanted to see. //Why would you want to see Megan in Blair's bed? // He reasoned with himself. Satisfied she was stable, Jim again released his senses, locating the second heartbeat. The bathroom.

Ignoring the quaking in his stomach and harsh memories that nibbled at the edge of his subconscious, memories of a killer long dead, Jim walked across the hall to the bathroom. The door was closed. Jim reached for the knob, curled his hand around the brass sphere, and froze. He couldn't explain why he froze--demons from the past perhaps? Monsters that had been buried for years but lived on in one's own memories of them. Memories of Lash, a man whom James Ellison considered the epitome of psychotic. But how can you fear a ghost when all your being tells you they aren't real, just phantoms of a bruised psyche.

Pure will hushed the demons long enough for Jim to turn the knob, letting the wooden door swing inward. His knees jellied and he had to grasp the doorframe for support. The past became the present as old nightmares transposed themselves over what he was actually seeing.

**The tub, filled to less than an inch from the top, it's smooth surface marred by the tiny ripples created by the gentle drip of a not-quite-off faucet. Beneath the surface soaked clammy skin, the body only recently dead. His head rested against the back wall of the shower, damp ringlets of hair plastered to his face and shoulders, the mouth open in a scream silenced too young. A length of yellow silk, mocking in its vivid color, was knotted at his pale throat, its two ends spread out decoratively across his still chest. Drowned in a duck pond, displayed in his bathtub, lay his Guide, his shaman, and his best friend.**

Jim moaned and clamped his eyes shut, willing the hideous perversion from his mind. Three years ago, Jim had almost lost his partner to a murderous psychopath intent on stealing his personality, his identity. Consequently, Lash had collected five bullets in his chest, while Blair dealt with a brief hospital stay and weeks of recurring nightmares. Sentinel and Guide worked hard to put the incident behind them, outwardly and, for the most part, inwardly succeeding. On a rare occasion, Jim would wake in a cold sweat, that horrific image of his friend laying in a full bathtub foremost in his thoughts.

Swallowing his panic and pushing the memories as far back into his mind as he could, Jim opened his eyes, this time able to see the truth. Blair Sandburg was sprawled out almost comically in the tub, alive, dry, and fully clothed. His right hand dangled over the edge, fingertips brushing the tile floor, chestnut curls tied back from his sleeping face.

Jim cut the distance between them in two quick strides, coming to kneel beside his partner. He brushed a renegade curl from Blair's forehead and gently cupped the younger man's pale face in his hands. A strong pulse, slow and steady with sleep, was easily detected. Jim tilted Blair's face towards his own.

"Chief? You hear me? Blair?" The only response was a minute snore. Jim wrinkled his nose as an unpleasant odor assaulted his nostrils. Blair's breath had an acrid smell, like bile. It gave Jim the chills.

Thinking clearly for the first time since entering the loft, Jim pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed 9-1-1.

~*~

Four ambulances pulled into the emergency entrance of Cascade General within three minutes of each other. Simon was first to pace the waiting area, swearing violently at the hospital staff that refused to let him stay with his son. It wasn't until Henri arrived, jolting him back to reality with the news of Rafe's reappearance that he thought to call Joan. Simon had barely fished the thirty-five cents from his pocket for the phone call when two more gurneys barreled into the ER, loaded with an Australian Inspector and a police consultant, a worried Sentinel in tow.

Orderlies were having a difficult time detaching Jim from Blair's hand. The man had refused to let go once the paramedics arrived, finding comfort in the solid touch of his friend, still reassuring himself that the precious life had, indeed, returned to him. None of the four recovered persons were in any immediate danger, but their continued lack of consciousness had the doctors worried.

"Please, detective," a young intern begged, obviously intimidated by the glares the older man was giving him. "You can't be in the exam room."

Simon grunted. The kid was new, didn't know Jim Ellison and his feelings about hospital policies. Hoping to forestall any further arguments with the staff, Simon trotted over to his detective and placed a hand on his shoulder. Tense muscles rippled under Simon's touch; Jim was coiled like a gun, ready to go off.

"Jim," Simon said softly, gentle but firm. "Let them work. They can help Sandburg a lot faster without stepping over you every five seconds. You know that."

Jim looked up, noticing Simon for the first time, confusion flashing across his face. He looked over his captain's shoulder and saw Henri standing a few feet away.

"Why--?" Then it dawned on Jim, understanding lighting up his icy blue eyes. "Rafe and Daryl?"

"They're here, too," Simon replied. "Unconscious, but they seem okay. Megan and Blair?"

"Same," Jim said quietly, his eyes darting back to the exam room doors.

"C'mon." Simon put his hand on Jim's elbow and steered his friend into the waiting area, depositing the detective into a molded plastic chair. Jim shifted uncomfortably, but stayed put. Simon sat down on his left, Henri on his right.

"Kind of a unique experience, coming home to find your partner asleep on the fire escape." Henri tried to paste a jesting grin on his face, but the intended levity of his comment fell short.

Simon swallowed back the churning emotions he still felt when he thought of his son, cramped and alone, in the trunk of his car. Those were five minutes of his life that Simon chose never to repeat again. He glanced at Jim.

Something akin to fear flashed through Jim's blue eyes, gone as quickly as it came. Simon wondered what the man was remembering.

"This isn't over." Jim spoke so softly the other two almost missed it. There was resolution in his expression, but also something else--something deadlier. "What the hell's he got to gain from giving them back?"

"I don't know," Simon admitted. "It seems way too simple."

"Maybe we were getting too close to something at the hospital," Henri ventured.

Jim shook his head. "More likely that this is part of his plan."

"What the hell kind of a plan is kidnapping four people, taking horrible photographs of them, then letting them go?" Simon asked vehemently. Nobody had an answer for that one.

And so they waited.

The next twenty minutes passed slowly for Simon. His thoughts kept drifting to the endless possibilities of things that could have happened to his son during his capture. Daryl hadn't shown any visible signs of physical abuse, but there could have been something hiding below the surface. Until the doctor came, Simon's mind would continue to betray him.

And betray him it did. Images of the past flashed through the police captain's mind, reliving horrors he'd just as soon forget: Daryl dangling out of a sixth story window, with only two Sunrise Patriots anchoring him to safety; dodging the bullets of drug smugglers in the middle of the Peruvian jungle; Daryl once again at the mercy of Garrett Kincaid, held hostage along with thousands of other basketball fans in the Cascade sports arena. Each time, Lady Luck had shown her lovely face and his son had come out of the situation healthy and unharmed. Simon could only pray the same would hold true in this case.

Beside him, Jim bolted to his feet. Simon looked up, following his friend's gaze. A doctor was approaching the trio: Doctor Rice. They'd met him several times before. He was a pleasant, middle-aged man with a receding hairline and silver-rimmed glasses.

Simon and Henri also stood and waited for the doctor to approach. Simon kept an eye on Jim, half-afraid the man would pounce on Rice before he got there. But Jim was on his best behavior, waiting patiently for the doctor to shake each man's hand, before bluntly interrupting with, "How are they?"

"Resting comfortably," Rice said calmly, not a bit fazed by Jim's intense stare. "Daryl and Mr. Sandburg are dehydrated and a bit malnourished, but other than that, all four are in good health. There are no outward signs of trauma or abuse and no internal injuries that we can determine. Wherever they were, they were taken care of."

The policemen visibly relaxed, their fears alleviated, for the most part.

"However," Rice continued, "we did find minute traces of an unknown substance in their bloodstream."

It was like someone flipped a switch, all three men immediately re-alert and tense.

"What kind of substance?" Simon and Jim asked in stereo.

Doctor Rice raised an eyebrow, then checked his charts. "We're not sure yet," he admitted. "It's nothing I've ever seen before. It doesn't seem to be doing them any harm, but I'd like to keep everyone overnight for observation. Just in case."

"Of course," Simon said.

"Are they awake?" Jim asked.

"They're beginning to come around," Rice responded. "They were put under a mild, but relatively harmless anesthesia that wears off pretty quickly."

"We want to see them," Jim stated simply, his blue eyes boring into the doctor, daring him to deny the order.

"They're being moved upstairs, into semi-private rooms. You can see them once they're settled."

Jim nodded in agreement, then tilted his head slightly to the right. Simon watched him, immediately recognizing the sign. Jim was listening for Blair, for his friend and partner. In that instant, Simon envied Jim his senses. He'd give anything to be able to listen to his son's heartbeat the way Jim could hear Blair's, to tune into that sound as he slept, content that Daryl was nearby and safe. But for the moment, he'd just have to rely on the word of strangers that his son was okay.

~*~

Jim followed the nurse robotically as she led the way to Blair's room. All of his senses were tuned into the young man fighting his way back to consciousness. Jim heard the changes in his heartbeat and breathing as the sedative wore off. The Sentinel forced himself not to run, to tear down that hallway to visually reassure himself that Blair was back.

He hated the hospital. Disinfectant mixed with hundreds of medicinal smells all combined to create one very nauseous Sentinel. Jim had been here too often in the last three years, unfortunately more for Sandburg than himself. It seemed like the hyperactive anthropologist walked around Cascade with a giant "Kick Me" sign pasted on his forehead. Now the sign seemed to include "Kidnap Me," "Shoot Me," and "Drug Me," as well.

//Maybe the signs alternate with the days of the week, // Jim thought, the gallows humor going unappreciated by everyone but himself. //That's not really fair, though. His bad luck quadrupled when we partnered up. I've said it before and I'm sticking to it: before he met me, the worst thing that could have happened to him was a paper cut. //

<"Jim....">

The groggy voice only gasped the name once, but the Sentinel was off and running, every protective instinct he possessed kicking in. He pushed past the nurse and flew into Sandburg's room.

~*~

It was like swimming through peanut butter. He wanted to move, but was held back by something he couldn't see or feel. There was more out there, a warmer place he had to reach, but it just felt like too much work. He heard a muffled sound repeated several times. There were no individual letters, just the hiss of the first syllable that ended with a thud, and the pull of the second syllable, ending with more of a grunt. //I know this language. It's my name. Sandburg. Someone's calling my name. I should answer him. //

He was only vaguely surprised at the coherence of his thoughts. He was more annoyed that his mouth wouldn't work, leaving him unable to answer the man calling his name. It was a man, he was sure. Was it Jim? He had managed to form those three simple letters just moments ago, but further speech seemed to evade him at the moment.

He felt himself inching closer to the warm place. A pressure on his left hand made him look down. It was impossible to see the affected appendage in the pitch darkness, but the pressure remained constant. Sensation returned to his hand. He flexed it once, his fingers closing over something soft, yet firm. He squeezed again, the contact sending waves of contentment over his body, positive it was Jim's. Now he just needed to get his sight back on-line.

As he neared the warm place, a pinprick of light appeared in front of him. Concentrating hard, the tiny spot opened up into a slit of painful, blinding whiteness. He stopped concentrating and the slit closed again, making the whiteness disappear.

"Chief? You awake?"

His head tilted slightly in the direction of Jim's voice. So he was out there, waiting for him. Steeling himself against the immanent glare, Blair pushed against the pinprick again. He ignored the pain, instead focusing on the pressure against his left hand. Gradually, the brightness faded, letting the world come into focus. He blinked once, twice, his blue eyes fixing on those of his Sentinel.

Jim face twisted from a worried frown into a half-smile. "Welcome back, partner."

Blair frowned, trying to remember where he'd been. "Back? Where'd I--?" Wham! Everything hit him in a rush. His eyes widened, panic overpowering reason, and he tried to sit up, his body protesting with every inch. "Somebody shoved a rag in my mouth and stuffed me in the back of a van. Who had me? Did you catch him or them or whoever?"

"Calm down, Chief," Jim ordered, returning his partner to a more horizontal position. Blair succumbed willingly, completely spent. "We're pretty sure about who had you, we just haven't caught him yet." He paused, staring intently at his partner. "You okay?"

Blair groaned. He pulled his hand from Jim's grasp and massaged his temples. "Who gave the Jag's cheerleaders permission to practice their routines in my head?"

Jim snorted. "Don't you wish?"

Blair smiled, then let the grin transform into a contemplative stare. //God, Jim looks worse than I feel. // The older man had dark smudges under his eyes, making the thin lines around them deeper, more pronounced. His jaw was tight, set in a firm line that looked almost painful. //I wonder what his dentist thinks of him since I've come along. I've never seen a man grind his teeth so much. // Jim showed all the signs of lack of sleep and extensive worrying.

"Have you been taking care of yourself?" Blair asked.

Jim stared, obviously not expecting the question. "Yes?"

Blair raised his eyebrows, not buying it. Jim had lost weight. He was pale, his eyes sunken a bit deeper into his head. The almost forty year-old man looked nearer sixty.

"How long was I gone?"

Jim blinked. "You don't remember?"

He shook his head, loose curls tickling his face. "I don't remember anything except being in the van and waking up here." Sudden panic hit like a bucket of cold water. Was it so bad that he was suppressing the memories? Had he been beaten...or worse? He looked up with terror in his eyes. "Jim, what happened to me? Was it bad?"

Jim returned the question with a warm smile that took ten years off his face. "You're fine. The doctors did a full exam and didn't find anything wrong. Except you haven't been eating well. Doc said your throat was raw, like you'd thrown up a lot recently. They found a drug in your bloodstream that they're still trying to identify, but it's probably harmless." He paused. "Do you remember any of that?"

Blair searched his foggy mind, willing something, anything to present itself. Nothing came. "No, I can't. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. It's not your fault, Blair." Jim looked away.

Blair saw the look on his face and didn't like it one bit. "This is so not your fault, either, Jim. Don't you pull that Ellison guilt thing on me."

"It is my fault!" Jim turned a stormy face to Blair, anger and guilt contorting his face into a twisted mask. Blair flinched. Jim's expression softened and he hung his head, mumbling something unintelligible.

"Say again?"

Jim met his concerned gaze with pained eyes. "I said, I should have shot that madman when I had the chance."

"Who?"

"McManus."

Blair rolled the name around in his head for a few seconds. It sounded so familiar, yet so strange. He waited for Jim to explain.

"Edward McManus was arrested five years ago. He was caught for drug dealing and was eventually responsible for the deaths of seven other officers. When he was caught, Simon, Henri and I made the collar."

"And?"

Jim squirmed, obviously uncomfortable with dredging up the painful memories, "And I arrested him."

"We've established that, genius. We've also established that he caused the deaths of seven cops. I could go read the official report, but that would probably be lacking some essential details. You wanna fill in the blanks?"

Jim sighed. He knew Blair deserved the whole truth, not the whitewashed version he would find in the department's record room.

"Edward McManus turned up during an investigation into a drug ring I was trying to bust. One Thursday, we got an anonymous tip that a deal was going down near Cascade Bridge. We rolled up and were immediately caught under heavy fire from three different directions. I watched two guys die right in front of me."

He paused, collecting his thoughts. "Back-up arrived and the snipers retreated. Four of our guys were dead, but we managed to capture one of theirs. When we threatened to charge him with four counts of murder, he sang for all he was worth. Said McManus had put them up to it, that it was him who set up the crossfire. He also said McManus was in charge of drug distribution for the West Side and everyone took their orders from him.

"Brown, Simon and I took three other men and went to a warehouse McManus was supposed to be holed up in. We called for back up and stormed the place. McManus seemed to have flipped out. He was standing in an old office, taking pot shots at everything that moved. Then he just dropped his gun and began bawling like a baby. As much as we wanted to, we couldn't shoot an unarmed man, so we arrested him.

"It went to court, but McManus was charged with three counts of murder two and his lawyer got him off on an insanity plea. The asshole was sentenced to extensive evaluation at Washington State Hospital, then transferred to Keaton Hospital for a more permanent visit."

"Until now."

"Exactly. He officially died in 1995, but they never found his body."

Blair absorbed the information. The memories he had forced his friend to dredge up were beyond horrible, but Blair was glad he knew.

"So he's the one that took us, huh?" Us? Duh! //I wasn't the only one taken. Rafe, Megan and Daryl were there, too. How could I have not remembered that? //

Jim noticed, too. "Us? You remember the others?"

"Yeah. Daryl and Rafe and Megan, they were there with me."

"Where's there? Do you remember that?"

As anxious as he was to regain lost time, Blair wasn't about to let Jim off that easy. "What about McManus, Jim?"

The Sentinel refused to meet his Guide's eyes. "We'll talk about that later."

"No, now. At the risk of sounding cliché, hindsight is 20/20. You couldn't have known that five years later he'd come after me. Hell, the guy was 'dead' and you didn't even know me back then."

Jim sighed and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the edge of the bed. "There is some sort of major cover-up going on over at that hospital, I just don't have any hard proof. I'll explain it all later, you need to sleep now."

"Not tired," Blair mumbled, even as he unsuccessfully tried to hold back a monster yawn.

"Yeah, you keep thinking that, Darwin."

"Are you staying?" Blair's eyes drooped, as blissful sleep crept up on him.

"As long as they'll let me."

"Go home and sleep. You need it more than me. You probably haven't slept since...sometime." His words sounded muffled to his own ears as he drifted off. //I didn't think I was that tired. // "Hey, Jim?"

"Yeah, Chief?"

Blair tried to open his eyes, but found his lids wouldn't cooperate. "How long?"

Silence.

"Jim?"

"A week."

A week. The actual length of time would probably sink in better tomorrow when he was more lucid. In his sleep-induced state, Blair's scientific mind reduced the duration of his capture to some sort of equation.

"One week...." Blair mumbled as he drifted off. "Seven days...one hundred, sixty-eight hours...lots of minutes...way too many seconds...."

~*~

"Megan? Megan, wake up."

The soothing voice slowly brought Megan Connor back to wakefulness. She blinked several times, adjusting her dark eyes to the brightness of the room. As her vision cleared, her sight landed on the figure sitting in a wheelchair next to her bed.

"Sandy?" she croaked.

Blair grinned at her. "Yeah. How do you feel?"

"Like I was just pulled from a coma. You'd think I'd been asleep for days or something. Is it still morning?"

Blair shook his head. "Evening, actually."

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Already?" She paused, noting her friend's pale skin and wan eyes. "You okay, Sandy? You look terrible."

"Hospital food," Blair quipped.

"Yeah." She paused, her gaze avoiding Sandy's. Megan couldn't explain the strange sense of bewilderment she felt, like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights. "Captain Banks stopped in earlier this afternoon. And Jim, too. They told me what happened. Or at least what they know."

"Uh huh. What did you tell them?"

"What I could. All I could recall was an old wreck of a house. Not much that's helpful." Megan reached a thin hand under her curly hair, gently massaging her neck muscles, her pinkie finger scratching lightly against her right ear.

"What do you think happened?" Blair ventured, breaking the silence.

"Don't know. I'd rather not wonder about it until I do, either. It'd drive me bananas, otherwise."

"I hear that." His eyes searched out hers. "I'm glad you're okay."

Megan smiled warmly, taking Blair's left hand in her own. It felt warm and real. "You, too."

~*~

Thunder rumbled in the distance, announcing the approaching storm front. The clouds were deep charcoal, drifting aimlessly across a pewter sky streaked with red. The setting sun was hidden, making the evening darker than usual. A few scattered raindrops dotted the pavement in front of the abandoned house, speckling its dark surface and giving the whole place a haunted air. The tiny hairs on the back of Jim's neck stood on end as another clap of thunder broke through the silence. He shook off an odd feeling of dread and remained crouched behind the house next door, waiting for Simon's signal.

He'd spent most of last night in the molded plastic chair at Blair's bedside. Sure, he had a crick in his neck the size of downtown, but it was worth it to have his Guide nearby again. The past week had been complete hell for Jim, his only reprieve coming when Blair turned up in the bathtub. Hearing that cherished heartbeat, that familiar breathing pattern, had smoothed his rough nerves, given him a peace he hadn't felt in a long time. But the peace was quickly replaced by a refueled desire to see McManus dead...or at least behind bars.

Yesterday afternoon, after piecing together what the four recovered persons could remember, Jim had tracked down this place in the slums of Cascade and staked it out. It looked deserted. Its porch roof was half-fallen, the door off its hinges, no glass in the boarded-over windows. Seventeen minutes ago, at almost six a.m., Dills reported seeing someone sneak in from the rear entrance. Now Jim, Simon, Henri and a half dozen members of the S.W.A.T. team were assembled, ready to storm the house.

Simon's voice came over the microphone. <"Go!">

Jim stood and skillfully rushed to the side of the house, sidestepping a rusted-out wheelbarrow and several untended hydrangeas bushes. Waiting until the others were in position, Jim carefully climbed onto the rotting porch and planted himself in front of the main door.

"Cascade Police! Come out with your hands in the air!"

Nothing.

Jim extended his hearing. A rapid heartbeat was coming closer, then shifted, going farther away. Without a second thought, Jim kicked in the door. The wooden rectangle splintered into several large pieces on impact, throwing Jim off balance for a minute. As he regained his footing, a figure passed his vision. He tensed and pointed his revolver down a hallway at the retreating form.

"Freeze!" Jim shouted. "On the floor!"

The man froze comically, with one foot still in the air. Several members of the S.W.A.T. team poured into the hall in front of the man, all rifles trained on him. He dropped to his knees, then lay across the dirty, wooden floor. He was shaking and appeared unarmed.

Jim stepped closer, as Simon and Henri burst into the hallway. They approached the man together. Jim let his vision extend, pulling in to rest on the man's head. A shock of red hair peeked out from underneath a dirty green watchcap. It wasn't McManus. It was--

"Liam Wright?" Jim lowered his gun as startled green eyes peered up at him. The capped head gave an almost imperceptible nod. Simon and Henri shot each other questioning looks, while Jim helped the homeless man to his feet.

"Detective?" Wright seemed to be having trouble focusing. "I'm real sorry, I just wanted to get some sleep is all."

"What are you doing here?" Simon demanded.

Wright looked like a frightened animal, cowering under the police captain's scrutiny. "I've slept here the past few nights. It's outta the rain and ain't no others to fight for it."

"Breaking and entering, Mr. Wright?" Jim said bluntly.

Wright looked at all of the men still searching the house. "You brought all these guys to arrest me for that?"

Looking at the situation from Liam Wright's point of view, their arrival did seem rather ludicrous. There was the sudden sound of shattering wood, as the S.W.A.T. forced their way into the basement.

"We're not here for you," Henri said.

"Captain Banks!" a voice shouted from the basement. "Better come see this!"

Jim handed Wright over to a uniform and followed Simon and Henri downstairs. The basement was dark, but his vision immediately compensated for the lack of light. He picked his way past piles of junk, ancient furniture and moldy boxes, to a corner farthest from the steps. A 40-watt bulb lit the small area, casting shadows on the objects of everyone's attention.

Set up in the corner, against a red, brick wall, were a camera, tripod, and several small floodlights. Dark stains splattered the floor all around the wall, spreading out in a five-foot diameter. Jim knelt down by one of the stains; it was still damp. Gently, he touched his fingertip to it. Sticky redness came up on his fingertip; the smoothness made his heart skip a beat. //Looks like blood. //

He lifted the finger to his nose and opened his senses to it. Instead of the coppery odor he expected, a sweet smell filled his nostrils. Curious, he rubbed the goo between his forefinger and thumb. Grainy. Too sticky.

"It's not blood," he said aloud. Jim heard Simon let out a deep breath.

"You sure, Jim?" Henri asked, squatting next to Jim.

"Positive. It's fake blood, corn syrup, maybe."

Simon grunted. "Looks like this is where he took those photographs."

"It's really weird," Brown commented, scratching his chin. "All they could recall between them got us here, but none of them remembers anything about those pictures."

"There's no way they were kept here," Jim said. "The dirt is too settled and the whole house is way too unstable. I'd bet, beyond our friends and the photographer, Mr. Wright was the only person in this house in the last few weeks."

"Agreed," said Simon. "We'll get Forensics in here, see what they turn up. Anything else here?"

The last question was directed mostly at Jim. The Sentinel scanned the room quickly, letting his senses open up. He smelled dust and mold, accumulated through years of neglect; the after-shave of the men around him; recently deposited rat droppings. He wiped the red syrup on his pants and let his sensitive fingers trail over the floor. It was clean, no trace of the grime present everywhere else in the basement.

"Jim?"

Ignoring Henri's inquiry, Jim let his eyes trail along the edge of the brick wall, then up. There, about three feet from the floor.

"Anybody have tweezers?" Jim asked, standing and walking to the wall.

The tweezers found itself in Jim's hand. With them, he plucked a long, curled hair off the wall, carefully dislodging it from a chink in the mortar. Someone handed him a plastic bag, into which he deposited the strand.

"What is it, Jim?" Simon asked, staring at the bag in the dim light.

"Curly hair." Jim put his nose to the open bag and sniffed. He pushed past the overpowering odor of plastic, letting another scent rise into his nostrils. It was flowery, very feminine, and very familiar. He looked at his captain. "It's Megan's. They were here."

~*~

Jim never slept well during storms. He felt too restless and on edge to relax enough for sleep to find him. Tonight was no exception. Thunder rumbled almost constantly, soft like the purr of a mountain cat. Once in a while, a clap would ring so loud that Jim jumped. Lightening stretched its yellow fingers across the black sky, illuminating the face of the tired man watching it from behind a pane of glass.

Beer probably wasn't the best drink at almost two a.m., but nothing else in the refrigerator looked appealing. In fact, the entire appliance needed to be emptied out. Leftovers from weeks ago had gone to seed in the red- and blue-lidded containers. The milk was sour and several tomatoes were juicing all over the crisper. Tomorrow, he promised himself. He'd do it now, but didn't want to risk waking Blair.

He and the others had been sent home that evening. Jim picked him up after the little escapade in the "haunted house," and went straight back to the loft. Blair was still on a limited diet, so while he settled quietly onto the couch, Jim fixed them both a mug of chicken broth. Neither man had drunk much; they just sat in companionable silence for the better part of an hour.

Then Blair had asked about the investigation. For the next three hours, Jim had filled his friend in on his suspicions about McManus' escape, the hospital cover-up and the long list of missing witnesses. Blair had listened intently, missing nothing and absorbing everything, his expression unreadable. Jim ended with the discoveries in the basement.

"And Liam Wright?" Blair inquired.

"Simon took him in for questioning. The guy was so out of it, there's no way he could have been in on anything. It just seems like too much of a coincidence that he was at that specific house at that specific time."

"There are no coincidences, Jim. Everything happens for a reason."

"I know you believe that, Chief. So what's his reason?"

"I don't know. Why's he living on the street?"

"No one can figure that out. Three years ago, he never showed up for work. Few weeks later, he was seen scrounging trash out of a dumpster. Whenever he's approached about it, he gets unintelligible and defensive."

A pause.

"So, you think this-we are just part of some elaborate plan to get back at you guys?"

"I don't know, Chief. I wish I did."

Blair had gone to bed a bit later, mumbling about going with him to meet Sneaks. Jim had laughed at his friend's tenacity, but was unwilling to let the man expose himself to another possible abduction. Of course, Jim couldn't very well tie Blair to the bedpost and set an armed guard on him. He would just have to trust that that part of McManus' plan was over with.

Jim finished his bottle of beer, shivering as another streak of lightening lit up the sky. A small noise filtered out from Blair's bedroom, causing Sentinel ears to zero in on the source of the sound. Blair was whimpering, soft choking noises that set Jim's teeth on edge. A wave of anger washed over him, directed at McManus for causing his Guide to make such sounds. He rushed into Blair's room.

Blair was thrashing around, his sheets twisting around his compact body. A sheen of sweat made his skin glisten in the light of the storm. His face was contorted, a mix of panic and rage, but the whimpers were of one in anguish.

Jim perched on the edge of the futon and put his hands on Blair's shoulders. "Chief? Wake up, it's just a dream. Sandburg!"

The struggling figure shook himself awake, immediately on the defensive. He pulled away from Jim, unable to see in the darkness, trying to disappear into the corner of the bed.

"Blair? It's okay, it's Jim."

A flash of lightening illuminated the room and Blair saw Jim's face. The smaller man immediately relaxed, taking deep breaths to clear his head.

"Jim?" Blair flicked on the bedside lamp. "Geez, man, I'm sorry I woke you."

"It's okay, I was up. Couldn't sleep in the storm."

"Did you turn down your hearing?" Blair asked, completely forgetting why he had woken up.

"Yes, I did. But I still feel like an over-charged battery."

"Must be the lightening. I'll have to do some tests-."

"Later, Chief. What was all this about?" Jim waved a hand, indicating the messed-up bed.

Blair lowered his head, somewhat embarrassed. "Nightmare."

"About?"

The anthropologist turned pained eyes on his friend. "I can't remember," he admitted, scratching absently behind his right ear.

"Nothing?"

Blair snorted. "Seems to be a running phrase for me lately. All I have is this weird feeling, like I was chasing something. I almost caught up to it, but something kept pulling me back again. It's like, if I could just catch it, everything will make sense again."

Jim blinked, unsure of what to say. He saw the desperation in Blair's eyes, the frustration at being unable to recall a week of his life. Jim patted his forearm reassuringly. "Maybe it's your memory knocking at the door to your subconscious."

"Well, I wish it would quick knocking and kick the damn thing down already."

They grinned. A clap of thunder made them both jump. Blair untangled himself from the sweat-soaked sheets and stood up, softly padding into the kitchen. Jim followed silently.

Blair opened the refrigerator and began pulling out Tupperware containers. Jim watched him, confused.

"Midnight snack, Chief?"

A few pieces of moldy lunch meat landed on the counter.

"Nope. Just a little cleaning."

Jim raised an eyebrow, glancing at the clock on the microwave. "At two o'clock in the morning?"

Blair straightened up and looked Jim in the eye. "I'm not going back to sleep anytime soon. Are you?"

"But--"

"Are you?"

The question was pointed, as if challenging Jim to make him go to bed. If he didn't want to admit that the nightmare had scared him, Jim wouldn't push it. And, no, he had no desire to sleep either. And, technically it was tomorrow.

"No. I'll get a trash bag."

Blair nodded and stuck his head back into the open appliance. He reemerged seconds later with a jug of milk. Before Jim could warn him, Blair popped off the cap and sniffed.

"Whew! That stuff's so thick you could sell it by the slice!" Blair turned the jug upside down in the sink, letting the offending liquid swirl down the drain. "Geez, Jim, you can usually smell sour milk days in advance. Didn't you eat anything while I was gone?"

Blair asked the question so simply, as if he had been in Seattle for the weekend, instead of who-knows-where. Jim snapped open the trash bag, feeling somewhat embarrassed.

"Not much here. The snack machine at the office became my best friend."

"Hmm. Best friend, huh? Looks like I got competition from a fat-and-cholesterol dispenser."

They laughed as Blair lobbed the rotten tomatoes into the waiting garbage bag.

"I've also been eyeing Simon's new coffee machine," Jim teased. "Makes a perfect cup every time and never talks back."

Blair pouted, pretending to be offended. He tossed a handful of loose grapes, liquid to the touch, at Jim. All but one hit the bag; that one hit Jim square in the chest. Jim looked down at the mess and raised an eyebrow.

Blair tried to hide a laugh that came off more like a choke.

"That's real funny, Sandburg," Jim groused. He dropped the garbage and opened one of the red-lidded containers. "Hmm. This sort of looks like your hair." Jim held up the brown noodles threateningly.

Blair's eyes widened. "C'mon, man, no food fight. It's your kitchen, you know."

"Yeah, you're right," Jim conceded, putting the container back onto the counter. He bent down to pick up the trash bag. Straightening up, he felt something greasy slip across his head and down his neck. Brown noodles landed at his feet. Jim looked into Blair's amused eyes.

"That's it, Junior!" Jim warned, grabbing another container of Tupperware from the counter and flinging its unidentifiable contents at his laughing roommate.

~*~

Blair shifted in the booth and stifled another yawn, more from oversleep than lack thereof. His hectic schedules at the station and at Rainier had conditioned him to accept five hours of sleep or less as normal. He'd slept so much in the past two days, he didn't think he'd ever fall asleep again.

Last night--or rather this morning--after the food fight, Jim had fallen asleep at the kitchen table. Blair had continued to clean up the loft on his own, releasing some pent-up energy. He hadn't stayed in the kitchen, but had extended the chore to the living room and bathroom, doing everything short of running the vacuum.

When Jim woke up at eight, Blair had used the clean loft to push his guilt buttons until Jim agreed to take him to see Sneaks. Yes, Blair knew he had just experienced a traumatic event, but he also wanted to get involved. He hated playing the victim. Besides, Jim needed him. Simon had tattled on Jim at the hospital, about his shorter-than-usual temper and bad sleeping habits. Blair wanted to stay close to his Sentinel. Plus, he might see something that would trigger a memory.

The door chimes announced the arrival of a new patron. Jim and Blair looked up from their coffee, eyeing the entrance to the diner. Blair shifted as Sneaks bypassed the waitress and headed over to their table. He felt the shoebox press into his left thigh and hoped the snitch had something meaningful to report.

The young man plopped into the booth across from the pair, his darting eyes looking from one to the other.

"Guess he's not missing anymore," Sneaks said, pointing at Blair.

"Master of observation," Blair retorted.

"You got the bonus?" he asked, straining to see into the booth across from him.

Jim reached down and lifted the shoebox just high enough for Sneaks to see the corner. He put it back down and folded his hands on the Formica table. "You got my information?"

Sneaks grinned devilishly. "Wait'll you hear what I got for you, man!" he cried, a bit too loudly.

"Well?" Jim asked impatiently, hoping the over-excitable snitch wasn't disturbing neighboring patrons.

"NeuroD is phony, fake as William Shatner's hair. It's a cover for somethin' else, somethin' real big."

"Which is?"

Sneaks stared at Jim as if he'd just interrupted a Nobel Prize acceptance speech, before continuing. "Big-timers all over the city have donated money to this 'corporation.' Pay-off is some new technology that'll ruin the pigs--er, cops once'n fer all."

"What's the price tag?"

"Five mil, for starters."

"You have names?"

"Only one you'll be interested in. Old man Contino is known to have pushed a couple of bucks their way."

Wham!

It was as if a light bulb went off in Jim's head. His eyes lit up and he sat straighter in his chair. Blair watched him carefully.

"Who's they?" Jim demanded.

"They who?" Sneaks looked genuinely confused.

"Who's running this thing? Who collects the money? What's it used for?"

"Hey, man, I've done my duty and provided my services. You want more, check the Yellow Pages. I've got nothing else." A pause. "So...."

Jim tossed the shoebox at Sneaks. "Here, thanks."

Sneaks grinned, collected the box and stood. "Need anything else, contact me. Standing offer."

"Keep your ears open on this thing," Jim ordered.

Sneaks gave Jim and Blair a thumbs-up and swaggered out of the diner.

"What do you think?" Blair asked quietly, speaking for the first time.

Jim grimaced. "I think I'm going to make an appointment to talk to Corey Contino."

"What for?"

"When Sneaks mentioned the family, I remembered a time, almost a month ago while I was undercover. I said I was going to take a nap, but was actually listening to Leonard Contino conduct business from his home office. A foot soldier, Stu Lafayette, came in and said there was a development in their business with NeuroDynamics. No more was said, and that was the last I heard about it until the name came screaming back into my life last week."

Jim's cell phone chirped to life. "Ellison...what?"

Blair looked at Jim expectantly, waiting as patiently as possible for the older man to fill him in. He scratched below his ear, annoyed at the ever-present itch.

"Uh huh...okay, thanks Simon." Jim flipped the phone closed.

"Well?"

Jim rubbed the bridge of his nose, a common motion in times of stress. "There was an unexplained fire in the security office at Keaton. The head of security was killed and all the tapes for the last two months were destroyed."

"Why does that sound way too convenient?"

"I don't know, but it's bugging the hell out of me. Let's go, Chief."

Jim slid out of the booth and deposited several dollars onto the table for the coffee. Blair followed suit and shadowed his partner out of the diner.

~*~

Jim knocked again, his impatience growing with each passing second. Lights were on, the car was in the driveway--Sheriff Johnson should be inside his upscale home. Jim listened. No heartbeat rushed to meet his ears, but another sound did. It was a creaking noise, like something heavy hanging from....

Not wasting any words, Jim kicked hard, sending the oak door flying. Blair jumped back, surprised at the action. Jim charged inside. He was hit with a vaguely familiar chemical odor, but could not immediately identify it. He filed the scent away for later and followed the creaking sound past the living room, down a hallway and into a downstairs bedroom. He stopped short just inside the entrance, causing Blair to crash into him from behind.

"Jim--?" The question cut itself off when Blair looked past the Sentinel's larger frame and into the room.

A thick length of rope was looped over the ceiling fan, anchored to the bedpost. The other end of the rope was securely knotted around Sheriff Johnson's neck. The man hung lifelessly, swaying slightly, already dead several days. His eyes bulged from their sockets, his face blue/black. Jim looked away from the grisly sight.

"Oh, man," Blair murmured.

Not moving any closer, Jim zeroed in on Johnson's neck, playing a hunch. It paid off.

"It wasn't suicide," Jim announced. "There's a needle mark on his neck. Someone wants it too look like he killed himself."

"Just like Sykes. The lawyer who killed himself," Blair said, remembering Jim’s suspicions about the hospital and McManus.

Jim nodded. A second odor began tickling at his senses. He looked at Blair. "You smell that?"

"Smell what?"

He sniffed again. "Burnt paper."

Jim followed the scent out of the room and back down the hall, tracing its origin to the fireplace in the living room. Crouching in front of the brick structure, Jim picked up a piece of ash. It was dry, like paper. And there was a lot of it. The entire fireplace was full of ashes.

He felt Blair crouch by his side. Jim sifted through the sooty pile until he unearthed a singed scrap of white. Holding it up to the light, he could make out handwritten letters and numbers.

"FX-917," Jim read aloud.

"What is it, Jim?"

"Don't know. A license plate, old case number, part of a formula. It's hard to tell."

"I'd say Sheriff Johnson was definitely on to something no one wanted told."

Jim nodded. "Or he was in on it and was going to spill the beans. That seems more likely, given his address. How could a county sheriff afford all this unless he had a second income?"

They stood and the pair gazed around the posh room. White carpet, leather sofas and a menagerie of modern art decor filled the large space. A crystal chandelier hung masterfully in the foyer. An angled view into the dining room revealed a large cherry cabinet filled with expensive-looking china.

Blair whistled. "I'd like to know what kind of Christmas bonus this guy gets." He wandered over to a small, glass end table. "Looks like he forgot to check his messages before he died."

Jim joined his friend, noticing the blinking light on the answering machine. Sentinel and Guide exchanged glances, each saying the same thing. Jim pushed the play button.

<"Sheriff Johnson? This is Detective Brown with the Cascade PD. If you could give me a call, I just have a few questions for you. The number is 555-0125.">

Jim and Blair glanced at each other. The machine beeped, announcing the next message.

<"It's Wayne. Get rid of it. He's coming and they know too much.">

Jim raised an eyebrow. Dr. Wayne ordering around the Sheriff? He assumed "they" to be himself and the rest of the CPD. "He" could be anybody. But Jim had a sneaking suspicion that the "he" was McManus. Jim looked at Blair.

"Wayne's house," they said in stereo, already heading for the front door.

Jim tossed his cell phone to Blair. "Call Simon. Tell him we need a warrant."

~*~

The door to Dr. Wayne's house was unlocked and partly open. A section of the fancy glass window was smashed, leaving a hole about six inches wide. Blair followed close behind Jim as they entered.

"Dr. Wayne?" Jim bellowed. He hesitated in the doorway. "No one home."

"Surprise, surprise."

"There it is again," Jim mumbled, walking through the foyer.

Blair's ears perked up. "What? You hear something?"

Jim shook his head, sniffing around. "No, it's a scent. I've smelled it before, at the loft and at Johnson's house. It's here, but real faint."

"Can you track it? Find out where it's strongest?"

Jim stood still, letting the odors of the house drift in and out of his nostrils. Blair placed his hand on Jim's left elbow to anchor the Sentinel, but it was more than that. The physical contact helped to calm the butterflies that landed in Blair's stomach ever since their "interview" with Sneaks that morning. It could easily just be hunger. Blair hadn't been able to stomach solid food since...whenever. Certainly not since he'd reappeared.

"This way."

The simple statement brought Blair back. He followed Jim up a flight of stairs and down a hallway. They stopped in front of a half-open door. Jim pushed it open carefully and stepped inside.

"It's strongest in here," Jim announced, looking around.

Three walls of the room were covered floor to ceiling with books of all sizes and thickness. The fourth wall, opposite the door, was made up of six large windows overlooking a sprawling flower garden. A huge, oak desk sat squarely in the center of the room, a computer to one side. Filing cabinets stood on either end of the desk.

Blair wandered over to a bookshelf, glancing over the titles. "Jekyl and Hyde, Frankenstein, The Complete Anthology of Shakespeare. Decent taste in literature."

Jim also scanned the bookshelves. "For a shrink, he sure doesn't have a lot of psychology books."

"Weird. Maybe they're all at the office."

"Maybe."

Blair watched his Sentinel stride over to the filing cabinets and pulled one open. The older man leafed through several, but didn't find anything that caught his attention.

Jim turned his gaze on Blair. "He'd have some files on his computer, wouldn't he?"

"He should."

Blair walked around behind the oak desk and sat in a plush, black chair. The computer was on, but the monitor was on stand-by. He pushed the mouse, waiting expectantly for the screen to come to life. Colorful zig-zags, flying to and fro like shafts of lightening, filled the screen.

"Damn," Blair muttered. "It's got a virus."

He poked a few keys, trying to recall everything he could about computer programming. After a few moments of fiddling, he gave up.

"I can't do a thing with it," Blair spat. "Maybe Serena could, but it'd be a long-shot. This stuff's pretty messed up...Jim?"

Blair realized Jim was no longer looking over his shoulder. Instead, the older man was hunched over the printer, tilting it to one side.

"Jim?"

"How do you open this thing?"

"What for?"

"Call it a hunch."

~*~

"Did you pick up a nervous tick or something, Chief?"

Blair looked up from the laptop, his blue eyes meeting Jim's. A mug of tomato soup sat untouched by his left elbow.

"What do you mean?"

Jim put the dirty pan into the sink and pointed a greasy spatula at his roommate. "You keep scratching your ear."

Blair's hand stopped mid-scratch, then quickly dropped into his lap. He blushed. "Maybe an insect bit me or something. It just itches. Mostly I don't realize I'm doing it." He watched Jim finish fixing his dinner. "When did the doctor say I could eat real food again?"

"Tomorrow. So finish your soup, Sandburg."

Blair grinned and closed his computer, concentrating on the steaming red liquid. He took a large gulp, letting the creamy concoction swish over his taste buds. He swallowed, its warmth spreading through his chest and into stomach. Jim joined him at the table, setting his plate on the brushed metal surface.

Glancing over to see what his friend had fixed himself, Blair froze. The steak and baked potato sent chills coursing through his suddenly tense body. The soup mug landed heavily on the table, sloshing its contents over the rim. He could feel Jim's questioning eyes boring into him. The combined odors of the food met Blair's nostrils and sent his stomach roiling. Bile welled up in his throat.

"Chief?"

Ignoring him, Blair jumped to his feet, knocked over his chair and made a mad dash for the bathroom.

He slammed the door shut and bent over the toilet bowl, emptying his stomach into it. After nearly a minute, the retching turned to dry heaves. When the heaves subsided, he flushed and slumped to the floor, leaning his forehead against the cool porcelain. He was hot all over, his breath coming in short, hard gasps; Blair tried desperately to control his surging pulse.

"Whatthehellwhatthehellwhatthehell," he mumbled. //What the hell set that off? //

There was a soft knock on the bathroom door. "Sandburg?"

Jim. "Yeah?" Blair croaked. His voice sounded strange coming out.

"Can I come in?"

No. He didn't know what was wrong with him and hated to make Jim worry even more. God knew he'd cost his friend a lot of grief during his disappearance and hated to be the cause of more now. But how could he say that.

"Yeah."

The door opened slowly and Jim stuck his head inside. "You okay?"

Blair straightened up. The nausea was already going away, leaving the anthropologist tired and empty. "I'm better. Sorry about that."

Jim filled a small, ceramic tumbler with water and handed it to Blair. The trembling man accepted the offering and washed his mouth out, spitting the dirty water into the toilet. Blair looked up to hand the cup back and found a damp washcloth dangling in front of his face. Smiling gratefully, he took the cloth and wiped his flushed face, the wetness cooling his hot skin. Jim sat down on the edge of the bathtub, watching him expectantly.

"I don't know, Jim," Blair said, anticipating his roommate's question. "I was fine, enjoying the soup, then all of a sudden, blech."

"Do you want to go back to the doctor's?"

"Hell, no! It was probably the soup. I shouldn't have drank it so fast." //Liar. // Blair blinked. Where had that thought come from?

Jim noticed the change of expression and placed a gentle hand on Blair's right shoulder. "I don't think so, Chief."

Blair grunted. An image flashed into his mind, so swift he almost missed it entirely. <A large hand, placing a white plate on the floor. Broiled beef and a baked potato were carefully arranged on it. A trembling hand reached for the plate and tossed it across the room.> Blair swallowed hard, the bile rising again.

"Your food," Blair said, looking at Jim.

"What about it?"

"That's what did it. That's what he fed us."

Surprise flashed across Jim's features, quickly replaced with understanding, then a mix of anger and guilt. "I'm sorry, Chief. I didn't know--"

"I didn't know, either, Jim," Blair said firmly. "It just kind of came to me. You had no way of knowing I'd react like this. Besides, I'm remembering, which is a good thing, right?"

"Right. C'mon, why don't you go lie down?"

Blair accepted Jim's hand and let himself be pulled to his feet. "Good idea."

The world swayed and Blair found himself supported by Jim's strong arm around his waist. The pair awkwardly made their way across the hall. Blair was careful to avert his eyes from the plate sitting on the kitchen table as he entered his bedroom. Jim pulled down the covers and deposited the woozy man onto his bed. Blair was grateful he was already in his sweats and wouldn't have to bother changing. He rolled onto his right side and buried his face in a pillow, his eyelids drooping closed.

He felt his sheet and quilt being pulled up around his shoulders and snuggled under the pleasant warmth. A cool hand brushed lightly across his forehead, then patted his shoulder before leaving completely. There was a soft click, signaling the closing of the French doors. Gradually, Blair fell asleep, silently praying for a dreamless slumber.

~*~

"Why don't you watch where you're going, then!"

Megan's sharp retort caused several heads to snap up and take in the scene. Rhonda was standing over a pile of strewn papers, an indignant glare on her pretty features. The Aussie Inspector simply glared back and stalked out of the bullpen, muttering unintelligibly. Rhonda didn't move, shocked out of forward motion.

Rafe approached the distraught secretary. "Don't worry about it too much. She's just stressed out. Not knowing can do that to a person."

Rhonda glanced up at his sympathetic brown eyes and smiled. "I guess. She's got a temper, though, hasn't she? I'll bet she's boxed a kangaroo or two in her life."

The pair laughed and bent to retrieve the mussed papers. Rhonda reached for a triplicate of last week's duty roster. Rafe sneezed violently. She looked up in concern and noticed something.

"Detective, are you all right?"

Rafe looked at her and raised an eyebrow. "Why does everyone keep asking me that? It's every third sentence out of my girlfriend's mouth."

"I'm sorry. It's just that you've got this awful looking rash on your neck. Has a doctor seen that?"

The detective's hand automatically reached for the red spot under his right ear. "It's fine. Just some sort of allergy, I guess." To emphasize the point, he sneezed again.

Rhonda seemed to accept that and returned to the duty of sorting out her various forms and fact sheets. "Are you guys on duty or just here to yell at underpaid secretaries?"

Rafe grinned mischievously. "I'm not officially back for two more days. But how can I sit on my duff and be lazy while my friends are desperately trying to solve the mystery of my seven-day disappearance without the benefit of my expert policing skills?"

"Got bored with the soaps?"

"Yeah, pretty much." He chuckled, then sobered. "Besides, this bastard took something from me and I'm gonna do everything I can to find him."

"Ellison! My office!" Simon bellowed from somewhere to their left.

Rafe and Rhonda stood up. Simon's head was poking out the door to his office. Ellison and Sandburg had just entered the bullpen, both men poster children for the exhausted and worn out. The latter sat heavily in Jim's desk chair, while the former strode across the room and into the lion's den. Rafe looked at Rhonda.

"Hope Simon doesn't bite his head off."

Rhonda nodded in agreement.

~*~

"You're late."

Jim blinked. That wasn't usually the first thing out of Simon's mouth, no matter what the circumstances. He glanced at his watch; he was less than ten minutes late. Jim opened his mouth to respond, but Simon cut him off.

"And what's Sandburg doing here? Shouldn't he be resting or something?"

"I could ask the same thing about Rafe and Connor, Captain," Jim said carefully. Whatever had Simon's hackles up, he had no intention of adding fuel to the fire.

"I've told them repeatedly in the last hour that they are not on duty," Simon ranted, pacing behind his desk. "Not fit to be here. Connor got into a big snit over bumping into Rhonda, then stormed out. Rafe's been sneezing on everyone and everything. I'm about to have them escorted home."

Simon stopped moving and slumped into his chair, defeated. "I'm sorry, Jim. I didn't call you in here to be a punching bag."

"It's okay, Simon. Is something else wrong? How's Daryl?"

The police captain seemed to wither under the weight of that question. The lines around his eyes and mouth deepened as a sad frown etched its way across his face. Jim could swear the man had a few new gray hairs.

"I haven't seen Daryl since he was released from the hospital, but Joan is worried sick. She says he has these violent outbursts, screaming and swearing at her. Then he gets these paralyzing headaches and cries for hours. The doctors think it's migraines, but I don't know. The boy's never acted like this before."

"I don't know what to say," Jim admitted.

"Me either. The weirdest part is that when he's normal, he whistles all the time. You know what he whistles, of all things? The theme to 'Star Trek.'"

"Simon, does Daryl scratch behind his ear a lot?"

Simon raised an eyebrow and fixed Jim with a questioning gaze. "Don't know. Joan hasn't mentioned anything. Why?"

Jim shook his head. "Nothing. It's just that Sandburg has some sort of nervous tick. He scratches his ear all the time and he's starting to get a rash."

"What are you thinking, Jim?" Simon asked, straightening a bit in his chair.

The Sentinel shrugged and plopped into a chair. "Sorry to say, not much at all right now. My brain feels like mush. Blair woke up screaming twice last night. Both times he refused to go back to sleep, but eventually did. It's the same nightmare over and over and he can't remember any of it once he's awake. It's driving him crazy, not being able to remember."

Jim froze, cocking his head. "Do you hear that?"

"I don't hear anything. What is it?"

"Some sort of buzzing noise, real high-pitched." Jim looked around the room, trying to locate the source of the annoyance.

"Like a dog whistle or something?"

"Or something." Jim blinked. "It's gone."

"Well, noise or no, I did drag you in here for a reason," Simon announced, effortlessly changing the subject. "Got the lab results on Wayne's printer."

"It's a match, isn't it?"

"In a manner of speaking. Those reports Wayne gave us on McManus were all printed out on the type of printer Wayne owned, but we can't get any more specific than that."

"Which means Wayne faked having the original files, proving Palmieri was--"

"Which means you're grabbing at straws, Jim. It's circumstantial right now and until there is more proof--"

"How much proof do we need, Simon?" Jim asked, his anger rising. "The security tapes were tampered with, all the files are brand-spanking new, people that could have possibly given us any sort of straight answer are turning up dead."

"Speaking of which, we found out what FX-917 was. Brown went to the sheriff's office and did some nosing around; seems that number matches a case file from two years ago." Simon reached for a sheet of paper on his desk and handed it to Jim. "A young woman named Jen Bisset was found dead in a motel room about twenty miles from Keaton. She had been arrested for car theft a month prior and mysteriously escaped custody on the way to her arraignment. Cause of death was attributed to complications stemming from a brain tumor."

"That's weird. Was the sheriff's department in the habit of 'losing' prisoners in transport?"

"I don't know. The State Police are going to be looking into that."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm sorry, Jim. The State Police have been given jurisdiction over this angle of the case. We are to help and provide information, but we're in the back seat now."

Jim vaulted out of his seat and slammed his fist onto Simon's desk. A small angel figurine tottered, dangerously close to falling over. "What the hell do you mean? Who--?"

"It was the governor's decision. She felt we were too close to the case and, considering the sticky ground we're getting into, wanted someone on it who was more objective. It's turning political, Jim. If Keaton Hospital goes under, a lot of wealthy people in the state of Washington are going to be pissed off more than a little."

The Sentinel began to pace, reminiscent of a caged cat. "I can't believe this, Simon. We're getting so close to catching him and--"

"Jim, will you relax before you sprain something!" Simon ordered, standing up and walking over to his distraught friend. "You still have the McManus case."

Jim blinked. "But you said--"

"I said the hospital angle is closed to you. Any wrong doings tangential to your ongoing investigation are being taken over by the State boys. McManus is yours. So get your ass out there and catch him."

Jim nodded, appeased that his enemy hadn't been taken from him completely. "I've got a new angle to work with now, anyhow." He glanced at his watch. "I have to meet somebody in an hour. It shouldn't take too long."

Peeking over his shoulder, Jim caught sight of Blair's back disappearing into the break room. He looked back at Simon, his eyes imploring. "I'm gonna leave Sandburg here while I'm gone. There's no need to drag him along."

Simon knew his detective was asking permission with that statement. He also knew why Jim didn't just leave his partner at the loft. At the precinct, Blair was safe, surrounded by cops. At home...well, you just never knew. And Jim was certainly not willing to take any chances at this point. So Simon just nodded.

"We'll keep an eye on him," Simon promised.

"Thanks, Simon," Jim said, leaving the office.

~*~

Jim could almost feel the hatred emanating from the young man sitting in the next room. Corey Contino, dressed in orange prison fatigues compliments of the State of Washington, sat ramrod straight in a hard metal chair. His right hand drummed restlessly against the small table in front of him, his left roughly combing through his jet-black hair. Another metal chair was the only other object taking up space in the tiny visitation room.

Taking a deep breath, Jim opened the steel door. Corey's brown eyes immediately locked onto Jim's, full of silent accusations. Summoning up a friendly smile, Jim entered the room and closed the door behind him.

"How are you doing, Corey?" Jim asked pleasantly as he sat in the vacant chair.

Corey snorted. "Like you give a shit."

Jim blinked, the smile disappearing. "In spite of everything that happened, yes, I do still care. You've got a chance to make a fresh start."

"Yeah? How am I supposed to do that rotting in jail for the rest of my life?"

"What would you say if I said you'd get fifteen years, max?"

Corey's eyes flashed. "I'd say I ain't ratting on my family."

"You won't have to. I'm not talking about that."

The younger man frowned skeptically. "Then what is this about, Detective?"

Jim flinched inwardly at that. During his time spent in the Contino home, Corey had looked up to Jim as the brother that Kevin Contino never had time to be. As hard as Jim tried not to, he became equally attached to the twenty year-old man. It hurt to have Corey hate him so much now. Pushing that aside, he tuned into Corey's heartbeat, ready to gauge his reaction to his next statement.

"I want you to roll over on Edward McManus, Keaton Hospital and a dummy corporation called NeuroDynamics."

Corey's heartbeat spiked, his breaths coming in short gasps. Jim sensed him fumbling for control, even as his exterior remained calm.

"Say what?"

"C'mon, Corey. I talked to the DA. You help me with this case and it's the difference between fifteen years and thirty-five to life."

Corey paused, pondering his options. "Why do you need to know?" he asked finally.

Jim gave him the bare bones explanation of McManus' history with the CPD, his supposed incarceration at Keaton Hospital, subsequent escape and the one-week disappearance of his four friends. Corey followed the train of information with rapt attention, his harsh facade melting a bit.

"I want this bastard," Jim finished, sitting back to let Corey absorb what he'd just said.

After a few minutes of silence, he spoke. "Kevin knew all that stuff. He was Pop's boy, not me. I wasn't privileged to that kind of information."

Jim smirked. "Corey, I know you read files you weren't supposed to, listened to conversations you shouldn't have heard. You were into more things than a bloodhound in a garbage dumpster."

Corey flushed scarlet. "How do you know?"

"I watch people. It's part of my job. So, what do you say?"

"I really don't know that much, just what I heard Papa and Kevin talking about a few times. Papa gave $15 million to a guy named McManus for a share of some new form of mind control. Said the guy had already proven it worked, he was just perfecting its use and manipulation."

"How did McManus get the money?"

"A messenger picked it up."

"If I give you some mugs, can you pick him out for me?"

Corey shrugged. "I guess. It sounded like the research was in its last phases right before...this." He indicated the jail's visitation room they were in. "Papa got word of a demonstration that would be going down within the month. Said it would prove once and for all the validity of what he was trying to accomplish."

"What kind of demonstration?" Jim demanded, leaning closer.

"No idea. Something that would put the cops in their place."

<Click> Things began falling into place as images popped, unheralded, into Jim's racing mind. McManus promising revenge. Liam Wright tattling about his old roommate's obsession with hypnosis. Blair's missing memories and the constant scratching behind his ear. Rafe, Megan and Daryl's odd behaviors. "….Put the cops in their place...."

"Damn," Jim muttered, clambering to his feet so fast the chair flew over backwards and hit the floor with a tinny crack that echoed forcefully in the enclosed space. He banged on the exit, pushing hard past the guard that finally let him out. Jim never looked back to see the blank expression on Corey Contino's face.

As soon as he had charged through the security checks, Jim flipped open his cell phone. It chirped to life, momentarily startling the anxious detective.

"Ellison," he snapped.

<"Jim? It's Henri. Where have you been?">

Even over the phone, Jim could sense the urgency in his friend's voice. "I--"

<"Never mind. Oh, man, you gotta get over here. Daryl stabbed himself.">

"Excuse me?" Jim sputtered, unsure if he heard the man correctly. He picked up his pace through the main gate.

<"Joan called Simon at the station, said Daryl was in the hospital. He was freaking out at home, screaming about all sorts of shit. All of a sudden, he grabs a carving knife and is slicing away at his neck. Simon flew outta there like a bat out of hell. It was all I could do to catch up to him and offer to drive. He was so freaked out, Jim, I thought I was gonna have to tie him down.">

Jim fished his keys from his jacket pocket, as he approached the truck. "Is Daryl okay?"

<"He's holding his own, but Simon's about ready to pop a gasket.">

"I'm there, H. Tell Simon I'm on my way."

<"Will do.">

Jim unlocked the Ford and slid in behind the wheel, noting the vacant seat next to him. "Is Blair with you?"

<"Hairboy? Naw, I haven't seen him. Want me to call his cell?">

"I'll do it. You take care of Simon."

Without waiting for a response, Jim cut the connection. Peeling out of the parking lot, Jim kept one hand on the wheel as his other punched in a speed-dial number.

<"The cell phone user you are trying to reach is not--">

Jim cut off the automated drone and dialed the station. Rhonda picked up on the second ring.

<"Major Crime,"> she announced, her voice betraying her anxiety.

"Rhonda, it's Jim. Is Sandburg around?"

<"No, I saw him leave a few minutes ago with Inspector Connor.">

Jim was relieved. At least he knew whom his partner was with. It was a start. "Did they know about Daryl?"

<"I think so. Have you heard anything?">

Jim shook his head, even though no one was there to see it. "No. I'm heading over to Cascade General now. We'll call as soon as we hear anything."

<"I'm praying for him.">

"We all are, Rhonda," Jim mumbled, severing the connection.

We all are? At first, he wasn't sure why he'd said that. Jim had never been a religious person; hadn't been to church for anything but the occasional funeral since he was ten. Bud had taken him and Steven once or twice, saying it wasn't right for a boy to grow up without any beliefs. Jimmy had countered with, "Well, what do you believe in?" Bud had just shook his head, laughing slightly. "I'm not sure, Jimmy. I'm just not sure." He'd found the older man murdered three weeks later.

Jim sighed, pushing the sad memories out of his head. Faith had never been a large part of his life. He knew many people at the station, Rhonda especially, had strong beliefs. When Blair had overdosed on Golden, she had offered her prayers, so astute in her belief that there was a God out there who was willing to heal their young friend. Jim envied her that.

"Pray for Daryl, Rhonda. Pray for all of them."

The blue and white Ford truck had found it's way to the hospital parking lot so easily, Jim often wondered if he could get there blindfolded. He squealed into the first available parking space and made a beeline for the emergency doors, careful to turn off his cell phone.

A small huddle of bodies attracted Jim's attention as he entered the busy ER. Simon was comforting a sobbing Joan, the first time in years Jim had seen the two together without being at each other's throats. Talk about a messy divorce. Henri Brown was leaning against the wall, both arms crossed over his chest. Joel was seated next to Simon, a comforting hand on his captain's shoulder.

Henri spotted the newcomer first. "Jim!" he called, beckoning him closer.

The rest of the quartet looked up, treating Jim to acknowledging nods. Taking Jim's elbow, Henri steered the man toward the main desk, away from the others.

"How's Daryl?" Jim asked, his eyes sweeping the busy room.

"He's in x-ray right now."

"For a knife wound?" That didn't make sense to the Sentinel, but he was no doctor.

Henri shrugged. "I just let them work." He paused, as if debating whether or not to go on with his thoughts.

"What?" Jim looked into his friend's brown eyes and didn't like what he saw.

"They, the doctors, want to call in a consultant from Psych. They're calling it a suicide attempt."

Jim felt his jaw drop to his chin and did nothing to stop it. The idea was absurd. Daryl Banks would not try to commit suicide! It was unthinkable...wasn't it?

"They're nuts!" Jim shouted. Lowering his voice, he hissed, "How the hell are they determining this?"

"The docs are blaming it on post traumatic stress, caused by the kidnapping. Combine that with Joan's descriptions of his mood swings, it sounds pretty textbook.

"But Daryl wouldn't...he couldn't...." Jim faltered for the right words. "He's just not like that."

"Yeah," Henri muttered, stealing a sidelong glance at the grieving parents. "It's tearing Simon up pretty bad. I've never seen him like this.

"Neither have I."

There were a few minutes of silence, neither man prepared to continue the discussion. Brown decided to change the subject.

"What did you get from Contino?" he asked.

Jim relayed the information he'd been able to wean from the youngest Contino son. He ended with his suspicions on the demonstration, which suddenly renewed his internal worrying. He had been content to know Blair was with Megan, but where exactly was the pair? And where was the fourth piece of the puzzle?

"Where's Rafe?" Jim asked.

"Don't know. I saw him leave the station about ten minutes before the, uh, Joan's phone call. Why?"

Before Jim could relay his worries, Dr. Rice entered the ER, a large x-ray folder in one hand, a chart in the other. Jim and Henri shadowed the doctor as he walked over to Simon and Joan. Simonn saw the doctor approaching and sprang to his feet.

"Is Daryl okay? Can we see him?" Simon blurted out, pre-empting anything the physician may have been preparing to say.

"He's stable," Rice answered, looking at his expanded audience. "Captain Banks, could I speak with you and Joan in private, please?"

Jim could have sworn Simon paled three shades. Taking a deep breath, he grasped his ex-wife by the hand and followed the doctor out of the emergency room. As much as he hated eavesdropping, this was much too important not to listen to.

"Jim?"

The Sentinel raised a hand to silence Joel, carefully extending his hearing to follow his captain down the corridor.

~*~

An enormous hunk of ice had settled in Simon Banks' stomach. It planted itself there with Joan's phone call and had grown steadily over the last hour or so. The whole afternoon felt like some sort of overgrown nightmare. Unfortunately, he wasn't waking up. He followed Joan and Dr. Rice into a small exam room, terrified of what the doctor might tell him about his son.

Rice flipped a switch, lighting up a flat panel of the wall. He pulled several x-rays from the folder and stuck them onto the panel. Simon had never been particularly good at reading x-rays, but these were in the obvious shape of a human head. Daryl's head.

"These pictures here," Rice began, pointing to the first film, "were taken last week, when Daryl was recovered from his...ordeal. As you can see, these are normal."

Simon nodded, even though he had no idea what the various black and white shapes were or if they should be there. Rice pointed to the next x-ray.

"This afternoon, we found a mass near the base of his brain stem." He pointed to a dark section of the film. "Here."

Chills spread through Simon's body, his breath catching.

"A mass?" Joan asked. "What kind of mass?"

"It's a form of tumor," Rice said matter-of-factly.

"A tumor!" Simon yelled incredulously. "What the hell's he doing with a tumor? He's only eighteen years old!"

"It's a form of tumor, but not a normal one," Rice sped on, hoping to get the information out without any more outbursts. "Tumors grow from the cells in one's own body. Same as cancer, the cells just turn against the body. This isn't what your son has. The mass is made up of foreign cells, possible created from his own cells, that we can't identify yet.

"We have been able to analyze and synthesize the drug we found in his bloodstream last week. It's a form of inhibitor that stops the cell growth. Add that to the location of your son's knife wound--"

"By that awful rash," Joan sobbed, unable to withhold her tears.

"What rash?" Simon asked. He'd never been told about any rash. His mind suddenly flashed to that morning, when Jim had mentioned Blair having a rash...behind his ear. Shit.

"The rash was probably caused by the injection of the drug," the doctor explained.

"So you're saying that when they were kidnapped, McManus planted tumors in their heads, then inhibited its growth with some sort of drug? What in hell for?"

Rice shook his head. "I'm not sure. The mass has spread out, tentacle-like, and seems to be stimulating parts of his brain."

"Stimulating parts—I don't understand. Look, Doctor," Joan said, her voice rising. "Can you remove this thing?"

"Right now, surgery is our best option. We'll try to remove as much of the mass as possible. Where are the other three who were with Daryl during the kidnapping? I'd like to test them right away, see if they also have this mass."

"I'm not sure," Simon admitted, his stomach twisting. If McManus gave Blair a tumor, Jim would rip the man to shreds. "I'll have my men--"

~*~

"--Find Sandburg, Connor and Rafe," Jim said, a stricken look on his face. "Joel, you stay here with Simon."

Joel nodded. Jim turned on his heel and strode out of the ER, Henri shadowing him.

"Jim? How do you know something's wrong?"

Henri's questions earned him a glare from Jim, but nothing else. The black man resigned himself to quietly following Jim to his truck, trusting in the other cop's instincts. God knew Jim's hunches had been right countless times. Why question it now?

"Remind me to ask you again, sometime," Brown said somberly, yanking open the passenger door of the Ford and climbing in.

Jim stared straight ahead, his jaw clenched, as he drove out of the parking lot. Once on the main road, he yanked the cell phone from his pocket and punched in the number of Megan's. The automaton came on, telling him the customer was unavailable.

"She's not answering." Jim tossed the phone to Brown. "Try Rafe."

Jim heard the cell company once again proclaim the customer was not answering their phone. Down, but not discouraged, Henri began punching in home numbers, friends, relatives, anyone who may have seen the AWOL trio.

~*~

"Do you think anyone will miss us?" Rafe asked, poking a straw into the top of his fountain soda.

"Doubt it," Blair said, absently staring at the table next to them. A little girl was trying to bite into a monster deli sandwich and having no luck.

"We were just getting underfoot at the precinct," Megan added. "I still can't believe I snapped at Rhonda like that. I don't know what came over me."

"Spit the bunny," Blair mumbled. He caught Megan's eye and smiled. She returned the warm gesture.

The three companions sat in silence for several minutes, absorbing themselves in their sandwiches and the constant bustle of the Farmer's Market that surrounded them. Blair watched a teenage boy expertly roll and twist a mass of dough into fresh pretzels. Next to him was a counter that sold roasted meat and pork of all varieties. This corner, at the far east end of the market, was a roped-off section of tables and hard plastic chairs--a quasi-dining room for the various food vendors nearby.

Rafe speared the last half of his tuna-on-rye with a toothpick and shoved the plate away.

Megan frowned at him. "You okay?"

"No, not really," Rafe said, glaring at her. "I'm scared to death is what I really am. I mean, God, Daryl just tried to kill himself!"

"You don't think I realize that?"

"I don't know, Connor. It's hard enough for me to get my mind around something like that. That could have been any one of us."

"No, he was just young. He couldn't handle the stress--"

Rafe's eyes flashed. "How long have you known us, half a year? You don't know Daryl--"

"Shut up!" Blair raged, his temper flaring. "We are not doing this. We are not sitting her and tearing each other to pieces in a morbid attempt to understand all this. We don't know what happened with Daryl and until we do, this is all bullshit supposition."

Two pairs of eyes blinked at him.

Blair looked at his soda, trying unsuccessfully to curb the anger brewing inside of him. //Calm down, man. Find your center. You are not angry. // He felt a comfortable warmth and looked down to see Megan's right hand covering his. Blair wanted to return the gesture, to let her know what it meant to him, but was unable to respond. Instead, his anger cranked up, first one notch, two, three....

~*~

It was simply a bad month. He must have pissed somebody off in a previous life to be having luck like this. Roger Reese stared at the account statement in his hand. The form had been re-taped, after being torn to pieces last night in a fit of rage. Someone must have thought it was a pretty funny joke to use his MAC card to purchase over a thousand dollars worth of stereo equipment, leaving Roger's checking account empty.

//When I get my hands on this jackass, I'll tear his throat out! // he vowed.

To top it all off, his car had broken down on the way to his the bank this morning, voiding any attempts to get this taken care of as soon as they opened. Nope. Nada. Sorry, come again later. He would have to settle for after his job interview.

*Snort*

Some damn interview. He was applying for a job cutting meat in a freaking Farmer's Market. Guess it did pay to go to college, instead of toiling your time away in a flower shop. Nobody paid for unskilled labor anymore and there was no way he was clerking at Wonder Burger. He hated the smell of hot grease...not that the odor of raw meat was any more pleasant, but it paid better than any offer he'd gotten so far.

Roger leaned against a pillar in the center of the east end of the market and stared impatiently at his watch. Mr. MacCleod was twenty minutes late. Sighing heavily and cursing his rotten luck, he scanned the crowded market, trying to find something to occupy his attention.

Several yards away, seated in the center of the eating area, three people were in the midst of some sort of argument. Roger squinted at them, trying to identify the familiar faces. The curly-haired man began to shout, waving his arms emphatically. //Bingo! They were the cops that were kidnapped last week. // He'd seen something about it in the local paper.

Curious, he kept watching the trio and, by now, he wasn't the only one. The curly-haired one--what was his name, Sandbag?--stood up suddenly, knocking his chair over backwards. The woman shot to her feet, her accented voice carrying over to Roger.

"...Acting like a spoiled....couldn't protect Jim...."

The rest of the woman's tirade was silenced by a backhand across the mouth. She didn't move, even to wipe away the thin trickle of blood on her lower lip. "Sandbag" stared at his hand, as if he couldn't believe what he'd just done. The third cop, straight from the pages of "GQ," watched them both with wide eyes.

Then all hell broke loose.

~*~

Henri put down the over-used cell phone and looked at Jim. "There's an APB out on all three of them."

"What have I done, H?" Jim mumbled, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were whitening.

"You? You haven't done a thing, Jim. This is not your fault."

"That seems to be my theme song lately," Jim countered bitterly.

"This guy isn't just after you, Jim. He's made it personal for all of us. I care about them, too."

Henri spoke quietly, but with enough force to make Jim look at him. The man sitting in his passenger seat was not the eager, happy-go-lucky Henri Brown he'd known for years. This man was a stranger. The joking twinkle was gone from his brown eyes, replaced by anger and fear. Jim felt ashamed. Once again, he had considered himself the center of the universe, giving little thought to what else was happening around him. He'd failed to notice how much Henri was hurting, too.

Jim put a hand on his friend's shoulder and squeezed lightly. "We'll get the bastard."

The other man nodded gratefully. He seemed about to speak, but the radio crackled to life, cutting him off.

<"Dispatch to any units in the vicinity of Cascade Farmer's Market, please respond. A disturbance is reported in the market, east entrance. Three assailants, possibly armed.">

Jim snatched up the handset. "Dispatch, this is David 152, responding. ETA, five minutes."

<"Roger that, David 152. Dispatch out.">

Jim turned on his lights and hit the gas, grateful to be headed in the right direction. The trip lasted less than three minutes, thanks to his driving skills. He maneuvered the Ford into the parking lot, picking his way through dozens of panicked people trying to reach their own vehicles. It took several minutes to reach the east end. Jim parked in front of the entrance and threw the truck into park.

He clambered out of the truck and jogged up to the double-doors. Jim cracked one door open experimentally, able make out voices inside...very familiar voices. He tried to extend his hearing, but was again assaulted by that obnoxious buzzing sound. Jim became aware of breathing on his left.

"See anything?" Brown asked.

Jim poked his head inside, but saw only deserted booths and food stands. The voices were coming from the right. Signaling the coast was clear, Jim led the way inside. He kept his head down, moving in the direction of the dining area, Brown shadowing him.

Trying once again to hear, Jim was able to push past some of the buzzing. Unfamiliar voices filtered into Jim's ears.

<"Move around to the left. See if you can get a shot.">

<"All right.">

Two men, security guards most likely, were going to take pot shots at his friends. With a low growl, Jim changed directions, weaving through a lemonade stand and around behind it.

"Jim, where are you going?" Henri whispered, following his friend.

Jim came to a stop next to a pretzel booth and peered around behind it. A pair of blue-clad guards were crouched a dozen feet away, the rounder of the two preparing to move. Jim pulled his badge from his pocket.

"Cascade PD," Jim hissed, just loud enough to gain the men's collective attention. He flashed his badge, then approached them slowly. "Detective Ellison and Detective Brown," Jim said, pointing.

The thin man nodded at him. "I'm Dan Steele, this is Sean Dutton."

Dutton rocked back on his heels, almost relieved at the reinforcements. "They're straight ahead, in the dining area."

Jim raised his head just above to top of the pretzel booth, peering at the scene that presented itself. If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn't have believed it possible. In fact, he was seeing it with his own eyes and he still didn't believe it.

"What the hell...?" Henri muttered next to him.

Megan was backed against the far wall, a slim hand cupping her lower lip protectively. A thin trickle of blood stained her chin and neck, disappearing under her shirt. A man Jim found strikingly familiar was seated next to her, a bruised cut above his right temple and looking extremely pissed. Standing less than five feet apart, guns held steadily at each other, were Rafe and Blair. Both men were stock still, breathing heavily, glaring determinedly at the other.

Jim blinked. He blinked again, but the image remained. Blair Sandburg was holding a gun on a cop and looking very ready to use it. It looked like Megan's gun, but he wasn't positive.

Steele shot to his feet, pointing his service revolver at the standoff. "Police! Freeze!"

Angrily, Jim grabbed the man's belt and yanked him back down. Out of the corner of his eye, Rafe and Blair turned towards the hidden group and opened fire. Jim and Henri ducked down, listening to bullets ricochet around the market. The Sentinel turned blazing eyes on the security man.

"What the hell was that?" Jim seethed.

Steele said nothing, refusing to meet the other man's eye.

"Those are our officers over there," Brown spat.

Dutton and Steele stared at them. The gunfire slowed, then ceased.

Jim decided to cut a lengthy explanation. "They've been drugged and can't control their own actions. We need to talk them down. You--" Jim pointed at Steele. "Go outside and call for back-up. But keep them outside when they get here. That's an order!"

Steele nodded, intimidated by the ex-Ranger's gruffness. Keeping low, the thin man crept off in the direction the detectives had come from.

Jim shook his head angrily. Something reflected in the metal grease guards of the booth across from his position and Jim carefully focused his vision onto it. A distorted view of the dining area could be seen in the dented aluminum. Blair had ducked behind a table with Rafe, their animosity apparently forgotten. Sandburg's gun was now trained on the head of the familiar man. Megan was still in her previous position, her eyes darting to and fro. Blair said something to Megan; Jim wished desperately for the buzzing to go away so he could hear.

It suddenly dawned on Jim that the buzzing was coming from two different directions; it wasn't all over as he had thought. One source was the four people behind him in the dining area. The exact fix of the second eluded him. It had to be from something...or someone. Jim looked at Dutton, torn between finding the source of the buzzing and helping his friends.

"Is this market empty?" he asked.

"Should be. We evacuated when the situation got out of hand."

"What exactly happened, anyway?" Henri asked, sneaking a peek over the top of the counter.

"Not sure, really," Dutton admitted. "Apparently, the two curly ones were fighting. He hit her, then the fancy-dressed dude gets in the other guys face. They start hitting, the other man tried to break it up, and then some guns got pulled. A real mess, if you ask me. You said they were drugged?"

"Something like that," Jim muttered.

The Sentinel shivered. He could feel eyes watching him. He could have sworn a shadow moved far down the market, but the fleeting movement was gone instantly. A cold fear knotted his gut. Someone else was there.

"Dutton, I need you to do something," Jim said seriously. "Check out the west end again. I thought I saw something over there."

"A person?" Dutton asked.

"Maybe. Just keep your eyes peeled."

The fat man nodded and started off, revolver clutched firmly in his left hand.

"What now, Jim?" Henri asked, his face trying desperately to control its emotions.

"I'm gonna try and talk them down."

"Are you crazy? They shot at us!"

"No, they shot at a security guard who got too excited. They've got to recognize us." Ready to prove this theory, Jim holstered his gun and turned to face the direction of the four people. He hadn't been this nervous since taken his service revolver from Blair while the younger man was high on Golden. Here he was, mentally preparing himself to talk his best friend out of a hostage situation. It probably wouldn't have been quite so nerve wracking if he was actually a hostage, rather than the hostage taker.

"Sandburg!" Jim hollered.

No response.

"Blair? It's Jim!"

More silence.

Jim craned his neck and stared into the reflective aluminum. Blair, Rafe and Megan were exchanging confused glances. Jim zeroed in on his partner's eyes, taken aback at what he saw. Even in the warped reflection, there was no recognition in the blue depths. It was the same for both Rafe and Connor. Their eyes were completely empty--they didn't know who he was.

That could be a problem.

"They don't recognize us," Jim whispered to Brown.

"How do you--" Henri began, then stopped. Jim would know.

"I'm not holding a gun," Jim continued loudly. "I just want to talk to you!"

"Where are you?" Rafe shouted in response.

Jim raised his hands and slowly rose to his feet. Four pairs of eyes stared at him, but no one moved or spoke.

"Can I come closer?" Jim asked, keeping his voice friendly. Rafe glanced at Blair, then nodded to Jim. The Sentinel stepped carefully around Henri and walked slowly towards the dining area. When he reached the first table, Rafe stood up and pointed his pistol at Jim.

"Stop there."

Jim froze, lowering his hands to his sides. "You don't need that," he said, indicating the gun. "Do you know who I am?"

Rafe stared at him critically, his hazel eyes narrowing.

"You kicked me out," Blair said suddenly. He stood up beside Rafe, his gun dangling by his side.

Jim drew a sharp breath. It was one of the most painful chapters in their past, but it was something. "I did, once. But you moved back in, remember?"

"Not really," Sandburg responded. "Why'd you kick me out?"

"I wasn't myself then, Blair."

"Not Blair," the shorter man said, shaking his head emphatically. "Chief...or Sandburg. You don't use my given name a lot."

He knew his name. That was progress. "That's right. I usually call you 'Chief.'"

"It was Alex," Blair said, as if reading from a cue card. "Alex Barnes."

Megan, who had been listening intently to the exchange, said, "The skin nut we chased to Sierra Verde?"

Jim suppressed a grin--they were remembering. "That's right. Do you remember that case?"

Connor opened her mouth to respond, then clamped it shut. Her hands pressed against her forehead and she gasped in pain. Sandburg and Rafe did likewise. Jim noticed the buzzing sound had momentarily increased, becoming almost painful to his sensitive ears. The other hostage didn't seem affected at all. Jim moved towards them, but was stopped short when Rafe's .45 came up. Any hint of recognition apparent before was gone from their eyes.

"You came to talk," Rafe said. "We've talked, now go."

Jim sighed inwardly and glanced at the familiar man. If possible, his glare had become even deadlier. He stared at the detective, as if waiting for him to say something. Jim blinked, realizing who he was--the florist, Something Reese. He caught Reese's eye and smiled encouragingly. It was not well received.

"So now what?" Reese asked acidly, his question directed at his captors who seemed at a loss to answer him.

"Um, we ask for a million dollars and a helicopter," Sandburg said.

Reese burst out laughing. "Aw, man, you sound like some pathetic TV movie of the week. Who wrote your dialogue?"

Rafe pointed his pistol at Reese's head, effectively silencing the man. "We're working on it, okay."

"Look," Jim said, holding up placating hands. "You guys aren't criminals. You're under the influence of a drug and I need to get you to a doctor as soon as possible." It wasn't the whole truth, but that would take too long to explain and probably wouldn't be understood.

"Drugs?" Blair asked, suddenly terrified. "Oh, man, not drugs again." His heartbeat became erratic as he was overtaken by fear. "The golden fire people will come back. I don't want to see them again, man. They were all burnt and--"

"Blair, it's okay," Jim soothed, taking several hesitant steps toward his Guide. "This is different. There aren't any fire people here, I promise you. This is a different drug. It's making you do things you wouldn't normally do. It's not your fault, but I can help you. If you'll let me."

"Do you know me real well?" Sandburg asked, his terror abating slightly.

"Yeah, I do. You're my best friend, Chief."

"Do I usually go around pointing guns at people?"

"No! None of you do. This is all a mistake."

"A mistake," Connor repeated. "We're friends, aren't we?"

Jim heard the tinny sound of a cell phone ringing somewhere in the market.

"Yeah," Rafe replied, sniffling. "This is wrong." A scarlet stream began to ooze from his right nostril, followed momentarily out his left. He wiped at it, surprised. "What the hell?"

The buzzing increased in intensity and changed pitch to something much higher. Then life began to roll in slow motion, coming in flashes for the Sentinel.

<FLASH>

Rafe's eyes rolled back and he pitched forward, unconscious.

<FLASH>

Blair and Megan cried out, hands reaching up to clutch their heads.

<FLASH>

Henri stood up behind the lemonade stand and bellowed, "Rafe!"

<FLASH>

Blair whirled around in disoriented terror, firing a wild shot at Jim.

<FLASH>

Ellison ducked, his stomach sinking an instant later as he heard the unmistakable sound of a bullet striking flesh.

<FLASH>

Henri cried out.

<FLASH>

Reese tackled Megan, easily overpowering the distracted woman.

<FLASH>

Blair tottered on his feet, then fell to the tiled floor, blood trickling from his nose.

<FLASH>

Time finally resumed normal speeds. Jim bolted for his unconscious partner, immediately checking for a pulse. It was there, but thready. He looked up. Reese was standing above Megan's prone body, staring at her in confusion. The man seemed to sense the detective watching him.

"I didn't hurt her," Reese said, shrugging. "She just collapsed, I swear."

A paramedic knelt next to Blair and Jim became aware of more people moving around inside the market. Officers swarmed around him, asking questions in a din of noise. It was then that Jim realized the buzzing had completely stopped. //They must have come in after the shot was fired. The shot--damn. //

Reluctant to leave, but knowing he had to, Jim left his partner in the hands of the medics now swarming around the dining area. He sprinted over to the lemonade stand and skidded to a stop, almost tripping over an uniformed officer.

"We need an EMT over here!" the uniform shouted.

Jim moved to the young man's side, letting the injured man come into view. Henri was lying on his back, one hand clutching his left shoulder. The left side of his shirt was streaked with blood, with more pooling under his shoulder. The black man smiled up at the other detective.

"Are they okay, Jim?" Brown asked, trying to mask his pain.

"They're unconscious," Jim replied, kneeling next to his friend. "But they're alive. You okay?"

"Never better." Henri stared up at Jim with serious eyes. "Was it--I mean...."

Jim nodded, knowing full well what Brown was trying desperately not to ask.

"Damn," Henri muttered. "Hairboy's never going to forgive himself for this."

Unfortunately, the injured detective was right. If Jim had thought Blair's guilt trip over the Golden incident was bad, that was nothing compared to what was about to happen.

~*~

Dr. Duncan Ralston once again adjusted the lens on his microscope. He'd been staring at samples of the Banks Tumor (as it had been secretly dubbed) for hours, still at a loss to explain the presence of such oddly foreign cells in the boy's brain. They had duplicated like no cancer cells he had heard of or read about. The synthesized drug kept reproduction under control, but he was no closer to finding out what made the thing tick.

The tumor that had just been removed from Daryl Banks' brain was sitting in a jar of formaldehyde on Ralston's counter. Shivers ran up his spine at the sight of the black mass. It was like nothing he'd ever seen before.

Using his thinnest dropper, the doctor let a minute droplet of blood fall onto the slide. Putting his eye to the microscope, Ralston watched his sample. His hunch paid off, even though it wasn't technologically possible.

The five tumor cells drifted towards the new blood, seemingly absorbing it into themselves. Then there were ten cells.

//Hot damn. //

Ralston shook his head, marveling at the discovery. Was it possible? Excited by the prospect and eager to have his theory validated, he reached for the phone on the wall and dialed.

~*~

Blair screamed, the sound echoing silently in the large room.

~*~

//He's so pale. //

Jim watched Blair sleep, his mind still reeling at the news the doctor had given him. The young man looked at peace, a far cry from his plight only a few hours prior. It had taken almost twenty minutes to get his nosebleed under control, his face growing impossibly paler with every drop lost. Blair, Megan and Rafe had all coded in the ER, but were brought back almost simultaneously. Everything else jumbled together in a mix of doctors, orders, room changes, new orders, tests, x-rays and more tests. Finally everyone, including Henri, made it safely to the surgical floor to await further treatment.

It was only then that Jim had remembered to breathe and found several worried people asking a plethora of questions. Tracey West, Rafe's current girlfriend, had arrived a few minutes ago and was pacing her own trough in the waiting room floor. Jim had answered the various questions as best he could, then escaped the frenzy to sit patiently in the surgical waiting room. There he had sat alone, except for one visit from Joel, until the doctor had come with his devastating news about his friend's condition.

A slight tremor from the hand clenched in his own caused Jim to look down. Was Blair waking? Doubtful--the doctor said he'd sleep through the night. It was probably a dream.

A soft knock broke the silence in the sterile hospital room.

"Come in," he called softly.

The door creaked open and Simon poked his head inside. Taking Jim's silent blinking as an invitation, he walked in and crossed to stand by the bed.

"How is he?" Simon asked, watching the still anthropologist, sadly.

Jim looked ready to cry as he turned ice blue eyes onto his captain. "They can't get all of it. They're trying the inhibitor, but because of what it is, that's no permanent solution. As long as McManus has the trigger...."

"Damn," Simon muttered, his fists clenching. "I never thought nanotechnology actually existed. I thought it was just something on X-Files."

"It's real now, Simon. And McManus is using our friends as guinea pigs to test it out." Jim did nothing to control the venom in his voice. "We've got to find that bastard. He could turn those nano-things on again and kill both of them.

"It doesn't make any sense, does it, Simon? I mean, what is this? 'Star Trek' or something? The reason my partner shot up the Farmer’s Market and your son tried to kill himself is because of something we thought only existed in science fiction?"

Simon shrugged weakly, at a loss to answer Jim's trail of questions. "At least the doctors think that Daryl and Rafe will make a full recovery."

Jim tried to muster up any amount of happiness for the detective and captain's son, but failed. He was too worried about the plight of his Guide. The microscopic machines nesting in Blair and Megan's brains were like ticking time bombs. The doctors weren't even sure that the inhibitor would prevent McManus from activating them at a distance.

//With that annoying buzzing, // he surmised. That was the best explanation. The sound had only been present during the foursome's bouts of unexplainable actions and had stopped right after they had collapsed at the market. The market....

"How's Henri?" Jim asked.

"Bullet went straight through. There was no nerve damage, so it should heal in a couple of weeks."

Jim sighed, rubbing his hands across his tired features. "What I don't understand is why Daryl reacted the way he did?"

"No one here is an expert on this type of technology, but they think it had something to do with a cell phone signal. Somehow it interrupted the feed from McManus or whatever he was using to control the nanite."

"I heard someone in the market use a cell phone right before the others collapsed."

Simon nodded. "And Joan had been using hers almost all day. The phones were down in her neighborhood."

Jim looked into his captain's face, as serious as he'd ever been. "Simon, is it possible that Keaton Hospital is supplying the funding and equipment for this technology?"

"I don't know--"

"Just hear me out on this. Say McManus was conducting the 'business' of NeuroDynamics in the basements or something of the hospital. He uses patients for his experiments, with only a few key people privy to this information."

"Like the chief psychiatrist and local sheriff?"

"Exactly. Say Verne Palmieri was one of those patients. McManus does something to screw up his mind, then either sets him free or he escapes McManus' custody. The hospital panics and throws together a hasty story about attacking an orderly that later turns up dead. They do a piss-poor job of rigging the security cameras. Now that he's out, Palmieri goes bonkers and kills Judy. We start nosing around and they lose control of the situation."

Simon's face lit up in realization. "Then they somehow get the state guys put on the case and they don't know shit about the McManus angle."

"They only have half the pieces."

The captain's face darkened. "This is all theory, Jim, and a lot of coincidence. The autopsy on Palmieri didn't show anything unusual and--"

"It's all we've got!" Chastising himself for shouting, Jim quickly checked Blair--still asleep. "Maybe the coroner didn't know what he was looking for."

"Look," Simon hissed. "I'm gonna make a few calls, see if we can get the state boys to let up the strangle-hold they've got on the hospital. I posted a uniform outside everyone's door."

Jim nodded. He watched his captain gently squeeze Blair's arm and walk out. Turning his full attention back to the man beside him, Jim tried to force a grin. //We'll get him, Chief. I swear to you. //

PART TWO