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it was a pleasure to burn
   --ray bradbury, farenheit 541

   "Jim, could I have a moment of your time?"
   Jim stopped, his hand brushing the door to the interrogation room.
   "Can it wait? I was just about to--"
   "I can see what you were just about to," Simon snapped. "I wanted to ask you a few questions before you did something that reflected poorly on this department. I heard you arrested that man..." he gestured at the professor, who was sitting very quietly at the interrogation room table, "and seven of his students for possession of stolen property because they happened to be in the same room as a stolen drum."
   "Yes, sir, that's about right. I realize this may seem spurious ..."
   "Spurious. That's great. Sandburg teach you that word?"
   "Look, Simon, all I need is a couple of minutes with this clown. Then you can drop all the charges and let them go. "
   "Uh huh. Would you mind telling me why you're carrying that thing?"
   The thing in question was Blair's drum, which Jim had tucked under his arm.
   "I may need it to illustrate a point."
   Simon blinked a few times. Jim had an odd feeling that he knew what was going through Simon's head. His expression resembled the one Blair tended to wear while silently chanting to control his temper.
   "That's Sandburg's drum?"
   "Yup."
   "Do you--"
   "Just let me do this," Jim said. "All right? Five minutes, maybe ten, then it's not your problem anymore.
   "Where *is* Sandburg?"
   Jim put his hand back onto the doorknob. "I don't know. That's why I need a few minutes with this guy."
   Simon didn't look happy about it, but he moved to the one way glass and gestured for Jim to continue.
   The professor looked up when Jim entered the room ... or at least, he looked up to the point where his eyes found the drum. They never made it to Jim's face. Jim smiled and pulled up a chair.
   "I'm not going to waste your time," he said amiably. "I could ask you where you got the drum, but the truth is, I don't really care. What interests me is what you planned to do with it."
   The professor raised an eyebrow.
   "Detective, I don't understand you. One of my students brought that drum to class, and I had no reason to think--"
   "Of course you did. Everyone knew that drum was stolen from Professor Sandburg's office. But that's not what we're going to talk about. I want you to tell me where he is and what you and your students are planning to do."
   "I don't know what you're talking about. I don't think I should talk to you without a lawyer."
   "That's fine," Jim said. "Don't talk. Listen." He set the drum on the table. "This isn't your lucky day. Ninety-nine out of a hundred cops wouldn't think anything of your little study group or this drum, but I happen to know something about South American tribes. I know that this drum is used in rituals involving human sacrifice and black magic."
   The professor laughed.
   "Is that what you think we were going to do with it? No anthropologist believes in the efficacy of those rituals. They're expressions of a pre-scientific society's desire to understand and control their environments."
   "I bet I could find you a couple of anthropologists who believe in the rituals. And," he added with an unfriendly smile, "one cop."
   He leaned forward.
   "So let's cut the crap. I want you to tell me where Professor Sandburg is, and you want this drum. Let's work something out."
   "You're crazy," the professor informed him. Jim shrugged.
   "Could be." He took a small bottle of lighter fluid and a pack of matches from his pocket and set them on the table beside the drum.
   "So, if the drum isn't of any use to you, can I assume you won't mind if I use it for kindling?"
   Whatever colour the professor had displayed drained from his face.
   "Don't."
   "You don't want me to set the drum on fire?"
   The professor swallowed hard. "It's valuable. A rare artifact."
   Jim opened the bottle of lighter fluid.
   "That's not how Professor Sandburg tells it. He says it's not much more than a curiosity. And I have a feeling he couldn't care less what happens to it now."
   "That drum is university property."
   Jim tilted the bottle.
   "You're reaching," he said as he poured. "I happen to know that Blair received it as a private gift. And speaking of Blair, where is he?"
   The professor had staying power. He managed to keep still and silent while over half the bottle was poured over Blair's drum. When he finally gave, Jim was surprised enough by the sound of the man's voice that he nearly spilled lighter fluid on the table.
   "Okay. You win. Put that bottle away."
   Jim closed it and carefully set it on the floor beside his chair.
   "Where is he?"
   "I'm not admitting anything, but if I were looking for him, I'd try 1524 Millar Crescent."
   Jim pushed back his chair and stood.
   "All right, I'll go check that out."
   He picked up the drum and left the interrogation room. Once the door was shut behind him. Simon turned from the window.
   "You want me to hold him until I hear from you?"
   Jim nodded. "I'll call you when I get to the house."

the sound of the wind through my bones makes me laugh at all the bodies I kissed and never knew. the sound of the wind through my heart makes me glad for all the ones that never knew my name
   --jann arden, the sound of

   That Blair was in that small bungalow, alive and in reasonably good heath, was settled before Jim even turned into the driveway. Finding Blair's heartbeat was ridiculously easy, and his scent wasn't much more difficult.
   By the time Jim was standing on the front stop of that house with his gun drawn, he also know that Blair's was the only human heartbeat on the premises. He knew that blood had been spilled, a fair amount of it, but that none of was Blair's. And he know that everything of interest to him had happened in the basement.
   "Chief?" he called. "Can you hear me?"
   A few seconds passed, then Blair answered him. He didn't bother to raise his voice. "I'm downstairs."
   As far as Jim was concerned that took care of any ethical problems with kicking in the front door, so he proceeded to do so.
   His attention was devoted to finding the stairs, but he saw enough of the furnishings to be certain that this was the professor's house. Decorated by an anthropologist, with masks and spears and expedition photos covering every available surface. Anthropology, the study of the nature and history of clutter.
   The stairs to the basement were just off the kitchen and the blood Jim had smelled was at the bottom. Much stronger than the smell of the blood was the smell of that tribe, the one that was given off by their scars. He was definitely going to have to remember this the next time he felt guilty for exposing Blair to the dangers of being a cop.
   At some point this area had been a laundry room. It might still be one, since a washer and dryer were visible at the far end, but it was clear from the decor that it had acquired another purpose.
   Jim didn't know what all of the symbols meant, wasn't sure about the place a firepit held in their rituals, didn't know the use or composition of that black powder ... but the blood was hard to miss; he know an alter when he saw one, and he was unfortunate enough to recognize the sight of an evicted human heart.
   "Told you they were assholes."
   Blair's voice was very soft, but that was the worst thing about it. Way too calm for a man who was trapped in this room. Jim nearly jumped out of him skin.
   "Jesus, Chief," he said, turning to find Blair sitting beside a support beam. His hands were tied behind it.
   "Sorry. Thought you would've heard me by now," Blair said. And by the way, Jim, someone got their heart cut out down here. But I don't really care. How's by you?
   "Give a guy a heart attack." Jim muttered. He knelt in front of Blair and met his eyes. "Did you see what happened here?"
   Blair opened his mouth. Apparently it occurred to him that he was drawing flies, because he shut it and shook his head.
   "I don't know what I saw."
   The look on his face told Jim not to push. Instead, Jim busied himself with freeing Blair's hands and getting them the hell out of there. Blair didn't seem to be hurt, but he was lost in some thoughts that weren't making him happy. Jim had to guide him from the house with a hand at the small of his back.
   Once they were in the truck, he made good on his promise to call Simon. Yes, Blair was at the house, and yes, he was okay. That said, all was not well. Did Jim recommend sitting on that professor and sending a forensics team to look things over? He certainly did.
   "That crazy son of a bitch actually seems to think he can tell us to look for you at his house and still pretend he has no idea what went on here," Jim said as he turned off the cel phone. "I'm sorry, but I have to ask you again. What do you think you saw?"
   Blair had lain him head back and he didn't bother to lift it before turning to look at Jim. It mode him look as though him neck were broken, and Jim quickly looked away.
   "I'm not a good source of information right now," Blair said softly. "I'm having visions. I'm being followed by the tribe that made my drum."
   That was crazy enough to draw Jim's eyes back to Blair's face.
   "Chief ... if you're talking about these guys who cut scars into their arms, I saw them too. I arrested eight of them this afternoon." He didn't smile, he didn't sit up, he didn't ask what Jim had arrested them for. All he said was,
   "Jim ... it doesn't mean anything that you saw them. We've had the same vision before."
   Jim wasn't going to talk about that.
   "Naomi called," he said instead. "Said you made a disturbing phone call to some ex-boyfried of hers. Asked a bunch of questions about missing your time to die. What the hell was the point of that, Chief?"
   "That's great," Blair said, shutting his eyes. "I was stupid enough to think that was a private conversation. I can't believe he called her. I can't believe she called you."
   "She didn't call me. She left a message for you on the machine, and I returned it."
   Blair snorted. "She knew you'd hear the message. That's why she left it."
   A little annoyed, a little frustrated, but perfectly sociable and sane. How could he sound like that?
   "What were you thinking when you made that phone call?"
   Blair didn't answer. With his eyes shut and his breathing slow, it was hard to tell if he was even awake. Jim nudged him.
   "I asked you a question."
   "I know. But if you can't see it ..."
   Jim felt the familiar urge to shake him partner. He put his hands on the steering wheel and gripped it hard enough to turn his knuckles white.
   "What is it you think I can't see, Blair? Explain it to me like I'm stupid. I know you can do that."
   "I think you mean, explain it to you as if you were stupid."
   Jim looked at Blair and was astonished to see something resembling a smile. It seemed Blair had made a joke.
   "Since I got back," he said with an abrupt change of gears, "I can't get interested in anything. I don't want to date. I can't concentrate on my thesis. I like doing police work, but I'm not a cop. I just think maybe I've outstayed my welcome here, you know. Like it all went bad because I should never have come back."
   Jim stared at him.
   "It hasn't all gone bad. The only thing that's different is you. It's just a mood you're in, Blair." He shrugged and said what he hoped was true. "It'll pass."
   Blair turned his head away and looked at the house.
   "There was a guy in the basement when they brought there. I guess he missed his time, too. They sent him on."
   Jim's stomach rolled.
   "Did you uh... did you see that happen?"
   Still looking at the house, Blair nodded.
   "They cut out his heart."
   He spoke with the dull tone of shock. Jim wanted to put him arm around Blair and hold onto him for awhile, but settled for running a hand down his hair. "When everybody else gets here we can go back to the station and I'll get your statement. Then we can go home."
   "Home," Blair said softly. "Yeah. I'm tired."