Author's notes: Thanks to Kimberly and Susanne for all their hours beta-ing. Still, all the mistakes are mine.

Stealing Home - part one
by Callista Echo

"What?" I take a step back from Jim.

"You heard me, Sandburg. If you're so unhappy at the idea of being a cop then quit." Jim has that stony look that says this was not a discussion but I figure I need to try anyway.

"No man, it's not like that. I want to be your partner. It's just the whole regimented thing is freaking me out and the gun thing..." I stop talking. Jim isn't listening and even without his keen auditory sense I can hear how feeble it all sounds.

Swinging one of the chairs around and taking a seat, Jim crosses his arms over the back. "Sandburg, I realize you're out of options. And I know I played a part in that. But your...your ambivalence about all this could get someone killed. It could get me killed. It could get you killed. I need a partner who is on board-one hundred percent. If you can't do that, well, then, you can't." Jim turns away from me, his body tense as if he's coiled to strike.

I knew my last test scores had been a disappointment. I don't know what went wrong. After all, if anyone knows how to study for a test it's me. I'd gone into those tests after two nights of stakeouts, so, yeah, I was kinda out of it. It's not like I hadn't been there before. No way should a little fatigue make me screw up a test. I've been living this job for three years.

I know. I know what Freud would say. I did it on purpose. I sabotaged it on purpose because I don't want to be a cop. I don't know. Could my subconscious so overrule my brain that it would put the wrong answers down? Because, damn it, I knew the answers. I knew them cold.

Okay, I have doubts. About me and my ability to do the cop thing. I mean, sure, I rode along for three years. I observed. I reacted. I thought. I got caught in the middle. But it was never my responsibility. I never had to make a call on a life and death thing. Or chose A over B and chose wrong and live with it. I never had to shoot to kill.

And the other guys at the Academy. Man, it's like being 14 again. The teasing I can take, even the hostility. God knows I'd dealt with those things in my life. It's the way they were men. All Alpha, all the time. The conversations alone were enough to make me run screaming from the Academy in search of a poetry reading. Frankly, I don't know how Jim endured and became the man he is. He had the military as well as the Academy to wade through. So who was I to balk? I tried to hide the discomfort but Jim knew me, he knew me better than Naomi, knew me better than anyone, and he saw through my act.

I figured he'd see it but ignore it and he probably would have too, except for the scores. The instructors were already leery of letting me in, being the acknowledged perpetrator of a fraud and all. When the last scores came back so low, well, they had to let Simon know what a poor risk I was, even if I could somehow manage to graduate. And Jim had heard. Heard and reacted.

The men were gathered around the sleek oblong table. They referred to their notes and came to the matter of the guide.

"The low scores worked well."

"Yeah Robert, nice touch."

"Let's see if we can get the harassment going a little stronger."

"That's easy. It's like Lord of the Flies there. They'd just love a reason to gang up on Sandburg and cast him out."

"It has to look natural when he leaves Ellison."

"Oh, it'll look like he has every reason to leave."

"Hey Sandbottom! I saw your last scores on the firing range. What's the matter, 'fraid of a little noise?"

Tom was yelling and coming up on me in the hallway fast. Faces were turned toward me with contempt written all over them. "You should of seen him., Cary. Shoot, flinch, miss. Shoot, flinch, miss. Better than watching the kiddie's at State Fair."

As Tom catches up to me, he shoves his elbow into my side with enough force to knock the air out of me and possibly crack a rib. "C'mon, Sandbottom, you'll be late for self defense."

I lean against a locker, trying to catch my breath. Oh, God, I hate this macho shit. I can do this. I can do this. Time for a little fun in the house of dojo. I'm better at this self-defense stuff than I would have thought. My size is actually an asset for a change. My low center of gravity gives me more power. Plus, the physics of the whole thing just makes sense to me. Using the other guy's Momentum against him...it's what I usually did with my mouth and now my body was getting into the act.

We line up. Just my luck, Tom's my adversary. He came at me hard, with a look in his eye that said "Danger, Will Robinson." I watch as he feints left and kicks high, aiming for my chest. Dumb move. I grabbed his foot before he could connect and twist it, taking him down. I reach down to help him up and he slaps my hand away. "Leave me the fuck alone."

He gets up with an exaggerated spring and crouches for his next move. As I stand there, my knees flexed, my hands up, I see the guy next to me lurch. He falls into me sideways and we go down. I feel his hand on my elbow and watch in amazement as he pushes it up and twists it. I yowl. He's popped my shoulder out of the joint. He's done it so fast no one could've seen the deliberateness of the act. Ironically, nobody would have cared about the deliberateness of the act. Still, it just looks like my dumb luck.

"Sandburg? What's the problem? You got an owie?" Hatch, our instructor, came toward me, trying unsuccessfully to hide a pleased expression. "Here. Let me look at that." I try to edge away. I 'm feeling a burning pain that crowds out all coherent thought. Hatch reached down. My injury is obvious, but he takes my arm by the wrist and moves it back and forth. I scream. 'Oh God, let me pass out because otherwise I might start to cry and I really, really, don't want to cry,'

"Seems like you might have bruised yourself, Sandburg. Here, let me help you up." I press my arm to my side and shake my head. I try to get up on my knees but Tom comes up behind me and bumps me, sending me back to the mat. Hatch reaches down and grabs my arm and pulls me up and before I'm upright I get my wish. I pass out.

"Sandburg." Jim looks at me and shakes his head. He's come to the Urgent Care to retrieve me and now he's looking at me with my arm in a sling and he's shaking his head.

"What? This wasn't my fault, Jim. That guy, Cary..." I can't tell Jim it was done on purpose. He'd go all mother hen on me and confront the guy and then the nightmare would really begin. "Cary is just really good and he doesn't know his own strength." I hope Jim will assume the pain I'm in is the cause of the spike in my heart rate.

"Yeah, yeah...he's good. He's really good." Jim looks at me and I have no trouble reading the implied sub-text. And you're not. Jim is really starting to have doubts about my ability to do this. To be competent as his partner. I'm starting to look like a deficit instead of an asset here. It was one thing for him to baby-sit an observer. Quite another to have your partner be a fuck up.

What's with Sandburg? I thought he wanted to be my partner. Thought he was okay with being a cop. But now...Joyce had pointed out the downward spiral Blair seemed to be in and she interpreted it as his deep-seated resentment about losing his Ph.D. and reluctance to take up a life as a cop. She's a beauty with brains to match, a Profiler and just in town for a month long workshop. We'd met at Berdelli's and hit it off right away. It 's gonna hurt when she leaves, there's something special about her. But we still had two weeks and she 's the one bright spot in this month as I watch Blair blow his career as a cop. If he didn't make it... I never get much further than that in my thoughts. The possibility of Blair not joining me is unacceptable.

I 'm not going to kid myself. If Blair didn't make it as a cop he'll find some other career and whatever that is will take him away from the PD, from the loft, hell, probably from Cascade. He'd need to start fresh, in a new academic setting, doing what? Anything, the kid could do anything. Then why would he settle for being a cop? Because of me?

Arrogance.

Joyce had also pointed out the arrogance of thinking Sandburg could be happy as a cop just because he got to work with me. She was right. Blair wasn't cop material. He gave up his academic credibility to protect Simon and me and I just wanted to give him something back. Something to hold on to. I guess it took someone from the outside, who wasn't as caught up in the emotional attachments, to see the folly of this plan. It helped that she was a Profiler. She understood what made people tick, what set them off and what brought them down. She was good and I wanted to kill her. She was only the messenger. So instead of killing her I took comfort in her lush, responsive body and tried to ignore the sound of my world falling apart.

I had known there would be a time when Blair would move on. It's the MO of everyone I've ever felt close to. I don't know how I'd let myself get so comfortable with Sandburg. I learned that was never a good idea. What was I thinking, letting him stay on past that first week, until years had passed? What's with me? It's not like I love him, well.... not like I love him like that. If I had any doubts about that, Joyce had put them to rest.

Jim drops me off and heads out to meet Joyce. I know I complain about his tendency to hover but I've got to admit I would've liked some company. His company. Since I started at the Academy my time with Jim seemed to keep shrinking. Joyce is part of it but even when he isn't with her, he seems to find a lot of ways to keep busy that don't involve me.

Glad to be home I dump my knapsack on the couch and take the sling off. Weird how you can be in such pain and then poof, they pop the bone back in and all's well. I 'm sore but grateful it's so easily fixed. Thinking about a long hot shower, I look through the mail. I'm surprised to see a letter from the University of Florida.

Ripping it open, I find it's from Professor Watkins expressing his condolences about my dissertation. Wow. Nobody has expressed anything about my dissertation. Not Jim, not Simon, and certainly not anyone from my former life as an academic. It was as if I'd had a stillborn child and no one wanted to add to my pain. But the pain's still there, unacknowledged, ungrieved, unwelcome. Whatever I feel about my old life has no place as I set about creating this new life. Maybe that's why I'd fucked up the test and why I couldn't shoot straight. Mom would have a field day with this.

Professor Watkins apparently was unswayed by my act of fraud and wanted me to come to Florida and take up a new dissertation there. Wow, again. That is an amazing endorsement and it makes me feel happier than I have in weeks. Somebody wants me. I put the letter down and look out over the city of Cascade. It's misting and there are storm clouds like an army to the north. It's early fall and already the chill has gotten in under my skin and permeated my bones. Florida. Hot sun, warm ocean, itsy bitsy bikinis...I sigh, sounding pathetic to my own ears. I'll take the cold any day if it gives me my life with Jim.

It's late and I'm expecting to see Sandburg on the couch, flipping channels. The kid doesn't quite know what to do with himself since he doesn't have the perpetual paper to write or grade. He's not there and I'm surprised at my surprise. It's not like he doesn't have a life. Did have a life. I guess the women he normally dated came from the University. And the ones from the PD won't be looking at him again until he graduates. Can't remember the last time I saw Blair getting ready for a date. But he must have one tonight.

He left the loft neat for a change. If I think about it, it's actually been neat for a while. No books piled up, no papers scattered, no laptop humming away. There's a letter lying on the coffee table and I pick it up. To Mr. Blair Sandburg. I'm about to put it in his room, when I see it's from a university. Florida. A feeling of dread unfurls inside me. I read it and it confirms the feeling of dread. A job offer. A life offer. An option. Fuck.

When I get back from my run to the grocery store, I see Jim has returned from his date. He's sitting on the couch, my letter in his hands. "So Chief, when are you going?"

I just look at him and blink. "Going?"

"Yeah, when-are-you-going?" He says it real slow, like I speak a different language.

"I know how much this must mean to you and it's obvious police work is not in your blood."

He kind of sneers as he says that and his face mimics the contempt I've been seeing at the Academy. "Ah, yeah, well, I don't know..." I mean to say I don't know about the police work not being my thing. Cause I think it really could be my thing. As long as it's as Jim's partner.

But Jim hears the first part and jumps in. "If you need help with the expenses let me know."

I feel like I've just been poleaxed. He can't wait for me to go. He'll spend money to be sure I leave. He must really be sure I can't handle the job, that I can't watch his back. But I have, for three years I've watched and done the paperwork, the stakeouts, the running, the jumping, the standing still.

"You think I should accept?" I can't help the way my voice squeaks at the end of that question.

"I think you should do what you're good at, Chief." He called me Chief again and I realize how much I've missed that word. What does it mean that for weeks he's only called me Sandburg and now, with my eminent departure at hand, he starts calling me Chief again? I think I've had enough psyche courses to figure that one out.

I can't really trust myself to talk and I turn toward my room. "Yeah, well, I'll call him tomorrow." That's as much as I can get out.

I don't know how to read Sandburg anymore. I suppose he thought he'd have to explain a lot more and he was stunned at my reaction. Still, he almost seemed hurt by my encouragement. I'll have to run that by Joyce and get her take on that. I stand up. It seems to take a lot of effort. The reality that Blair will be leaving hasn't hit yet but my body seems to understand the situation better than my mind does. I feel heavy and I sit back down. I'll walk up those stairs in a little while.

What would I do if I didn't have Joyce in my life right now? She meets me for breakfast and I spill out the details of Blair leaving. She listens intently and points out some things I missed. She reads Blair's lack of reaction to my reading his mail as proof he wanted me to. She sees great significance in this. She also sees my distress and gently rubs my back. Before I quite know we have a plan, we are back at her hotel room and she is helping me to forget.

"Jim? I've been thinking. I don't want to put any pressure on you, but I've come to love Cascade and I'm thinking of making a move here." She looks at me with her head cocked, her lips slightly swollen from our lovemaking. I kiss her and breathe the word yes into her mouth. She smiles. I'm grateful.

I didn't sleep much last night. Jim's doubts about my ability are eating away at me. In all the discussion of my aptitude for police work there's been one major piece missing. I'm Jim's Guide. I'm good at that at least. I have to admit though, Jim has done an amazing job of mastering his senses. There hasn't been a zone out in a long time. Perhaps even in this area I've outgrown my welcome. It hurts and I see once again why Naomi practices detachment and never stays long in any one place. It hurts and it hurts and it hurts to give up this place I made for myself. This life with Jim. Being an Anthropologist can't compare to that. It fed my mind, true. Made me excited, made me feel smart. It never made me feel at home, or anchored or loved. It never fed my soul.

I leave the loft at dawn.

I drive to Rainier. Park the car and think about everything. The life I had here for so many years, the life I had now with Jim.

There's no way I'm giving up my life with Jim because a few bad test scores and a reluctance to shoot a gun. I'm going to fight to remain Jim's Guide. I'll just have to get serious about getting better at it. And Jim is going to have to be patient and have some faith. I am not cutting out.

The men sat in their high-backed chairs.

"I thought you said it was practically a done deal." "Hey, it is."

"Then why was Sandburg at the firing range at 7 a.m. on a Saturday morning?" "He was? Damnation. I thought he would've been home packing his suntan lotion." "What next?"

"Keep Ellison distracted and absent. John, bump up the schedule." "You got it."

I smelled the gunpowder on Sandburg as soon as he walked in. My heart speeds up. He seems to be walking all right. I scan him. He looks tired but there's no smell of blood. What kind of trouble had he gotten into that had him firing a hated firearm?

"What's up, Chief? Where've you been?"

"I was at the firing range, thought I could use the practice." He comes closer and I think for a minute that he's going to come in close for a hug. He seems to realize that and hesitates, turns and makes for the kitchen. "Any coffee?"

"Why did you think you needed to practice shooting? Worried about lazy undergrads suffering heatstroke and coming after you when you're down in Florida?"

He laughs weakly and rummages for a cup. I see his hand's shaking. He grabs at a cup and knocks two others down. The china shatters and I recoil at the noise. Sandburg goes into his apology shtick. "I'm sorry... Man, one of these was your favorite. Maybe I can glue it." He's picking up the pieces and trying to put it together on the floor.

"Forget it, Sandburg. It's just a cup. Now why-" The phone rings. It's Joyce and her car broke down. "I have to pick Joyce up, her car gave out on Highway 210. I don't know how soon I'll be back." "Okay, I've got work to do anyway."

Blair seems preoccupied. I imagine the move is on his mind. I hesitate, wanting to know what he's thinking, but then I think about the distress in Joyce's voice and I know I have to get going.

Jim heads out to do the rescue thing with Joyce. Some fabulous sex ought to come out of this morning's work. Does that sound bitter? I'm glad for him, he's happier than he's been in a long time and it's all because of Joyce. But I can't help but feel in some ways she's taken my place. She's the one who's getting the rare conversation out of him...she's the one he is gifting with his brilliant smile, his casual affection. I'm on the outside looking in, once again.

Maybe he'll come back more relaxed and we'll actually be able to talk. I get the cups swept up and the coffee in me and set to work on absorbing more police protocol. The next thing I know it's 10:00. I pack up all the stuff and put it in my room. I've been making a point of keeping my mess away from Jim. I don't want to work his nerves and I figure the less of me around, the better. It never used to feel like this. Sure, he'd growl about the house rules but he seemed to accept my presence with a light heart. Something changed though. It's like he's waiting for me to fuck up. I think that maybe it's the whole dissertation thing. He knows I didn't send it but he still feels betrayed by the exposure that came about because of me. I know I have a ways to go to get back his trust. It would help a lot if I would quit fucking up at the Academy.

I put my sweats on and head for the gym. I'm going to give this everything I've got.

I'm back by 2. Joyce was cool and calm when I picked her up along 210, but hot and bothered when we got to her hotel room. There must be something about a crisis that heightens all the sensations, because she was electric.

She wanted me to stay with her in that bed all day but I really wanted to check in with Sandburg and find out about the firing range visit.

As soon as I walk in the door I can tell he's gone. That's confirmed when I stick my head in his room. I'm stunned. He's left. I don't know how I could tell. The room's much the same. The bed's made, the books are in the bookcase. But nothing is out. No papers, no clothes. I look in the closet. It didn't take me long to realize it's all winter stuff. His knapsack and laptop are gone. Gone. He didn't say good-bye. How could he just leave and not say good-bye?

I get up to check the living room. He must have left a note. There it is, on the fridge. I pluck it off, almost too angry to focus on the words.

Dear Jim,

I'm sorry to leave in such a rush. I got a call from Professor Watkins and he lost his assistant for the summer dig and needed me to join him immediately. The plane is leaving tonight from Miami. I'll call you from there. I wish there had been time to talk before I had to go. There's so much I wanted to say. Thank you for giving me a home and your friendship. I'm sorry I let you down but I guess it just wasn't meant to be. Hey, this isn't the end, we'll still be in touch. Your friend, Blair

Just like that, he's gone? I knew he would leave, knew it, knew it, knew it, but I'm still unprepared for what this feels like. Like the air's been sucked out of the room. Like gravity has ceased to be a law. Like I am ten years old and my mother hasn't come home. Fuck. I will not go there.

I move into the living room and bring the telephone. I sit down. He said he'd call. I'll wait. The phone is ringing but it's far away. I realize I zoned out. The room has grown shadowy. I snatch the phone up.

"Blair?"

"No sweetie, it's just me." She virtually purrs as she says it.

"Hi Joyce, I'm waiting for a call from Blair."

"I gathered that when you said Blair. Where is he?"

"He went off to Mexico with that Professor I was telling you about."

"Just like that he leaves you?" She sounds horrified and to my shame I can feel tears forming at the back of my eyes.

"Yeah, well, it was a last- minute thing he couldn't pass up." I don't want her sympathy for some reason. "Want me to come and keep you company while you wait for his call?"

I consider the offer and come to the conclusion that I don't want company. "No, I have some things I need to get done. I'll call you tomorrow and we'll make plans."

"All right." There's an edge to her voice. "We'll talk tomorrow, Jim."

As I hang up, I check the time. It's 7. I'm hungry and thirsty and I need to take a leak. Just some of the things I should get done. I stay where I am. The phone rings. The room is dark now. Fuck. Another zone. The phone is right in my hand and I pick it up. "Blair?"

"Just me, darling. I thought I could bring some take out over. I guess Blair hasn't called yet, huh?"

"No, not yet."

"This could be a long wait. I'll come over and keep you company."

She hangs up before I can protest. Damn.

Joyce arrives 20 minutes later. I've taken a leak and grabbed a beer. She looks great, her hair rumpled in a stylish mess, hers eyes sparkling with mischief. She sets the take out down and wraps her arms around me. I inhale her scent. It's a mix of feminine touches, some I can identify, some I can't.

It brings home how much I miss the smell of Blair. To someone else he would just smell well scrubbed and clean, maybe with an overlay of male sweat. To me there's so much more, something elemental. There's earth and wind and yeah I know how that sounds, like Naomi talking. New age baloney.

Before Blair, my senses made me feel like I might spin off the earth. Now his touch, his voice, his smell, all ground me. I need the way the air vibrates around him, like all the thoughts in his head are making the molecules around him dance. Sometimes I swear Sentinel eyesight allows me to see the molecules. His energy signature seems to guide me out of zones, even more than his voice.

Instead I have Joyce, doing her best to make me want her. My body did and we put on a good show for awhile. Then I gently pushed away from a kiss and say, "What did you bring?" I started unpacking the bag. Joyce looked a little miffed so I add, "I haven't eaten since this morning."

"Oh, poor baby."

"You mocking me?"

"Me. Mock you? Never." She pops a dumpling in my mouth and licks the soy sauce from my lips. "I'm here to keep you company, not mock." She emphasized the word mock by rubbing her hand on my crotch. "Joyce?" I pull her hand away. I'm not in the mood and it ought to be obvious, even to her. "Let's eat." The sooner we eat the sooner I can say I'm tired and going to bed. Which I do, with the predictable result. "Jim, I've never stayed at the loft and now with Sandburg gone the timing couldn't be better." There's something about the way she calls Blair -Sandburg, which sets my teeth on edge. Like he's a perp she's got a file on. The idea that anything is perfect with Blair gone is ludicrous. She must of sensed that I was refusing the program because she gets all efficient and cleans up. "I know you want to take your call in peace, so I'll just leave." She's pouts but I don't have the focus to soothe her, so I usher her to the door, kiss her goodnight and make noises about tomorrow. I go back to the couch and pull the phone on my lap. The next thing I know sun is streaming in the windows. No phone call. He said he'd call. I want to smash the phone against the wall but the famous Ellison control kicks in and I set it down carefully.

Taking a long shower, I use more hot water than I have in the three years Blair has lived here. Just one of the ways I've made space for him. Once I'm out, I start making phone calls. The University of Miami. Yes, they have a Professor Watkins. Yes, he just left for a dig. No, they can't get a hold of him for some time. No, they don't know if Blair Sandburg joined the dig at the last moment. They will be in a remote section of Mexico for the next trimester. Yes, they will pass along my message to a Blair Sandburg when they send information to the Professor. Fuck. He's totally out of reach unless I want to hop on a plane to Mexico. I consider it. I reject the idea. I'll just have to wait for Blair to find a phone or write a letter.

The guys at Major Crimes take Blair's defection hard.

"Can't believe he gave up on the Academy." H hasn't found anyone to tease since Blair left.

"Yeah, I really thought he wanted to be part of the team." Joel looks at the pile of paperwork on my desk. "Things just aren't the same since he's gone."

Simon stands in his doorway. "Guys, let's call an end to this wake and get on with the day's work. Jim. My office."

I follow Simon in and take a seat. He waves his coffee in my direction and I nod my head. "How are you doing with Sandburg gone?"

"You mean my senses?"

" I mean your senses and everything else."

"I'm fine Simon, my senses seem to have essentially shut down. I'm back to plain old Detective Ellison." "Hmm, the old part I can buy but somehow plain has never described your abilities, with or without your senses." Simon grimaces as he gets to the bottom of his cup.

"Who are you calling old?" I know my lines but my heart's not in the banter. I'm glad Simon accepts the loss of my senses so easily.

"And?"

"And what, sir?"

"And how are getting along without Sandburg the roommate? Sandburg, the friend?"

"I'm happy for him, Simon. He's following his dream of being an Anthropologist. Of course I miss him."

No way am I letting him or anyone else know how I really feel about the Blair-sized hole in my life.

"It's been two months with no word from Sandburg. I understand mail from a dig in remote Mexico might take awhile but by now something should have come." Joyce and I are driving to Berdelli's to celebrate her move to Cascade.

"Jim, mail from urban Mexico is incredibly erratic, let alone the wilds. He may not have even written right a way." Joyce leans over and kisses my ear. The first time she did that we nearly went off the road. I guess she liked the excitement because as often as I've told her not to do that while I'm driving, she still does. I've learned to dampen all my senses when I'm around her. Hell, I dampen them around everybody these days. With Blair gone they are only intermittently useful.

I'm bugged at the idea that Blair might not have written right away. How could he just up and leave me without...without what? A proper good-bye? There was no time. Discussing it with me? I told him to go. Nevertheless, I'm starting to get worried. Joyce notices I guess because she's coming at my ear again. That's the weird thing about Joyce. Whenever I talk about Blair she goes into sex kitten mode. I guess she feels jealous that my thoughts are on someone else .

"Yeah, well I'd just feel better if I knew he was doing okay."

"Of course he's doing okay. He's doing better than that. He's in heaven. He 's doing the work he studied all his life for." Joyce sounds sure and I want to take comfort in her confidence.

Dinner is great. Joyce is almost at her best in a candle lit restaurant, red wine in her hand, one naked foot on my leg, another FBI story unfolding. Almost. Later that night I have her at her best. That woman must have memorized the Kama Sutra. Every time we are together there is a new twist or turn. Or twist and turn. I've been spending more time at the gym. Partly because I miss Blair and partly because I need to add flexibility exercises to my routine in order to keep up with Joyce. It's almost made me a believer in Yoga.

Three days later a letter finally arrives. The envelope looks like it was mailed four years ago from Bosnia and I feel uneasy about that. There is something about looking at this fragile piece of paper; dirty, smudged, an edge ripped off, that makes me fear that Blair has somehow undergone the same trials. I rip it open and scan the page. He's all right. He's damn cheery even, blast him He's getting on the plane that will take him to-that part is smudged. Professor Watkins is delighted, blah, blah, blah. The handwriting is erratic, like they are going through turbulence. I bring the page to my nose, hoping for a whiff of Blair. I can't. The letter is two months old, for crying out loud. Of course I can't smell Blair. I smell someone else though and it sends a jolt through me.

Later that day I track down Marcel. He checks the letter with one of Blair's case notes. He takes his time and I'm surprised. I thought I was being paranoid and that Marcel would immediately put my fears to rest. Instead he brings out a magnifying glass. "This is very good. The pretend jostling is a nice touch, but it's not Blair's handwriting." Marcel looks up as I sag against the desk. "What? What's wrong?" "No, it's just someone playing a joke on Blair. We had a bet on it. I have another piece here. Can you check that and tell me if it's the same forger?" I give him Blair's good-bye note. This time he's much quicker. Not Blair.

"Thanks Marcel, I owe you one" I start to gather the notes and have a thought. "Oh, and if, for some strange reason, anyone asks you what we talked about-it was about a case. I'll never collect otherwise." Marcel winks.

The disquiet I felt before has mutated into terror. Someone has had Blair for two months and they went through a lot of trouble to keep me unaware. That spells conspiracy and money. I make for Simon's office, I need to run this by someone and right now it's a small group that I trust.

I awake to some serious head pain. Not an ache, not a throb, but a spike that enters through one side of my head and is trying to make its way out of the other. I try to open my eyes but the punishment for that is an escalation of the misery. I hear whimpering and wonder who else is suffering the same fate. Then a voice from above says, "He's awake doctor." Someone's prying my eyelid open and there's another whimper and a light shines into the dark pain of my head. The light fractures the spiking agony, sending its shards into a thousand directions, multiplying the pain and I am no more.

When I next awake I can still feel the shards embedded in the walls of my brain. The sensation is like white noise, filling my mind with confusion and panic. The pain is less though, as if the light had punctured it and dispersed it. I hear the whimpering again and then the same voice as before, saying, "He's awake."

"Eric? Can you hear me?" A firm voice, a hand shaking my shoulder, pain rattling inside my skull, the whimpering. I try to bat the hand away but I'm unable to move my arm up that high. Someone gripes my wrist. "Eric? Open your eyes." The voice is insistent, the hand on my wrist presses on a point, a new pain shoots up my arm and I open my eyes.

"Good." The hand leaves my wrist and I look up to see the doctor peering at me, a stethoscope dangling around his neck.

"How are you feeling?" His voice is kind. Involuntarily I look at down at the hand that had known so precisely where to press to send the pain. I look back at his face.

"I feel...head hurts."

"That's to be expected." He's leaning in again and I wish I had a way to dodge his scrutiny. "Expected?" My voice sounds wobbly and my throat's sore.

"Yes, you were hit by lightning yesterday. You had us worried." He's shining the light in my eyes again and looking satisfied. "But you look just fine now."

"Lightning?" I don't understand.

"Yes, freak accident. You were picnicking with the trainers when a sudden storm came up." "Anyone else hurt?"

"No, only you, Eric."

"Eric?" I still don't understand. "My name is Eric?"

Suddenly there is tension in the room and significant looks between the nurse and doctor.

"You don't remember your name?"

I think, hard. My name, what's my name? I dismiss Eric that's not it. What is it? As I think the pain shards in my head start to move. They press into the bones and I scream. And then I am no more.

"Eric? Eric? Wake up." The voice of the nurse, impatient. I cautiously open my eyes. The pain has ebbed. The nurse is standing next to my bed with a glass of water and I reach for it. She helps me drink and pats my face dry. "There. Feel better, now?"

I nod. "Yes, the pain is almost gone."

"Good, Dr. Albright is waiting to talk to you."

"Hello Eric. I heard you had quite the adventure." Dr. Albright is an elderly guy, not the doctor from before, trying hard to be folksy. There is something about him that belies the pose. Perhaps it's the harsh grooves around his mouth or the way he looks at me, like I am deficient.

"Y-yes." I hate the hesitation, weakness here seems dangerous. "I got hit by lightning."

"And you don't remember your name?" He prods.

"No. I don't remember." He doesn't seem too concerned.

"What do you remember?"

I think back, trying to picture the picnic. Nothing. I go back further. This morning, getting ready? Nothing. Last night, dinner...my parents, friends? Nothing. Oh god, there's nothing in my head, there is no information.

I'm shaking from the effort to remember and the horror of the emptiness in my head. Dr. Albright is watching, waiting for me to find something to answer him with.

I shake my head. "I don't remember anything."

"Don't panic. This is normal and most likely temporary." Dr. Albright is writing notes now and he ignores me for a few Moments while he finishes. "You get a good night's rest and I'll check in with you tomorrow." He's moving away.

How can he act like this is nothing? He seems to assume I will react to this the way I would react to a broken arm...an inconvenience only.

"Wait! Where am I?" Nothing about this place seemed familiar.

"Eric, you are at The Center." He said that like he expected me to nod and say, oh yeah. "What's The Center?" I could do 20 questions if I had to.

"The Center is your home. Here we follow the path of the Tessuad."

"I don't understand. The Center? Where is my family?"

"You are Eric Kendall." I can tell the doctor is impatient. "You are at The Center and you are in service to The Good. We are your family. You were at the picnic with your trainers."

"Trainers? What am I training for?"

Dr. Albright is almost out the door but he comes back in and gives me a long look. "I told you. You are being trained in the path of redemption and transcendence. You were born with a gift." His face contorts on the word gift, and I could swear he wanted to say curse. "This gift comes with a responsibility and obligation to The Good."

"W-what is this gift?" I am afraid to ask but I need to know.

"You were born a Guide."

A Guide. There is something about that word that ricochets around my head, leaving bits of meaning in its wake.

Dr. Albright smiles. "This will all become clear, Eric, you'll see. Get some sleep."

They leave. The door is ajar and I can hear them talking. "What will happen if he doesn't remember?" "He'll remember the training and that's all that's important."

I close my eyes and try and capture the word Guide and it's skittering meanings.

I fall asleep repeating the word over and over. The next day I still don't remember but the pain is better and they discharge me from the clinic. I am in a large complex and they escort me to my room. It's small and orderly. A bed, desk, chair, lamp, bookshelf, books... They say I've lived here most my life and yet there is not much here to tell me who I am or who I was. I walk around the room, touching all the surfaces, hoping something will act as a trigger. There are no photos of me when I was growing up. One photo of a man, waving. A postcard from someone named Dan who vacationed in Ontario two years ago. No sports stuff, no journals, no checkbook, no photos of Mom and Dad, no keys, no magazines or newspapers.

I feel like I've walked into the middle of a play and I have no idea what's going on or what my next lines are. My head holds a dull ache and I can feel where the lightning hit. I am missing a patch of hair and there are stitches. Can't believe it only knocked me out for a day.

As I am sitting on the side of the bed, a man pops his head in the door. "Hey sleepy head, can't be a layabout, even if you did just cheat death."

He's standing there with this hopeful grin on his open, freckled face. "Um, I don't mean to be rude but, who are you?"

"Who am I? I can understand you forgetting your own name, but forgetting me? Your best friend? I'm crushed." He's smiling and I can't help it, I smile back.

"I'll take pity on you. I'm Mike Hauser." He comes in and takes the chair. "So you really can't remember anything?"

"No, nothing."

Something of what I am feeling must have shown in my face because Mike's smile falters and he says, "Hey, it'll be all right. You're memory will be back in no time and in the meantime I'll show you the ropes." He jumps up. "First thing, one is never late for breakfast. Come on, Eric, shake a leg."

I rummage around in the drawers and pull out clothes that look like Mike's. They are exactly like Mike's. He sees my look. "Yup. That's the clothes that make us men. Or something like that. All the guides wear this."

"How many Guides are there?"

"Right now there's ten of us in training. You've been here the longest. I'm the newbie. And then there's True and Geoff. Look out for them, they are a tad on the ambitious side."

I go into the bathroom to change and look in the mirror. I don't know the face looking back at me. That alone almost propels me back out of the room but I'm curious. What do I look like? I'm in need of a shave. I have dark hair. It's short and is a jumble. I have blue eyes.

I shave and try and tame my hair into submission. I put on the blue T-shirt and black jeans. I take one last look, hoping recognition will flair but I all I see is a stranger staring back at me.

Mike's waiting for me as I walk out and he looks me up and down. "You're acceptable. Come on before all the grub is gone."

The cafeteria is packed but Mike and I sit at an almost empty table. There are two other men already halfway through breakfast. They look up, nod and go back to eating. Mike launches into a detailed description of the origin of the food served in the cafeteria and before I know it, I'm laughing. The two other Guides give me a look I can't quite interpret and leave.

"Of course that's when we get food."

"Huh?"

"Don't look so worried. We fast every Sunday. Sometimes more often. It's part of the training."

"Everyone fasts every Sunday?"

"No, no, not everyone. Just the guides."

"Oh. Why?"

"For purity, man. We need to cleanse our corporeal selves of all lust and dependence, including the lust for food."

"There is no way to cleanse yourself of dependence on food, Mike."

"Well, maybe not, but it sure alters your consciousness." Mike looks oddly happy about fasting. I figure I'll find out what that's about when I experience it.

"What's next on the agenda?" I wish something would penetrate the fog of ignorance I'm stumbling

through. Anything... a feeling, an understanding, a familiar scent or face...something to tell me that it won't always be like this.

"Now we go to Doctrine." He buses the table and picks up his satchel.

"Do I need anything?" I indicate his bag.

"Nah, you're ahead of me in the learning curve so you are beyond the book learning phase."

We enter a room. There are six men kneeling already and Mike immediately takes a place behind them and kneels. I start to ask about what is going on but he puts his finger to his lips and points to the space next to him. I join him in kneeling. I hear a noise behind me and I turn to see the two Guides who were in the cafeteria coming in. They glare at me and I take it I made a faux pas by turning to look at them. They take a position behind us and kneel. We stay that way until my knees are numb and then a woman robed in white enters and puts her hands above her head. Mike stands up and I follow.

She begins a chant. "We are the vessels of the Lord." Her hands come down. Mike kneels, I kneel. Mike and the two behind answer her. "Use us in service, oh Lord."

"We give you all that we are." Her hands are back in the air like a Price is Right point lady.

"We are nothing except to your purpose."

"Accept us and make us worthy, oh Lord."

None of it sounds familiar at first but by the end I can almost mumble along. I'm getting the hang of the rhythm and repetition. My head is starting to hurt and I feel the room do a lazy spin and fall forward on my face. A hand grabs my hair and yanks me up.

"You dare to defile the Doctrine?" It's one of the other Guides and he looks ready to do me bodily harm in the name of the lord.

"Truesdale!" The point lady speaks. "You know that Eric had an accident. His failure is not his fault. Let him go."

He lets me go with enough Momentum that my face bounces on the floor. I lie there, stunned, the pain in my head multiplying. Mike helps me up, glaring at Truesdale. He hands me a handkerchief to wipe at the blood trickling from my nose. I want to deck the guy but before I can even get my hands up, Mike is whispering in my ear, "No Eric. You don't want the trouble that will come down on your head."

"What about the trouble on his head?" The guy is just walking away.

"The Lord will serve him his dues." Mike looks like he believes this stuff.

"We need to get permission to get you to the clinic, wait here."

My nose and face hurt and I'm none to steady on my feet are but something tells me a trip to the clinic is not going to do me much good. I grab Mike before he can go after Ruth.

"Nah, I'll just go lie down."

He looks shocked. "You can't go lie down in the middle of the day. You have to have a certification to skip any part of the training. Go to the clinic, Eric."

"No, really, I'm all right." The doctor there had creeped me out and I don't want to see him again. "Go change then. The blood on your shirt is an abomination."

I look up at Mike, expecting to see a smile, a lifted eyebrow, something, anything, that would tell me he's kidding. He's not. I nod my head and go back to my room.

Walking down the corridor to my room, I push again at the blankness in my head. I try and remember walking these hallways before. Mike. Reciting The Doctrine. Waking up in my room. My mother's face. Everyone has a mother, right? I must, or must've at one point. What does she look like? There's nothing there, no image, no shape and worst of all, no feeling.

I change and rejoin the group in the library. We spend a quiet two hours studying testing procedures. A bell chimes and everyone stands up. "Lunch time, Eric." Mike shelves the books he's had out and I follow his lead. As we walk towards the cafeteria I ask Mike if he knew my Mom.

"Your Mom? Why would you want to know about her?" Mike seems genuinely puzzled.

"I can't remember her. Can't remember my dad either. I feel like I should, you know? Have a face in my head or a feeling about them?"

"Eric, you hardly ever saw them. Hey, if there's anyone you should remember it's me."

"Come on Mike, you can't tell me you don't miss your parents and think about them."

Mike shakes his head. "Must be the lightning, Eric. You've never shown any interest in your family before. I don't think you've seen your Mom but once in the last six years. And your dad...who knows about him? You never mentioned your dad."

After that first day, my life took on a relentless rhythm. Shower. Breakfast. Doctrine. Language class. I'm learning Russian. I don't seem to be much good at it, or the accident affected the part of brain that deals with speech acquisition. Then lunch. After, meditation then biofeedback. Those two to enhance my empathic abilities. That's another thing that I don't understand. I don't know what they mean by empathetic abilities. Hey, I know what empathy is, I just don't feel any. Maybe I did before the accident. Maybe I will when I meet a Sentinel.

The last part of the afternoon is spent in physical training and it's exhausting and ever changing. The theory is our Sentinels will be called on to do demanding tasks and we need to be able to keep up and keep them safe.

Every Sunday, we fast. Some weeks we fast three times. I don't know how they decide. The first day I asked about everything. Ruth put a stop to that. She called me into her office and explained that God must have a plan for me in my ignorance. Nothing like lightning is ever random, there fore I must accept God's decision to strip me of my memory. It seems profoundly counter-productive to train me all these years and then take it away. I say as much to Dr. Albright at my next check-up. He grips my wrist and applies the pressure I remember from before. Yes, the pain really was that bad, nothing wrong with that part of my memory.

"You doubt God's plan?"

"No." I can barely get the word out.

"That's what it sounded like to me." He takes the pressure off.

"No, of course I accept God's decision. I just wonder why no one will help me to understand the things I once knew."

"We discussed that in Administrative Theology and decided that would be circumventing God's will."

I leave, my head's better but my arm is killing me and I know there is no way for me to regain my understanding of before. Curiously, I remember what I've read, papers I've written, and lectures I've heard. Knowledge must be stored in a different part of the brain than memory. That doesn't explain why I don't remember The Doctrine.

On fast days, we imbibe the waters of the Purification and then we chant the Doctrine for three hours. After that we retire to our rooms for meditation and study. I can see why Mike likes it. There is an otherworldly quality to the days we fast. Everything is simultaneously sharper and less sharp. The ritual seems to affect me more than the others.

On the days of fast, I'm overwhelmed with love for the Good and determined to serve it with all my heart. For some reason, no matter how hard I try, I rarely get through a Purification day without fainting. They say it's because of the accident that I'm failing. Truesdale and Geoffrey take this personally and they continue to find fault with everything I do. I've memorized the Doctrine and I follow the path of redemption, but still they believe me unworthy.

Even with my weaknesses I'm still the alpha Guide. I don't know if I'm just more gifted or if because I started first I'm ahead of the rest of the class. It's not spoken of.

The fourth week after the accident we work on mountain climbing and it's discovered I have a fear of heights. Archie, the physical trainer, tries every meditation technique he can to help me overcome it. In the end my stubbornness to submit to the service of the Good results in discipline. On a day of fast I'm sent on the training field with Archie. Every time I falter he applies the rod of the Righteous. The third time the fire goes through me I seize up and only the ropes keep me from falling to the rocks below. When I come to, Archie is slapping my face. "What in the name of damnation is wrong with you, boy? Never have I seen a willfullness like yours. I think we are going to have to take this to another level to break you of Lucifer's hold."

He hauls me to my feet and takes me to Mr. Spencer. He's the guy in charge of the whole Sentinel/guide program. He's a big man, well over 6'5" and built like a linebacker. Not the face of a man of vision or science but he face of a bouncer.

"I hear you're putting your fears ahead of our needs, Eric. That won't do." He thumps the desk in front of him and books slide off. "No, that won't do. It's rare for this to happen with someone this far along in the program. You seem to be failing a lot here and everyone around you is content to blame your accident. Well, not me." He leans across his desk.

"You will submit to a body retraining. Once we have your body in submission, the spirit will follow." He gestures to Archie. "Take him to Mr. Smith."

I'm afraid but there is nowhere to run and no one to run to. Archie prods me and I get up. I'm lightheaded from Archie's attempts to break through my will and sway on my feet. Archie grabs me by my belt and keeps me upright. "Let's go, the sooner we get started, the sooner you will be of some real use to the Good."

He takes me to a part of the complex I've never seen. The room we enter is not unlike my own room, except there are no books and there's a toilet in the corner. It's eerily hushed and Archie tells me to sit in the chair. I do, and he takes my wrist and fits it into a cuff that is attached to a chain in the wall. Then he leaves. It's very odd, the chain is long and I can go almost everywhere in the small room. I try the door and it's locked, so what's the point?

I lie down on the bed and an alarm sceams. The door is yanked open and someone I've never seen looks in and says, "Off the bed." I get off and in a bit the noise stops. At first I'm sure any Moment someone will come in and beat me. I try and prepare myself for that. There is a clock on the desk, and I watch the minutes spin to hours. After several hours, I just wish someone would come in, even if they do hit me. I'm feeling antsy and my head feels like it's buzzing. The confusion, which is always just below the surface, is starting to bubble up. I pace up and down, the damn chain clanking and reminding me that I am stuck. I hate that. I hate this. I hate the quietness and the feeling of being caged. I realize those feelings are with me even when I'm out of this room. Did I always mind the confines of service? I know I was born to do this, born to be this. Did the freak accident turn me into a freak, someone unfit to serve the Good? Who am I if I am not a guide? What meaning can my life have if I never unite with a Sentinel and submerse myself in the glory of the Good? At eight o'clock the alarm man finally does come in. He has a tray of food and he sets it down.

"When the light goes out, you can lie on the bed. My name is Mr. Smith. You are my charge for the next week." He leaves before I can ask him anything.

Dinner is the same plain food we always have. I'm always hungry these days, perhaps because we never really make up the lost calories of the fasting days.

After supper I feel calmer, and the calmness makes me aware of my exhaustion. The lights have not gone off so I lie down on the floor. I can do this, overcome my fear, fulfill my destiny. I fall asleep on the floor, never noticing when the lights finally do go off. I wake up to Mr. Smith's toe nudging me, "Kendall. Get up."

I push up off the floor and Mr. Smith indicates the chair. Breakfast is there and he leaves without another word. Thus begins my week of retraining. After breakfast, a voice comes over a speaker set in the ceiling. "Assume the position." I kneel. I recite the Doctrine with the disembodied voice.

"We are the vessels of the Lord.
You are the Lord.
It exists when you say it exists.
I worship it when you create it.
You are the Sky
You are the Land.
You are my Lord, I am not myself.
Everything dies without your rule.

Use us in service, oh Lord.
We give you all that we are.
We are nothing except to your purpose.
Accept us and make us worthy, oh Lord.
The path to your dominion is long, make us strong.
The path to your dominion is dark, give us your eyes.
With your ears, we hear all we need to listen to.

Provide us with the means to penetrate the dark evil...

There doesn't seem to be an end to the recitation. The muscles in my thighs are cramping and I find myself swaying back and forth, as I start to fall forward and catch myself, only to lean too far back and lose it that way.

The dream feels so real. I'm in a fountain and I'm drowning. I fight the hands that hold my head in the water but I can't get the leverage to get my face clear of the water that is entering my mouth and nose instead of air.

I wake up to water pouring down on me. It's Mr. Smith. He's dumped a bucket of water to bring me back. When he sees I am awake he says, "Assume the position." And waits awhile I struggle to my knees. The voice comes back from above and I begin the Doctrine again. At two o'clock the voice chants the final catechism. "Lord, you are our eyes, our ears, our taste, our touch. Show us your will that we might serve you in all your goodness and glory. Amen."

Mr. Smith comes in and indicates that I can rise. I try but my legs are useless, numb and leaden. Mr. Smith waits for awhile as I struggle and then loses his patience. He reaches down and hauls me up on the chair. "Lunch." He points to the tray he brought in and leaves. I'm too far gone to eat and I let myself slide down out of the chair back on to the floor. I lie there skimming back and forth between consciousness and unconsciousness.

The dream comes back only now I'm dead and there is peace. I see men gathered around my body. One man is yelling and trying to keep me alive. I want to reach out to him and tell him he can stop now. I am dead and all is well. He looks up from his efforts and I see his face. His eyes are pleading, searching for life in me. I am stunned by the emotion I see in his eyes. How can he feel so much about my death? About me? I'm not worthy. Doesn't he know how far I am from redemption? How far I am from being of any use?

The dream ends when Mr. Smith comes back in. "You didn't eat your lunch."

I sit up and lean against the bed. "I'm not hungry."

"You have to eat." He seems agitated for the first time.

"Why?" I don't understand his concern.

"You just do. Now eat." I pull the plate on my lap and begin to eat. He nods, satisfied and leaves. I get up and dump it in the toilet and lie back down. The dream scares me but the face haunts me and I want to see it again. This time the dream is chaotic with animals morphing into people. I see a large cat become the man and I feel joy. I startle awake.

Joy? Have I ever felt joy before? And why does the sight of this man who turns into a jungle cat give me my first taste? I can feel the power of the man/cat and it should repulse me. It is clearly not leashed to the use of the Good. The power is personal and predatory . Yet I can also feel the goodness in the man. Can that be? Can anyone not in service to the Good, be good? Not according to everything I know. Is Lucifer trying to seduce me with the image of a man who cares for me, and yet is not of the Good? I can see how cunning Lucifer is, how very well he knows our weaknesses. And how very weak am I, to be so affected by the look in a strange man's eyes.

I hear the door being unlocked and Mr. Smith enters. He picks up the plate and glass and as he's leaving he says, "You are to stand facing that wall." He points and waits. I get up and walk the few steps to the blank wall. He nods and leaves.

I don't understand. There is a terribleness to the silence and the weight of the cuff pulling at my arm and the isolation. But it's not punishment. It's discipline and discipline is good. They are leading me out of the darkness of my will, out of the smallness of my being, so that I may experience the greater Good.

Ruth, the lady in white, explained it this way: A bird has a birdbrain, small and limited. It's only glory is the gift of flight given to it by God. There is nothing the bird can do that has any value besides soaring in the open skies and praising the Lord for this gift with its melodies. Guides are like birds. We have only one gift that makes us of value to God. That is our capacity to unite with a Sentinel and in so doing, serve The Good.

I try and hold on to that thought as the hours tick by but my mind is still willful and continually sidetracks to the face. I study it, taking in the beauty of the sharp planes that contain the whole. He is older. Could this be my father, an image of him from when I was a child? My brother, perhaps? No one has told me I have a brother, but I might, except he doesn't look anything like me. Can't be a friend. I don't have friends, except for Mike.

After awhile I lean my head on the wall. I am exhausted from maintaining the same position and the emotional drain of the dream. When I realize what I have done the strength and cunning of my will appall me and I'm afraid I may never be worthy to guide.

I can't see the clock from where I'm standing and so can only gauge the passing of the hours by my growing thirst and the need to relieve my bladder. More time passes and there's no stopping it, I pee in my pants. As I feel the warm water running down my leg I feel the tears running down my cheeks. I control the things I must let go of and I cannot control the most basic physical disciplines. I am worthless, unsuited to the gift given me, truly lacking.

The door opens and Mr. Smith comes in, bringing dinner. He takes note of the wetness but says nothing, just puts the tray down and walks out.

I drink some water but hold myself back from quenching my thirst. I mustn't let my needs rule me. I eat some but decide it's time to curb the lust of hunger as well and toss the rest down the toilet.

Soon after, the lights go out and I undress and crawl into bed. My head is buzzing again and although I long for the oblivion of sleep, I am afraid that Lucifer will send the dream again and that I will be powerless against the terrible beauty of the man who holds my dead body in his arms like it is something of value.

I stay awake for a long time and finally meditate. As soon as I begin the familiar breathing I feel relaxed. Another face surfaces, this time a woman. She is beautiful and laughing and I think I love her. My mother, it must be... I try and capture a memory to go with the face but none come. Just her, laughing and the feeling I get as I watch her laugh. I fall asleep.

The next day is the same as before.

Out of fear of another accident, I've cut back my water intake. I offer the suffering to the Good. My appetite has dwindled and I think perhaps I've conquered that lust. Although I my body is weaker the spirit has grown stronger. Despite the lightheadedness I stay upright. There are no more accidents, no matter how long I'm at attention. These are small victories but I'm grateful.

The drone of the Doctrine is like a pulse in my head. I hold on to it, knowing that it will keep Lucifer at bay. I know my faith is far from perfect. I wish I knew if I had these doubts before the accident or because of the accident.

At night, the buzzing in my head grows louder. I think I'm awake but I dream. It's almost always the man. He seems to be a policeman as I dream of him pursuing criminals. The dreams are all very exciting. Probably because of my longing for a Sentinel, I've given this man Sentinel abilities and in my dreams I'm of use to him. I serve him as guide. Each night I wait for the dreams to come and reveal an adventure. I know I should feel guilty. Perhaps I can't control my dreams but I shouldn't look forward to them with the anticipation that I do. And I do feel guilty in the morning. My guilt is what keeps me on my feet, what steadies my hand as I throw the food away. At the end of the week I'm a mess. I haven't shaved or bathed. All the kneeling and standing has made my muscles ache and my body weary. Who would think that doing nothing could be so debilitating?

As I'm led back to my room, I can't wait to take a shower and be allowed to read, to think, to sit in a chair. Before any of that can happen, Archie appears. He's decked out for climbing and he's carrying equipment for me.

"Put this on." He hands me the harness. I struggle into it, the weight of it is unpleasant and I feel the fear edging back in.

"Let's go." I follow him out to the cliff we use for this exercise. It looks even higher than last week. I swallow and begin the ascent. I'm not very far up when a wave of dizziness hits. I scramble to keep my handhold and stop for a moment to try to get my head straight. "Hey Kendall, we ain't got all day."

"Yeah, just give me a minute." I don't want to do this. My will is fighting the Good every step of the way and I have to get a handle on it. I think of the Good and my need to be worthy. The fear squeezes my heart. I think about another week of retraining. My heart is beating so fast I think I might start to hyperventilate.

I think of the face. I imagine he's a Sentinel and he needs me to get to the top of this cliff. The fear is still there but by concentrating on the Sentinel I'm able to push it to the side and continue the climb. It takes us fifty-five minutes where it should have taken a half-hour. That has more to do with the havoc a week's confinement has played on my body than with fear.

I feel elation. With the help of my friend, for I can't just keep calling him the face, I've reached the top.

That night I'm clean again. The adrenaline rush of the climb has left me in an oddly relaxed state. The buzz in my head has settled down a bit. I'm trying to understand what happened. How did I make that climb? It was the image of the face, the face of my friend. My imaginary friend. I smile. I could name him, but that would make him more real and I already feel a terrible weight for letting him assume a position of trust inside my head. I know, according to the teachings, that there is every likelihood that this is a test, given by Lucifer. If it is a test, I've failed, because I've tried to let go of the face and I can't.

The next day I resume the normal routine and I've never felt such focus. The Doctrine's mysteries are unfolding for me. I understand so much more. I'm even remembering Russian and that gives me hope that other parts of my memory will come back. The image of my mother comes and goes but I've yet to have a true memory of us together. I work up the courage and ask Ruth about my parents. She purses her lips.

"I realize because of your accident, you don't remember much about The Center and how things are done here. You were brought to us when you were 13 years old. You...had been in some trouble and your mother was deeply concerned about you. She had taken you to be tested at one of our sites and your gift was revealed. You have been with us ever since. Your mother joined us also, but she serves the Good in other ways."

"Do I ever get to see her? And what about my father?"

"We know nothing about your father, Eric." That fact didn't seem to sit well with her. "Your mother is a woman of great energy and insight. Her bringing you to us was a both a gift of love to you and a gift to the Good."

"What kind of trouble?" What could I have done that was so bad that at 13 she just left me here?

"Eric." Ruth's face is in conflict. She is trying to convey sympathy but her distaste for my questions is clear. "We simply don't speak of the past. We dwell in the present and prepare for the future. That's all that's important. Now go join the others." I'm dismissed.

The men regroup. They darken the room and watch the video of the guide struggling up the cliff .

"He fought the training. His fear of heights was almost insurmountable."

"Mr. Smith can be relied on."

"He doesn't remember?"

"No."

"Any chance he will remember?"

"Between the month of brain washing and the drugs...not likely."

"He's adjusting to being here?"

"At first he surprised with how many questions he asked, but that's come to an end. He does still ask about his mother."

"Perhaps we should bring her in."

"Hmmm. Interesting idea. Yeah, that might help round out the illusion. I like that idea. Bring her in."

Mr. Mueller, the administrator, comes to my room. I'd been studying Russian and when I see him in the doorway, my heart skips a beat. I'm sure I've done something to get sent back to that room. But he's smiling and there's something about the unlikely nature of it that scares me almost as much as if he had been scowling.

"Eric, how are you feeling?" He's stepped into my room but stays right by the door.

This is typical here. The only ones who ever came close are the ones who want to hurt me. If no one ever touches here, why do I miss it so much? Can you miss what you've never had? Now I have Mr. Mueller in my room being pleasant and I didn't trust it.

"I'm fine."

"No headaches?"

"Sometimes."

"I heard you were asking about your mother."

That makes me sit up. He's phrased that like he means to tell me something.

"I can't remember her."

"Your mother had been in retreat but we had left a message about your accident and we just received word that she is on her way here now. We expect her tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" I must look goofy with the gigantic smile I have on my face but I didn't care. She was coming tomorrow.

"Yes, well, get to sleep, I'm sure you'll have a lovely visit with your, er, um, Mom."

The morning goes quickly until just before lunch when everything slows into nightmare mode. I'm walking toward the cafeteria when I pass an open door that's normally closed and I'm hauled inside. Truesdale slaps a piece of tape over my mouth and I see Geoff off to the side. "We can't mark the little prick. Wouldn't do to hurt teacher's little pet." That's Geoff.

"No but there's lots of fun we can have that is funny." True this time and he's giggling. They must be high on something, this kind of depravity is one of the Nation's greatest sins. I struggle, trying to get a solid kick in. True stays out of my range and hits me full in the face. For a moment, I think I might lose consciousness but the panic I feel at being at their mercy keeps me upright.

True reaches down and squeezes my balls, hard. White pain flares and I sag in Geoff's hold. Geoff throws me down on the floor. I hit, head first. I hit hard enough that my brains feel scrambled. I can't quite coordinate a defense. He pulls my arms behind me and tapes my wrists together. True puts a blindfold over my eyes.

After that I didn't know who was doing what. One had his foot on my back and the other one is pulling at my jeans. I can't believe this. We're in the middle of the center and these guys are trying to rape me. I'm really freaked out now. I have no leverage but I'm trying to get on my knees and push off when we hear a noise.

"What the hell is going on here?" Someone is in the room and there is the sound of fists connecting with bones and grunts of pain. Someone kicks me in the ribs and then I feel a body fall over me. They lie there on top of me and I can't breathe. I try and roll them off but I can't. Just when I am about to go into full panic from the lack of oxygen and the claustrophobia of having someone weighing me down, the body is lifted off of me.

I hear a voice I don't ever remember hearing before saying, "Are you all right, kid?" And the tenderness in his tone nearly makes me cry. He's taking off the blindfold and for a fleeting moment I expect to see the face in my dreams. But it's not him. The hope I had held for just a moment that the face was someone real was gone and in its place is an ache and an emptiness.

The man with the kind voice is a stranger to me. He's supporting my shoulders with an arm around me as he works the tape off my mouth. "This is gonna hurt, sorry." He pulls and god, he's right, that hurts. He leans me forward and tries to undo my wrists but the tape is mangled, "I'm gonna need a knife to get this off."

Again his voice holds a tone of endearment utterly out of character with the strength in his face. I nod. Even though the tape is off my mouth, the idea of speaking seems impossible. He lifts me up onto my feet. He runs his hands up and down my body. It's an odd thing for someone to do. It's also an oddly familiar gesture.

"Just checking for injuries, pal." That doesn't make sense. His hands are skimming me, not poking and prodding me the way the doctor checks you out.

"What happened here?" Mr. Mueller is in the doorway, taking in the scene.

My new friend answers. "I was walking by when I saw these two-" He indicates True and Geoff, both out cold on the floor, "assaulting this one. Got a knife on you? This tape is stubborn."

I start to laugh. The idea that Mr. Mueller would have a knife on him seems like the funniest thing I ever heard. No one joins me in my laughter and I realize there is a hysterical edge to it. Before it can change to the crying I know is coming I try and break the gentle hold my friend has me in. I want to go back to my room. I don't want to cry in front of this guy. But he doesn't let go and I can't hold back the tears that turn to sobs. Rather than shaking me and telling me to get a grip, he holds me closer and pats my back.

"It's okay. Let it out, then you can be done with it." I am as undone by the sensation of being cared for as I am by the aftermath of almost being raped.

Mr. Mueller had gone off and now he comes back with a knife, freeing me. I pluck at the tape, trying to get the pieces off, hating the feel of the adhesive.

"Who are you?" Mr. Mueller is asking, his voice authoritative.

"Jason Rarick. I'm a Sentinel assigned here for training. I just got in."

"Ah, Mr. Rarick, right, we've been expecting you.

Mr. Rarick looks at me and says, "My name is Jason." He holds out his hand, a smile playing at his lips .

"Eric Kendall." I return the handshake and nod my head. For some reason further speech is still elusive. Jason clamps his hand on my shoulder.

"Your head needs looking at, junior, let's go." I let him lead me away, his touch on my shoulder foreign and welcome.

I didn't need stitches and apart from some nasty bruises I'm fine. We leave the clinic. I'm feeling awkward and wishing we had met some other way.

This guy is a Sentinel. He's here for training and to find his guide. By all normal procedures that would be me. A guide is there to watch the Sentinel's back, to keep him safe, to guide him through peril. He saw me as helpless as a baby. There is no way he's going to want me as his guide.

At the clinic they told us to report to Mr. Spencer's office. We go in and he tells us to sit and we do. He leans on his desk and addresses himself to me. "Mind telling me what happened in that room, Kendall?" He's angry. "Two of my guides are in the clinic and I hear you have something to do with that." I can feel myself blush.

"Th-they grabbed me from the hall and-and..."

"You're telling me two of my guides waylaid you to that room?"

He's making it sound like I started this and I am so surprised I'm having a hard time finding words to explain.

"Back off." Jason has stood up and he's leaning on the desk too, he's right in Spencer's face. "I was in that room. The kid was gagged, blindfolded, and had his wrists taped. I don't call that waylaid. I call that assaulted."

I don't know who is more surprised by Rarick's defense of me but Spencer is the first to pull back and break eye contact. "I can't believe this. These are good guides. They've been here since they were youngsters."

He looks me up and down. I can't help but wonder again, what I did as a boy to be brought to this place and whether that is why he thinks the worse of me. "Just why would they do that, Kendall?"

"I don't know, sir, I, ah...you know about my accident?" Spencer nods. "I don't have any memory from before. Perhaps they have always hated me."

Spencer looks thoughtful and says, "I'll check the records and see if there is any report of this sort of thing going on before." The look he gives me clearly conveys his opinion of me and it's not good.

"In the meantime it seems you skipped a stack of paperwork on your way in, Rarick and you need to hit administration and take care of it. Kendall, I believe your mother is waiting for you."

Man, I'd forgotten my Mom was due in. My Mom. What is my Mom's name? I hadn't thought to ask. Well, I guess I'll just call her Mom. That ought to work.

Rarick and I leave together. In the corridor, I point out the offices he needs to visit. "Have a good visit with your Mom, Eric." He cuffs my head. "And try and stay out of trouble for a while." He walks away chuckling and I feel a wave of deja vu.

Back in my room, I clean up and change my clothes. My face is a mess and I just know my Mom will freak. Will she think I caused the trouble, like Mr. Spencer did? Will she associate it with the trouble I was in before? I crawl into bed, a weight on my chest where there had been anticipation. Lying there I try and calm my racing heart. I try the deep breathing exercises.

A voice is calling my name and I realize I've fallen asleep despite my good intentions. There is a woman in front of me. She has a sweep of gray hair and kind green eyes. I have to bite back the disappointment when I don't recognize her. She is not the woman who laughed so sweetly in my dreams.

"Eric, Sweetie?" She is standing over me, smiling and there are tears in her eyes. I reach up to pull her into a hug but she steps back.

"I've been so worried about you ever since I heard about your accident! From the way they were talking I didn't think you would look quite so banged up." She's fluttering around, agitated and concerned. She gestures at my bandaged forehead, and continues, "Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm fine." I want to add the word Mom, but it sticks in my throat. It's one thing that I don't recognize her. It's another that she doesn't feel like my Mom. I don't feel any of the feelings I had in my dream. But that's ridiculous. I can't hold my Mom up to some dreamscape and expect her to fit in.

"Mom, where have you been?" For this half of my life-I want to add, but I contain myself.

"Sweetie, I would have been here sooner but I was in a very isolated part of Mexico and the telephone service is non-existent. I wish I had been here when you woke up."

"That's okay---Mom." Another wave of deja vu. Was my Mom in the habit of apologizing for not being around? "What did you learn at the retreat?" I want to know what lures my Mom so far away from me.

"Oh, Eric." She seems flustered at the question. I wonder if she works on top secret stuff that she can't share. "You know my pursuits have always bored you." She looks around the room and I wonder what has her so nervous.

"I can't remember your pursuits, Mom, so it will all be new and interesting to me."

"I was in this village where they have no mirrors. You would have loved it. The women-" She was interrupted by Jason coming in.

"Eric, how are you feeling?" He looks at me intently and I find myself blushing. He turns to my Mom as if he's just seen her. I know he must have been aware of her from down the hall, if not on the other side of the building. Perhaps his senses were too unpredictable for him to extend. Or perhaps he was just being polite. "Excuse me, you must be Eric's Mom. I heard you were coming to the Center." Jason sticks out his hand. Mom looks star struck. She takes his hand eagerly. "You must be my son's Sentinel. I am so happy to meet you and so happy Eric is finally united."

"Mom, it's not a done deal. I mean, it's not even been discussed." I feel the heat in my cheeks and I know I'm blushing. I sure didn't want Jason thinking he's stuck with me. He might not want me after what happened this afternoon.

Jason gives me a penetrating look and then turns back to my Mom. "Well, it may not be official but I don't have any doubt about how Eric and I will do as a team." He's charming my Mom and something about the interplay bothers me. Is he hitting on her?

"Eric, you missed lunch. I got the cafeteria to save something for us. Come on, we've got a lot to talk about." He ruffles my hair. "I'll let you boys get to know one another. I have some paperwork that needs doing."

At the second mention of the word paperwork, I get a funny twinge, like a tiny door cracking open. What? I've got a thing for paperwork? What paperwork? I study, I read I probably take tests...but no, it's the word paperwork.

I can hear a voice in my head saying, "Don't forget we have a ton of paperwork to do, Chief." It's a voice I haven't heard here and no one's called me anything but Eric and Kendall and Sweetie, the last from my Mom. Chief? Someone has a nickname for me. Chief. Wonder why Chief? Am I part Native? It has to be my imaginary friend. For the first time I think maybe he's not imaginary. I mean now he has a voice and he's given me a name.

There's silence. I look up and they are both looking at me. Did I miss something?

"You coming, kid?"

"Oh yeah. Mom, I'll see you tonight?"

"Oh course, Eric. I'll see you at dinner." She gathers up her bag and gives us a little wave. I swing my legs off the bed and as I stand up the room tilts, "Whoa."

"What is it Eric?" Jason moves in closer and puts his hand on my forehead. It feels so good to have touch I almost lean into it, but I manage to stop myself. "You don't have a fever."

"I'm feeling a little sore and really tired. I think I'll pass on lunch, I don't think my stomach could handle anything right now. It's almost dinner anyway. I just need to lie down." I hope I sound convincing. I know Jason could monitor my heartbeat and read me. I'm hoping he hasn't realized that, or he doesn't do it out of politeness.

Jason hesitates. Clearly he wants me to go but I lie back and he seems to accept that I'm worn out.

"Okay, kid. Take a nap. We'll chat at dinner." He leaves the room and I let out a sigh. I need to think. I close my eyes and start to catalog everything I know about this place and Sentinels.

It's been four weeks since I got the letter that alerted me that Blair had been taken. A total of over three months since he's been gone. It's all I can do to maintain some semblance of normality as I search frantically for any clue as to his whereabouts. After conferring with Simon and Joel we have come to the conclusion that Blair isn't dead. Whoever has taken him has gone to a lot of trouble to make me believe the fiction of his absence. Not only have they set it up but they were continuing to play it out. That indicated purpose. If Blair wasn't being used to threaten me or control me, then the next logical possibility was using him to control Naomi.

I've been in touch with her and she's oblivious to Blair's disappearance. She had received a letter from him telling her all about his new position with the university and his jaunt to Mexico. She's busy working in an Ashram in India. This didn't seem to involve her. That left Blair being taken for Blair's value alone. And while I consider him intelligent, resourceful, and highly educated, the only thing he had that is unique to him is his knowledge of Sentinels. It's baffling that they haven't come for me. They either didn't know I was a Sentinel or they didn't need a Sentinel. That left his value to someone as a Guide. Alex. I checked and she was still safely catatonic and secure. Someone like Alex. Someone like Alex with a lot of money and clout and a certain Miss Joyce Sunjata on their payroll. It had been her scent on Blair's letter.

In some ways this is the hardest thing I've ever done. Trying to maintain an image of unconcern and go about my life all the while every brain cell is screaming find Blair, find the Guide. My dates with Joyce are hell. She's going to slip up and when she does I'm going to right there. In the meantime I think I may be creating a split personality. Either that or I have one hell of a natural bent for acting. Thank God she doesn't question that I'm doing massive amounts of overtime.

After running her name and fingerprints we discovered that she was-indeed-Joyce Sunjata. She is a Profiler for the FBI. In fact, every last thing she had told me about herself checked out. She's very good. The people she works for are very good.

The first time I saw her after talking to Marcel was surreal. She's in front of me, lovely as ever, touching me, teasing me. I see my hands go to her throat. I'm squeezing and she's flailing around, trying to get my hands off her, turning blue. I shake my head and realize that I am holding her in a tender hug as she recounts her day. My rational brain kicked in and protected her while my irrational brain went ahead and murdered the only hope I have of finding Blair.

That night she had every expectation that we would make love. The idea that I have been intimate with the person who took Blair away makes me sick to my stomach. To continue the travesty of intimacy seemed the worse kind of betrayal, and yet, to refuse her blatant invitation would be utterly out of character.

Huh. Some character. I know that an expert had maneuvered me. She had read my conflicting feelings about needing Blair in my life and played them like a maestro. There was no comfort in being so transparent to an enemy. No comfort in the fact that I let my fear about what it meant to need someone as much as I needed Blair lead me straight into her web.

I needed to stay close to her and track her every move. I had to stay in the role of the besotted and stupid suitor. Determination to play my part proved inadequate. I nearly lost it.

That first night as I was kissing her, I moved to her ear, darting my tongue in and nipping at her earlobe. I was sickened when I felt her heartbeat pick up. Next I kissed her neck. I could feel the pulse of her heart, the surge of air to her lungs. It was then that I bit her. Hard enough to draw blood. She yelped and pushed me away. That saved her life. I swear I was damn close to tearing her throat out. She thought I had simply gotten carried away and gave me a lecture about not being into rough. There was no way I could do this. I could not pretend at this level.

I apologized and returned to her embrace but I used my natural reaction to her to create a problem that just got worse each time we came together. She thought my sudden impotency was because I wanted it rough and she didn't. I let her think whatever she wanted. Soon, we just met for an occasional dinner. She never failed to ask about Blair. In between 'dates' I followed her.

We had considered tapping her phone and bugging her apartment but I wasn't willing to risk her finding them and taking off. Right now, she was our only link and it was imperative that she believe we're still in the dark. On two occasions I was able to hear her talking to someone about Blair and my continued ignorance. From what I heard, Blair seemed to be unaware and all right. They wanted him for something and as long as he was useful to him, he would stay alive.

Well aware that my phone was tapped and the apartment bugged I had taken to staying with Simon. The emptiness I felt in the loft had been kept at bay by my anger at Blair's decision to turn tail and run to the first warm option he had been offered. Now that I knew Blair had not left of his own accord, I found being in the loft nearly impossible.

I cursed my stupidity and I cursed my willingness to believe so easily that Blair would opt out. Fear-based response, yeah. Blair had nailed that one. Even knowing I had gotten to this point because of fear- based reactions I was still having a damn hard time reigning them in. Every day I fought the urge to hunt Joyce down and beat the truth out of her. She was a professional and I knew I would never find Blair that way.

I had run through all my contacts, exploring every remote possibility presented and so far nothing had panned out. My last desperate call had been to my father.

He was no fan of Blair's and the only way to enlist his cooperation had been to lay out the whole Sentinel/Guide relationship and the inherent dangers to me. Blair, he would have cut loose in a Moment and hope that I would find a more presentable helpmate. It took some doing but I convinced him it was simply a matter of time before they came for me too. I didn't really believe that at this point, I only fervently hoped so. At least if they took me, I would see Blair again, and if I saw Blair then, well...anything was possible.

The threat to me galvanized my father. I didn't kid myself that it was affection motivating him. No, it was more like family honor. The idea that someone would take his son and make a science project out of him did not jive with the Ellison motto of Control, Always Maintain Control. Not to mention what they might do with Ellison DNA. With these threats riding shotgun in my father's brain he was a force to behold.

In two days he came up with the most credible information we had gotten so far. The organization's name was The Echelon, and a more covert ops would be hard to find. Even with the name it took my friend Daniel three days to discover anything at all that could point us in the direction of Blair. This worried me.

I have only contacted Daniel twice since serving with him in the Rangers. Both times he had the info I sought within an hour. That it had taken two days of Daniel's uncanny talent to unearth an identification told me a lot. What would it take to unearth Blair? Echelon was a unit of the Tessuad Nation, an organization dedicated to bringing down the ungodly, specifically, ungodly governments. They were believed to have been behind several mysterious poisonings, reported as food contamination. There was evidence that they had some of the finest assassins in the field.

As I waited for my father to do the near impossible, I continued my shadow dance with Joyce. I had tried to discreetly probe her weaknesses and found none. The woman was as protected inside and out, as an armadillo. She seemed to have been trained from birth for the role she played. In all the time I was with her, she never gave herself away by so much as a heartbeat.

This, along with the deepness of The Echelon's cover and pockets, terrified me. My God, look at what SLA, underfunded and fumbling around with theories they barely understood had been able to do with Patty Hearst. These people had created Joyce Sunjata. My greatest fear was that they were uncreating Sandburg.

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