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5: The Greater Public Good

Summary:

Sooner or later the world finds you.

Work Text:

The Greater Public Good

by Dasha

Not my characters

Many thanks are owed to Martha, who held my hand and patted my head (virtually). A lot. Who knew someone so hard on innocent cops and anthropologists in fiction could be, in real life, such a saint? Many thanks are also owed to Kitty,who, thank God, is a tough and thorough beta.

This story is a sequel to: First Annual Dorset County Music Festival


December 28, 2007

"Are your eyes closed?"

"My eyes are closed."

"Don't peek."

"Jim. I'm not peeking."

"This is perfect. You're going to love it."

"A perfect what?" It's dark behind my closed eyes, and the gravel road is both bumpy and curvy. The perfect opportunity to get carsick? But he sounds pleased and excited, and I don't say it.

Uphill, then. I still don't know where we are, except that we are a long way out of town. When we stop, Jim tells me to stay put and comes around to get me. "Keep 'em closed." He draws me out onto uneven ground, leads me forward one careful step at a time. The late afternoon breeze is chilly, and all I can hear is wind in the trees. At last he has me where he wants me--wherever that is--and slides around to stand behind me, his arms around my waist.

"Ok, ready?"

"Hey, I'm always ready."

He chuckles. "Open your eyes."

My first thought is, "Christmas tree farm" but while the trees are all pines, they are tall and scraggly, not short and even. We are standing on a wide spot in the gravel road, looking down on a wide, flat bench less than twenty feet below us. "Isn't it perfect?" Jim asks smugly.

Perfect?

"We're less than twenty minutes from town. And you can't see it from here, but there's a spring with good groundwater. We could sink a well."

Perfect. "Oh, no."

"Marty bought it last year to build a house, but then his wife got sick and now he's afraid of being snowed in during the winter. He's willing to sell it for what it cost him. Seven and a half acres."

"No," I whisper, "no, no, no. Jim, you know -- "

"Just think about it. Please. Sandburg -- "

I control my temper and my guilt and say reasonably, "Jim, I have thought about it. There is not a contractor in the county I would trust with the job -- if it isn't too generous to call the local clowns contractors at all. To bring somebody in from Ellensburg would cost an arm and a leg, and possibly also a miscellaneous internal organ or two, and frankly, I would still want one of us closely overseeing the job, and guess what, Jim? I am not qualified to supervise construction. I have looked at this. From every angle. I just don't see how we can do it."

Jim grinds his teeth together and looks up at the sky. "Ok. I understand. No construction. We'll get a trailer, then. Have it dropped in by helicopter."

"Oh, come on. You're not going to live in a trailer. No soundproofing. No insulation. Tiny bedrooms. Besides, really, you're too much of a snob, deep down."

"It would be ours. It would be here."

Aw, damn it. He wants it so badly. His own house. It isn't that I don't want it. But he'd be out here every day, poking into things, touching things. Did I bring him out of Cascade so he could poison himself on turpentine and fiberglass and sawdust from treated lumber? 'No,' I want to say, 'we don't take any risks. We don't play around with things I can't control.'

Amusing, huh? I used to talk about Jim's control issues and fear-based responses. Now look at me.

He sees that I'm weakening. 'Hopeful' flashes behind his eyes. So does 'smug.' Damn it. I open my mouth to stop this before it can get any further. Strangely, what comes out of that open mouth is, "Call Marty. Buy the land."

He barrels into me so hard my hat falls off. "Thank you. Blair, you won't regret this! I promise."

I sigh. "We do this my way, you understand?"

"I won't come near it till it's finished. I swear."

"Yeah, right." I close my eyes. "I decide whether you're here or not. My discretion. One sniffle, one welt, one weird headache and I pull you, got that?"

"Sure. Of course."

"If I catch you concealing any problems from me -- "

"No. Never. I promise. You won't regret this."

"Oh, God."

"It'll be fine. I promise."

"Ok. Ok. We'll figure something out." I hug him back. He's so damn happy. Damn it, Jim, if you get sick over this.... "We'll work something out."

The serious moment is cut short by my phone, Jim's phone, and the radio all going off at the same time. All of them turn out to be Bobbie in dispatch, as upset as I have ever heard her and yelling, "Urgent. Urgent. Urgent. Sheriff, are you there?" into the microphones. She says people are reporting a riot in downtown Ithaca.

A riot?

But Jim and I get into the car without wasting time on questions. Never mind that Ithaca isn't big enough to stage a good sized civil disturbance, let alone a riot. Never mind that I couldn't picture the laid-back citizens of our little county seat getting riled up enough about anything to create a noticeable noise, let alone damage property and threaten public safety.

While Jim drives, I try to get more details out of Bobbie, but she is in Bickford, several miles from Ithaca. She can't just look out the window and give us a first hand report.

We make it to town in nine minutes.

There is a crowd in front of the court house. I am not sure you can call it a riot if everyone is sitting down, though. They all turn to look as we come roaring into town and squeal to a halt down the street. Jim turns off the siren and bounces out of the car, looking around anxiously. No fires. No property damage. No screaming.

The seated crowd on the courthouse steps, however, is large enough to take up the sidewalk and part of the street. They seem to be holding home-made signs.

A figure in brown detaches itself from the edge of the crowd and rushes over to us. Jim greets him with, "Shoemacher, what the hell is going on around here? Why do I keep hearing about some kind of riot?"

Doris isn't with Deputy Shoemacher this time. Even after a year and a half, I think I can count the number of times I have seen him without her on one hand. "Court just let out, sir."

"Yeah, so?" Jim glares at the seated crowd, suspicious and hostile. "Hey, those are high school kids. What are they doing here?"

"School would have let out a couple of hours ago even if it weren't winter break, Jim," I say. Then, to the deputy, "So what happened? Don't tell me they awarded that land to Wade."

"Who?" Jim asks, but Eliot Shoemacher nods, glancing around nervously: "He came out right after the verdict and announced that he was selling the land to a logging company."

"Shit," I say.

"Uh," Jim says.

"That was pretty much the general response. There was a whole crowd of people out here waiting. When Wade said that, they chased him back into the building. I think the mob might have tried to follow him into the building, but Mrs. Billings got in front of them and told everyone to sit down. She had them singing protest songs until a few minutes ago."

"Damn. We created a monster. What were we thinking when we let my mother get near that woman?" I smile at Jim, but he still looks a bit spacey. He isn't being inattentive, though. He's semi-zoned, searching for the threat he still hasn't found, but was warned was here. "Where's Wade now?"

"Still in the courthouse. Dave is with him."

The shriek, "They're brining him out the back," interrupts us, and, cursing, I start after the crowd. Unfortunately, they are moving away from us, which puts us at the rear. If things are about to get really ugly, we are going to be too late.

Jim catches me mid-step and turns me around. Now that the crowd has turned away, our deputy, Dave Couch, is hustling a thin, middle-aged man down the front steps. Clever guy, our Dave. We join them, and between us get Wade stuffed into his car and on his way before the protesters know what happened.

Dave gets in his car to ride behind as escort while Jim disperses the crowd. He doesn't rant, but he does promise that at the next unlawful assembly, somebody's going to jail. Urk, I think, because half the crowd is underage high school students and the other half is pillar-of-the-community Winegrowers Association members.

"Shame, though," Elliot says as the three of us head over to the sheriff's office across the street. "Everybody knows old Hoskins was going to leave that land to those conservation people. I don't know how Wade did it or who he paid off, but..." he shrugs, trailing off.

Jim says nothing and I just grunt. Hoskins' lawyer says he never got around to making the new will after he bought the land. Hoskins' nephew Harry Wade says he never really intended to have the land turned into a reserve. Half the town thinks something crooked is going on, and I've been expecting to hear that an investigation of either Wade or the lawyer or both had been initiated for weeks now. But -- nothing.

Doris meets us at the door, looking annoyed at being left behind. Elliot pats her on the head. "Real shame about that land."

Jim just grunts. "Write up a report on the ... incident. Keep it brief. Then go on and take your partner home." Then he turns to me. "You ready to stop fooling around and get to work, Chief?"

Oh, yes. Late afternoon or not, Jim and I are just starting our shift. A number of the deputies are out of town for the holidays, including Millie, the night shift supervisor, and Jim and I have been working overnight, twelve hour shifts since we got back into town on the 24th. We don't mind. Or, at least, I don't, and Jim doesn't seem to. We got our traveling and family duties in early this year: last Thursday was Stacey's wedding in Portland, and then we spent the weekend in Cascade (not exactly on the way home, but hey, we were traveling anyway) visiting Jim's family. It was a nice little trip (No. Really. It wasn't that bad.), but now that we're home, we're picking up the slack for everybody else.

You'd think the Friday before New Years would be a zoo, what with people traveling or partying or (God help us) both. But no. After we catch up on some paperwork, Jim and I go out patrolling. The streets are nearly empty. The bars are open, but quiet. Lorain Alwell is the only other person on duty. She is currently parked just outside the Bickford city limits, hoping for a speeder. She's having a quiet night, too. Around 10:30 Jim and I give up and head back to the office. For more paperwork, presumably, but I am caught up on reports and the duty roster is finished for the next month and a half. Jim unlocks the rifle cabinet and starts to take inventory. I am not entirely sure if this is a sign of boredom or just a symptom of his type A personality: Dave and Millie inventoried everything two weeks ago.

But I wish I had thought of it first. I need something to do, or I am going to start worrying over the whole house issue. Damn it. I've given in. We're going ahead with it now. I'm actually kind of surprised Jim hasn't called Marty already.

We're going ahead with it. The question is, how?

Too bad a trailer won't really work. It would have saved a lot of trouble.

I have half a thought, and turn on the computer at the desk I share with two other deputies. Twenty minutes later, the half-thought has turned into a full- fledged solution. A brilliant, elegant solution, if I do say so myself.

Log cabin kits. Everything pre-cut, all the decisions made at the factory, so all the local crew has to do is assemble the parts.

By the time Jim has finished counting the guns and ammunition, the plans for a three bedroom cabin with two baths and an attached, one-car garage are waiting on his desktop. He comes back out of his office barely three minutes after entering it. "Are you serious?"

I nod. "Like it?"

He smiles, apparently speechless.

"It isn't the only plan out there, you know. You might like something else better."

He nods again, swallowing, and I feel like a real shit for not coming up with this before. He crosses to me and pulls me up out of the chair, burying his face in my hair. For a moment we stand perfectly still, clinging to each other, before we remember that we are at work, in uniform, and not completely lacking in judgment or self control.

We spend the rest of the night deciding how to manage the financing. If we sell the loft, we could cover the land and then some. Getting a mortgage... is possible, with our salaries. It would be simpler if we were married, but there's nothing we can do about that. If we came up short, Jim could sell some stock, but we'd have to buy one heck of a house before that became necessary.

At six, we get off and head home for a big breakfast and a good day's rest. When I come back from the shower Jim is examining himself in front of the mirror over the dresser. "Am I losing definition?" he asks over his shoulder, not meeting my eyes.

"You're kidding, right?" I say.

"It just seems like I work harder and harder to get the same result, and I'm not sure... am I getting a little belly?"

I have to laugh. "You're fine. You're healthy. You can do your job. I think you're beautiful. What more do you want?" I am very careful not to say 'still' at any point.

"You're sure?"

"Jim, man, come on. Where is this coming from?"

"Well." Nervous. Or embarrassed, maybe. He won't look at me. "Gay men are notoriously unforgiving about... physical imperfection."

I have to laugh. "I can't believe you. Where would you be hearing about silly stereotypes?"

"So you're saying there's no truth to it?" He still looks unsure.

I slide my arms around his waist. "I'm saying it doesn't matter. I never loved you for your body - as much as I do love your body." But it does bring up an interesting point. I've been worried about the whole sexual identity issue since that ugly little scene at the wedding rehearsal. I say experimentally, "Next you'll be listening to Cher."

He punches me gently in the shoulder. "What's wrong with Cher?"

I laugh, feeling a little reassured, and run my hands over his hard stomach. "If there was... anything... you wanted to talk about?" I suggest.

"We could talk about the house..."

I look up to see if he means it, but no, he's teasing. He doesn't want to talk at all. His eyes are hungry and excited. I lean up to kiss him and he pulls me closer. He tastes clean and sweet, but I hold back a little, not knowing how far he wants to go. I don't want to push him, and he'd let me, if he thought I really wanted it. So I usually let him lead.

He answers my silent questions by picking me up and gently placing me on the bed. Our bed. Used to be, I thought of the bed as a playground. Well, usually as a study area and additional storage, but when I was lucky, a playground.

But our bed is different. I don't dump whatever books I'm using for my current project on it and sleep around them when I get busy. I don't sit on it with my shoes on. I don't leave dirty clothes tossed here and there. Jim sleeps here, with me. We make love here. It's special, more than just a place I happen to sleep or a playground, and I keep it clean for him, for us.

Lying on my back on our bed, I look up at him, riveted. Jim is leaning over me, his breath quickening already, one hand just above my skin. My body heat is a turn-on. Ten years ago I could never have imagined a place in the world as wonderful as our bed.

I brush my hand across his bare stomach. It is getting soft, a little. Very little. The strong muscle twitches slightly under my hand. Jim eases down, almost on top of me, letting me take some of his weight. Slowly, holding me still with his body, he scours me with his senses, his hands and mouth everywhere, his eyes somehow never leaving mine.

I come twice before he lets go and gives himself over to me. Not that he has much choice; his lovemaking has trailed off into spasmodic, hungry nuzzling interrupted by short, trembling pauses. He is long past coherent speech, probably past coherent thought. I am as gentle and slow as I can manage, whispering to him all the time, but his eyes are unfocused. Zoned. I watch him closely, but he never gives me a signal to stop, never shows a sign of being in trouble. I caress and caress, sliding my hands lightly over his skin, stimulating him as much as he can bear, more than even he can process. His mouth is open, but slack. His hands reach outward, and then flinch back from contact with the sheet. His release, at last, is accompanied by a silent scream. It lasts a long time, and I am swept along with him, my soul cresting on his wave.

When it's over, I am exhausted; spent and nearly laughing and deeply peaceful. I clean him with baby-wipes, the semen and then the sweat. He twitches under my hands, but I whisper to him, stroking his hair. By the time I finish, he is able to nod in response to my questions, so I let him hide his face in my chest and go to sleep.


I wake to find myself dumped in a heap as Jim crawls out from under me, over me, and onto the floor. "What is it? What's wrong?"

It is afternoon already; we have slept through most of the daylight. Jim ignores my questions, staring anxiously out the window. "Didn't you hear it?" he says at last.

"Hear what?"

"An explosion of some kind." Suddenly, he jumps, spinning back toward the window even though the only thing it shows is innocent trees.

"What is it?" I ask.

He is straining forward, listening hard. "I don't know. Get dressed, Chief."

I am already reaching for my underwear. "What does it sound like?"

"It doesn't sound like anything, now."

I sound impatient because I can't find my shoes. "What did it sound like?"

"I don't know. There was an explosion, and then something else." He is already dialing the phone. "Dispatch? What's going on?" He pauses, dressing with one hand and holding the phone with the other. "Well, you call me as soon as you hear something. Yes, no matter what it is. I'm on my way in now."

We are half-way into town before dispatch calls us back. "This is going to sound out there," she warns.

I sigh, sharing a sour look with Jim. "Let's have it," I say.

"There's a Herman Mieks on Inspiration Road who just called in a helicopter crash up on Flathead."

I glance at Jim, who thinks for a moment, and then nods unhappily. I say, "Send everybody out there who's on duty, then call the night shift and have them come in early." I glance at Jim and add, "beep the reserves, but put them on standby. If you hear anything else, let us know." Jim nods, and I close the phone.

Helicopter crash.

Shit.

Those things drop like bricks.

I take a deep breath. Frankly, I wasn't too keen on helicopters before I'd spent a decade on one side or the other of too damn many helicopter chases. Or, for example, seen the crumpled hunk of metal that was left after Alex Barns' pilot had to make a forced landing. This is going to be a mess.

Jim, however, has even more reason to have issues around helicopter crashes than I do.

Halfway up the steeply twisting Inspiration Road, Jim rolls down the windows and slows the car. I shiver in the cold air and wait silently. Without warning he picks an unpaved side road, pausing just after we turn on to it. "Set a marker, Chief."

The dirt road goes on for only about a mile and a half before deadending in a new-growth clearing. "Damn," Jim mutters. "It's a way off yet." He calls in our location while I pull the emergency gear out of the trunk. It is after three already. The sun is long gone behind the mountains behind us. In two hours or so it will be dark.

Deputy Fanzelli pulls up in a shower of tiny stones. Jim waves him back. "The ambulance is right behind you. Bring up the EMTs after us. You won't have any trouble following our trail."

Charging through the woods after a sentinel on the move is truly glorious. His pace is steady and fast, despite the fact that there isn't really a path to follow and he is going almost straight uphill. He never hesitates, never misplaces his foot. He's fantastic, a miracle to watch.

He's also scary as hell. He's quick. Over 45, and still nearly faster than me. Nearly. If I make a mistake, I'll lose him. And he won't notice, not zoned on the trail like this.

Then, suddenly, when I am just falling behind, gasping and sweating despite the cold--

--he stops.

He stands completely still with his head tipped back--

then continues again, more slowly, but just as solidly. Relentless and quick, yes, but no longer racing. My heart sinks. I can guess why the urgency is gone.


The helicopter has made its own clearing. It brought down several new-growth trees and slid on the uneven ground for about five yards before falling off a small drop and snapping into two pieces. The rear piece slid another dozen yards downhill while the main body fetched up on a nest of broken branches. The air smells of pine resin and fuel and burnt electronics.

Jim circles the cockpit of the small helicopter slowly, climbing up so he can look down on it from above. I ease over the tangle of branches, setting my feet carefully. One of the doors is ripped off... missing completely. I have to hold to the fallen branches to keep my footing as I bend forward to look in.

It doesn't take a sentinel to see that they are dead.

Behind me, Jim reports in by radio. I take the small camera out of my backpack. Somebody has to take pictures before we lose the daylight. I get pics from outside from several angles, then steel myself for shots of the interior. It is hard to tell, but both of the men inside look like they were younger than I am.

Fanzelli and Shoemacher (and Doris) burst onto the scene with two EMTs. Panting and hurrying, even though there is no one left to save. They are all loaded down with first aid kits and fire extinguishers and portable lights.

"Chief?" Jim calls me softly, and I turn away from Fanzelli, handing the camera and a new roll of film to him.

Jim made his way down to the tail section. It has made its own small landslide of pine needles, broken sticks, and small stones. The pitch is very steep. I almost slide myself as the loose ground gives beneath my feet. "What is it?" But I already see. There is a line of large holes tearing the metal skin of the bird all along the tail. "What kind of ammunition is this?"

"I don't know. But I think this is what woke me up. This wasn't an accident, it was some kind of dogfight."

"What do we do?"

"I can't get a signal for the cell and I don't want this out over the radio. Bobbie says the FAA is on the way in. There's nothing to do but secure the site and wait."

So we send the EMTs back down. Jim tags Shoemacher to go interview the witness who called the crash in. I think he wants to get Doris away from the scene; the smells of carnage seem to be distressing her. Or maybe Jim's anxiety as he paces the tiny clearing. If I were a dog, I'd think he was up to something. Joey Fanzelli and I have Cliff bars and canned juice from my emergency pack. Jim doesn't join us.

It's full dark by the time Jim and I go down to meet the feds. They are just pulling up in their nondescript, rented cars and their dark vans full of equipment as we climb out of the woods.

The head fed is a woman. She is taller than me, broad shouldered, and puts me in mind of a horse. Not in the "ungraceful" or "awkward" sense but "sturdy," "physical," or "fast." Her hair is in a long, red pony tail, which puts me in mind of a horse, too. She identifies herself as "Special Agent Phillips," and her credentials are not from the FAA. She hurriedly debriefs us while her henchmen unload the vans: Were there any survivors? How badly damaged was the helicopter? Had we touched anything?

We have already reported that there were no survivors and we have secured the scene according to standard procedure. I try to keep in mind that this is just the way feds operate. Nothing personal, and certainly no point in feeling insulted. She doesn't look surprised when Jim tells her about the combat damage to the helicopter.

She has no trouble keeping up with Jim during the climb back up, even though I can tell he is trying to give her a rough time of it. When we get back to the scene, we are told to keep back, out of the way.

Two hours later she remembers us again, coming over to the boulder we are sitting on with two cups of coffee and a smile I don't trust. "About how soon after the crash did you say you'd arrived, Sheriff?"

"About forty-five minutes, I think. But I'd have to check the call log. Dispatch would know."

"Did you remove anything from the scene?"

Jim's eyes harden. "Of course not."

"Is it possible that anyone got to the crash before you arrived?"

Jim's eyes stray back to the twisted shape outlined by the glare of small, bright spotlights. "No. We're pretty far out here. There was nobody around."

She thanks us and tells us she will contact us if we can be of any further help. Feds. What can you expect?

It isn't even midnight by this time, but we head back to headquarters just the same. It's early to start in on paperwork, but Jim is anxious to find out what the news stories about the crash are saying. Not much at all, as it turns out.

Around three in the morning, Agent Phillips calls asking if we can find a space somewhere nearby where they can start the initial examination of the craft. A few phone calls later, Jim has arranged for the feds to use the high school gymnasium. The school has no use for it during break anyway.

It should feel like any other day on the job... but it doesn't. Neither one of us is thrilled about having feds in our territory. It bodes ill, and this isn't paranoia, it's fact.

We can't do a damn thing about it.


The first ring inserts itself into my dream; I am wandering up and down a mountainside looking for a spot flat enough to plant a cabin when a tree rings. A squirrel picks up the receiver, but its "hello" is in Jim's voice.

I roll over, blinking in the dim light that is slipping in around the curtains. Time to get up already? Not exactly. 1:35. We've gotten less than six hours of sleep. Oh well. I sit up and rest my chin on my knees, waiting for Jim to finish on the phone.

"Well?" I say, when he hangs up.

He frowns at the phone, his eyes far away. "The feds have put roadblocks up on Inspiration Road, Jacks Creek, and Rt. 4. They brought in another dozen people or so, and are now combing the woods around the crash site."

"My God. What for?"

"They say there was another passenger on the helicopter. Someone who survived the crash and walked away."

I snort, remembering the messy crash. Not likely. But -- "Did anyone?"

Jim climbs out of bed, reaching for his clothes. "No."

"You'd know."

"Nobody left that clearing before we got there, Sandburg. I'd know."

We drive out to the crash site. Or try to. We are allowed through the first roadblock, but we're stopped where the dirt road splits from Inspiration Road. The feds have set up camp, with half-tents and mobile satellite receivers and a truck with coffee and donuts.

After only making us wait fifteen minutes, Agent Phillips bustles up. Authoritative, busy and impossibly well rested. "Yes, Sheriff? How can I help you?" She doesn't look particularly helpful.

"Word is you have a missing accident victim?"

She takes a deep breath, folds her arms, and looks Jim in the eye. "Sheriff Ellison, you already know that crash wasn't an accident. We're pursuing a fugitive."

"Are you saying the government opened fire on a fleeing aircraft over a populated area?"

She flinches slightly. "No."

"No?" Jim says, as though the idea of a fed lying is both a surprise and a disappointment.

"Actually no. It wasn't us."

Jim lets that go. "There was no sign of anyone else in that chopper, and no sign that anyone left the scene before we got there."

"We have reason to believe otherwise."

A deep breath. "I have people familiar with the area, if you need help in your search."

"No, thank you. We believe our fugitive is armed and dangerous. We don't want your people getting in over their heads."

"If the situation is that serious--"

"I'm sorry. I really don't have time to continue this discussion just now. If we have any information for you, we know how to reach you."

That is it. We walk slowly back to the car, to give Jim more time to eavesdrop. We don't learn anything useful.

We toss over the possibilities on the way back to the highway, but there is no telling what's really going on. At last Jim sighs and shakes his head. "We'll call Drennen. She still owes me a favor. Maybe she's heard something. Feds talk to each other."

"Yeah. That's a good idea."

"So. Blair. Tell me I was imagining it and agent Phillips was not giving you the eye."

"You were imagining it," I say tiredly.

Jim nods slowly. "Just the same. She's a very attractive woman. Very."

"Jim. She's your type, not mine."

"Oh. Yeah. You're right." He sounds relieved.

"Red hair, broad shoulders," I say carefully, watching him from the corner of my eye.

"Right. I'm being paranoid again. Got it."

"Unless, you know, you were noticing."

Jim shoots me a puzzled look.

"You could say if you were."

He laughs then. "Nope. Don't worry about it, Chief."

Damn. I'm not really worried about Jim running off with the fed. He has learned, over the years, that they really are not worth the trouble. But I was kind of hoping to get a glimpse of where his head is. We haven't talked much about, well things, since the wedding rehearsal disaster, and I was kind of hoping to get a clue about where he stands on the whole alternative lifestyle issue.

The wedding was last week. Martin teaches public school, so the service was held the first day of winter break: more honeymoon time that way. Jim and I got into town early the day before so we could take Stacey to lunch before heading over to the church for the rehearsal. Stacey was very attached to the whole idea of Jim giving her away, so I didn't say anything about it, even though the whole custom of giving a woman away is totally sexist and outmoded. I mean, it wasn't like she was ours to hand over or that the ceremony would make us any less part of her family after we did. But I am not enough of a shit to argue with the sentimental.

The church was the one Martin had grown up in, a 1970's modernist, with big glass windows and open balconies. In one of the balconies, two of Stacey's friends from school were rehearsing the song they would play tomorrow during the service. In another, Stacey, Martin, and Martin's parents were going over the order of service with the minister. Jim and I waited in the shadow of the entryway, idly reading the notices on the board.

"Ballroom dancing every Tuesday night. These people know how to party," Jim said, taping one of the sheets.

"Hey, ballroom dancing is really cool! You can...What are they playing?"

Jim glanced up at the left-hand balcony. A flutist and guitar player were just visible in the shadows. "By Way of Sorrow," he said.

My jaw dropped. "She picked something from the 'Cry, Cry, Cry' cd for her wedding?" But it was true. Knowing the name of the song, I could hear the words they weren't singing and my stomach knotted up.

Jim just shrugged. "Nobody to blame but us, we gave it to her. At least she didn't pick the one about the men who died in the fire."

"Aw, hell," I whispered, thinking of Stacey, thinking of Jim who knew somehow that she would understand that.

Jim was staring at the ceiling directly above us, his eyes hard and narrow, holding his breath.

"Jim? What's wrong?"

He didn't answer me.

"Jim?" I wondered if I was about to be very sorry that neither of us were packing. "What is it?" Surely he wasn't hearing a crime in progress here.

He turned away sharply, hiding against the wall. I scampered after him, caught a glimpse of his face as he tried to compose himself before a thunder of footsteps sounded on the stairs leading from the loft above us. The hurried -- almost stumbling -- tread sounded out of place in the quiet of this nice Protestant church.

When Stacey appeared Jim had turned back around, his face calm, his expression innocent and slightly surprised. He didn't fool her. She looked at Jim, she looked at me, and then she threw herself into Jim's arms, bawling. "You heard her. Oh, God, you heard her."

"Hush. It's all right, sweetheart. Hush." He rocked her, reassuring her gently, but when he raised his eyes to look at me, they were terrified.

"Jim?" I whispered. But he shook his head helplessly.

"It's not true. They're wrong. They're wrong. I don't -- You know I don't! And I don't care what they think!" Stacey was nearly shouting at Jim, still clinging to him, still crying.

Jim tried to pet her hair, tried to hold her still. "It's ok. It's ok. We know that. We know. It's gonna be all right. Martin's upstairs fixing it right now. It's gonna be all right."

Then even I could hear the argument above us. Not the words, but Martin's voice, angry and hard. In a few moments he came down the stairs and stood at the bottom taking in the scene and nearly cringing. With obvious effort he drew himself up and stepped forward. "Honey?"

Stacey turned around, still clinging to Jim's arms. "This is my family," she whispered.

"It was just a little misunderstanding," he said softly. "It's taken care of."

She opened her mouth and closed it again, her eyes filling up.

Martin tried to smile. "This one wasn't even as bad as the fight over the cake. I didn't even have to threaten to elope this time." He was close enough to lay a hand on her shoulder. "This. Is. Our. Wedding. For us."

Stacey sniffed and nodded. Jim let her go and she stepped forward into Martin's arms. "It's ok. They won't mention it again."

"Ok."

"Ok." He put an arm around her shoulders and said to us, "I'm really sorry about this. I don't even have an excuse. The wedding is making everybody... tense. Things aren't usually like this." He led Stacey down the hall toward the bathroom to get her cleaned up.

Jim and I were alone again. The flute and guitar were still playing. The air seemed hot and thick. Jim came to me, standing close without touching. "Blair...."

"Jim, what the hell was that about?"

"It's taken care of. You don't need to hear this."

"And you did? What was going on up there, Jim? I mean it."

He tried to hold out. He clamped his jaw and started to turn away. I caught his arm and waited.

"Martin's mom wasn't too thrilled about having a fag included in the proceedings tomorrow."

"Damn," I whispered. I had really been hoping it would be something else.

"I'm sorry, Blair. I should have been more careful. I--I don't know how she... I don't know how she knew. I'm sorry."

My head snapped up. "Don't you apologize to me! You haven't done anything wrong."

"Don't you --? Aren't you --?"

Impossibly, I managed to speak without yelling. "Aren't I what, Jim? Hurt? Crushed? So some narrow-minded, frightened bitch who likes to denigrate whole categories of people is making herself feel superior by denigrating us. How would that make me feel bad? What I am is pissed. Stacey shouldn't have to put up with this shit, and neither should you."

Jim deflated suddenly, and I realized this was what had terrified him: that I might not be able to handle this, that I would somehow take it to heart. Damn. "Jim, you know what the only hard part of this is? I'm going to have to be polite to that woman. And I will, because this is Stacey's wedding, and by God, nothing is going to ruin it!"

We got through the rehearsal, somehow. Then the rehearsal dinner. Then Martin's "bachelor party" (which was bowling with his friends from work and his roommate from college rather than the more traditional stag films). I didn't let myself think about what had happened until Jim and I were safely in our hotel room with the door locked behind us. I brooded while Jim showered, and when he got out, I ambushed him. "Jim, are you all right?"

He sat down on the bed to towel his hair without answering. I didn't push.

After several minutes, he said, "It isn't fair. Stacey didn't do anything wrong."

"Jim, none of us did anything wrong." He didn't answer that. "Do you think we've done something wrong?"

"She got hurt because of us."

"That's one way of looking at," I said carefully.

"Well, how else would you look at it, Darwin?"

"From Stacey's point of view, we were hurt because of her."

Jim opened his mouth and shut it again.

"Right," I said.

"So, I'm guessing the way to handle this is not to gracefully withdraw from the ceremony tomorrow...."

"Only if you want to set off all her abandonment issues."

"Oh, no..." Jim dropped his head into his hands, and I moved closer.

"You gonna be ok here, Jim?"

"I'm not gonna flake out on you, Blair, I promise. I just wasn't ready for this." He sighed. "I don't know how she knew...."

"Two men traveling together. It's an easy assumption, Jim. We looked exactly the same for ten years when it wasn't true."

He nodded, not answering.

"Jim?"

He turned toward me and took my face in his hands. He managed a smile, but the look in his eyes was only a sad tenderness. "I'll be fine. I promise." Then he dropped a kiss on my forehead and sent me off to shower. When I came out he welcomed me into bed with kisses, assuring me that everything would be fine, that I mustn't worry. He made love to me, slowly and quietly, murmuring softly how beautiful and perfect I was --which he never does. We exhausted each other gently, comforting as much as pleasuring, taking turns promising forever, promising that we weren't sorry about anything, promising to be brave for each other.

At the wedding I sat on the front row on the bride's side. She came in on Jim's arm, wearing a traditional gown, smiling and glowing, even through the traditional veil. It was a beautiful ceremony. The music was perfect. Martin and Stacey had written their own vows, which were memorable and deep and sentimental. Martin's mother cried. So did Jim, although he won't admit it.

The next day Stacey and Martin left for their honeymoon and Jim and I drove on to Cascade to have the holiday visit with family and old friends before hurrying home to take up the slack as Millie and two of our other deputies took off for the holidays. We've been working twelve hour shifts since, and there hasn't really been a chance to talk about any, well, issues that might have come up.

It appears we aren't going to talk about it today, either. Jim just tosses another dirty look behind him toward the now-invisible feds and asks, "Hungry?"

I sigh inwardly. "Sure. Mom's?"


The special is meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Heaven, as far as Jim is concerned. Not my favorite dinner food, but it's not bad in an important kind of way, if you know what I mean.

"We have that party tomorrow," I say as Brittany sets our plates on the counter. Jim has to think about that for a minute. "I thought that was on Monday."

"Tomorrow is Monday. December 31." We've been on these long, overnight shifts for almost a week now, trying to maximize the time off for the deputies over the holidays. Millie and the others will be back on Wednesday. We get a day off then, and a normal schedule after that.

We haven't worked like this since Cascade. Even the Folk Festival in the fall wasn't this bad. If Jim is so overworked he doesn't know what day it is.... I have to take better care of him than this. "New Year's resolution," I say. "No more insane schedules."

Jim shakes his head. "Better one: We enjoy building the house?"

"Enjoy?" I'll be happy if we survive it with no trips to the emergency room.

"Yeah, Sandburg. Enjoy. This is going to be our place, our chance to do it right. We get to pick the floor plan, the fixtures. This is going to be great."

"Well, ok. I can see that. We can have a bathroom with enough towel racks. And a proper exhaust vent in the kitchen."

"And wood flooring. No more carpets to trap smells."

I pause with a forkful of meatloaf in the air. "The carpets are bothering you?"

"Oh. Well. Not really bothering."

"Because we can rip them up. You should have said something."

"It didn't make sense to redo all the floors when the place, one, wasn't ours and two, was practically falling down."

"It's not falling down."

"Chief. I have one word for you. That word is "plumbing." Do you want to discuss the holiday weekend when the toilets backed up with your mother and my father visiting? Or the water pipe that broke on Thanksgiving? Martin and I spent two hours under the sink trying to fix it with duct tape."

"Think of it as a bonding experience."

"I think of it as embarrassing." But his eyes are amused.

"So no carpets and plumbing that works."

"Built to code."

"Man, you're demanding!" I laugh.

"Not always." He hasn't said anything -- I haven't said anything, but I am blushing suddenly and I cannot raise my eyes. This casual teasing used to be just... male bonding. The not-going-anywhere kind. But even after a year and a half (and even though I am now supposed to be a thoroughly adult 38 years old) Jim and I are flirting.

I take a big gulp of water and sneak a look at Jim. He's smirking.

One of the county commissioners swoops down on us as we arrive at the sheriff's department. Commissioner Chang, who is usually not too obnoxious. But he's not too happy to be coming in on a holiday weekend to sort out what is technically a 'disaster' and a major federal operation. Not that there is anything he can sort out; it's as far out of his control as it is out of ours.

When Jim finishes his report (such as it is), Chang just grunts and demands to be kept up to date. On his way out the door, he pauses and adds, "Jim, that little scene Friday at the court house, we can't afford any more public disturbances about Wade. Wild accusations of corruption aren't good for the county and neither is publicity that makes us all look like fluffy tree-huggers."

Jim doesn't answer, but Chang doesn't wait for one.

From six until eight we do end of the year administrivia. And call everyone we know in federal law enforcement. Or rather leave messages -- Sunday on a holiday weekend? Forget it.

After that we head out on patrol. It becomes clear pretty quickly, though, that it isn't a usual evening. Ignoring our usual circuits of main roads and highways, Jim takes side roads, at half speed, with the windows down. It is wicked cold, but I don't try to argue with him. At the Yeardly post office, instead of turning around as we normally would, Jim drives off onto a dirt road which, twenty minutes later, comes out behind the high school.

The Gymnasium where the feds are collecting the remains of the chopper is downhill and across a narrow street. Jim pulls to a stop and turns off the engine. The night is cold and very quiet. Vivid, yellow light spills out of the high, narrow windows on this end of the building, and a strip of light lower down shows that the main door is partially open.

"I wonder what this is all about," I whisper.

"I don't really care, Chief. I just wish they would... leave..." Without warning, Jim turns the key and slams the car into gear.

"What's wrong? Jim?"

"There's nobody down there." And then, "Shit. There's blood."

Jim gets out of the car with the safety off his gun, even though he would already know if there were an active threat. Although it is dark enough that a bright yellow elephant could walk right up to my face, my gun is out, too and I try to cover him as he pauses and then kneels over a lumpy shape. "Dead," he whispers.

Apparently there is nothing else in the parking lot, because Jim goes to the doors then. The line of light we could see from the high school turns out to be one of the big, double doors being propped open by a foot. The owner is dead, his tidy, federal suit dark with blood.

"Call it in," Jim says softly. "Everybody we have on duty. I want witnesses. And have dispatch alert the feds."

I make the radio call while walking, trailing after Jim. There is another dead man beside the concession stand. Gunshot wound to the head. Messy. I don't look very long. Jim is already through the next set of doors. The basketball court has been covered with tarps and portable tables which are in turn covered with twisted bits of machinery. If this is the copter from the crash, it has changed a lot. The vehicle I saw wasn't in such small pieces.

"They took it apart," Jim said. "They're looking for something."

I swallow. "Not the cause of the crash!" But then I think about it. "Jim, somebody tossed the place. Look at it. There are pieces all over the floor. You don't conduct a search like this."

"Not unless you're in a real big hurry." There is another body. Jim goes over, checks the pulse out of habit. "I wonder if they found it." He puts up his gun and stands in the middle of the room, searching with his senses. What he hopes to find -- in this mess, not knowing what he's looking for -- I have no idea, but I let him zone on the room until I hear the sirens of one of our county cars pulling up outside.

Jim and I re-enter the atrium in time to see our newest deputy, Eddy Moss, get his first look at the body near the concession stand and lose his dinner. In a way it is no big deal--everybody pukes at the nasty ones. But you're not supposed to do it in the actual crime scene. This will make us look like keystone cops to the feds. Dave Couch, who came in with Ed, grabs his arm and pulls him back out into the cold air. Dave is normally pretty enthusiastic about things, but he looks as relieved to grab a few minutes' escape as his partner.

The next to arrive is Agent Phillips, followed closely by six rental cars full of feds. She stalks through the gymnasium like a soldier on a forced march and then whirls on us and demands to know what we were doing there.

Jim is quiet and very polite. Which means he is thinking. He points out the spot on the hill from which we could see that the door was wide open--either an invitation for a casual stop-by or very serious development. Then, so smoothly that even I miss the segue, reams her out for the gym's crappy security, the carelessness of whoever was on guard duty, failure to warn local authorities about what was clearly an ongoing hazard... he goes on in a hail of invective that would put even Simon to shame. Then he threatens to go over her head to her boss if this matter isn't totally in hand by morning.

She doesn't flinch during all of this, and I have begun to think maybe she really isn't rattled, when she makes a tactical mistake. She smiles patronizingly and says, "I understand this must be very upsetting --"

Jim, naturally, finds this annoying rather than placating. "Agent Phillips, take a look at my record and then make a guess about what I might find upsetting." This is not a card Jim usually plays. She must be getting to him. Or maybe the situation is.

But it is also definitely getting to Agent Phillips, because she leans forward slightly, the polished superiority of the modern fed fading into an angry tension. "I'm very familiar with your... exceptional history, Sheriff Ellison. I'm sure any observations you'd care to pass on to my supervisors would be given their immediate and undivided attention."

A threat. Awkwardly delivered, but clear. For a second I cannot breathe.

Jim laughs. "Lady, what do you think they're going to do to me now? Pick up your toys and your playmates and get out of my town before I do pass on some 'observations'." He turns away, motioning to Ed and Dave, who are standing by the doors trying to look like jaded and weary officers of the law who see scenes like this every day, to follow.

"Interfering with a federal investigation is a crime," Phillips calls after us.

Outside, Jim pats his deputies on the shoulders and sends them off to write up their reports. We follow them out of the parking lot, but Jim turns left on Route Four instead of right and after about half a mile, pulls off to the side.

Now he has to deal with me.

I am hyperventilating. Frankly, it is a relief to be able to panic in peace, rather than hide behind my annoyed civil servant look for the feds. Yes, I am panicking. This is pure, wild-eyed terror.

Jim takes my ice-cold, sweaty hand and holds it between his warm ones. "Easy, Chief. We're ok. Everything's gonna be fine."

"You heard what she said. They know. The government --"

"So what?"

I stare at him mutely.

"Blair, what are they going to do now? I'm no good to them. I couldn't do... any of the things they'd want me to. Not for very long. I'm not worth the effort. I'm too old."

Not too old for vivisection, I think, not too old to take you away. It isn't too ridiculous. It's not impossible. Terror is a tidal wave, threatening to wash me away.

"Blair, she doesn't care about me. She just wants to find whatever or whoever they are looking for and get out with no information leaks and no hassle from the locals. It's just a threat."

It's a good threat. "They can ruin our lives. They can --" But I can't bring myself to say what they can do.

Jim sighs and pulls me closer. "They can hurt us, I'm not going to lie to you. But they can't ruin our lives. Not as long as we're together."

I nod. I have to, but....

"Blair, I know that fucking around with these people is dangerous, and if you tell me to back off and leave the feds alone, I will... but we don't know what's going down out there. Whatever it is, six people have died that we know of, and if it doesn't end soon, the next victim might be a civilian. One of our civilians.... Blair, I've made promises to these people."

"We've made promises to these people," I mutter.

"As long as I'm in this job, I have to do the job."

"I know. I know." I swallow. "Jim, it could get really bad."

"Yeah, I know. And that's not fair, because you're the one who would be stuck getting me through it."

I manage to smile at that. "'Stuck,' Ellison? Every choice I've made since 1994 has been geared toward keeping me 'stuck' with you."

He pulls me into his arms, rests his cheek against my hair. "I know. I know." For a moment he can't speak, and only holds me tighter. "So what do you say, Chief? Can you do this? Are you ok?"

"As long as you're sure, Jim, I'm ok."

He holds me for a while longer, and then we head back to HQ. Despite the fact that it is almost midnight, Jim goes right to his office and picks up the phone again. No more luck than before, not that I'm hopeful about the results even if we could find someone to talk to. Despite what they said a few years ago about more 'cooperation' between jurisdictions, the competition is more bitter than ever, and nobody is talking to anybody else. Not that anybody is anxious to talk to Jim. Law enforcement isn't what it was.

At two, we're called out to break up a holiday party that very nearly turned into several counts of drunk and disorderly. At four-thirty we get called out for an auto accident. Dorset County doesn't usually have enough traffic at the wee hours of the morning to support traffic accidents. But one of the cars belongs to the feds, of course. Speeding and not obeying the stop sign, he broadsided a farm truck and somehow slid both of vehicles into the ditch. One injury--possible broken arm. Jim examines both vehicles minutely and then takes pictures. I take the statements very carefully, both to give Jim more time to discover--well, I don't know what, exactly, anything out of the ordinary, I guess--and so that the local farmer who had his truck totaled can bring a solid lawsuit against Agent Nobody-Else-Will-Be-On-The-Road-At-This-Hour if he wants to.

We're home by six-thirty. I throw leftover steak and sliced potatoes into a pan for hash while Jim showers. We don't say anything until the plates are in the sink and I'm absently slicing an apple into pieces for dessert.

"What do you think the feds are looking for?" Jim asks. "Spies? Terrorists?"

I hand him a piece of apple. "Not 'who,' 'what.' They're looking for a thing, and not much bigger than my hand, judging by the pieces they've chopped that wreck into."

Jim thinks for a second and nods slowly. "They're looking for something that was on the bird when it went down. Or something they think was on the bird, and they sealed off the woods claiming they were searching for a fugitive who walked away from the crash to keep anyone from knowing what was going on."

I nod. We are on the same page. "Unless whatever it is they want was carried away by somebody who did survive. A third person?"

Jim shakes his head. "Nobody could have survived that crash. Anyway, nobody did. I would have seen or smelled some trace if someone walked out of there."

"Whatever it is, the government wants it very badly."

"So does whoever raided the gym last night."

"God, Jim, the wreck wasn't... hot or anything, was it?"

"You mean like radioactive? Shit. Isn't that just what we need." He thinks for a moment. "No. Anyway, that stuff is bulky to transport. They wouldn't need to go through the wreck with such a fine-toothed comb."

I frown. "Drugs?"

"Bulky again. A kilo or two would be a big bust around here, but the feds wouldn't be tearing apart the woods for it and denying everything.... Information, maybe. Computer disks or microfilm."

"Nobody uses microfilm anymore, Jim."

We toss it back and forth for a while, but the problem is we have nothing to go on, and guessing is no good unless somebody throws you a hint once in a while. Finally I give up and head off to shower.

When I come out of the bathroom, Jim is not in bed. I throw on some sweats and socks and take a look around. I find him in the living room. He's spread two exercise mats on the floor and laid down on one of them with his legs bent at the knees.

Dropping into a half lotus on the mat beside him, I gently lift his nearer hand and slip it into my lap. The position is intimately familiar; it's a posture we use for a relaxation exercise, an advanced breath control technique. We haven't done this particular one in a while -- not since Jim was sick, going on two years ago now.

"You ok?" I breathe.

"Not too bad."

I lay one hand on his shoulder, catch his rhythm, and begin to count softly out loud. I turn his hand slightly, slide my index finger over his wrist. His pulse is fast; even with me here he can't relax.

"I'm a little tense," he concedes.

"Can't imagine why," I whisper, and shift one hand from his shoulder to the top of his head. The hand in my lap goes to his stomach. "Take your time. We're just relaxing here. One, two...." I keep the count slow. I put my mind on Jim, nothing else. Under my hand his stomach softens and then drops. "Better. Better. Two, three..."

I form the numbers slowly, softly, listening for each perfect breath, feeling his stomach fall away under my hand as he lets each breath out. The world fades and there is only Jim. When we do this right, I trance myself as much as him.

In the early days, Jim stubbornly resisted meditation. He called it "hokey crap," "new-age hooey," and "snake oil." He didn't need it, wouldn't be good at it, and anyway, it was a waste of time.

It slipped in anyway. Because he needed it. Or because I just didn't know how to manage him without it. "Relaxation exercises." "Focusing techniques." Even, after a while, "Visualizations." As I got more credibility -- and as situations came up that needed solutions right now, do something, Sandburg -- Jim began to rely on my flaky, hippie mumbo jumbo.

I don't know how else we would have gotten through it. Jim's body and mind are very closely linked. Well, everybody's is. Depression makes the immune system go dooowwwn. Exercise makes endorphins which make you happy. Emotional states can interfere with sleep patterns, and sleep patterns can affect concentration.... It is all really obvious, despite Jim's comments about "witchdoctor pseudo-medicine."

But for Jim, it's even more immediate, because of those senses. He can process --or, sometimes, not process -- so much more information than the rest of us that little imbalances have big effects really quickly. When he's not in a good place mentally, the senses stop being under his control. When the senses are overloaded with an input he can't handle, his emotional and physical states start to drop.

So I taught him to relax. To find a peaceful, centered, safe place where he could face his feelings instead of pushing them away. To calm his mind and calm his body and manage the flood of information that bombards him most of the time.

He's good at it, too. Better than me. Better than mom. Even without my help, he can drop his heart rate by thirty beats a minute in less time than it takes me to tie my shoes. I'd love to hook him up to an EEG to see how he compares to, say, professional monks, but I'm not going to. He wouldn't understand. He'd think that -- just because I could measure part of it with a machine -- that it wasn't also an intimate and precious experience for me, too.

And it is. Intimate and sweet and precious to me. Sitting centered on the floor with Jim still and strong and open next to me. Unguarded -- on purpose -- and absolutely unafraid. He has given over defending himself and placed all his attention on the breath; the tide carries his life slowly in and out, washing over and through me as I sit in watch over him.

You would think that after we started sleeping together this sort of connection would grow to be less important. It hasn't. At this blissful moment, I am holding nothing back from him, and his life rests under my hands. Gravity seems to bend around him in moments like these. I could not lift my hands if I wanted to. It feels like I am sinking into him, and he is holding on to me. I am caught in a lovely emotion, almost a physical sensation.

Jim surfaces first, blinking a little. I take a deep breath and uncoil my legs, stretching out beside him. I notice, for the first time, that it is cool sitting here on the floor. The clock on the wall says we've been out about half an hour. Rolling onto his side, Jim slips an arm over my waist and pulls me closer. The exercise has left us centered and locked into each other; it feels like I am bathing in his warmth.

For a moment we are still, and he looks at me hopefully: how'd I do, Chief? I smile back: You know darn well it was perfect. He leans over to smell behind my ear. He sighs, pausing, and then tastes me. His mouth is warm and soft, and sends a tingling coil all the way down to my kidneys. "Bedroom," I gasp.

Clinging to each other, kissing, we make it to the bedroom only because Jim can steer with his eyes shut.


The New Year's party is potluck. Normally, I am brilliant at this sort of thing; homemade tabouli, shrimp salad, assorted roasted vegetables in sesame sauce, stuffed mushrooms, cheese bread.... I'm a hell of a cook. But not this year; I've chickened out and volunteered for drinks. Soda. Eggnog. Hot, spiced apple cider, although that hardly counts as a culinary achievement. There just isn't time.

The rest of the department does better. Joey Fanzelli and his wife show up with a homemade chocolate layer cake with cream cheese icing. Sherri, the office manager, made fondue. Lorain Alwell brings a slick platter of smoked fish; Billy Joe, his mom's fried chicken wings; Elliot and Doris, sausage and cheese balls-- I can see Jim will be maxing out this month's cholesterol on one meal. Eddy only knows how to make chili. He doesn't look too good when he brings it in; last night was his first murder, which would have been hard enough even if it hadn't been a multiple and messy. I'll have to talk to him later.

The party includes more than just the sheriff's department; the entire police force in Bickford (all three of them) come with their wives, as well as most of county dispatch, the county coroner (a retired doctor) and his wife, part of the volunteer fire department and Marty the jailer. Marty comes without his wife and with just a grocery store cold cut plate. Jeanie must not be doing too well. I make a note to talk to Marty, too. See if there's anything I can do for them.

The party actually goes pretty well. The music of choice seems to be country and western; sadly, I am in a heavy metal mood, but it could be worse. I chat with Lorain. She is bright and ambitious and charming in a political way that makes me oddly uneasy. I ignore it; her scores at the firing range are consistently higher than mine, and she will, if Jim asks, climb on her belly into a dark cave to look for human remains. You can't ask for more than that.

As she heads off to make polite and charming conversation with someone else, Dave Couch comes up from the other side with two plastic cups of wine somebody from the Bickford Police brought from his parents' winery. He holds one out and smiles winningly.

My first thought is, shit. Jim was right.

My second thought is, Jim is going to kill him.

My third thought dies a befuddled and desperate death and I grope for a fourth thought, which is to smile politely and hold up my cup of cider. "Sorry. I'm on duty later."

A long look, a sympathetic smile. "How did you get stuck working on the holiday?"

"My own fault, I wrote up the schedule." I can see Jim in a corner talking with Eddy.

Dave steps closer. "There's such as thing as taking duty and loyalty so far."

I used to be good at shutting people down gently. All I can think right now is ack! and run away, run away! "Not that I've noticed," which is what comes out, isn't much better. I sneak a look at Jim. Still absorbed with Eddy's impending nervous breakdown. Thank God.

"Blair, you're starting to sound old and boring."

I pat him patronizingly on the head. "Compared to you, I am old and boring." Doing my best to look clueless and uninterested, I shrug and walk away.

Although I pretend I am sauntering casually, I flee to the bathroom. Before I finish washing my face, Jim is standing against the closed door with his arms folded. He meets my eyes in the mirror. "You used to be a lot smoother than that, hot shot."

I flip him the bird behind my back and grab a paper towel.

"I don't know. Call me paranoid if you want, but I think Deputy Couch is after your ass."

"I'm glad you're taking it so well." Actually, I am. But he's having fun teasing me, and I'm only mildly irritated rather than profoundly upset. So I let him warble on.

"Oh. Well. Even I can smell--and we know how 'unreliable' I am when I'm 'emotionally involved' and 'projecting'--that all you're feeling right now is embarrassed."

And relieved. Very, very relieved. "Yeah. Well. I'm out of practice."

"I have to admit, I'm surprised. I mean you were so sure, absolutely positive that I was wrong. And here it turns out that I'm that other thing. You know. The opposite of wrong? It's on the tip of my tongue..."

"Right, Jim. You were right."

"I'm sorry, but I didn't quite catch that. Could you speak up?"

"Very funny. You were right, ok. You were right about Dave. But it doesn't matter."

"Oh. When I'm right, it doesn't matter."

I toss the paper towel out and walk up to him, whispering, "No. It doesn't matter. Where Dave's head is never mattered. All that matters is you. And me. Forever."

Jim has to swallow hard. I can tell he wants to reach for me, but this is not the place. I pat his shoulder and nudge him aside so I can get back to the party before anyone notices we've disappeared.

Bobbie catches my eye as I come out of the bathroom. "Hey, Blair," she says, squeezing through the crowd.

"Hey, yourself. I thought you were on duty today."

"I traded with Cindy to get off an hour early so I could stop by the party. Listen, I've got three more trays of cupcakes in the car. Give me a hand?"

I do not realize I've been ambushed until I am standing half a block away in the cold watching Bobbie neatly stack three closed Tupperware containers of cupcakes.

"Um, Bobbie --"

"Blair, what's going on?"

"With, uh, what, exactly?"

She sets the boxes on the trunk and folds her arms. "I mean what is the government doing in Dorset County? Two guys from the Treasury Department showed up today with a federal warrant for the tape of Herman Mieks' 911 call of the crash."

"Whoa."

"And I've been talking to Max --"

"Max the barber or Max the EMT?"

"Max the EMT. He says nobody could have survived that crash, but the suits still have the roads blocked off and their people combing the woods. Something is going on."

I sigh.

"Cindy thinks you and the Sheriff know what it is. She says he called in to ask what was going down five minutes before the 911 call came in. She thinks he has some kind of inside track."

"No. Bobbie, we don't know anything. I wish we did."

She shivers and pulls her arms tighter. "No. The Sheriff's done that twice while I was on duty. I think that's something else....?"

She is pausing hopefully, and I try to look innocent. "Done what?"

"Called in to ask what was going on before the report."

I take a deep breath. "Ok. Bobbie, look. Do you trust me?"

A wince. "Yeah."

"First -- the thing with Jim. It has nothing to do with anything else. I need you to leave it alone."

"OK."

"I'm serious here. The real issue is the feds -- "

"No kidding."

"And we don't know what's going on. We've been trying, but we can't find out. You're right, though. It stinks and it's dangerous, whatever it is." I take a deep breath and lower my voice. "Bobbie, you need to keep your head down. Cindy's too. I'm not kidding. The government doesn't fool around, and whoever they're after are... well, they're not very nice, are they?"

"No."

"Don't draw attention to yourself. Don't get involved. Don't get caught asking questions."

"But, but this is my home, too. If there's something going on...."

"If you hear anything, call us. Jim and I will take care of it."

She looks cold, and scared enough to take me seriously. I nod to myself and pick up her cupcakes.

"You'd think we'd hear something on the news, you know. About the crash. It got half a minute on the nightly news the day it happened and that was it. The town is full of people in dark suits." She's floundering around in the dark, and I wish she would stop, she isn't going to bump into anything nice.

"I'm not saying you're wrong. Not at all. And I'm certainly not saying it doesn't suck." I fall into step beside her. "But. This too shall pass. In the meantime, keep your head down and be quiet. Hmmm. You said some Treasury agents came for the tape?"

"Yeah."

"Treasury, not DHS or CIA?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Nothing. Treasury's just kind of specialized."

When we get back to the party Jim is loudly and earnestly praising Dave for keeping his head and getting Wade away from the mob on Friday.


By dawn we rack up nine--count them, nine--drunk driving arrests. It's a record, even for New Year's Eve. Our little holding cell only holds four--we have to wake up the guy on duty at the jail to take the rest of them. All in all it is an exciting night, and not the kind that makes you want to piss yourself in terror. By 7:00 we are home, clean, and chowing down on the bison stew I left in the crockpot all night. Happy New Year.


The alarm is very quiet; I don't hear it at all, but wake to the movement as Jim sits up to turn it off. He settles himself again on my chest, and I close my arms around him.

"Morning."

"Late afternoon, I think," I say. Thin sunlight is showing around the edges of the blinds.

"Gonna snow soon."

"How can you tell from in here?"

He just shrugs. "Listen, I'm sorry about the thing with Dave."

"No, you're not. You thought it was hysterical."

"No, I mean.... I'm sorry I was so crazy." I feel him smile against me. "You looked like a deer caught in headlights. I guess I just had to see it for myself."

"Jim, you'd already seen it, heard it, smelled it. I don't want anybody else."

A swift tensing, which he quickly pushes down. "And you're getting tired of having to tell me."

Actually, I'm getting better about it. I understand this is an abandonment issue thing for him, not a control issue or a trust issue. It isn't that he isn't trying hard enough, or that he doesn't love me enough. He tries. He loves me. The feelings come, and he fights them. Usually he manages not to say anything he regrets later. Usually, I manage to reassure him before he loses any sleep over it. It's hard, though. I don't like to see him hurting. "I just hate that there's a problem I can't fix."

"You aren't responsible for bugs in programming you didn't install."

I smile at the image and pull him tighter. "It isn't about 'responsible' or 'guilt.' I don't even mind you being a little buggy. Generally, speaking, you're an ok program."

"Just ok?"

"You know what I mean. I have to admit, in a general way, your being paranoid--"

"Alert."

"Suspicious," I compromise. "Your being suspicious has saved our butts a number of times."

"But--?"

I'm not ready to get to the 'but' yet. "In a way, you're not even wrong. I mean, to think that I might hurt you. I will hurt you, Jim. And I will disappoint you. And I will screw up repeatedly. I can't ask you to put all your faith in me and promise never to hurt you, because I will. I have in the past and I'll do it again..."

"But not that way," he whispers.

"No, Jim. Not that way. I just don't see it."

For an answer he holds me tighter.

"I'm not saying you couldn't drive me off... But do you have any idea how hard you'd have to try? Or how hard I'd fight for you?"

"Yeah. I do."

"I love you."

After a short silence, Jim whispers, "Good, because I'd hate to actually have to kill Dave. He isn't a bad guy."

I decide to assume he's kidding and laugh.


We have a big breakfast/dinner of eggs, biscuits, and turkey sausage. Afterwards, Jim watches part of a football game and I compare new models of flashlights from the FARM catalog and Public Safety Supply. I am a huge baseball and basketball fan, but football I can take or leave. Actually, I should be finishing Taylor's latest book on domestic violence, but so far it hasn't said anything I didn't already know, and it's a depressing read.

During half-time the phone rings. Oddly, it isn't one of Jim's contacts paying off, it's one of mine: Tom Cameron from the FBI. He heard something last night at a division New Year's party that we might be able to use. One of the guys in the helicopter crash was Cory Olson, a middleman and procurer. Nothing fancy: not arms or drugs or state secrets, just rare and hard to find knick-knacks, sometimes illegal, usually not. He was wanted, but not in the "large reward, dead or alive" way, just a few outstanding warrants. Apparently, his latest deal fell through and his buyers weren't willing to take no for an answer. What Tom doesn't know is who the buyer was or what they were buying.

Jim and I spend most of the second half tossing out pointless speculation about just what Olson was transporting that the feds are searching for so desperately.

Quiet afternoon turns into quiet evening. Everybody's done their partying, I guess, and now they're all home sleeping it off or digesting. Jim and I patrol until midnight, but nobody seems to be on the road. No speeding, no DUI, no accidents, not even a call for domestic disturbance. Last week, for Christmas, we had all of the above.

I write up everything we have on -- I want to say the 'case,' but it isn't a case, not really. Incident? Incursion? And send it to Simon. Just in case. It's a paranoid thing to do, but just because you're paranoid doesn't mean there's no one out to get you.

By 2:00 we can't manufacture any more paperwork, and I find myself calling up floor plans for log homes again. It's addictive, really. How many bedrooms upstairs? Did we really need two full baths?

Jim joins me, and the discussion becomes more complex: should we go all out for a two car garage? What kind of logs did we want? What kind of interior?

By 4:30 Jim is fixated on a four bedroom model with a two car garage. It's huge, more than we need. It isn't like him to go over the top like this, although with a ten-year mortgage we can afford it.... "Jim, look how big the footprint is. Do we have enough space on the bench for something this big?"

"Yeah, barely. If we face it north-south."

"I don't see it. We'll have to measure." We don't need a four bedroom house, but Jim is nesting in an ultra-thorough, over-achiever sort of way. Going for the biggest territory possible. God, I love him.

"I, ah, already did. You know, on Friday morning. I wanted to be sure it was right before I showed it to you."

"Um, hum." I let it go for now. Four bedrooms is too much, but I'm not going to push. "Just a little confident, there, Sheriff?"

"Well, you know." He smiles tentatively. "If logic hadn't worked, I would have moved on to begging. And then threats."

"Threats?"

"Well, I know where you live."

Chuckling, I steer the conversation toward a lovely three-bedroom with a small loft.

At six we drive home through snow. Just as Jim said. The flakes are large and splat wetly on the windshield. I begin to relax; we've had two quiet nights in a row, now. No feds have shown up to threaten wildly or impinge on anyone's civil rights. Now that the holiday is over, all those phone calls we've made to old friends might start to finally bear a little more fruit. Even assuming that the worst isn't already over. It might be.


The noise that wakes me up is the phone. It must be the phone, since we turned off the alarm before going to bed. Today was supposed to be our day off.

At the second ring, I realize I am alone. Jim's spot beside me is still warm, but he isn't in it. I grope for the phone and catch it on the third ring. "Sandburg."

"Blair, it's Bobbie." She sounds upset. It takes a lot to upset a 911 operator.

"What's wrong?"

"We just got a call. Herman Mieks is dead. He's been killed."

"What?" That name is familiar. "Who? When?"

"The old man who called in the helicopter crash. His grandson just found him up at his house. Dead. He's been murdered."

Jim races in, his hair still wet from the shower. I offer him the phone, but he shakes his head and dives for the dresser.

"Is the grandson still on the line?"

"Yes."

"Jim and I are on the way. Keep him talking. Keep him on the line until we get there."

"No radio," Jim hisses as he tosses me my underwear.

"Everybody or nobody?" I ask him.

"Everybody."

"Bobbie, send out everybody who's on duty and the coroner and the EMTs, but don't use the radio. If you can't reach them by phone, forget it."

"Ok, ok. No radio. Blair, what's going on?"

"I don't know. But I promise we'll find out. Hey, are you alone there?"

"Yeah. It's lunch time."

"Damn. See if you can find someone. Don't be there alone." Jim nods, tossing me my jeans. "We'll call you from the car." I hang up and finish tugging on my pants.

Jim is already in jeans and hiking boots, and is layering on shirts. "Jim, you don't think.... I mean the feds didn't--"

"No, I don't. But I'm sure they know who did. And they're going to snake our jurisdiction as soon as they get wind of it, so move."

Good. Ok. That's what I was hoping. I rush on a double layer of socks, wondering who would kill an old man who happened to witness something everybody already knew about.

Jim takes the winding, narrow roads as quickly as an inch and a half of snow will let him. I stay on the line with Bobbie, she stays on the line with the caller. Nobody shows up at the dispatch office to confiscate the tapes and put our operators into "protective custody," nobody pounds on the door of the house.

Although everyone is upset, I manage to get the whole story -- or as much of it as is available. Dwight Mieks, who usually stayed with his grandfather during college breaks, had gone back to Cascade to spend New Years' Eve partying with friends. Got drunk Monday night, slept it off Tuesday and got home today to find his grandfather dead in the kitchen with "blood everywhere."

The Mieks place is an orchard off Inspiration road, about a mile from the roadblock the feds still have up. The snow begins to come down harder as we approach the white frame house at the end of the long driveway. Jim gets slowly out of the car and stands listening for a moment.

Although the car is clearly marked "Sheriff," the terrified face peeking out from the front window probably would not have opened the door if Bobbie hadn't been on the line reassuring him it was ok. Jim gives Dwight a quick once-over with his senses and hands him off to me. I take the phone from him, say good-bye to Bobbie, and sit the kid down on the floor with his head between his knees. He's whispering that it is a nightmare, some kind of bad dream.

The house is very cold; the stove has gone out and the baseboard heaters just aren't up to the job. I grab a blanket thrown over the back of a rocking chair and put it over Dwight's hunched shoulders. I used to have students his age. I can remember being his age.

"You're going to arrest me. I didn't do it! I wasn't even here! Oh, god....." When it looks like he's going to stay still, I follow Jim toward the back of the house.

Fuck.

There is blood everywhere. The old man was killed with a small-caliber bullet to the back of the head, but before that, his fingers were cut off. One at a time, probably, since the stumps are uneven.

Fuck.

I feel sick, not because it's gross, not because the kitchen smells like blood and meat, but because I'm picturing them doing it, picturing the old man begging....

Crime scene. Crime scene. Evidence. Get it together, damn it.

Jim is slowly circling the room. Zoned, and no doubt trusting me to watch his back while he's gone. I wait by the door, letting him do what he needs to do. He inspects the body, the floor, the counters, the sink. When he finishes he is a little pale and very distant.

"Not strictly professional, but careful. Tidy."

"How long ago did this happen?"

He blinks, coming back to me slowly. "Early this morning? It's pretty cool, here. Maybe yesterday afternoon."

"How many?"

"Three.... one of them held him...." His eyes stray back to the body. "The one that smells like turpentine took the small hatchet..."

I take Jim by the upper arms and steer him back out of the room. "Jim, you need to look at the rest of the house. Maybe they used the can, maybe...."

He nods. The cop mask is almost back in place. I stay with him as he searches the house. Even as cold as it is, he knows where they were and where they weren't. We don't find anything useful.

Back in the living room Dwight is still weeping on the floor. Hell. I squat beside him. "Dwight, do you have any other family here in town?"

He looks up through stringy hair to gape in silent horror.

"Is there someone who can come get you?"

"My mom..." But I can't very well call his mom to come up here and face her father-in-law like that. Maybe I should just send him to the hospital and have him admitted for shock and be done with it.

"Do you go to church?"

A confused shrug.

"Which one?"

"Ithaca Baptist..."

I take out my phone and call Bobbie back. "Find Brother Stockard, ask him to come out and collect Dwight. He's a mess. And a lawyer, anyone you can find who'll come."

"Why?" and then, "You don't think he did it, do you?" Having the 911 operator find a lawyer isn't exactly policy.

"No, he didn't do it. He was a hundred miles from here when it happened. I'm just a paranoid, bitter revolutionary!" I realize I am shouting sarcasm at my allies. I take a deep breath. "Please, Bobbie. We're flying blind here. We don't know what to do, so we have to cover everything." What I don't say out loud is, if the feds are looking for a patsy so they can make this disappear, a recently debouched college kid might make a good target.

She uses her professional voice--the one she uses on small children when they call to say "mommy fell and she's not moving,"--to tell me everything is under control and she'd get right on it.

I hit end thinking that I really need to take a few minutes to breathe and get my shit together. Not going to happen; the coroner is pulling up out front, with the EMTs, two deputies, and Agent Phillips right behind him.

I hand Dwight off to the EMTs--there is nothing else for them to do here-- and point the county coroner toward the kitchen, trying to warn him with my eyes.

Agent Phillips makes a quick tour of the house and comes back to Jim. She is flanked on either side by poker-faced suits in trench coats. "Thank you, Sheriff. We'll take it from here."

I expect Jim to argue. There is no sign that this is a federal crime. Not that I expect he'd win, but he might buy us some time till they could process the paperwork. He accepts her statement with a hard, flat stare and says, "Have any suspects?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss that."

"Surprise, surprise." He turns toward the door, not hurrying, not even visibly upset. Collecting his deputies with a nod, he leads us outside without a backward glance.

We don't say anything, just get into our cars and go. Halfway down the driveway, hidden by a curve from the house, Jim stops and gets out. For a long moment he stands still, absorbing the area. At last he points to a ridge to the east of us. "The crash was right over that hill. He would have seen it go down, but not where it hit."

I nod. The ridge is just a bump in a little hill compared to the massive mountain range to the west. A foothill really, but big enough if you've lost a small package on it. The treeline looks pale and smudgy in the falling snow. Veiled. Jim leans against the car, his eyes shut. "The feds have just shuffled everyone else out the door. Phillips is pissed. 'I told you they were still in the area. How the hell are they avoiding you?'" He flinches, and I can hear the cars starting back by the house. "Damn. I can't get anything else."

We get back in the car and continue out to the road. "Do you suppose anyone's found whatever it is yet?"

"No. No way," Jim answers. "The feds are still here. Whoever their competition is, as of yesterday, they didn't know anything and they were getting desperate. They're still here."

"Unless Mieks knew something. If they got something from him...."

"He was nowhere near the actual crash site. He didn't see anything. Whatever people were looking for, it wasn't here. And it's not at the gym."

"So? It's still up there somewhere?"

"And the people who are looking for it will be up there, too."

I glance over my shoulder, eastward, although there is nothing to see. "Jim, it's no good. The feds still have most of the roads into that mountain blocked off. We'll never get close."

"I bet they haven't blocked Rain Canyon Road. It isn't on the map."

"Oh, no way."

"Sure, it's not very convenient. We'll have to drive around and come down from the north. But that should only add an extra couple of hours."

"Jim, Rain Canyon Road isn't on the map because it's not a road. It's a dry creek bed."

"It's perfect."

We don't go back to the house. We don't stop at headquarters to check out a four-wheel-drive. We do stop at a gas station for some bottled water--what we have in the trunk is frozen.

In the trunk we also have the emergency back-packs, a bed-roll, and a rifle.

Even though the snow has stopped (only a short pause, Jim assures me) Rain Canyon Road is not an easy trip. Uphill, narrow, rutted, and rocky. With more than an inch of snow on the ground, I'd be hard put to even identify the "road," but naturally Jim has no problem.

Around four o'clock we have to abandon the car. The track is just too steep for its engine. Jim is not in a hurry. He checks the gear and the weapons, then opens up the map on the hood of the car. "We're here." He points to a green squiggle on the green and grey map. "The crash site was here, less than two miles south-west of us. But anybody approaching would have to come from the west, because of the road blocks. So we'll cut west and see what's over there first."

Huh? I will have to take his word for it. While I can read a map if pressed, it takes a while, and I would rather not rely on it. Two-dimensional pictures of three-dimensional things just don't cut it, especially when trying to convey things like uphill.

It occurs to me, as my feet pass through the thin snow to crunch on old, dead leaves, that Jim was expecting to have to do this before we went to the Mieks place; he dressed us in denim civvies and hiking boots, not uniforms and lowtops.

The air is windless and cold; the trees are heavy with the snow that clings to their branches. It's quiet and shadowless; the uniformly grey sky emits an even light that softens everything. The only noise is from our feet.

Every twenty minutes we stop so Jim can listen. The second stop, Jim touches my arm and points southeast. "Feds," he whispers. Then smiles. "Doing what we're doing, but not very good at it." He frowns. "One of them thinks it's too late; if the trap were going to spring, it would have happened."

It's steeper after that, a soft-soiled hillside of secondary growth pine. For a while I pull myself from tree to tree, setting my feet at the base of the saplings. More than once, though, the branch swings more than I expect and I get a face full of wet snow. I hunch over and go up nearly on all fours.

I don't really have a chance to look around until Jim halts for the next sensory sweep. It has started to get dark already, I notice. Damn. But for the moment we are ok. Jim has chosen a clear, dry patch under a rocky overhang. While he stands still, listening, I set down my pack and dig out the water and a protein bar. Mechanically, Jim consumes what I hand him.

He smiles suddenly. "Got them."

I take a deep breath. This is it.

"Three of them. Some serious weapons. They're not happy... their shoes are wrong for this weather."

It occurs to me that I am not afraid. Appalled, deeply, by what we are doing as much as by the fact it's necessary. Angry that this is happening here. Not real thrilled about spending the night hunting butchers in the cold when I'd planned to make a nice curry and watch some TV. But. Whatever is going down, whatever kind of scary, bad-ass killers are out there.... we're scarier. We're in our own territory and we can't be taken by surprise, and we're willing to do what is necessary to end this mess.

Well. Isn't this the adrenaline high to end all adrenaline highs?

"Ready?" Jim asks.

"Oh, yeah."

We head out in a new direction. Not up this time, but across. The trees are older, larger. The branches are mostly over my head, and very little snow has managed to reach the ground. It's warm, but not very bright. A single flake drifts onto my hand, and I realize it's snowing again.

Jim stops so fast I nearly walk into him. "What?"

He motions me to be quiet. Finally he murmurs, "They're arguing. One of them thinks it's a waste of time. Even if they can get rid of the feds, they'll never find it in the snow if the government couldn't in five days." Jim strips off his glove and wipes his face with his hand. "It's not going over well.... There's some yelling, I guess from the guy in charge. Now the third guy says it doesn't exist at all. He thinks Olson was pulling a fast one."

"Any idea what 'it' is?"

Jim's chin twitches "no."

Another long silence. I can almost hear the snow fall, a quiet shhhh that isn't really there. It's starting to get dark.

Jim takes off again. Not running. Calm.

I stay behind him; it's faster if I just put my feet where he puts his feet. It's just amazing to me that he can move at all while processing so much information; he must be seeing every snowflake, smelling every individual tree. There will be animals, hundreds of them, sleeping in dens, their slow heart beats like soft drums. For Jim, this quiet, picturesque forest must be a whirlwind of incoming information.

Not for me. For me, it's a focused stillness, an open quiet. Muffled and white and beautiful. I see that beauty as much with my gut as with my eyes. Silently, I put one foot down after the other, following Jim.

When it is dark enough that I can't see my breath freeze in front of my face any more, Jim reaches out a hand and stops me. I can hear them too, now. Not talking, but taking big steps and panting hard. How can the feds fail to find them? A herd of elephants would be more subtle.

Jim slows our pace, leading me carefully. I follow his silent directions in silent compliance. He maneuvers me up a sprawling rock that's almost as tall as I am. In the dark, he guides my hands, checks my feet, and, at the top, pushes me down on my stomach on the damp stone....

And disappears.

Holding still at last, I feel the cold seep through my heavy jeans. The wind moves a bit, and somewhere close by a clump of snow falls out of a tree and whufs onto the ground. I force myself to breathe quietly. Waiting. Poured out like water onto the stone, no more presence than a bush or a bird.

I roll slightly onto my side and draw my gun from under my coat. It cools quickly in the open air. I wait. Waiting has never been my favorite thing. That is no excuse to be bad at it, though, and I counter the small knot of anxiety in my stomach with the heaviness and stillness of the rock beneath me.

The voices get closer.

"Freeze. Dorset County Sheriff's Department."

Suddenly there is light. Below me and not fifteen feet away, three men stand in the beam of Jim's industrial maglight. One man raises his arm against the glare, but a second makes that fast clutch, going for his gun. My first shot hits the ground at his feet. He freezes, and I don't fire a second. Someone mutters, "Shit, we're surrounded."

I cover them while Jim searches and cuffs them. One of them tries to reason with Jim. "I don't know who you're working for, but I can pay you." A nervous laugh. "With the real thing, too. C'mon."

"Hey, Chief, we get to add attempting to bribe a police officer to the charges. Do you have a permit for this rifle?"

"Shit! You're really some fucking sheriff's department? We've been busted by Roscoe and Enos?"

"Shut up. They haven't got anything. We're just a bunch of hunters. That's not illegal."

"Can I see your hunting license? No? Well, if you'd taken the time to get one, someone would have explained that hunting with fully automatic weapons is illegal in Washington." Jim's voice is brisk but hard. I almost expect him to kick one of them in the head or, or, or something. But he just reads them their rights, checks their cuffs one more time, and, at last, has me come down off the rock.

I go through their gear. Carefully. Minimal rations and sleeping equipment. High powered lanterns. Metal detector. A frightening amount of ammo.

"What are you going to do with us out here?" one of them asks. "It's freezing. This is cruel and unusual punishment."

Jim smiles. "Oh, don't worry, boys. We're taking you where you wanted to go. The crash site you've been so anxious to see is only half a mile away. I even know a short cut."

I'm not, at this point, angry. I'm worried. I'm worried about the prisoners--not that they are going to go anywhere, in the snow, with their hands bound, in the dark, unarmed. I'm worried about Jim--not that I should be. He's just angry. He has a good reason to be angry. Frankly, although he's been known to run off half-cocked and do wildly stupid and dangerous things, anger isn't one of the emotions that usually leads to this.

Even half a mile is a long trip, trying not to slip or drop your gun while walking on uneven ground you can't really see. About half way there, one of them makes a move. Of course. He leaps at Jim, who is in front, and--shit--his hands are free --

I shoot him. My stomach turns: Jim is right behind him. If the bullet goes through--

It was the wrong choice. I know it even as I fire. Jim could have handled him. Yes, this sick bastard tortured an old man to death over nothing, but this is Jim we're talking about. A sentinel in his own territory, impossible to surprise and very, very well trained. I should have let him handle it. He could have handled it.

I see the shapes go down, but it is too dark to see if there is any blood. To see where the blood is....

But Jim gets up at once, pinning the guy with his foot and ordering the others to lie face down and not move.

The man I shot.

I cover the other two while Jim examines the third.

"His arm is messed up pretty badly," he says at last. "The simplest thing would be to wait here for the feds."

I try to ask if they are coming or if we'll have to call them, but my mouth is dry.

I didn't hit Jim. I didn't lose the prisoner. I haven't had to kill anyone today. Yet.

But Jim understands the question I stumble over. "Oh, yeah. Even they couldn't miss that."


Jim calls out to Agent Phillips by name long before they could have seen the glow from our flashlights. She and her team bustle up in matching parkas, snarling into walkie-talkies and waving big flashlights of their own.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? What part of 'this is a federal investigation' don't you understand?'"

"Here are your prisoners. Clean up your mess and get out of my town."

"My prisoners? And what am I supposed to charge them with?"

"Well, if you're so careless with evidence that you can't get a ballistics match for one of the seven counts of murder you've left lying around, you'll have to make do with hunting without a license, eight weapons violations, resisting arrest, and assaulting an officer. Of course, most of this is local stuff, Fish and Game jurisdiction, even. Not that I expect that'll stop you."

Phillips looks away first. She glares at the prisoners, pretending she hasn't lost a staring contest. When she turns back, she shrugs elaborately. "Thanks so much for your cooperation. It's been a pleasure working with you." Then, without even bothering to step away, she lifts her radio. "That's it. Pack it all up. I want to be out of here in an hour."

My jaw drops. "Hey, you can't. Whatever they were looking for is still out here. If you disappear, it'll be open season!"

She sighs, as though I am being amazingly tiresome or surprisingly stupid. "Don't worry. We've had it since Sunday morning. Found it in a tree. Relax and go on back to your speed traps. It's all over. The big boys are taking their toys and going home."

It's not her open contempt that makes me want to kill her. It's the fact that she used our county for bait in her little trap. "I hope it was worth it. It's hard to picture how, but hey."

"What these boys were looking for was a set of perfect plates for the twenty- dollar bill." She drops the words like bombs, and waits for them to stun us into silence with their crucial importance.

"Oh, yeah. That's a big deal. I can see where that's worth involving three federal agencies, a five day stakeout of a mountain, and oh, hazard to civilians."

She folds her arms and sighs again. "It is a big deal. Six separate plates, perfectly aligned... Very difficult to make, very pricey. But you're right. By itself it isn't worth all this fuss." She nods toward the three prisoners, being re-searched and re-cuffed and re-mirandized by the feds, just to make sure. "Rumor had it that the people trying to buy the plates also had a cocktail that could wash the watermark out of, say, a one dollar bill, without damaging the paper. But we didn't know who they were, and the sale went bad before we could move."

She looks down at me solemnly. "Naturally we regret the inconvenience this has caused Dorset County. We had to get the buyer. I'm sure you understand how important this is. Eventually, they would have gotten plates from somewhere else, and then they would have been in business." She seems sympathetic now, almost human. A shame about all the cloak and dagger stuff. But what else could she have done? There was just so much at stake, after all. Completing the operation was worth any cost. Even hick county mounties like us had to understand that.

I feel sick.

I do understand. I understand really well. Jim still has nightmares left over from missions that were 'more important' than he was. What Dwight saw today will probably screw him up for years, and possibly also screw up his whole family. I know kids who have to take PE in that gym where four people died. And Eddy... Never mind her own people who died.

A regrettable 'inconvenience.'

There are things in this world worth dying for. Even things worth killing for. I hope I never get to the point that I believe anything is worth such casual disregard of human beings.

We don't leave with the feds. Jim turns us around and takes us back to the car. In the dark, in the snow, we make it in less than an hour. We drink more of the water--ice cold now, but good--and strip off our gloves and outer coats.

The ride down Rain Canyon Road is very slow. With anyone but Jim, I wouldn't try it. Even Jim finds it hard. The headlights reveal a fairly smooth slope, but under the snow are narrow ruts and rocks. The car lurches and tilts as it creeps down, sliding here and there on hidden ice. When we get to the bottom, Jim puts the car in park and leans back against the seat and closes his eyes.

I give him a few minutes before I say, "Want me to drive?" because I know he won't accept the offer.

We pull onto the asphalt with a soft 'woosh.' Without all the trees overhead, the snow comes down more thickly. It glitters in the headlights, and rushes dizzily at the windshield.

"Want to talk about it?" Jim asks.

"Talking isn't going to do anything."

"Wow. I just got the strangest deja vu vibe."

I don't say anything. He glances at me and puts his hand on my thigh.

My first impulse is to pull away. I don't want to be comforted. I want to be pissed off. But me having a mad on is not an acceptable excuse for physically rejecting Jim. It would be a shitty thing to do to anyone, after the week we've had, but to Jim....

I lay my hand on his and squeeze gently. My intent is to gently lift it and set it on the seat between us: not "get away from me," just "not now." But the kicker is, I do feel comforted. I feel warm, there, under his hand. The man on the other side of this hand loves me and trusts me, and that's the most important thing, isn't it?

I take a deep breath. "There's just... no justice, is there?" Which is not what I had expected to say. "Not that I ever cared about justice. Mercy, yeah. Compassion. Honesty. I got on board with the whole law enforcement thing, later. You know, protect the innocent. Sometimes the system works, sometimes it doesn't, but you try, and ok. But, shit. Those bastards were the law. They came in and fucked over our people and our towns and our high school gymnasium... and there isn't any justice."

"Blair... I can't believe this is a surprise. I mean, I'm pretty sure Naomi explained the whole 'tyranny of the pigs' thing. At least once."

There is a lot behind that sentence. A lot of Jim's own history of betrayal and a lot of his own faith. I try to rein myself in for him, but what comes out is a snarl. "Something doesn't have to be a surprise to piss me off, Jim. It's not news, it just sucks."

"Yeah. Ok. It does."

He's still touching me. How can I think about hating Phillips and her chorus line of suits when Jim is touching me? The anger that coils like a snake in my gut flops and wilts a little. "Shit, Jim. How do you live with this?"

"Well, there's always denial. Pretend it isn't happening, since you can't do anything about it anyway."

"How's that work out?" I try to match his flip tone. I am holding on to Jim, now. Not just with my hand.

"Not too bad. Although, frankly, I like your method better."

My mouth is dry, but I keep holding on. "My method?"

"Just living your life. Doing what you believe is right, believing what you believe in, and fighting like hell when the world tries to bite you on the ass."

I sigh, and think of the feds and spy games. My tax dollars at work. "Jim, I think 'be true to yourself' just isn't going to cut it. It isn't going to help."

Almost so quietly that I miss it, "Yes, it does."

I pick up his hand and hold it between mine. "Jim?"

"Even when I couldn't always do it, Blair... Sometimes you doing it was enough for both of us."

Aw, hell. Anger fades in the face of that.

It is a long, careful, silent ride home. Jim watches me from the corner of his eye, worried. Sad. Worried again. I'd like to reassure him that I'm really ok, in the ways that count, but I'm not sure I'd be convincing. I hold his hand, when he doesn't need both to drive. I run my fingers over his palm, again and again. I don't have any words for him, but I try to tell him I'm not letting go just the same.

At home we leave our wet clothes in the kitchen by the back door, and head straight to the shower. The bath isn't big enough for two, really, but we're both cold. Or else we're both reluctant to be apart. We wash carefully, ducking each other's elbows and taking turns rinsing. Maybe a really big bath tub goes on the list for the new house. I make the suggestion out loud, it's almost the first thing either of us has said since the car.

We stay in the water until it starts to cool, washing off the cold, washing away the feds, touching each other gently.

Dinner is microwaved soup and toast on the couch. We turn the heat up and sit close together. Jim picks at his soup for a while, then, glancing at me, takes the bowl and drains it efficiently. Getting it over with. He's tired, and almost nothing tastes good when he's tired. I set his empty bowl on the end table and brush his cheek with my hand. There's no point in offering him more; he wouldn't have forced this down if I hadn't been watching. Jim was running on all cylinders tonight. He was focused, steady, unstoppable. Absolutely incredible, 200%. But while he used to be able to do this for days at a time... this mess with the feds drained him, and I'm sharply reminded that he doesn't have the reserves he used to.

I put my own bowl down and shift closer to Jim. He turns, putting one leg behind me and guiding me in against him. His arms link around my waist, pulling me toward him. He holds me from behind with his face in my hair. This is what I've been waiting for, Jim reaching for me, holding me.

"Blair, I don't know what to say. I hoped... we were done with that kind of nasty bullshit."

"It's ok, Jim," I whisper. "I'm just.... mad." But I'm not, now. Not with him holding me, resting his face against my neck, nosing my damp hair. I clasp his arms, lean back into him. The rest of the world can be as profoundly fucked up as it wants to be. Jim is here, and I'm in his arms.

For a moment I feel guilty about that. We caught the bad guys and sent everybody home, but not before a lot of damage was done. Not all of it can be repaired. (Although tomorrow we'll do our best to try.) I ought to be grieving for Herman. I ought to be looking for a way to file some kind of charges against agent Phillips. Or feeling sorry for her; she'll have to live herself, after all. For a very long time.

Later, though. All of that can wait. Right now there is warmth and quiet and Jim. I turn in his arms, half lying on his chest. There is not quite enough room, but I like being cramped up against him. I rest my cheek on his shoulder and slip my arms around his waist. He relaxes under me and tucks me under his chin. "Love you, Blair."

"Love you, too." I should take him to bed, we're both falling asleep. But I'm unwilling to change anything about this moment, reluctant to let go even to stand up. I close my eyes. "Always."


End The Greater Public Good by Dasha: [email protected]

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