Archive of Our Own ^beta

My first division command was not exactly what I had dreamed it would be. For one thing, it was temporary; I was standing in for Captain Banks while he was in the hospital. I knew that I had just a couple of weeks to create a really strong impression, or I could give up dreaming of my own command entirely.

So while I was trying to clean up the image of Major Crime and make some changes that would be easily visible to the brass when they picked out my next assignment, I cut off the observing privileges of an anthropologist who'd taken to hanging out with the detectives. Immediately, I had a near-rebellion on my hands, spearheaded by Detective Ellison, who had already been putting up with Sandburg's extended ride-along for more than a year longer than necessary. I just couldn't figure it out.

Yes, the young man was friendly, engaging, and amusing. Yes, he was smart and could think fast in a difficult situation; I gathered that much from the impressive record he had racked up while tagging along with Ellison. But he wasn't a cop, he didn't want to be a cop, he made no attempt to look or act like a cop . . . and yet the same detectives who couldn't wait to get me out of their hair accepted him freely. Ellison, the most brilliant, prickly, and unapproachable man in the division, considered Sandburg his permanent partner. He essentially blackmailed me into letting the anthropologist rejoin the department.

So a few days after I'd finally had the chance to see the two of them in action together, there I sat at my temporary desk in my temporary office, looking through the blinds toward Ellison's desk. The detective, in a sports jacket and a genuine knotted tie -- and no baseball cap -- was scowling at his computer. The inexplicable ride- along had pulled up a chair to the corner of Ellison's desk and was sitting with his legs curled under him while he wrote furiously in a notebook balanced on his lap. His wild hair was ruthlessly pulled back, and he was also wearing a jacket in an attempt to blend in with my dress code for the division. His tie, however, was a Balinese batik in scarlet, yellow and orange, which didn't exactly make him invisible.

I had a new case to assign, and Ellison was next up on the roster. Not only that, he had been specifically requested for the case. It looked like I was going to have to face the dynamic duo again. I punched Ellison's extension into the phone and asked him to step into the office. Surprise, surprise, I saw him turn to Sandburg and gesture for the anthropologist to follow.

I stood and walked around the desk to speak to them on an equal footing -- not always a successful tactic with a man as tall as Ellison. The soi-disant partner was small enough for me to loom over, but Sandburg was half-hiding behind his larger friend.

"Ellison," I said cordially but firmly. "You're not working on any major cases at the moment, are you?"

Standing at ease, he shook his head. "No, I've just been helping Simon and Taggert figure out exactly what those doctors were up to at the hospital. But it's mostly pinned down by now, and Taggert can take care of the details. You have something for me?"

I noticed with relief that he wasn't sneezing. After some of the communication troubles we'd had in the last few days, I had removed all the blooming plants from my temporary office, and only the green ones were left behind. Apparently the man had some hellatious allergies for such a healthy type.

"It's a murder," I told him, glancing down at the file I'd just received. "Two murders, actually. We're wondering if they might be connected. The first one occurred at the beginning of January, and the second was three days ago. The victim was a relative of the Governor -- some sort of cousin, I think."

Ellison's brows went up. "I hadn't heard anything about connected murders -- or a high-profile victim. Who was assigned?"

"Well, that's the problem. Margolis from Vice has been investigating."

"Since when does Vice cover murders?"

I smiled in approval of his outrage. "Apparently, since the victims were gay."

Ellison didn't react visibly, but Sandburg stiffened a little, watching the big detective intently.

"That's probably also why you didn't hear about it," I continued. "This may be the nineties, but the Governor's spin doctors don't want her connected to an openly gay man, much less to multiple killings of gay men." I grimaced at the stupidity of publicists. "But I happen to be acquainted with Governor Harris, and I know that she is personally affected and very concerned. She contacted me this morning to see what was being done about the case -- that was when I found out that Vice had gotten hold of it. I spoke to Captain Crimmons and let him know that Major Crime would be taking over, effective immediately. Governor Harris suggested that I assign it to you."

"Wait -- the Governor requested me personally?" Jim asked.

"You're known for your record, Ellison; it's a very good one." I didn't add that I had mentioned his name to Liz Harris just last week. "Also, since you and Mr. Sandburg are the most prominent gay couple in the department --"

"What!" Ellison bellowed, loud enough to be heard out by the elevators.

Sandburg choked. "Whoa, Captain . . . Jim and I are not a couple." Suddenly, the two men were standing several feet apart.

Well, I had never been entirely sure about the truth of that rumor -- at least, not until I'd worked with them and seen how close they were. "I thought you lived together."

"Only because Sandburg can't afford a decent place," Ellison explained quickly. "He's a student; he makes next to nothing. And he doesn't get paid for the work he does here."

Sandburg whispered something fiercely at the larger man. Did he think I'd forgotten already that he was essentially an unauthorized guest here?

"We're not . . . together, Captain. We're not even gay!" Ellison insisted.

I leaned back against the desk, gauging their reactions. There was a convincing tinge of horror there; it might not be an act. "Well, I admit I'm surprised. Department rumor has had the two of you dating each other for so long --"

"But I've been going out with women from the department!" Sandburg broke in. "For years!"

"Of course," I said. "It's a conversion campaign." There was even a pool among the younger female staff on who might be lucky enough to lure Sandburg away for good -- and another pool on what Ellison would do to the winner.

"Oh, God," the anthropologist groaned, trying to run a hand through his hair and nearly pulling it out of the tight ponytail.

I looked down at the case file in my hands and made a decision. "It doesn't make any difference, Ellison -- you were requested, you are free, and you do have the best record in the department. I told the Governor you would be working the case. I trust you don't have a problem with that."

"No," he replied stiffly. His jaw was noticeably squarer thanks to the clenching of overworked muscles.

Sandburg interrupted again. "Actually, Captain, maybe it would be better if someone else took this one."

Ellison turned to stare at his partner in shock.

"Why would that be, Mr. Sandburg?"

"Well, uh, I just think that, uh, that maybe somebody else would be more qualified -- would handle this more, uh, sensitively --" The young man gulped. "I mean, with the Governor and the media looking on, it will involve a lot of, um, pressure --"

"Speak for yourself, Chief!" Ellison snapped, quickly growing angry. "Pressure's fine with me."

I studied the two of them. This was hardly the reaction I had expected. From Ellison, maybe, but not Sandburg with his liberal ways. Was it all an act, or some sort of backlash against latent tendencies in himself? Whichever, this was not acceptable, especially in a man who was only here on my forbearance. I took the opportunity to loom over the young man, speaking in low tones. "I really didn't expect this sort of bigotry from someone of your education, Mr. Sandburg. Are you just concerned for your romantic reputation, or do you believe the brutal murder of two gay men really does come under the heading of Vice? Perhaps you think I should refer the case to Petty Crime?"

A red flush climbed his neck, clashing with the Balinese design. "No, I --"

"If you are unable to approach this matter with an open mind, I'm sure I could find someone else for Detective Ellison to work with."

His eyes widened in alarm. "No! I didn't mean it like that. It's just that, uh -- Jim could use a break?"

Ellison was seething now. "I'll be glad to take the case, Captain. I'll give it my highest priority."

I gave Sandburg one last look up and down, then dismissed him and turned to Ellison. "Thank you, Detective. Here's the basic information I have on the case; you'll have to get the rest from Detective Margolis."

I watched them leave the office, the detective fulminating and the anthropologist drooping guiltily. Whatever did Ellison see in him, if they really weren't lovers?

I was sitting at my desk, minding my own business, when Jim and Hairboy came out of the captain's office and launched straight into an argument.

Nothing new there. Those two are always ripping at each other about something -- usually in a friendly way, kinda teasing, but sometimes more serious. And when they do that, if you're close enough to hear, you can catch some pretty weird things going on between them, hints about why the kid really hangs out with Jim.

Don't get me wrong -- I like Blair. And God knows he's helped Ellison loosen up a little, to the point where you can actually talk to the guy without being afraid of getting your head chewed off. Most days, anyway. But why an anthropology student has spent the last two and a half years taking shit from Jim and bullets from Jim's suspects . . . well, it's a mystery to me and most everybody else in Major Crime.

Simon knows why -- has to, seeing he's been sticking his neck out to protect Blair from the bureaucratic flak all this time. But Finkelman doesn't know, which means it's not in Jim's file, and sure as hell none of the rest of us are supposed to know. Being detectives with more curiosity than a truckload of dead cats, of course we can't help but try and figure it out. If we ever do, we won't be giving Ellison any grief over it. We just want to know his secret.

So I listened. Who wouldn't?

"What the hell was that all about?" Jim demanded straight off.

The kid looked about ready to crawl into a corner. "Jim, I'm sorry, I--"

"Do you have any idea what you just did?"

"Look, man, I know you guys think being assigned to a murder case is like a status symbol, but I'm just not sure you should be working this one."

I hid my surprise in the file I was pretending to study. Hairboy tried to keep Jim off a case? No wonder the man looked about ready to explode.

"Why the hell not? You're the one who turns green at the sight of a dead body, Sandburg -- not me."

I shook my head over that. It's kinda cruel teasing the kid about losing his lunch over dead bodies, but when it comes right down to it you can see Blair just wasn't cut out for that sort of thing. Which makes you wonder all the more why he fights so hard for those ride- along privileges.

One thing I do know, the kid being here has something to do with why Ellison's such a hot detective. Not that he wasn't good before, but ever since Blair showed up Jim's record has been phenomenal. He knows things that nobody should be able to tell. I think maybe the man is psychic -- Blair's always asking him what he senses when they're at a crime scene. And I can see why he might be a little careful about letting people know if that's so, but he ought to consider opening up a little more after the Charlie Spring case.

My partner Rafe swears Ellison is some sort of mutant, says he heard Blair lecturing him about genetics once. "Yeah, like maybe Jim got bit by a radioactive spider or something?" I teased him, first time he brought up that theory. And Rafe just looked mysterious and gave me some bullshit about the Army experimenting on its own soldiers.

While I chewed over the mystery one more time, Blair was still trying to calm his partner down. "Jim, it's not me, it's you I'm worried about --"

"Well then, you can stop worrying, because I can take care of myself. In fact, I can run the whole damn case by myself, if that's the way you want it." Ellison stormed out of the bullpen. He didn't stop for his jacket, so he had to be going somewhere in the building.

"Jim, no, wait --" The kid followed Jim to the elevator, protesting all the way. Par for the course with those two.

Captain Crimmons had warned me that morning that I would be losing the Bertolli case. Not that it bugged me or anything. For one, it wasn't really a Vice case at all, and I had more than enough to work on with all the busts and paperwork I went through in an average day. For another, who the hell cared if some candy-assed fag got himself bashed to death on the wrong side of town? Who even cared if it happened twice? Major Crime was welcome to the case, and if they got any further with it than I had I'd be damn surprised. Bet they didn't even have any snitches in that scene.

But what really rankled was that I was handing the case over to supercop Ellison and his fag student partner. Probably be expected to bow and lick their boots while I did it. Sandburg was a darling up in Major Crime, but hell if I could figure out why -- he must give 'em all blowjobs twice a week or something. The little jerk had been farting around the department since before I was a rookie, and he still didn't have the guts to do it right and go through the academy. Word was he couldn't even make it through an autopsy without passing out. And they all just coddled him and went on about what an asset he was. Asset, right. The word I would use started with the same three letters.

And Ellison wasn't a hell of a lot better. Yeah, he was a good cop -- the best in the city, to hear his worshippers tell it. And he knew it, and made every one of us pay whenever we had to speak to him. He snapped and snarled at everybody and gave orders he had no right to give, and Sandburg just wandered around behind him smiling like that would make it all better. The older hands in Vice still talked about what a self-centered glory-hound Ellison had been while he was in this division, and far as I could tell he'd just gotten worse.

Well, the Bertolli case should make a nice blotch on Ellison's record when he couldn't get anywhere with it.

The temporary captain up in Major Crime called down that her guys were on the way, and a few minutes later they showed up, all slick and dandy. Ellison had brought his boy-toy along.

"Margolis," the great man said. "I hear you have a case file for us." He never met my eyes, just glanced around the squadroom like I wasn't even important enough to look at.

"Yeah, it's right here." I checked out his little acolyte, panting up behind Ellison. Tense. Anxious. I hid a smile; here was a chance for some fun. Without asking Ellison if he wanted me to, I opened the file and pulled out the forensic photos. "Two bodies, six weeks apart, identical MO. First one was Bertolli, found in an alley off Green Street in January. Second one was Sadler, shot in a room in a cheap flophouse on Sixth and Green -- just a couple blocks away from the first."

The kid's eyes flickered down to the photos, and he sighed like he was relieved about something. "Shot?" he said, playing right into my hands. "There isn't much blood."

"That's cause it was all internal," I told him. "They got a .38 shoved up their asses and fired from inside. In Sadler's case the bullet bounced around inside the rib cage a couple times, basically tore him to pieces. Here's the autopsy report. We recovered the bullet, but it was too deformed for ballistics to get anything." I pretended not to notice that the kid was turning pale green. His flashy tie made it look even worse. I wished I had a camera.

"What about the other case?" Ellison asked. "Bertolli. You get a bullet there?"

I shook my head. "Never found. It exited somewhere around his throat. From the angle of the body, it coulda gone into the street, maybe hit a vehicle and got carried away. Somebody out there don't even know what they're driving around with."

The kid covered his mouth. "Excuse me," he muttered. "I have to, uh . . ." He headed for the john.

Ellison didn't even look up as he paged through the report. "Any witnesses?"

I couldn't keep my eyes from glancing at the papers in my inbox, but I said easily, "No and no. Few people heard the shots, but nobody saw nothing. First body was called in anonymously, second was found by the manager of the flophouse. We canvassed the whole area -- same old story, nobody knows shit."

"Yeah. Okay." Ellison put the photos back in and snapped the file shut. "Thanks, Margolis. I'll take it from here."

I couldn't help noticing that he didn't even wait for his little buddy before he got on the elevator. No wonder all the old hands called him a snob!

I made them for cops as soon as I saw them, but instead of bugging out down the street I hung out to watch. What can I say, they made me curious. Now, curious can be a good thing, if you're trying to supplement your income with a little blackmail. It can also be a bad thing if anyone catches you looking. And it's definitely not a good idea when there are cops around. But they were an unusual pair, and they caught my eye.

First of all was the big guy, sticking out like a sore thumb in his jacket and tie. Your basic bullet-head, except he'd gotten to that age where he was starting to grow it longer and slick it back to cover the bald spot. I'd seen his type before.

The little guy was harder to place. Long hair, slightly less conservative clothes than his partner -- he had the right look to be Vice, except I knew all the Vice crowd and he wasn't one. And he didn't do all that nervous staring around like most cops. Mostly, his attention was fixated on the big guy. If bullet-head hadn't screamed straight from every pore, I would've known what I was looking at. As it was, I couldn't be so sure.

The other weird thing was what they were doing. They started out in the alley between the thrift shop and the Happy Booker adult bookstore. There'd been a murder there a couple months before, but I couldn't see what they expected to find so long after the fact. Then they walked out to the edge of the street, and the little guy was waving his hands and talking a mile a minute. The big guy had his eyes closed, almost like he was meditating -- or maybe the little guy was hypnotizing him. Then bullet-head opened his eyes and walked straight across the street. He almost got creamed by the traffic, and I saw his partner turn white as a sheet. But then they were staring at the brick wall outside the comic shop, and the big cop had plastic gloves and a plastic bag, and he was digging something out of the wall with a knife.

Then he looked up and saw me.

I turned around and strolled the other way, perfectly casual, but a glance in the sporting goods window showed the big guy heading my way. I ran.

He was damn fast for his size. I know the Green Street hangouts like the back of my hand, but none of my doubling-back seemed to fool the guy. A couple of minutes, and he had me cornered in an alley.

"Oh come on, man," I begged, panting. "I don't have the money for bail this week. Come on, how about a little trade instead?"

"Wha'?" At least he was out of breath. The little guy finally caught up with us, skidding around the corner and nearly knocking his friend down.

"I'll give you a quick blow," I offered. "Both of you -- two for one special. Just don't take me in!"

It was the wrong thing to say. Bullet-head's face turned red and he grabbed me by the shirt. I got slammed up against the wall so hard my feet didn't touch the ground. "You little punk! You want me to add corrupting a public official on to resisting arrest and soliciting?"

"Jim. Jim! Hey, man, come on." It was the little guy, grabbing his partner's hands and trying to pull him off me. "Take it easy, Jim. Just -- just let me handle this, okay?"

"Sandburg . . ." growled Bullet-head.

"Just give me a minute, man, then you can try it your way." The little guy got himself between me and Bullet-head and shook my hand. "Hi, howya doing. I'm Blair Sandburg, this is Detective Ellison. We're with the Cascade PD."

"No, really?" I muttered, straightening my shirt.

"Really. But we're not from Vice. We're not interested in arresting you."

"Then why the hell did you chase me?"

Sandburg glared up at Ellison. "We just wanted to ask you some questions. You look like you know your way around here pretty good."

"I guess."

"Been hanging out here long?"

I decided to cut to the chase. "Is this about the murder in that alley you were checking out?"

He blinked. "Yeah. Yeah, it is. You know anything about that?"

"Just what everybody knows. A gay guy got killed and you pigs don't even care about it. Too busy bashing cruisers and hauling in anyone who smokes half a joint to worry about murder."

Bullet-head Ellison stepped forward, but Sandburg held up a hand to stop him. "Well, we care. We're not Vice, we're with Major Crime, and we definitely worry about murder. So can you tell us if anyone saw or heard anything around the time the guy was killed in that alley?"

I shrugged. "Me and maybe five, ten other people heard the gun go off, but nobody here's stupid enough to run towards gunfire. Other than that I don't know."

"You didn't see anyone running away from the alley or anything?"

"I was inside the toystore when I heard it."

"Toystore?"

I shrugged. "Bookstore. You know."

"Oh. Well, do you know who placed the anonymous 911 call?"

"Wasn't me. Coulda been anyone."

The little guy sighed, glancing at his impatient partner. "Okay, how about the boarding house down on Sixth? Can you tell me anything about that?"

"I heard another guy got shot. You think it's the same killer?"

Ellison pushed the smaller guy out of the way. "It could be, we're not sure. What's your name, kid?"

I gave him my sexiest grin. "Call me Rod."

He flushed. Phobes like him were so damn easy to bait. "Rodney --" he began.

"Just Rod," I corrected. "Rod Sterling."

Sandburg made a choked sound, then quickly straightened his face as the big guy turned to stare at him.

"Fine, Sterling. Listen, if you hear anything about possible witnesses, or you remember something you forgot to tell us, give me a call, okay?" Ellison held out a card, nearly dropping it to avoid touching my fingers. "And don't try to bribe any more police officers."

Sandburg hung back while his buddy stormed down the street like he'd like to bust every head there. "Hey, Rod!" the little guy said.

"Yeah?"

He held up a square foil packet. "You got all you need?"

Seeing it was a good brand, I shrugged. "Could always use more, I guess."

"Here you go. Play safe, okay?" And he was gone. That little guy wasn't half bad, for a cop.

I waited at the briefing room door as everyone filed in; I wanted to see this gay hero-cop I'd been hearing so much about lately. When he arrived, he was both a dream and a disappointment. Ellison was certainly gorgeous, even more so than his photos: broad shoulders tapering down to what had to be a really nice ass (I didn't walk around behind him to check it out, but it was a good bet). But he didn't read gay at all -- not the tiniest blip on my gaydar. The rumors were wrong; I was crushed.

Then his partner, Sandburg, walked in behind him, and I had to raise a hand to my mouth while I recovered myself. This one set all my alarms ringing. He had the loveliest hair, the most kissable lips . . . and his beautiful, liquid blue eyes were glued to Ellison. I saw the way the big hero paused in the doorway and checked out the room before moving aside the slightest bit to let his partner in. Ellison took stock of the situation and gestured which chair Sandburg should sit in. Protective and controlling -- hmm, maybe they really were a couple. Maybe I wasn't getting any vibes from Ellison because he simply wasn't interested in anyone else.

As they headed for their seats, I told myself that was enough staring. Liz knows about me, but I'm not ready to come out to the world yet. And if her advisors didn't even want her to admit she had a gay cousin, what would they say if one of her aides started flaming it up at briefings? Sure, they claimed the hush-up was just because Brian Sadler had died in rather sordid circumstances, but I know phobia when I see it.

I stepped forward and extended a hand. "Detective Ellison? Marc Pinchon -- I'm Governor Harris' aide."

He nodded and shook -- a strong, warm grip -- and took his seat. I did the same and started arranging the files I had brought with me. On one side of the table were myself, Liz, and Ellie Holm from Public Relations. On the other side were Liz's friend Captain Finkelman and the two lovebirds.

Liz finished the quiet conversation she'd been having with Ellie and gave the room her capable campaign-winning smile. "Detective Ellison, Mr. Sandburg, Sarah," she addressed them. "You've met everyone already? Good. Now, Ellie tells me I don't have much time before I have to be at the radio station, so let's get on with it. Marc has brought me up to speed on the basics of the two cases, at least as of a few days ago. Why don't you tell me what new information you've been able to find, Detective?"

Ellison cleared his throat. "Not much, unfortunately. We've covered a lot of the same ground Vice did after the first murder -- canvassing the neighborhood, talking to friends and relatives. Neither victim had a, um, committed relationship, and they weren't on the best of terms with their families either -- so we haven't been able to find anyone who knew them really well. What we have done mostly is try to eliminate the possibility that they were killed by someone close to both of them -- that's usually the first step in any murder investigation."

"And have you done that? Eliminated people close to them?"

"Mostly. They did have a number of acquaintances in common, but only on a casual basis. No romantic entanglements or business connections or anything else that usually provides a motive for murder."

Captain Finkelman spoke up. "Detective Ellison managed to recover the bullet from the first murder, which had been missed by Forensics when they went over the scene."

Liz frowned. "How did that happen? Wasn't Forensics thorough enough?"

Ellison winced. "The bullet had gone across the street, and it was almost invisible under the corner of a window-frame. Forensics estimated the trajectory and assumed it must have hit a passing vehicle and been carried away. Unfortunately, the bullet was soft- nosed. It was deformed by the impact with the brick wall, so we couldn't make a ballistic match to it, even if we had the murder weapon."

"Doesn't that mean it will be much harder to get a conviction?"

Ellison shared a glance with Finkelman. "At the moment, ma'am, we're more concerned with simply catching the killer." He fiddled with his files. "There's the possibility that there might be more murders if we can't solve this quickly."

"A serial murderer?" I said, appalled. Serial murders of gay men -- what was the world coming to?

Sandburg leaned forward. "It's possible," he said. "See, the, uh, method of killing was extremely violent -- indicating a lot of anger. If the killer wasn't actually personally connected to the victims, that means this anger must be broadly directed. He could start looking for other targets to express his rage."

Liz looked at him. "Are you a profiler, Mr. Sandburg?"

He flushed. "No, uh, but I do have a background in psychology."

"Sandburg did some work with a profiler on a serial case we had a few years ago," Ellison put in.

For some reason, all the color drained from Sandburg's face, and he took a sudden interest in the table top.

"I'd like to get an official opinion on that," Liz decided gravely. "And isn't there a database you can check to see if the MO matches cases from elsewhere in the country?"

Finkelman nodded. "We did check with VICAP, and didn't find any matches. It's not officially a serial case until three related murders have occurred, so it's too soon for the FBI to get involved yet. But I'll see about getting a profile drawn up."

"Rather than wait for another murder that no one wants to see happen," Liz said slowly, "what else are you doing to find the killer?"

Ellison responded. "We think our best course would be to find the other person present at the scenes. We think it may be the same person in both cases, which makes him a likely candidate for the killer."

Liz frowned. "What other person are you talking about?"

I winced. Having looked over the cases, I could guess what was coming.

Ellison cleared his throat nervously. "There's some evidence that the victims were . . . not alone."

"What evidence? Speak plainly, Detective."

"Well, ma'am -- in the first case, Mr. Bertolli was in an alley with his pants down in the middle of January. We presume there was some reason for that."

"Couldn't the killer have forced him to undress before shooting him?"

"Possibly. But there was only minor evidence of a struggle -- not the sort of extensive bruising we would expect if he was subdued enough for his pants to be pulled down."

"He could have been ordered at gunpoint," Liz suggested.

"Hmm." Ellison didn't believe that. "There's also the evidence from the other case. Your cousin hired a cheap room for one hour, despite having a perfectly nice home on the other side of town. In this case, Mr. Sadler was completely undressed when the murder occurred. And the manager says he didn't check in alone."

"Well, did you get a description?"

"Yes, ma'am, we were able to get descriptions both from the manager of the boardinghouse and from a witness who saw Bertolli speaking to a strange man shortly before the murder." He pushed two witness statements forward and indicated the relevant portions of each.

Liz studied the papers. "These sound like two completely different people! One is tall, muscular, crew-cut -- the other one is described as medium height and Hispanic, with short black hair."

"The descriptions are not entirely inconsistent," Finkelman said. "Different witnesses can give widely varying descriptions of the same person -- especially when it comes to height. The key will be if we can get the witnesses to pick a suspect out of a line-up."

"But you don't have any suspects yet," I objected.

"We're looking," Ellison returned. "We haven't finished covering the neighborhood yet. It's possible someone will recognize the descriptions, or know who was . . . working those particular areas."

Sandburg piped up. "A lot of the people in that neighborhood are more willing to talk to us than they would be to Vice officers. We might be able to find out a lot that the initial investigation missed."

Ellie whispered in the governor's ear, and Liz sighed. "Very well. It's time for me to leave now. Please keep me updated on your progress, and if possible I'd like to schedule another meeting next time I'm in town."

Since I didn't have to go to the radio station, I had a chance to speak to Ellison again after Liz and Ellie had left. "Thanks for meeting with us on such short notice," I told him. "Looks like you've made some progress on the case."

He shrugged, his jaw twitching. "No breakthroughs. This one's going to take a lot of legwork."

I nodded. "Listen, I really appreciate how tactful you were with Liz. Some of this stuff is pretty ugly, and with her cousin being involved -- well, I know sometimes cops look at things like this differently than us sheltered civilian types, but you were really good when you were talking about the details and all that. Thanks."

He just looked at me, and I had the impression that I had shrunk several inches. "Goodbye, Mr. Pinchon," he said. "I really should be getting back to that legwork."

Sandburg was revealed in the background as Ellison moved out of the way. The smaller man grinned at me apologetically and moved after his partner. So much for tact, I thought.

I tell you, it felt good to get home after a week in the hospital. I knew it wouldn't be more than a few days before I got sick all over again of looking at the same four walls, but at least this time they were my four walls.

All the guys from Major Crime pulled together to make sure everything was ready for me. Rafe and Brown set up the downstairs bedroom so I wouldn't have to worry about using the stairs. Ellison cleaned the house, which meant no self-respecting germ would show itself within a mile of the place for the next month. Taggert drove me home from the hospital, and when we arrived Sandburg was puttering around in the kitchen.

The kid stuck around after Taggert had settled me on the couch and said goodbye. At first I wondered if he thought I needed a babysitter . . . then I realized he wanted to talk. I could guess what about. I had already decided I'd have to do something to make his position in the department more official and less vulnerable; I only hoped it wouldn't cost me as many favors as keeping him on after that Golden incident had.

In typical Sandburg fashion, he talked about everything except what he really wanted to. First he brought me some juice and fussed over me. "I put your medicine on the bedstand," he said. "There's a pitcher of water there too, and plenty of juice in the refrigerator -- you need to drink lots of fluids. And I made some meals that will heat up easily in the microwave or on the stove. They're all labeled in the fridge so you know what you're getting. Lots of spinach to help you build up iron in your blood."

"Take it easy, Sandburg," I laughed. "I only lost a little piece of my liver, and the doctor says it regenerates itself."

"Yeah, well, you need to make sure your body has the building blocks. Now, the small TV is in your bedroom with the remote, and the portable phone is right by the bed too. If there's anything you need from upstairs, you tell me now and I'll go get it. You're not supposed to do stairs for another few days."

"I'll be fine, Sandburg. It's my house, I think I can find everything. Shouldn't you be with Jim?"

As I expected, that drove the kid to take the first step. "He doesn't need me just now. Look, Simon -- there's something I wanted to talk to you about."

I nodded. "Sandburg, if this is about your ride-along, Jim told me the whole story. I'll do something about that as soon as I get back -- you don't have to worry."

"Uh, yeah, that's great, Simon." He seemed distracted somehow.

"What would you say to an official consultant's position, with a stipend and a few benefits?"

He blinked. "Great. That's wonderful. If you can pull it off. But that's not what I wanted to talk about." Not exactly the fulsome gratitude I was expecting.

"Oh?" I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, realizing this was going to be even more complicated than I thought. Funny how a short car ride could really take it out of me. "Alright, what's wrong with Jim?"

Sandburg gave a guilty start. "What makes you think it's Jim?"

"You're worried enough that you can't even get excited about a little extra income? Has to be Jim."

"Uh, yeah, well -- you're right, actually." He sat gingerly on the edge of the armchair across from me. "It's this case Finkelman assigned Jim to. The Green Street murders."

I shook my head. "Haven't heard of 'em -- nobody's been telling me anything," I grumbled. "What murders?"

"Two gay guys were shot -- one in January, one about a week ago. We think they may have picked up the wrong date or something. It's . . . really messy."

"And?" I sighed.

"Well, you told me once that you had been warned not to assign Jim to certain cases . . ."

"Oh." I rubbed the space between my eyes. "Right. But that was years ago, when Jim was first assigned to Major Crime. He's come a long way since then. You don't think he can handle this?"

"He's really tense, Simon. He's not sleeping -- usually he gets eight hours a day like clockwork, but lately he's been staying up later than me. And . . ."

"What? Come on, Sandburg, spill it."

"Well, he's been a little harsh questioning some of the witnesses. I started trying to do some of the talking myself, but then we get into this good cop/bad cop thing."

"So maybe it's just an act. That's a proven method of interrogation."

"I think in this case it's personal. Something's upsetting Jim, but he has all his feelings locked down so tight I can't read him at all. And I get the impression if I ask him too many questions, he's going to explode. I don't know what to do, Simon!"

I sighed. I was really too tired to deal with this right now. But it might be nice to have a puzzle to work on for the next few days. "All right," I said. "I can't do anything until I get back to work -- that's next week at the earliest. But what I will do is go over Jim's file again and see if I can figure out what the problem is."

Sandburg nodded, clearly disappointed. "I guess that might help."

"You realize, this isn't going to be any easier for me than it is for you. Even if it's for Jim's own good, I'm going to have to find a reason to reassign the case -- something he won't take as a personal insult."

"You're right, I hadn't thought of that." Sandburg worried at a thumbnail. "If I could just get him to talk!"

"Maybe you should try getting him drunk," I suggested. "Worked once before."

"Yeah, and from what you told me he knew it was a plot the whole time. I don't think he'd play along like that again." Sandburg sighed.

"I think the best thing you can do is just be there. Jim's always easier when you're with him. I'm not sure even he realizes how much he needs you."

Sandburg blinked. "You think?"

"I know, Sandburg."

"Okay. I can do that. Be there for him. And maybe if I stick with it I can figure out what's wrong."

I nodded. "Just hang in there, Sandburg. I'll be back at work in a week or so, and we can try to work this out."

"Okay. Thanks, Simon. You need a shoulder to get to the bedroom?"

"I can walk by myself, Sandburg!" I tried to climb out of the soft couch and groaned. The kid gave me a hand without asking and hauled me to my feet. "Thanks," I grumbled unhappily.

"No problem, man. Just get better, okay? Major Crime really needs you."

I chuckled. "I bet." We said our goodbyes, and I hobbled off to bed shaking my head. Sandburg's a good kid, but I wouldn't want his job for the world.

I was checking out the comic store on Green Street, and I found an issue of Daredevil from the Frank Miller era. Mint condition. I was so excited, my tongue did itself all up in knots just like it used to before I did all that speech therapy. I couldn't haggle with the dealer and bring the price down. But that was okay, because Roy Williams had come up in the world lately. I didn't need to be worrying about money. I gave the dealer a nice crisp C-note and walked out of that store with my prize wrapped in plastic and paper.

When I got out on the street, I took a moment to enjoy the view. Folks around that neighborhood don't mind if a man likes to look at a nice tight ass. Like the one a block down the street. Long wavy white-boy hair and a shirt that was too damn baggy, but I could get an idea of what was under those jeans whenever he moved. And he moved a lot, swaying and bouncing and waving his hands around while he talked. Reminded me of . . . and then he turned his head, and my eyes just about popped out.

"Blair!" I yelled, jogging after him. "Yo, Sandburg!"

He turned and his chin dropped down. A big shit-eating grin spread over his face. "Roy?" And his arms opened right up.

Damn, he was good to hold on to. Warm and sweet-smelling just like I remembered -- wholesome as fresh-baked bread. And his lips were even prettier than last time I saw him, way too juicy for a white man. They sent a shiver down my spine just looking at them. I had to let him go before I did something I didn't have the right to do anymore, especially in public. "You're looking great, Blair!" I told him. "I love the hair -- it's you, man."

"I look great?" he yelped. "What about you? You're like at the top of your form! I've been reading about you everywhere -- hell, your last fight was on ESPN."

The guy he'd been talking to started to slink away down the street, and I frowned when I got a good look at him. Why would a smart guy like Blair Sandburg be dealing with a two-bit Green Street hustler?

He was still talking a mile a minute. I remembered I never had to worry about keeping up the conversation around Blair. "You're back in town for the match with Gonzales, right? Oh man, that is going to be some fight -- I tried to get tickets, but they were sold out."

"I can get you a ticket," I offered. "Front row, if you like."

"You're shitting me," he said, his eyes going wide.

"I'll tell the ticket office to reserve one for you."

"Oh, wow! Could -- I mean, I shouldn't ask, but . . ."

I laughed. "Okay, two tickets, for you and the companion of your choice." I pronounced the words carefully. "Just give me the name."

"Ellison. Jim Ellison. Oh, man, is he going to be surprised when I tell him about this!" His face lit up.

I looked after the guy just disappearing around a corner. "Hey Blair, my friend, I gotta ask . . . why you down here talking to a ten dollar hustler? I know it ain't 'cause you can't get a date."

"Oh!" The kid had the cutest shade of blushes. "It's not like that -- I mean . . ."

"Yeah, lemme guess. One of them scholarly studies you always doing?"

"Well, not exactly. It's kind of complicated."

I looked at him real close. "You are still in anth'pology, ain't you?" I still couldn't get my tongue around that damn word, but Blair never bothered about the way I talk. He never assumed I was stupid just because I couldn't speak right, and he's the one that persuaded me to try that speech therapist I went to for two years.

"Oh, yeah! I finished my masters. I'm working on my doctorate now," he said proudly.

"All right! I knew you could do it, man!" I gave him the high five.

Just then a big white guy came up and clapped Blair on the shoulder. "Wrap it up, Chief. We're going to be late for that meeting with Simon."

"Uh, right. Sorry, Jim."

Jim frowned at me, and I stared right back. He was a light heavyweight, solid muscles, a good stance -- and very possessive. He checked out Blair's reaction and decided I wasn't a threat. "Well, don't waste time." And he was heading up the street before I could say anything.

"So that's Jim?" I asked.

"Yeah. I can't believe he didn't recognize you, man. But I guess duty calls."

The guy didn't look like an anthropologist, but I wasn't even going to try and ask that question. "Listen, I'm busy the next coupla days -- you know, training for the fight and all -- but why don't you bring him on back to the locker room after the fight and introduce us? Then maybe you and me can have lunch sometime and talk."

"That'd be great! Oh, man, I can't wait to see his face. I'm going to clean up on this fight of yours, I know it!"

I grinned at him. "I'll leave your name with security."

A big redneck pickup that had to be older than me came roaring up to the curb next to us, and Jim gave Blair an impatient look from the driver's seat.

"I'll see you in a few days, Roy." Blair gave me another hug. "I am so glad we ran into each other!"

"You take care of yourself," I told him. "Don't let Jim push you around, you hear?"

He just laughed and climbed into the truck. I could see him telling his friend something as they drove away. Blair didn't seem too worried about making the big guy angry -- probably had Jim wrapped around his finger.

Damn, I missed that boy!

Three days in the hospital, and I was sick of those damn white walls. Sick of soap operas and talk shows. Sick of having a hole in my body, especially an infected one. Sick to death of the hurt in Sharita's eyes and knowing my brother was gone forever.

The last thing I wanted was to talk to that Sandburg dude again, but he just had to come around with his good news. I was only going to be on probation for the rest of my life and have to get some white man's permission every time I wanted to leave town for a few days. I wasn't going to be able to get a job with that hanging over my head, and I sure as hell wouldn't be in any shape for fighting or even coaching when I got out of this hospital bed. And Sandburg looked like he expected me to throw off the covers and dance for joy.

I looked at the big cop that was always hanging out with Sandburg. "So this is your new boyfriend, huh? Was he straight too, before you got him hooked on you?"

The big guy took a step forward, but Sandburg just stared at me. Maybe a little pale, but not backing down. What the hell did it take to make this dude leave me alone?

"Roy was always gay," he said softly. "I know that's hard for you to accept, Jamie. But if you had understood that about Roy, you would have known he'd never try to take Sharita from you."

I felt about ready to puke. "My brother," I told him real slow, "was on his way to becoming the next world champion. He was not some ass-fucking fairy, at least not before you come around!"

Sandburg tried to speak, but I plowed right on over him.

"But you like 'em that way, don't you? You hafta take a big tough straight man and prove you can make him want you. You like him to hold you down, huh Sandburg? You like him to do it to you hard and rough 'til you scream?"

He went paler and his soft white fists clenched up, then he just turned and walked out of the room. Finally! But that left me alone with the big guy, who looked about ready to tear me into bits. I told myself he was a cop, he wouldn't hurt a man in a hospital bed. Anyways, it didn't matter much. It wasn't like I could hurt worse than I already did.

"That man," he said, real angry, pointing at the door Sandburg just left through, "was the only one who stood up for you. He's the only one who believed you were innocent when the rest of the Cascade PD was ready to take you in for murdering your brother. And it's because of him that you're not going straight to prison on counterfeiting charges when you leave this hospital."

I shook my head. "I never asked for no favors, man. And now you telling me I'm supposed to be grateful to some little cocksucker who hangs out with the same cops that tried to put three bullets in me? Yeah, like maybe when they get some glaciers down in hell."

Just as the cop was about to put me out of my misery, Sharita came in the door. "Jamie!" she yelled. "What did you say to Mr. Sandburg? His hand's all bloody because he just tried to punch a hole in the wall."

The cop swore and charged out of the room without saying a word to Sharita. Then it was my turn to get scolded and have her try to force some of that shit they call food down my throat. Sharita was the best thing that ever happened to me, and I knew she'd probably leave once she realized I wouldn't be getting the money Roy thought he left me. Roy got paid in counterfeit cash -- there was no knowing what would be left when the feds were done with it.

I knew what they all said was probably right. I shouldn't have been so hard on that Sandburg dude just for trying to help me. But the last time I tried to do the right thing I got my brother killed, and no amount of being sweet and polite was going to bring him back. I was sick of people telling me how to feel and what to say. Sick of hospital food. Sick of living.

He woke in a bare white room, sprawled half across a urine- stinking mattress. He was naked. His head throbbed where the tire iron had come down, and his gut where they had punched and kicked him. One eye was swollen shut and his lips were stiff with blood. And there were other, unfamiliar pains -- a cramp low in his belly and a sandpapery burning behind. He found small bruises peppering his hips when he tried to twist around, and a fresh rusty stain on the mattress.

Shit. What had they done while he was unconscious? Vague memories of gripping hands and stabbing pains haunted him, blurred by concussion. What more would they do when they found him awake? They hadn't bothered to hide their faces, so they weren't planning to leave any witnesses. Would they film it like the death of that teenaged boy? How much could they rake in from a snuff film of a cop? And what else would the movie show before he died?

His heart fluttered like a trapped bird, and he looked around for a way to escape. Window. Boarded over, but maybe he could break through. His feet were tied together, his hands bound behind him, but he managed to move, inching across the floor like a caterpillar.

He had blackening bruises on his knees from falling down again and again as he pulled at the boards with his bound hands, using his entire body for leverage. Splinters stung his fingers, and his feet ran red from kicking the glass out of the pane.

The window was two stories above the ground, and he couldn't control his landing if he was tied up. Couldn't run with broken ankles, or a broken neck. Another delay, and deep cuts sliced his wrists as he tried to part the ropes with a shard of glass. He could make it. He could make it.

Where the hell was his backup? Should have been here a long time ago -- he'd missed his check-in last night, they had to know he was in trouble.

Then the door burst open, and they were standing over him in a circle, laughing. Hands grabbed and rolled him over on his face.

It's a dream.

Rough fingers pried his legs apart and probed at his tender flesh.

It's just a dream. You've had it before. Wake up.

They laughed harder as he sobbed into the concrete floor, praying for someone, anyone to stop them.

You're only dreaming this because of what Jamie said to Sandburg yesterday.

Abruptly, he was floating up near the ceiling, watching them bend over their victim. Watching one of them pull down his pants and start pumping lewdly. Hearing the victim's cries . . . familiar cries . . . seeing long curls spread across the filthy floor, matted with blood. Watching them step back, and press a gun inside the writhing form, and pull the trigger --

Finally, I woke up. The sheets were drenched with sweat, and my heart pounded as if I'd just chased a perp two miles on foot. But there was no echo among the rafters, and Sandburg's sleep downstairs was undisturbed. I hadn't screamed.

I scrubbed a hand over my face, reminding myself of the reality. You escaped. They never came back. You got out of there, and it only cost you two days in the hospital. You're not in Vice anymore. It will never happen again.

Fine, as far as it went. But I wouldn't be going back to sleep tonight.

I had my trick drop me off in front of the Happy Booker, since that was a good place to make pick-ups. I was leaning casually against the wall, appreciating the warmer weather, when a shadow fell across the sidewalk in front of me.

When I saw who it was, I groaned. "Don't you guys have anything better to do than chase away my customers?"

The little guy -- Blair, wasn't it? -- just smiled at me. "Well, we're still working on that case."

"Right," I snorted. "It's been, like, more than three weeks since that guy was killed at the flophouse, and you still can't find your asses with both hands. You haven't even talked to Dizzy yet."

"Who's Dizzy?" he asked blankly.

"Oh, please. I know what's going on here. You guys don't even care what happens in this neighborhood; you're just harassing us so we'll go mess up somebody else's town."

With a move so quick I didn't even see it, Bullet-head shoved me up against the wall. "Answer the question," he growled. "Who's Dizzy and why should we talk to him?"

I glanced desperately at Blair, expecting him to call off his pit-bull, but the little guy just looked at me earnestly. "Come on, Rod. If we're going to find the killer, we need you to cooperate."

"Well then, bug Dizzy, not me!" I yelled, trying to squirm free. "He saw the guy!"

"He saw the killer?" Bullet-head was right in my face. "When?"

"At the flophouse. You know this, man! The cops questioned him for hours the next day."

Blair looked confused. "That wasn't in the file."

Bullet-head pulled away so fast I almost fell down. "Give me his name. His real name."

"I don't know! He just goes by Dizzy around here."

"And the guys from Vice questioned him?"

"They had him at the station all day."

"Shit!" Bullet-head spun around and paced the sidewalk.

"Do you know where we could find Dizzy?" Blair asked.

"No, the cops scared him so bad he left town."

"Then how do you know we haven't talked to him?"

"You just said so!" I yelled.

Blair held up his hands. "Take it easy, Rod. I'm not trying to lead you into a trap or anything here. Almost the first thing you said to us was that we hadn't spoken to Dizzy yet. How did you know that?"

Bullet-head was taking an interest again, staring at me like he could suck the information right out of my brain. I decided to keep looking at Blair, since he was less disturbing.

I shrugged. "Okay, I might have heard from him. He wanted to know if the cops were looking for him, and I said no."

Blair took a deep breath. "Look, man. If you hear from Dizzy again, tell him we need to talk to him. Just talk. We're not out to get him; we're looking for a murderer. He doesn't even need to come to the station. Okay? Will you tell him that?"

"Whatever."

"Please. It's important. You still have the card with Jim's number?"

Bullet-head grabbed his partner's shoulder. "Come on, Chief. Margolis has some explaining to do."

"Just a minute, man. Um, you wanna go get the truck? I need to talk to Rod for a second here."

"Sandburg, if you have to pay for it --"

Blair whapped the bigger guy on the stomach with the back of his hand. "Go on. It'll just take a minute." He turned to me. "Is there anything I can do for you, Rod?"

"Yeah, keep your partner off my case," I snarled.

"He won't bug you. But that isn't what I meant."

I rolled my eyes. I could see it coming a mile away.

"You look like a smart guy, Rod. You should be in school, getting a diploma. Why are you doing this?"

"It pays better. And there's no income tax," I returned sourly.

"But it's dangerous. I'm sure you could get a good job --"

"I'm an illegal immigrant on the run from the INS," I snapped. "Can't work without a green card."

He laughed. "Funny, you don't look like you're from Mexico."

"Look man, what am I supposed to say?" I couldn't tell him I was waiting to reach eighteen before I got a job. I couldn't tell him that my folks were probably still looking for me, but if they found out I was gay they'd be happy I was gone. I couldn't tell him that I had thought my first trick was just a really hot date until he stuffed money in my pocket. "I've heard it all before, okay? I'm careful and I make good money, and it's not like I blow it all on drugs either. I'm saving up, and someday I'm going to get out of this scene. I know what I'm doing, so save the lecture, all right?"

Blair sighed. "All right. But if you ever get in trouble, or if you need somebody to put in a good word for you, call me, okay?"

I shook my head. "You're crazy, man. You don't even know me!"

"Just keep my number, all right? That's all I ask." A truck honked on the street behind him, and Blair dashed away.

That ruined my mood pretty effectively. No way I was in the right frame of mind for cruising, so I went back to my room above the sporting-goods store until evening. I didn't want to run into any more cops or do-gooders out to save my soul.

I was down in Vice talking with Barbara after we got back from lunch, when suddenly she made a sour face. "Here comes Ellison," she said.

I looked over toward the elevators. Detective Ellison had just stepped off, with Blair right behind him, and they were heading this way.

"Doesn't it bother you, having to work with him every day?" Barbara whispered. "I mean, I've heard stories about what he was like when he was with Vice . . ."

"Ellison?" I said, watching him prowl around the empty desks. "He's not bad. He always remembers to say please and thank you when I do anything for him."

"Well, he should!" she hissed. "You're supposed to be working for Banks, not him!"

"Oh, but you can't expect mere detectives to handle something complicated and intellectual like printing and faxing."

She giggled along with me. "But he seems so cold!"

"Oh, not really. A little temperamental, maybe. I admit it would be nice if he would, you know -- notice me. Most of the time it's like his mind is somewhere else entirely. But I suppose I should expect that, since he's . . . well, taken."

"Doesn't that bother you?" She gestured toward the two men, conferring within a couple of inches of each other.

"Seems like a waste of two good men, doesn't it?" I shrugged philosophically. "But they do make a lovely couple. Anyway, Blair's a sweetie, and Ellison has been much more mellow ever since they got together."

"Shh!" Barbara hissed suddenly, as Ellison turned our way.

"Hi, Rhonda," he said with a brief smile and that gaze that looked right through me. "Um . . ." He looked at Barbara and hesitated.

Blair leaned in behind Ellison, and I saw his lips move, but there was no sound.

". . . Barbara," said Ellison with relief. "Do you know where Detective Margolis is? Is he on a case?"

She shook her head. "Not so far as I know. He should be back from lunch any time. Would you like me to give him a message?"

"Just that I was looking --"

"Jim," Blair murmured softly, looking toward the doorway.

Jim followed the observer's gaze. "Margolis!" he called sharply.

The detective stopped by his desk. "Ellison," he said with an unpleasant sneer. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"That file you gave us on the Sadler case was incomplete."

His eyebrows went up in exaggerated surprise. "It was? What a shame. I wonder how that happened?"

Anyone could see he was lying -- he wasn't even trying to hide it. I exchanged glances with Barbara, who was frowning.

Ellison stabbed a finger at the other man's chest. "Listen, buster, I oughtta call IA on you for concealing evidence and obstructing an investigation. You said there weren't any witnesses to the murders!"

Margolis didn't look worried. "No reliable witnesses. This kid is a dope-head. It took us hours to get anything out of him, and I'm still not sure he was telling the truth."

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?" Ellison said evenly. "Where's the statement?"

"He wouldn't sign a statement."

"The interrogation record, then!"

Margolis sighed elaborately. "I suppose it must be around here somewhere." He started digging through the piles of paper on his desk. "You know, Ellison, it took you long enough to figure out there was something missing. I guess you're not making much progress on the case?" He glanced up and smirked.

"Hey man, maybe if you'd been straight with us from the start --" Blair put in.

Margolis stood up. "Oh, I'm always straight. Unlike you, you little fag. What is this, Ellison, you're letting your pretty boy do the fighting for you now?"

Barbara and I gasped as Ellison rushed forward, grabbed Margolis by the throat, and pinned him to a pillar. Margolis tried to pinch his attacker's wrists, but he was already turning purple and weakening visibly. Blair was right in the middle of it, calling Jim's name and trying to persuade him to let go.

"What the HELL is going on here?" bellowed a new voice. Captain Crimmons was standing in the doorway.

Margolis nearly sagged down to the floor as he was abruptly released.

"Ellison, you'd better have a damned good explanation for attacking one of my men!" Crimmons yelled.

Ellison was panting, probably from anger more than exertion. "He was concealing evidence in a case I'm working on."

"So you try to strangle him? I've heard about you, Ellison, and your prima donna moods. Captain Marsh may have put up with it when you worked Vice under him, but you damn well better keep it out of my division."

Ellison closed his eyes briefly. "Fine, sir," he said through gritted teeth. "If you'd just persuade your detective to give me the report I need, I'll be out of your hair."

Wheezing slightly, Margolis went back to searching his desk. He grabbed up a sheaf of papers and shoved them against Ellison's chest, staggering him back a few steps. Ellison tensed, but Blair put a hand on his shoulder and murmured something, and the detective relaxed infinitesimally. "Thank you," he said in tones that sent a chill up my spine. He turned to go, ushering Blair in front of him.

"Banks will be hearing about this, you can count on that!" Crimmons called as the men from Major Crime disappeared through the door.

Barbara and I shared astonished looks. Just wait until the grapevine heard about this one!

"Jim, you got a minute?" I asked.

He hesitated, jacket half on. "I was just about to head home for the night."

"Let me rephrase that. I need to speak to you in my office, Detective."

He sighed and shrugged his jacket off, replacing it on the stand. "If this is about my disagreement with Margolis . . ." he began, following me into my office.

I shut the door on the curious gazes. "From what I've heard, 'disagreement' is an understatement."

He put his hands behind his back and stared straight ahead. "Sir, Margolis was concealing evidence in the Sadler murder. If he'd handed it over when we first got the case, we could have stopped a witness from leaving town. We could have had the murderer in custody weeks ago!"

"And this is supposed to excuse you assaulting a fellow officer?"

"He was deliberately trying to get a rise out of me, sir."

"Well, it sounds like he succeeded."

"You can ask Sandburg what happened. Or Rhonda -- she was there."

"I've already spoken to Rhonda, and she agrees that you were provoked. But Crimmons claims you were trying to strangle the man when he arrived."

"I didn't hurt him, sir. I was just trying to, to . . ."

"Yes?"

"Okay. I admit -- I lost my temper and went a little overboard. But if IA is going to suspend me, I'll have to let them know about Margolis' disappearing witness report."

"Crimmons has already agreed that no charges will be pressed if you promise not to pursue the matter." I watched his reaction closely. "You'd have a hard time proving it was deliberate, anyway."

He blew out a long, controlled breath. "Is that all, sir?"

"No. I was thinking, maybe you should hand this case over to Rafe."

Surprised, Jim actually looked at me instead of the wall behind me. "What? Why?"

This was the hard part. Maybe I should have waited until Sandburg was around to back me up. "You've been under a lot of strain lately --"

"What strain?"

"And you're juggling other cases --"

"I've had one murder and a string of robberies in the last three weeks, aside from this investigation -- that's hardly an overload. There are cops in this precinct working half a dozen cases at once!"

"I know, and it's not going to happen to my men. Look, Jim, you know you haven't been getting anywhere with this. Maybe a fresh perspective --"

"Sir, the case has already been handed off once already. If we bounce it again, the governor is going to think we're not treating the murder of her cousin seriously!"

He had a point there. Sandburg hadn't mentioned the governor's involvement when he brought this to my attention.

"Anyway, I think we're close to a breakthrough. If we can just track down this witness . . . he was the hustler Sadler took to the flophouse. He said a big muscleman in a ski mask came to the room with a gun, and offered him the chance to leave or die with his john. So he ran. And after Vice spent a whole day putting him through the wringer, he skipped town. But if we can find him, and persuade him to cooperate --"

"That's a big if, Jim."

"It's the first solid lead we've gotten, sir! His description matches one from the first murder case, and it sounds like he'd be able to recognize the guy's voice if he heard it again. Two witnesses, sir! With a little more work, we can nail this bastard."

I rubbed my temples. "All right. Stick with it. But I reserve the right to reassign the case if I think it's necessary."

"Of course, Simon. You're the boss." Jim smirked and left the room.

Damn. I knew I should have gotten Sandburg to help me on this one. No matter how much this case might be bothering Jim -- and his blow-up in Vice today showed me just how true that was -- he would fight me tooth and nail if I tried to pull him off it.

An hour later I got a call about a body at Rainier, which gave me an idea. Anything involving the university was a case for Ellison and Sandburg. While they were working on that, I'd quietly set Rafe to work finding the missing witness. Maybe I could sneak the Green Street murders out of Ellison's grasp. I told dispatch to give Ellison a call, and headed out to my car.

I sat on the back gate of the ambulance while the EMTs cleaned the cuts on my face and assessed my head injury. Jimmy stood back out of the way, but kept me in sight at all times. I noticed him frowning at the questions I was asked, or maybe the way I answered. It made me nervous. Didn't he realize there were other policemen all around us? One of them might notice Jimmy hearing more than he should, and what would happen to him then?

The long-haired young man who had assisted me out of the woods hovered around the edges of the scene. At one point, he climbed right into the ambulance behind me and dug a cold pack out of one of the cabinets without even asking. The EMTs paid him no mind; perhaps he was with them. The boy activated the cold pack and grabbed Jimmy's hand, wrapping it around the bruised knuckles while he spoke in a low voice that I couldn't make out. Jimmy didn't seem to be annoyed by the presumption.

They wanted to take me to the hospital, but I wouldn't let them strap me onto the gurney. All I wanted was to go home and rest, maybe talk to my son again. He had left so hastily earlier that I never had a chance to explain.

"Sir," said the girl who'd bandaged my cuts, "you've had a blow to the head."

"I don't have a concussion," I said irritably. "You said my pupils looked fine."

"Yes, but head injuries are very unpredictable. If swelling develops later --"

"I tell you, I'm fine, and I don't need a doctor."

She sighed. "All right, but we'll need you to sign a form stating that you're aware that you may need further medical care, but you're declining transport to the hospital."

"Just give me a pen," I said, too weary to snap. "Jimmy, I want to go home. Did you find Sally? Did that man hurt her?"

"She was just frightened," he told me. "She'll be glad to see you. Are you sure you're all right?"

I didn't bother to answer that, just signed the form where they told me to and stepped down from the ambulance. Jimmy took my arm gently, offering his support, and I was enough of a weak old man to be grateful for it.

The big black man who had been barking orders materialized next to us. "C'mon Jim, I'll give you a ride," he said in a softer tone.

Jimmy nodded. "Dad, this is my boss, Captain Banks. Simon, my father -- William Ellison."

I looked up at the tall form as I shook his hand. "Yes, I've seen you in the papers." Privately, I was wondering why this man outranked my son. He hardly seemed much older, and he hadn't had as many successes or awards. Maybe he'd been promoted because of some affirmative action quota.

Jimmy handed me into the front seat of the black man's sedan, then climbed into the back next to the long-haired boy. I frowned, but decided the youngster must be some sort of aide to the captain. When we were let off in front of my house a few blocks away, Jimmy invited Banks to come in, but the black man said he had to get back to the station. The hippie, on the other hand, stepped right out of the car and followed us up the front walk.

As we entered the house I turned to the young man. "I'm sorry -- if you told me your name, I didn't catch it."

He smiled. "Right, we were a little preoccupied back there. I'm Blair Sandburg." He stuck out a hand. "Jim's partner."

"Are you supposed to be learning about detective work from my son?" The boy hardly looked like police material.

"Actually, I'm an anthropologist. I'm studying the police as a closed society. I ride with Jim as an observer."

I frowned and turned to my son. "Shouldn't you be teamed with a real officer, Jimmy?"

My son pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sandburg is the best partner for me, Dad. He understands what's going on with me, and he helps me use my senses."

I took a closer look at the boy, who was staring wide-eyed at my son. "Jim . . ." he began.

"He knows, Chief. He always knew." And Jimmy walked away from both of us, calling for Sally as he headed toward the kitchen.

The boy gaped at me. "You knew? About his enhanced senses? I mean, back when he was just a kid?"

I frowned. "He wasn't very good at keeping it secret. I had to work hard to keep the rest of the world from finding out. And you say he confided in you?"

The boy shrugged. "Well, I know a lot about sensory enhancement; I've been studying it for years."

"I see," I returned, wondering what drugs this young man must have sampled in the course of his 'studies'.

"Perhaps you can tell me -- the theory is that enhanced senses may be genetic. Does anyone else in your family --"

"There's nothing like that in my line," I returned sharply. "If it's hereditary, it must be from his mother's side." I shook my head, trying to banish the image of my brother in a straitjacket, staring blankly into space. That was just shell shock from his time in Korea; the doctors had said so.

"Hey, Chief." Jimmy stuck his head around from the kitchen door. "Come in here and meet Sally. She's been with the family since I was about seven."

I could hear the boy's voice as he entered the kitchen: "Mrs. Choi, I'm glad to meet you. Jim's told me a little about you. I . . . didn't really have the chance to get to know Danny, but from what I saw he seemed like a fine officer."

I frowned; Danny Choi had died years ago. How long had this hippie been tagging after my son? And that bit about a 'fine officer' was guff. Jimmy was a much better detective than Danny had any hope of being. My son really should have been promoted a long time ago.

I had never been comfortable in the kitchen, so I wandered into the den and tried to straighten up the mess in there. That maniac had torn up my scrapbook with all the pictures of Jimmy in it. Some he had used to form a message on the desk; others he had simply ripped up. I collected the pieces sadly and set them aside with the scrapbook to be salvaged later.

Jimmy carried in a tray of coffee. It was more than welcome; the excitement of the day was starting to wear on me. I held the cup with two hands to conceal my slight trembling. "Where's your young, erm, partner?" I asked.

"He's helping Sally make dinner," Jimmy replied as he poured himself a cup.

"Why?" I asked in bafflement.

Jimmy just looked at me a moment, as if waiting for me to realize something that I had missed. Then he shook his head. "She's pretty upset, and she could use the distraction. Anyway, he probably wants to pump her for stories about when I was a kid."

I frowned. "That doesn't bother you?"

He shrugged. "Sometimes. When he gets wrapped up in the whole research thing and wants to run tests on me --"

"Tests?" I was appalled. "You mean he studies you like some sort of specimen?"

Jimmy glanced sideways at me. "He helps me, Dad. If it wasn't for him, I don't know what I'd do. Probably be in the funny farm by now."

Joe's glassy gaze flashed again in my memory, and I flinched. "Don't be ridiculous," I said huskily. "There's nothing wrong with you."

"Not wrong, just different." He surged to his feet, pacing restlessly. "That's what you couldn't face, isn't it, Dad? But don't you see -- shoving it all down just makes it worse. Trying to ignore my senses has almost gotten me killed, more than once."

"Son, I just didn't want you to endanger yourself, your future --"

He whirled to face me. "You were wrong. What you did -- that was what endangered me. And you too, in the end. You tried to tell me that because of my 'lies' they wouldn't find Bud's killer. Well, they ignored what I told them and arrested the wrong man, and two more innocent people are dead today -- three, counting Hollow's suicide."

"Jimmy!" I entreated. "I know I made mistakes, but I meant it for the best --"

"Road to hell, Dad." Jimmy's face was so stern, it might have been carved from stone. He really did look like my brother Joe before the war. There was almost no resemblance there to the eager child I remembered so well.

At that moment, the young hippie burst in. "Dinner will be ready in just a couple minutes," he said, smiling broadly. He looked at Jimmy, who still had not moved, and the smile faded. "Jim?" He was at my son's side in two swift steps, touching Jimmy's arm tentatively.

My son stirred slowly and turned to his little friend. "We're fine, Chief. We'll be right there."

The boy said something too softly for me to hear, but the concern was clear on his face. He glanced at me as if I were some threat that Jimmy must be protected from.

My son shook his head. "No, we'll stay a little longer. I want to check Dad's pupil reactions and wash up, then we can have dinner."

Satisfied, the young man headed back to the kitchen without even speaking to me.

"Pupil reactions? Jimmy, I told you my head is fine."

"Look out the window, Dad."

I glanced out at the setting sun. "Is there something out there?"

"No, nothing. I'll come to dinner in a minute." And he was gone, leaving me staring after him in complete puzzlement.

When I went to sit at the dining table, there were four places set. I looked up just as young Sandburg pushed through the door from the kitchen with a steaming tureen.

"Homemade cream of celery," he announced. "Smells great, doesn't it? And mango chicken on the way."

"Why are there four place-settings?" I asked. I knew Jimmy had been in touch with Steven in the past year; would he be joining us?

"I asked Sally to sit with me so I could keep asking her some questions."

I frowned. No one would be discussing my son's abnormalities at my table. "She doesn't normally eat in the dining room when we have guests."

"Oh, but she shouldn't be alone just now, don't you think? She was pretty shaken up about that guy breaking in." He snapped his fingers suddenly. "Right, and she told me to ask you what you'd like to drink with dinner."

"A little wine," I murmured, taken aback.

"Umm. That might not be a good idea with that head injury, you know? How about some lemonade instead?" And he was gone before I could contradict him. What an impertinent young man!

Fortunately, he was reasonably well-behaved during the meal, though he did chatter on. He tried to draw Sally out, asking her about Jim's favorite meals, but she was too uneasy about eating with company to talk much. He addressed me only briefly, saying that I must be proud of my son for all his accomplishments in the police. Jimmy stared resolutely at his plate the whole time, while I concentrated on trying to cut the chicken into small enough pieces to get past my swollen lips.

"That pulled muscle still bugging you, Jim?" the boy asked suddenly.

I glanced at my son just as he dropped a hand from his shoulder. "It's okay," he said.

"You probably made it worse, tackling that guy like you did today. We'll put some ice on it when we get home," the boy promised.

Jimmy murmured something in response, but I didn't hear it beyond the horrified surprise burning in my ears. I stared at the two of them -- sitting across the table from one another, but with their gazes locked intimately. "You live with my son?" I croaked.

The boy's eyes went round. "It's not what you're thinking --" he began.

Jimmy held up a hand. "Let me handle this, Chief. Dad, I told you, Blair takes care of me. If you have a problem with that, we can leave right now."

Silence, while I contemplated the threat. I hadn't seen or spoken to my son in more than fifteen years, and he was telling me that he would willingly return to his exile. But was I supposed to condone such an unnatural lifestyle as he implied? How long had this been going on?

My son simply watched me with Joe's grave expression. His -- friend -- sat perfectly still as if expecting an explosion. Sally began to collect plates, making herself invisible.

The silence extended for another minute, and Jimmy pushed his seat back. "Right. Come on, Chief."

The hippie practically leaped from his seat, and Jimmy conducted the boy through the door with a hand on his back.

"No! Jimmy, wait!"

He turned back. "Dad, if you really want to do this reconciliation thing, you're going to have to accept me as I am."

I looked towards the young man waiting near the front door. "Jimmy," I whispered, "I don't know what you've gotten involved in, but I don't think that boy is a good influence on you."

His jaw tightened. "As I am, Dad. Senses and all. That includes the friend who's helping me with those senses."

I swallowed. He hadn't mentioned the other thing I suspected. What did that mean? If they lived together, if this boy had been with Jimmy long enough to have met Danny Choi, there must be something going on. "Give me time," I pleaded. "I -- I have to -- to think about it. Get used to the idea."

He nodded slowly. "All right. I'll call you later."

Before he left my sight it occurred to me that this might be a false front, a show of rebellion just like when he was a teenager. I spoke quickly. "Jimmy. You don't have to prove anything to me. I'm proud of you, really. I always was."

That made him pause a second. "Thanks, Dad," he said at last. "But you're a little late. I don't have anything to prove to you anymore. Goodnight."

I watched him follow his hippie friend down the front walk, and wondered where I had gone so wrong in raising him.

We had thrown out the peas the other night, so I tossed Jim a packet of corn. He draped it over his shoulder and sat on the couch with a groan, trying to find a comfortable position.

I leaned against the kitchen island. "So, uh, Jim . . . why did you do that? You know, let your Dad think that we're . . ." I rolled my fist.

"Because denying it wouldn't have helped any." He sounded weary, resigned.

"Steven believed us."

"Dad isn't Steven. He'll believe whatever he wants."

I considered. Jim was tired, but didn't seem annoyed. I ventured a suggestion. "We could invite him over sometime. You know, maybe if he sees the living arrangements. . ."

"I don't think so, Chief. He'd probably spend all his time complaining about the neighborhood."

"What's wrong with the neighborhood?" I asked blankly. It wasn't exactly a high crime area, and it was on several bus routes. It was nicer than most places I'd lived, anyway.

Jim just snorted in reply. So much for that topic.

"Your shoulder feel any better?" I asked.

"Not really." He worked it back and forth. "I don't think it's swelling or anything, so ice might not help much."

"Let me see." I walked up behind the couch, pushed the corn aside, and rubbed at the muscle with both hands. It was like a rock -- a lumpy rock. "Man, you're stiff as a board!" I said. "Feels like you need to work at relaxing these muscles." I checked his left shoulder and found it similarly tense. "Have you tried meditating?"

"No, I haven't been meditating, Sandburg!" he snapped.

"Well, you should. You know it's helped whenever you tried it."

"I've been a little busy lately."

I shrugged. "No time like the present."

"I don't feel like meditating," he said sullenly.

I had run into this wall of resistance before. From the warning signals I guessed that Jim didn't want to open his mind because he was afraid of what might come up. This case had been pretty rough on him, dredging up all sorts of unpleasant memories and some new discoveries. "How about a massage, then?" I offered.

He gave me a sour glare. "My masseuse doesn't take appointments this late."

I pinched his shoulder. "No, me!" I said. "Here, lie down and I'll get some stuff."

"Stuff?"

I got the heavy oil from my room and took it to the kitchen sink, running the entire bottle under hot water for a minute to warm it. Then I carried the oil and a dishtowel into the living room. "Take your shirt off and stretch out on the couch," I directed.

"You're going to give me a massage?" Jim said disbelievingly.

"Well, it's gotta be better than you trying to rub the muscles yourself," I said. "Now come on, shirt off unless you want it to get all oily."

He was suspicious, but he'd never been particularly shy about going shirtless. I could see him considering whether to object, then he pulled off his turtleneck and the undershirt beneath it. He lay face- down on the couch with a throw pillow under his chin and his knees turned up, white socks waving in the air.

Kneeling next to the couch, I rubbed a palmful of oil between my hands before stroking it over Jim's shoulders. He had a beautiful back: muscles laid out like an anatomy diagram, all rippling beneath silky, unblemished skin. Not so much as a mole in sight. Jim was the kind of guy who probably went right through adolescence without ever getting a zit.

"What is that stuff?" Jim demanded.

"Heavy massage oil. Unscented," I added.

"No, it's not. It smells like . . . nuts."

"That's what the oil is made from -- nuts native to the Amazon rainforest. There's no extra perfume added, though. It isn't bugging your nose, is it?"

"No, I guess it's okay," he conceded. A quiver went through his shoulders as I brushed on some more oil.

I used two hands on each of those meaty trapezius muscles, starting on the right and moving to the left, then back to the right. Then I worked my way down, rubbing between the shoulder blades and along the powerful cords of flesh that paralleled his spine. They were all tense, even the muscles sloping along his ribs and side.

"Remember your breathing, man," I urged. "Deep and slow. Try to picture a peaceful place."

"I said I didn't want to meditate, Sandburg."

"You don't have to -- just relax a little." I half-stood so I could get better leverage, leaning the heels of my palms on either side of his spine and pushing outwards. Ten slow strokes, then I used my fingers to pull the same muscles in towards the spine. I moved down a hand's width and repeated the process.

When I was somewhere around the bottom of his ribcage, Jim finally relaxed and let out a little groan of satisfaction. And all at once the whole sexuality of the situation came up and ambushed me.

Incredibly, I had missed it before. I had spent so many months -- years, really -- training myself not to think of Jim in a sexual way that somehow I had completely failed to notice what my subconscious was setting up with this friendly massage. Here I was, half-crouching with Jim lying vulnerable beneath me -- his hip only inches from my groin, his ass temptingly displayed under black denim that wasn't loose enough to conceal his shape. My hands were roaming across acres of Jim's skin, rubbing hard to get at the person underneath. Just me, Jim Ellison, and a bottle of massage oil.

Suddenly my jeans weren't loose enough either.

I stood up hastily, making a show of stretching my own back. "I think I should get back to those shoulders, man," I said. "Um . . . maybe if you sit up?" I moved around to the back of the couch, letting the furniture provide a barrier between us as well as concealment for my swelling desire.

"Give it up, Sandburg," Jim murmured, pushing himself up from the couch.

"Wha -- what?" I stared as his pecs rippled and flexed, each movement bringing an answering twitch from my groin.

"I know what you're doing. You can't lie to me."

I gulped. Stupid to think I could hide my reactions from a Sentinel. "I wasn't lying, man," I lied, trying to mold some sort of explanation around my behavior. "It's called a polite fiction. I was trying not to make you uncomfortable. I didn't want to cross the line, you know?"

"Wasn't this what you had in mind when you suggested the massage?" Jim stepped around the couch to stand in front of me. With the light behind his back, I could see the gleam of oil limning his shoulders.

"I wanted to help you feel better, that's all," I said. "How's your shoulder?"

He rolled his neck back and forth, muscles flowing smoothly. "Better."

"Great." I forced my eyes up to his and pasted a smile on my mouth. "That's all I had in mind, man -- really."

He moved a step closer. "So you're not going to ask for anything in return?" His voice was husky, his face shadowed.

My heart was knocking at my larynx, every beat producing an echo further south. "I . . . I . . ."

"You look sort of uncomfortable yourself." He traced a knuckle -- the back of a single finger -- over the front seam of my jeans.

I nearly came right then. My knees unlocked, and I braced a hand on the back of the couch. "Jim!" I gasped.

"Stiff as a board, Chief," he murmured. "Maybe a little massage would help?"

His voice was the sexiest thing I had ever heard, but I didn't know what it meant! Was he just teasing me, trying to get me turned on so he could return disgust for desire? Was he trying to make me cross those limits he had drawn six months ago -- did he want a confrontation?

I tried to make my brain work, but Jim's face was unreadable as he delicately pinched my zipper between thumb and forefinger. He drew it down tooth by tooth, ratcheting in time with my heartbeat. I panted, staring at him in a paralysis of doubt and need.

Slowly, he reached through the open fly to grasp the root that pulsed against my belly. His fingers crept through cotton folds and coaxed my flesh out into the open. I shivered at the feel of cold brass teeth on either side of my erection, held close by the button that was still fastened.

Jim held my gaze hypnotically as he reached out a hand toward the arm of the couch. I read the heat of some emotion in his blue-burning eyes -- was it anger? Fear? Desire? His stare never faltered or dropped as he shook something into his hand.

Then that warm palm, slick with oil, was curving around my hardness, and I lost sight of the blue fire as my eyelids fluttered. Tight he grasped, and tighter still until I cried out. Then he pulled, his greased skin sliding inexorably across my own, tugging the life right out of me. My fingers clawed against the couch as I spasmed and gave forth every drop that hand demanded.

Knees giving way entirely, I sank to the floor and slipped from that sweet grip. I tipped my head back and stared up at him, re-establishing the blue contact. He gazed back endlessly, not moving toward or away, neither helping me up nor pushing me down.

With difficulty I turned my eyes down the smooth, glistening body. The front of the black denim was stretched over new hardness. I started to glance up, to catch Jim's expression, but at the last moment I forced my eyes away before they could be captured again. Tentatively I raised a hand -- paused -- I didn't dare touch. It would be crossing the limits, no matter what had just passed between us. I had made a promise to Jim to respect his boundary, his safety buffer; it had to be his decision whether to cross it. I bowed my head.

A pop and rasp caught my attention. Jim's hand, shining with oil and pearly fluid, was parting the barrier in my way. First the snap, then the zip . . . then the waistband of the scarlet boxers was being slipped down until the shaft prisoned within sprang free.

I licked my lips, opened my mouth, but there was nothing to say. So I leaned forward and brushed my lips across the veins on its underside, felt the warmth and softness of the skin, inhaled the concentrated sweet/sour aroma. One sweep of my tongue over the head, and I knew this could be addicting. I lipped and licked and nuzzled, sucked and swallowed. Within minutes I was giving it everything I had, while Jim leaned against the couch with his fists curled against the fabric.

It took a while, a long delicious while as I absorbed the hardness, the taste and feel of him through my mouth. I ringed one hand around his root amid the thicket of dark hair. I remembered all the techniques of tongue and throat and palate that I hadn't practiced in so long. I felt surges of tension pass through his hips and thighs and abdomen as he reacted inevitably to my ministrations. He remained motionless, made not a sound, but I read his excitement in the moist sheen that sprang across his skin.

Then abruptly his hands left the furniture and dived into my hair, pulling me against him. I forced my throat to relax as his flesh leapt and quivered against my tongue, warm spurts hitting the back of my mouth. He gave a shuddering sigh, and the fingers wound through my hair slowly relaxed.

I sucked in the softening shaft one last time until my lips met tight curls, then I pulled back and laid it against my cheek. I didn't rub, conscious that I hadn't shaved in over twelve hours, but I cherished the tenderness of it there against my face.

One of the hands came against my forehead, pushing me gently but firmly away. I sank back onto my heels as the waistband was raised and the button closed once more, making me conscious of my own half-hard flesh still peeping out hopefully. Setting my clothes to rights, I looked up again at last.

I still couldn't read Jim's expression, but it seemed harder, darker than before. He pulled up his fly with a decisive jerk, staring down at me for a long moment.

"Make sure you clean that stuff off the couch," he said shortly. Two steps, and he bent down for the shirt that lay across the coffee table. Three steps, and he lifted his leather jacket from the hook. Four more steps and the slamming of a door, and I was alone in the loft, staring at a bottle of oil and a wet spot on white fabric.

Oh, shit. What the hell had I just done?

I found the address and pulled my kit from the back of the morgue van. "Hey Shelly, what do we got?" I asked as I squirmed my fingers into gloves.

"Evenin' Dan. Two DBs," Officer Bates told me, heading into the house. She skirted around the forensics techs who were fingerprinting the place and led the way up the stairs. "One fifty-year-old male, gunshot wound to the abdomen. One twenty-year-old male with a head wound."

I checked out the body nearer the bedroom door. 'Head wound' was putting it mildly. The kid didn't look twenty to me, but then they're all starting to look younger as the years go by, especially the dead ones. He had a depressed skull fracture in the vicinity of his right temple, as well as various cuts and bruises on his face -- mostly on the left side. The skin below the ears was purple with battle's sign. Lifting the hands, I found scraped knuckles and defense marks along the forearms. Under the shirt, the ribs and abdomen also showed signs of bruising. From the development of the bruises, I judged the heart must have kept beating for a while after the kid's skull was smashed in, but he would have been unconscious the whole time.

Looked like he had put up a fight, but he was outclassed. I'd have to check the marks more carefully at the morgue, but at first glance I didn't think any weapons had been used -- most of the bruises were fist- or shoe-sized. One of the cuts on the face could have been caused by a ring. The fatal depression in the temple matched a bloody patch on the fat wooden bulb at the top of one of the bedposts.

I turned to the second body, an older man curled on his side. His shirt was unbuttoned and his pants pulled halfway down, suggesting he had been in the middle of something when interrupted. This one had a bruise coming up on his face, nothing much. The bullet wound that had pumped blood all over his stomach was pretty obvious, but also something of a mystery. I had to turn him over before I realized what had happened.

"Whose case is this?" I asked.

"Major Crime is sending someone over," Bates told me. "Detective Rafe, I think."

"Tell them to call Ellison."

Her eyebrows went up. "I don't think he's on tonight."

"This is related to a case he's already working. Same MO."

"What MO? What's so special about a beating and a gutshot?"

I pointed at the older body. "He wasn't shot in the stomach. That's an exit wound. Look for the bullet in the floor, probably under that bloodstain in the carpet."

She frowned. "There's only one hole in him. Where's the entrance wound?"

"Inside," I said drily.

I arrived at the scene to find Dan Black Wolf loitering on the porch. Our ME was always a laid-back kind of guy, but this time he seemed in even less of a hurry than usual. "What's up?" I asked. "False alarm?" Not likely, I thought, given all the uniforms and techs milling around.

He shook his head. "Two homicides. But I thought we should wait for Ellison; he's on his way."

"Ellison's off duty," I pointed out mildly, not wanting to have a homicide taken away from me.

"Yeah, but it might be related to a case he's already working on."

"Oh, no." I tipped my head up to the drizzle falling from the night sky. "Not those gay murders?"

"Yep."

I shook my head. "Captain tried to take that case away from Ellison, you know?"

Dan's eyebrows went up in interest. "I never heard that."

"That's because Jim talked him out of it."

"So it is still Ellison's case?"

I shrugged. "I've been doing some backup work on it, but I'm sure Jim would insist he's the primary. Anyway, it doesn't matter. The Feds will want to get in on it now -- this is our third murder."

"Third and fourth," Dan said. "If it was the same person."

"You think there was more than one killer?"

"Maybe." He nodded toward the driveway. "Here they are. I'll explain it to both of you at the same time."

Jim stepped up to the porch, stone-faced and grim, with Blair hurrying at his heels. "You got another victim?" he asked without preamble.

"Yep, a guy shot from the inside out," Dan said. "Up in the bedroom. There's another one, too. Hope you haven't eaten lately, Sandburg."

"I can handle it," the observer said tensely.

Dan led us through the house while he summed up the case. "Older guy was shot, younger one was beaten to death. Looks like the young one was a hustler, but they were both fully clothed."

"Like maybe they just got into the bedroom, and they were interrupted?" I asked.

"Maybe," Dan said, climbing the stairs.

"Followed from the pick-up?" Jim murmured, and I nodded agreement.

Dan went on, "I'm not sure what order everything happened in. Looks like the hustler tried to fight and got himself punched up pretty bad. The death could have been accidental, though. The older guy didn't put up much resistance -- hardly has any bruises."

"So maybe the young guy resisted from the start, then after he was taken out the older one was too scared to struggle much?" I guessed.

"Could be. Or the other way around: they think it's a robbery, they do what the man says until he shoots one of them. Then the younger one puts up a fight."

"I don't get it," said Jim. "If the killer had a gun, why get in a fistfight at all?"

"That's why I thought maybe two of them," Dan said, stopping at the bedroom doorway and gesturing us inside.

"Doesn't fit with the other cases," I said as I filed in behind Jim.

"Oh no," said Blair as he got a look. "Jim --"

"Yeah," his partner breathed. "Don't look, Chief."

"We have to find this killer, man!" The observer's voice cracked.

"We will. Go downstairs. I'll meet you there."

"Oh, man. Oh, man." Blair backed into the corridor and leaned against the wall, breathing heavily.

I looked around the bedroom. It was just like Dan had said: a teenager with his hair dyed white-blond and his face pretty badly marked, and a balding guy with rumpled clothes in a pool of blood. Unpleasant, but nothing exceptional. "What's wrong with Sandburg?" I asked.

"We know this guy," Jim said, looking down at the hustler's body. "Talked to him a few times. Goes by the name of Rod Sterling."

"Captain." Ellison rapped a hand on the open door of my office and stuck his head through.

"Yeah, come in." I dropped my pen and pulled off my glasses to massage my eyes.

"I just got off the phone with the RCMP. We've got a probable ID on that murdered hustler."

"I thought you and Sandburg knew him?" I demanded.

"Only by his street name. Turns out he's a runaway from Vancouver. Age seventeen."

"Aw, hell." I looked through the slitted blinds of my office windows at a figure half-obscured by Jim's computer monitor. "How's Blair taking it?"

"He's pretty upset, sir. We only met the kid a couple of times, but you know how fast Sandburg makes friends."

"Yeah." I sighed. "Look, why don't you take him out to lunch? Get him some of that dim sum he likes so much, maybe cheer him up."

Jim's mouth curved up reluctantly. "That might work. You want to come?"

"No, I'm tied to my desk here. You know we're going to have to work with the feds on this one?"

"Yeah, I know."

"I'm trying to schedule a meeting with that advisor of the governor's. It doesn't look like she'll be in town herself anytime soon." I sighed. A Canadian murdered in Cascade as part of a serial spree -- as if I didn't already have enough red tape to wade through. "You just take care of your partner and yourself, okay?"

"You got it, Simon. We'll bring you back a fortune cookie." Jim headed out to collect his partner.

I stared down blindly at the mess of forms on my desk. I'd been back at work one month, and already I needed a vacation.

He climbed slowly to his feet and looked around at the thick foliage, tinted with red-gold twilight. Yes, this place. He had been here before. He glanced down to find himself barely covered by a skimpy leather loincloth. He drew a finger down his face, and it came away smeared with red paint. Here, he was the Shaman.

A path started at his feet, and he followed it for a while until he came to a clearing where a small fire smoldered, pungent with the scent of herbs. Incacha sat there, also in full ceremonial paint, staring into the flames.

The Shaman knelt near the fire and waited for his mentor to notice him.

At last Incacha raised his head, took a deep breath through his nose and smiled sweetly. "Qam kanki imaman, Yachakoq," he said. <Be welcome, young Shaman.>

The Shaman bowed his head. He had studied to learn the words he needed. "Sinchitan anaychayki, Yachacheq," he murmured. <I thank you, Elder.>

"Imayna yanapaykpuway?" <Why have you sought me?>

The Shaman considered. He didn't know the words to say 'I am worried.' Eventually, he formulated, "Enqueri llaqichiwanki." He hoped that came out right; it should mean <Enqueri is troubled.>

Incacha nodded gravely. "Pay intindikuna. Sentinelqti pachanka kichakukano, kichupay pas corazopaypa." <It is [something]. When the Sentinel opens his [world?], he must also open his [something].>

The Shaman frowned, imprinting the unknown words in his memory. "Imayna atiykani yanapykapayta?" <What can I do to help him?>

"Yarqoynchikita sichus kichakukani. Yarqoynkita sichus uyaripayta." <You must be with him when he is open. You must [something] him.>

The Shaman nodded. "Yusulpayki, Yachacheq. Qanmanta yuyarikusak sinchita." <Thank you, Elder. I will think upon your words.>

Incacha picked up a handful of herbs and tossed them on the fire. The smoke swirled up, engulfing the young Shaman.

The moment I woke up, I reached to my bedside table for my dream journal. I tended to have these dreams whenever I was especially worried about some new problem with Jim's senses -- and so far, what Incacha said in the dreams had always been helpful. I didn't know whether it was really a dead spirit speaking to me or just my subconscious being clever, but I'd learned to pay attention. This time the problem was a doozy; I was almost certain Jim's sensory spikes were connected to the reappearance of his old girlfriend, but I couldn't figure out why. And persuading Jim that Lila had anything to do with the problem was like pushing water uphill with my bare hands.

Concentrating on the fading dream images, I quickly wrote down what Incacha had said. I used phonetic spellings for the unfamiliar words -- four of them that I wasn't quite sure of. Then I dug out the Quechua dictionary I had bought six months ago, when the dreams first started.

The first word seemed to mean 'expected' or 'inevitable,' maybe even 'fated.' The second was something like the word listed as 'world' in the dictionary, but I'd heard it before; Incacha used it to refer to Sentinel senses. Translating Incacha's messages was difficult, I had learned, because he borrowed freely from English and Spanish whenever he heard a word he liked. Add that to the fact that the Chopec dialect was significantly different from the one in the dictionary, and sometimes I had trouble interpreting my dreams.

The third word wasn't in the dictionary at all. I studied my phonetic spelling of it. The root had sounded something like corazon, the Spanish for 'heart.' But the Chopec had a perfectly good term for that already; why would Incacha feel the need to borrow from Spanish?

The final word appeared to mean 'shield' or 'protect.' So if I was right, Incacha had said that it was inevitable for Jim to be upset, that I must protect him, and that when he opened his senses, Jim also opened his heart.

The last part was still difficult to understand, even assuming I'd gotten the translation right. According to the Quechua grammar I had signed out of the library last semester (and had to return last month), in most Peruvian tribal cultures the heart was not the seat of love and emotion. Instead, the heart represented bravery. Was Incacha saying that Jim became afraid when he used his senses? It made a certain amount of sense, given what I had learned about how Jim made his major life decisions.

But it didn't seem quite right. Why had Incacha used a Spanish word instead of a Quechua one? In Spanish, the heart was definitely associated with love. So maybe Incacha meant that Jim became emotionally vulnerable when his senses were open. That would fit much better with the trouble we were having now -- these weird sensory spikes whenever Jim was with his old flame.

Now that I considered it, it seemed that every time Jim had slept with a woman or even gotten seriously attracted in the past few years, something had gone wrong with his senses. Sometimes it seemed like the woman herself was causing the sensory episodes, like with Laura the thief. Other times, like when Danny Choi died, or when Jim was undercover and had that reaction to the bottled water, it was more as if the sensory problems made him more susceptible to women's charms.

I dropped the dictionary, lay back on my bed and groaned. If that interpretation was right, I had done exactly the wrong thing leaving Jim alone the other night when we came back from the hospital. At the time, I was afraid that if I stayed with him it would lead to some kind of sexual comfort thing, like when I was massaging Jim's shoulder. Sure, that had been one of the most erotic experiences of my life, but afterward Jim had looked at me like I was lower than dirt. I didn't want to risk that again. But by crashing at Sam's place, I had left Jim vulnerable to Lila, which might be even worse.

Those sensory spikes meant real trouble, I was sure of it. Jim had had one just last night, when we were trying to pick up the computer games guy before he could leave the country. The episode slowed Jim down enough that our target was killed right in front of us, and the assassin got away. And somehow, the spikes were connected with Lila. This was not good.

Obviously, I should have stuck with Jim no matter what happened. No matter what it did to his opinion of me. No matter how much it hurt my heart -- the seat of my emotions.

I should have saved her. From the bullet. From herself. From her past.

She wanted to get out. If I had pressed her when she first mentioned her history, instead of brushing over it . . . if I had remembered that damn dagger sooner . . . if I had kept her safe by my side when the sniper struck . . .

But I hadn't, and now she was gone. And with her went all the dreams I'd had for some rosy future, the crazy dreams that started in the first flush of my return from Peru, the dreams I tried to keep alive by marrying Carolyn . . .

All gone. Lost in a whirl of sirens and a lurching ambulance trip, lost in the blood on the gloves of the EMTs who knew they couldn't save her, but went through the motions anyway. Lost in the fluorescent glare and antiseptic bite of the hospital, where she was finally declared dead and carted off to the morgue.

What followed passed in flashes. I remembered Simon pulling the headset from my ears as I stood in the hospital corridor, listening to two nurses making a lunch date over her body. I remembered Sandburg fastening my seatbelt, and a few moments of the drive home. I remembered the patterns of grime on the wall of the elevator where I leaned, hiding from the sympathy in Sandburg's eyes.

And then I was standing in the familiar peace of the loft. I could still catch her scent in the air. Sandburg was saying something, his voice buzzing strangely in my ears. I tried to concentrate.

". . . change out of those clothes, man . . ."

I shook my head and wandered up the stairs. It was the pillowcases; I hadn't washed them since the other night. My sight zoomed in on two long auburn strands clinging to the fabric.

I sat on the side of the bed and pressed the pillow to my face.

Sandburg was speaking again, touching my hands. He pulled the pillow gently from my grasp and led me back down the stairs. I let him ease the jacket off my shoulders. As he hung it on the hook, I focused on the bloodstains -- dark rust barely visible against the black leather. Then he drew me into the bathroom.

I blanked out for a minute, lost in memory. Strangely, it was a vision of Incacha that came to my mind. I remembered an evening in his hut, with rain sizzling in the thatch. He was laughing as I tried to teach his daughters to play checkers on a board scratched in ash on the ground, with little chips of wood for the pieces. Even though I was an alien I had felt at home there, a part of his family. I had wondered if it would be possible to make such a home for myself, after I left Peru. First Lila and then Carolyn, then Lila again . . .

All gone. Even Incacha himself.

I doubled over as a cramp seized my belly and chest. Firm hands caught my elbows, supporting me. My shoulder pressed against cool tile, and hot rain spattered down like that night in Incacha's hut.

I was in the shower with Sandburg holding me up, washing the blood from my hands and face and body.

The cramp came again, and I made a strange sound.

"Easy," said Blair, unalarmed. "Just let it all out, man, let it flow."

And I was crying, sobbing over his shoulder as his hands stroked across my skin. I clutched at him, at the life and energy of him between my arms. I had held Lila like this, just a few days ago -- and again this afternoon when I pulled her into cover, then failed to keep her there. Her name worked itself past my lips.

Blair was speaking again, but I heard only the tones of comfort as his hands patted my back. I held him tighter, feeling his pulse and warmth, breathing his scent with its lingering sourness of old fear. I pressed my mouth against his shoulder, tasting salt-sweat, and tapwater, and Blair.

Sweet. Blair was so richly sweet.

I nuzzled into his neck to taste him there -- a subtly different, heady flavor. He was standing quite still now, not resisting me as the great artery fluttered beneath my lips. A little higher, I tasted cream and aftershave and swift-growing stubble. With one hand behind his neck, I tilted his face so I could cover that lush mouth with my own.

His hands firmed suddenly behind my shoulders, and his tongue came out to slide across mine. What had been an indulgence of taste became a tactile feast for the sensitive flesh of my mouth. The world went black and silent, narrowing down to the infinite complexity of that one sensation as our tongues danced an intimate tango.

Then the stimulation went away, and I was left with only the faint remaining taste of him, my tongue residing alone between my teeth. A compelling murmur reached my ears, calling me back.

I blinked, trying to see through the dim veil that clouded my vision. The hiss of the shower cut in, too loud for a moment until I could dial it back. I looked at Blair.

He was staring up at me, wide-eyed but not retreating, his lips swollen and moist, his cheeks flushed, his curls beaded with mist. He embodied life, beauty, passion -- everything that I needed most at this moment.

I groaned and grabbed for him again, caught on a tide of desire. My hands roamed greedily over his vibrant form, and I feasted every sense upon him. I had to possess that life, had to make it part of myself. Fastening my mouth once more to his, I ground our groins together. But something was in the way; I had to pull back to see what it was. Sandburg had come into the shower with his boxers on.

It was typical of him -- trying to be considerate, probably. But it wouldn't do now. I pushed them impatiently down his legs. As I pulled one foot free, the other slipped on the wet porcelain. I caught him, lifted him in my arms, and stepped out of the bath.

When I set him down, he was twisted half away from me, and I was captivated. The fine planes and surfaces of his back, the fall of his hair, the crevice positioned so conveniently to my desire. I pulled him back against me, feeling that magnificence along my entire chest and belly and groin. My mouth sought out the intoxicating warmth of his neck.

He was twisting, pulling away from me. As he broke free, I caught his arm and tried to draw him back. But that voice was in my ears again, telling me to wait. I tried to focus.

"Not here, man, there isn't room. Okay? Just a few steps. We'll go together. Come on . . ." He moved back toward the door of the bathroom. Growling, I followed.

It took many steps. The air around us was cool and dry, the surface beneath my feet changing from tile to polished wood to woven rug. We came to an open area, and my patience snapped. I pulled him into my arms again, nuzzling soft flesh and biting down to remind him where he belonged. I turned him until our bodies nestled the right way, and my hips moved instinctively.

He was speaking again, urgently. I ignored the words, bracing his hips as I sought entry.

It hurt, pain thundering through me where I was tenderest. I drew back with a hiss.

His hand gripped my arm, the thumb rubbing reassuringly as he moved away, just a little, stretching for something. Then he came close again, and the air filled with the rich aroma of nuts -- a scent that carried a memory of its own. The fire in my core leapt higher.

His hand stroked my desire, each ridge of each fingertip giving me a separate caress despite the buffer of oil between us. The warm stimulation began to broaden to encompass my entire world, until a sharp twinge in my chest made me grunt and look down at the fingers pinching my nipple.

I growled and reached for him again. He turned away, dropping to his knees. When I followed, I discovered that the position was exactly right. I opened him with my hands and pressed forward quickly, before he could escape me again.

This time, after a moment of jarring pressure, I slid within. A double ring of heat clutched me right down to the root. Folds of slick tissue pressed close on every side. I gasped and pulled back, feeling the double grip try to milk me.

His lovely back was before me, his hair tumbling across his shoulders, his excitement filling my nostrils. My hands curved around his hips as I slammed into him again. Now I possessed him, the death and darkness inside me canceled by joining with his light.

I bent low over him to gather more of that warmth, scent and spice. I reached a hand around, seeking the touches that would make his heart beat faster. Stoking his own desire even as I fed my own, I felt him writhe and gasp and cry out beneath me. I pulled and pushed against that muscular grip, I pumped my fist around his own arousal, I pressed my chest to his back and dipped my head to taste the musk upon his skin.

I matched my moves to his, absorbing his energy. Together we swayed and rocked, gasped and groaned. I felt the fluid leaping within him, surging toward release, and my own body echoed that eruption of life. He stiffened in the circle of my arms, spasming in an excess of delight. My flesh quivered and gave forth all the life he had awakened in me, to be drawn back into his own body.

I fell away, into torpor and darkness and the despair of returning reason. Curling limply on the floor, I sifted through the weariness of my heart and wondered if I had made anything better. I couldn't bring Lila back; I couldn't even revive the spark inside me. I might have just turned my partner against me forever. The exquisite joy of a moment ago was gone, as transient as everything in life.

He was pulling at me, coaxing me to my feet and leading me back to the bathroom. I stumbled along behind him, watching dazedly as he turned off the shower that had long since run cold, moistened a cloth at the sink, and turned to wipe the oil and other fluids from my softened flesh.

I hissed. "Cold." It was the first word I had spoken in . . . hours, it seemed.

"Sorry, man, but we gotta clean up." He maneuvered me until I was standing in front of the toilet. "Pee."

"What?" My voice was hoarse with disuse.

"Piss, man."

"But I don't have to."

"Do it anyway. It's the best way to flush out those tubes." He folded the cloth over, wiping at his own chest and groin before tossing the damp scrap into the laundry hamper. "Anal sex without protection is a damn good way to get a urinary infection. I'm going to buy some cranberry juice, and I want you to drink it all -- today and tomorrow, okay?"

I staggered at the realization. "Sandburg, I -- I wasn't thinking."

"I kinda figured that," he said drily.

"But I could have . . . did I hurt you?" What had I done?

"Nothing that won't go away in a day or two. Don't worry about it, man. You're clean, right? I know you get tested regularly."

"Yes, but --"

"So let it go. Just -- go ahead and do your thing, and most likely nothing bad will come of it." He waved at the toilet.

I shook my head. "Why are you taking care of me? After I --"

"Jim." He grabbed my shoulders. "You needed it. I knew that, and I played along. If I had tried, I could probably have stopped it."

"No, you couldn't. I was -- I was . . ." I couldn't find words for the state I had been in.

"You weren't making clear decisions," he understated. "It was my choice to cooperate, okay? Leave it at that. Just get yourself cleaned up." He watched me expectantly.

I looked away uncomfortably. "Could I have a little privacy here?"

He grinned. "Aw, man, I never knew you were piss-shy! Okay, okay, I'm out. Just let me . . ." He grabbed half the clothes from the untidy pile on the floor, retrieved his sopping boxers from the shower, wrung them out and tossed them in the hamper, and skipped out the door.

I shook my head disbelievingly. How could I have believed anything I did would change Sandburg? Energy was his middle name.

Later, I lay in bed and stared at the rafters. The only odors here now were from detergent and myself; I had ruthlessly stripped off the sheets Lila had slept on. Sandburg was off making some purchases before the supermarkets closed for the night. I was alone with my thoughts.

A shiver went down my spine as I remembered the primal lust that had consumed me. I had never felt anything like that -- and for Sandburg, of all people! Did that say something about hidden desires within me?

No, I decided quickly. I was upset, lonely, lost. I had fixed on Sandburg as the only warm body around; anyone else would have done just as well. It was hardly fair to the kid, though -- must have confused the hell out of him, not knowing when I wanted him to come close or stay away. Half the time, I wasn't sure of that myself.

My mind presented me with a picture of my hands on Sandburg's ass, spreading the cheeks apart. My flesh thrusting within. I squeezed my eyes shut as an older, blurrier memory overlaid the more recent vision: a cold floor beneath me, groping hands and stabbing pain.

Jesus! How could Sandburg even talk to me after what I had done? How could he be concerned about my well-being when I'd thrown him to the floor and forced myself on him? What the hell went through the kid's head? I'd thought he was already angry about the last time, when I was so fucking knotted up inside that I couldn't think of a damn thing to say except "clean the couch." Since then he'd been avoiding the loft, working strange hours or spending the night with girlfriends. I thought he was pissed. Then I'd gone and done something a thousand times worse, and Sandburg just started cleaning up after me as if it were perfectly normal.

My eyes popped open as a key sounded in the door. I was so distracted, I hadn't even heard him coming down the hallway. He pushed the door open and hauled rustling paper bags to the kitchen island. I listened to him puttering around, stowing things away and whistling easily between his teeth as if nothing had happened. As if I had never violated his most fundamental right to control over his own body. He wasn't upset at all. As long as I lived, I would never understand the way Sandburg's brain worked.

I tracked his movements absently until I heard him set the locks. Then I tuned him out, focused on the swift heartbeats and purring breaths of the pigeons above my head, and tried to relax.

Sometime later, a hand on my shoulder drew me up to consciousness. "What?"

"Um, you okay, man? You were -- crying."

The image flashed into my mind of myself sitting in the middle of the road, cradling Sandburg's motionless body in my arms. I had felt each individual cell dying as they were deprived of oxygen. I gasped at the memory.

"It was just a dream, Jim."

"No, it wasn't," I returned, though that wasn't entirely true. Why had I dreamed of Sandburg in Lila's place?

"Oh. Sorry."

I took a deep breath and tried to let the tension flow out of me. I looked at my partner, shifting his weight uncertainly by the bed. "Come here, Chief."

"Huh?"

"Please." I caught his wrist. He gasped, and I opened my vision to see marks purpling on his skin in the dim light. Marks that fit my fingers perfectly. I let go at once.

He blinked. "Um -- you want me under the covers, or what? I'm a little chilly, here."

I lifted the comforter and shifted back to make room for him. As he settled gingerly beside me, his unique scent wafted out to join mine, mingling harmoniously and imprinting the solitude of my bed with his presence. His heartbeat thrummed reassuringly in my ears, stronger and more calming than the pigeons'.

"Could you -- stay here for the night?" I asked. I didn't want him to think it was a sexual or romantic request, but I didn't want to tell him my real reason, either.

"Uh . . . sure man, you got it. Just, um, wake me up if anything interesting happens, you know?"

He did think it was sexual. Well, I could hardly blame him for that conclusion -- I just didn't understand the faint air of anticipation he gave to the words. I closed my eyes and expanded my senses to absorb the vitality of him in my bed, breathing deeply as something eased inside me.

I didn't expect to sleep again, but somehow I did. When the midmorning sun warmed the bed, I woke with an arm draped over my roommate. Pins and needles in the elbow trapped beneath me indicated I'd been lying in one position for a while.

I rolled over, glanced at the clock, and gave Sandburg a shake. Maybe I should have stuck to listening to the pigeons; they always started moving around at dawn.

He grumbled sleepily. "Mmmm. G'way."

"Come on, Chief, time to get up. If we don't move it, we're going to be late for that meeting at the station."

"Wha' mee'ng?"

"With the governor's aide, remember? We're bringing him up to date on the Green Street case."

His eyes opened. "Um, Jim. Don't you think we should let someone else handle that?"

"No," I returned shortly, climbing out of bed and grabbing my robe.

He sat up. "Come on, man. You've been under a lot of strain lately. Rafe can take this one. Besides, the feds will want to take over now."

"What is this? Have you been talking to Simon about me? This is my case, Sandburg. I'm not giving it up." I started down the stairs, calling over my shoulder, "If you're not interested, I can work it alone."

"No way, man!" I heard heels thudding against the floor. "I'm right behind you."

We raced through our morning routine. Sandburg took a two-minute shower, omitting his elaborate hair-washing ritual. He shaved while I took an equally brief turn in the shower, we retreated to our rooms to throw on some clothes, and we were ready to go.

My hand shook as I reached for my leather coat.

Sandburg didn't say a word, just turned back to the closet in the back hallway and exhumed my battered brown jacket. I took it without meeting his eyes and headed out the door.

In the hallway he snapped his fingers suddenly. "Oh, wait!"

"What'd you forget?"

He was already heading back into the loft, fumbling with his keys. I sighed and unlocked the door for him.

"Just take a second, man!" He rushed into the kitchen and bustled for a minute, opening and slamming the refrigerator door, rummaging and pouring. "Here," he gasped, handing me a cup as he rushed back out.

I glanced down. The new plastic car-safe mug had something cold in it, not hot. I lifted the lid carefully and the pungent scent of cranberries wafted out. "Sandburg, you know I hate this stuff!"

"So turn it down, man. It's good practice for you anyway." He disappeared down the stairs before I could say more.

The players had changed, but the situation was the same. Liz couldn't make it this time, so she had sent me to get the latest information from the horses' mouths. And there wasn't a whole lot more of it than before; only the interpretation was new.

This time a big, imposing African-American was sitting across from me instead of Captain Finkelman. There were two black-suited FBI agents at the far end of the table: the older one with the seamed face had been introduced as Horvath, and the younger man with the Clooney cut was Crandall. Love's young dream, Sandburg and Ellison, seemed dour and weary compared to the first time I'd seen them. Even aside from the preponderance of testosterone, I wished a woman were present just so we could have some light-colored clothes to brighten the room.

"Here's our reconstruction of what happened," Ellison said in a dispassionate monotone, "based on the forensic information, witness reports, and the psych profile we got." He nodded a brief acknowledgment to the federal agents. "The killer is a man between the ages of twenty-five to forty-five, tall and muscular, crew-cut, very hostile to gays. For some reason, on the evening of January 8 he was in the vicinity of the adult gay bookstore on Green Street, where a, um, party was in progress."

"Don't you mean orgy?" asked Crandall with a laugh.

"Does that matter?" I returned coolly.

At a signal, Sandburg began spreading photos from the first murder scene across the table. Death in black and white, with all the detail of an Ansel Adams tree. I had seen the forensic shots when I first reviewed the case, but they weren't displayed at the first briefing -- probably because Liz was present. The room seemed to grow darker around us.

"Our first victim, Gerald Bertolli, apparently propositioned the killer. A witness saw them speaking together briefly. The witness said the suspect seemed tense, but not violent at the time. They went to the alley behind the store and Mr. Bertolli pulled his pants down -- possibly at gunpoint, possibly under false assumptions. The killer stuck a gun inside Mr. Bertolli and shot him once."

Sandburg shifted uncomfortably in his chair. I met his eyes for a moment in a flash of cobalt, then he looked away.

Ellison continued relentlessly, not even glancing at the young man he had been so protective toward just a month ago. "The bullet exited around the throat, went across the street and hit a brick wall, flattening too much for ballistic comparison. The shot was heard by several people, but the killer ran away before anyone ventured into the alley.

"A month later, the killer was in the same neighborhood again, and apparently witnessed a male prostitute being picked up by Brian Sadler. He followed the two men to a boarding house where they rented a room for a couple of hours. The killer slipped inside without being noticed by the manager, and reached the room just as Mr. Sadler finished disrobing. At this point we have a witness account from the prostitute, who goes by the name of Dizzy -- but his report may be unreliable, and we've been unable to locate him for further questioning. Dizzy stated that a man with a ski mask came to the room and threatened him and Mr. Sadler with a gun. The killer offered Dizzy the chance to leave, and he ran. He heard a gunshot just as he reached the fire escape. Sadler was killed in the same manner as Bertolli, with the same type of weapon. Once again, the bullet was too deformed to make a match."

Sandburg displayed a second set of pictures, even grislier than the first -- maybe because the man was nude, or because he was a relative of a friend of mine. When the anthropologist reached out to gather the first set of photos into a pile, his sleeves pulled up and I caught a glimpse of finger sized bruises. My eyes shot up to Sandburg's face as the FBI agents pulled the new photos closer to them. A faint flush colored the young man's cheeks, and he didn't meet my eyes.

"A week ago, the killer witnessed another pickup. We're not certain where this occurred, but we do know that the hustler liked to hang out near the same bookstore where the first murder occurred. He was a young Canadian national named Rodney McAvoy, who used the street name Rod Sterling."

One of the feds snorted -- the same one who had been preoccupied by the orgy idea. I threw a dark look down the table.

Captain Banks stirred. "He was a seventeen-year-old runaway from Vancouver. His parents had to come down here to identify the body."

Crandall's eyes dropped away from Banks' penetrating gaze.

Ellison cleared his throat. "Sterling -- Rodney had given us some assistance in this case. He was acquainted with Dizzy, the witness to the Sadler murder. Apparently Rodney thought he would be safe if he went to the john's home, but the killer followed them. He entered Joseph Campbell's house through the kitchen door very soon after they arrived. He found them in the bedroom, where he shot Campbell and beat Rodney to death."

"Why beat the kid if he had a gun?" demanded the older agent, Horvath.

"He might not have meant to kill Rod," Sandburg said softly. He shifted in his seat again, recrossing his legs. I had seen that move before, but I could hardly believe what it suggested. I glanced over at Ellison. Big, strong hands the man had.

Sandburg was still talking. "The fatal injury actually occurred when Rod fell against one of the bedposts. If it was an accident, that would fit with the way the killer gave Dizzy an opportunity to leave. This guy seems to hate men who pick up male prostitutes, but he's sympathetic or at least neutral towards the hustlers themselves."

"The same thing was suggested in the profile your experts made after the second murder," Banks supplied. "It probably has something to do with the killer's past, the reason why he hates gays so much."

"A rape victim?" Horvath suggested.

Banks nodded. "Possibly. He sees the johns as sexual aggressors. The first murder was probably impulse, after Bertolli mistakenly tried to pick up the killer. The other murders may have been premeditated, or just a reaction to seeing the prostitutes picked up."

"The ski mask suggests premeditation, at least for the second murder," observed the older agent.

"Once he'd killed the first time, it was easier to nerve himself up to it again," Ellison suggested. "By the third murder, he was bold enough to walk right into the victim's house."

"Do you have any evidence besides speculation?" Crandall asked, sitting back with a skeptical expression.

Ellison reached for a report. "A neighbor of Campbell's heard a noise and saw a light-colored compact car, white or silver, driving away in a hurry. She called it in as a possible prowler, but since she hadn't heard the gunshot or else just didn't recognize it, a unit didn't arrive until twenty minutes later."

"By then Rod was dead," Sandburg said, staring at the table.

"So all you know is that the killer is big, strong, short-haired, and owns a ski mask and a white car." The agent shook his head in disgust at the apparent incompetence of police detectives.

Ellison's jaw tightened. "The witness from the first case says he can identify the man he saw talking to Bertolli."

"Being seen in Bertolli's company won't give you a conviction, even if we can find the guy."

"The witness from the second case, Dizzy, may be able to identify the killer's voice," Banks put in.

"And we recovered an identifiable bullet from the floor of Campbell's bedroom," Ellison added. "Help us find the killer, and between the ballistics match and two witness identifications, we can nail him."

"Could we back up for a minute?" I asked uneasily. "This reconstruction of yours -- it all seems to hang together, but it's not what you were saying at our first briefing. Weren't you looking for some common acquaintance back then?"

"We didn't find anyone with a plausible motive," Ellison replied. "No one who knew both Bertolli and Sadler well. With the addition of a third murder, we've been unable to find any common characteristic of the victims except that they were all gay and they apparently picked up male prostitutes."

"Well, what about the prostitute?" I pressed. "The one who ran away. That was your main suspect a month ago."

Ellison's jaw twitched.

"At the time, we didn't know that the hustler in the second case was actually a witness," Captain Banks stepped in quickly. "It was a, um, miscommunication."

I frowned. "Could he have been lying? Maybe he really was the murderer. Didn't you say he left town and you couldn't find him?"

Ellison cleared his throat. "We're not certain he was innocent, but indications are he was telling the truth. He kept his story up under hours of questioning. Also, he and Rodney McAvoy were apparently friends -- why would he beat his friend to death?"

"I thought this Rod was killed by accident?"

"Probably, but it occurred in the course of a nasty fight. Dizzy isn't large or strong enough to have caused the injuries found in the autopsy. Also, a paraffin test administered shortly after the Sadler murder found no gunpowder residue on Dizzy's hands. That was why he was released after questioning."

Crandall shook his head. "That was your mistake right there. You could have charged him with some misdemeanor, slapped a little bail on him, and he'd still be in town."

"I wasn't in charge of the case at that time," Ellison said tightly.

Crandall started pulling his notes together. "Well, the Bureau should have no trouble finding this missing witness of yours. Give us a call if you gather any more evidence."

I watched in astonishment as the agent left the room without even confirming that the briefing was done. Banks looked thunderous.

The older agent, Horvath, offered a conciliatory smile. "Thanks for all your assistance, gentlemen. If there's any way we can work together to clear this case up more quickly, please let us know."

I glanced down as the second man left. Thank God Liz hadn't attended this meeting. Between the disturbing pictures and the feds' condescending manner, she would have let her temper fly. Not to mention what she might have made of the singing tension between Ellison and Sandburg. I wasn't sure what to conclude about that myself.

Ellison's fist pounded the table, making me jump. "Dammit, Simon! You're not going to let them get away with that, are you? They can't just waltz in here and take over our case!"

Banks held up his hands. "Take it easy, Jim. We're working in parallel with them, for now. Keep your head down and stay out of their way, and you can investigate on your own. Make a stink about it, and they could take over the whole thing. None of us wants that, not even Governor Harris. Right, Mr. Pinchon?"

I nodded. "After all the work you've already put in on the case, Detective, the governor believes that you're the best man for the job. But not even her office can get the FBI to stand back."

Ellison stood up. "I've gotta get out there, Simon. We've wasted enough time pussyfooting around on this case."

"Go on," Banks said. "Just keep me updated on what you're doing. If I can, I'll try to make sure you're never in the same place at the same time as the feds."

As Ellison breezed out, Sandburg was feverishly trying to pull together the papers scattered across the table. Banks put a gentle hand on his forearm, right over those bruises I had seen earlier. "Stick with him, Blair. I'll clean this stuff up."

The observer nodded, tossed me a nervous smile, and hurried after his partner.

"Is there something wrong between those two, Captain?" I ventured.

Banks shrugged. "They've had some pretty rough cases lately that hit too close to home. From now on I'll be keeping them free to work on just this case, and once it's closed I'll try to get Ellison to take some vacation time. Sorry about the soap opera stuff."

I sighed. "I can understand stress, Captain. I'd just like to see this whole thing cleared up."

"Wouldn't we all?" the big man muttered.

"Ellison."

"Oh, hi. I'm calling for, um . . . Blair?"

"Yeah, just a second. Can I say who's calling?"

"This is, um, Diego."

"Yeah, hi, this is Blair Sandburg."

"Hi. Um. Rod said I could trust you . . ."

"Do I know you?"

"No. My name's Dizzy. Rod said I should call you if I was in trouble."

"Oh, my god."

"What?"

"You do know about Rod, don't you?"

"I know he's dead. That's why I'm calling. If I can help you catch this asshole, I wanna do it."

"You think you can help us?"

"Yeah -- um, listen, can we meet somewhere?"

"Sure. Why don't you come down to the station and --"

"No way. No station. I'm not goin' back there."

"Right. I can understand that. So where would you like to meet?"

"In public. How about the food court in the Pacific Street mall?"

"Okay. I need to bring a friend, all right?"

"What, that big cop Rod said you hang out with? Only if you keep him on a leash."

"If I what?"

"Tell your cop buddy that if he gives me any shit, I'm outta there. I don't need another day like I had last time I talked to the cops."

"All right. When?"

"One hour."

"How will I recognize you?"

"I'll recognize you."

I pegged them as soon as they came down the hall -- they looked just like Rod said. They were checking the place out, but they didn't pick me out of the crowd. I was wearing K-Mart clothes that were a couple sizes too big for me, and I had a Republican haircut and a backpack over my shoulder. I looked like any other teenager hanging out after school.

They were arguing, but Rod was right on the money about those two -- the little guy won. While the big one picked out a table, the little guy got in line at the Chopstick Xpress. I waited until he carried the food back to the table, then I slid into the seat furthest from the big guy.

The cop's eyes widened. "Dizzy?" he said.

I nodded and grabbed an eggroll from the tray. "It's Diego now. Diego Jimenez."

"You look good," said the little guy -- Blair. "Better than your photos from a month ago."

"I'm clean," I mumbled around the food. It was mostly true.

The big guy, Ellison, frowned. "Got a sugar daddy?"

"What the hell else was I supposed to do?" I demanded. "I had to get off the streets if I wanted to stay away from you guys."

"Looks like he's taking good care of you," Blair said softly.

"He's okay," I said, finishing off the egg roll. "He's a fat middle-aged loser, but he's nice to me."

"And he won't report you to the INS," the cop guessed.

"Jim --" began the little guy.

"Hey, I'm legal, man," I said. "I was born in this country, and I got the birth certificate to prove it." I stared down at the table. "It was my parents that got deported."

"So you hit the streets. Typical sob story."

"Jim!" Blair hissed. "We don't care about any of that."

"Right, Jim," I returned. "If you want what I got, you gotta talk nice."

The big guy sat back. "So what do you got?"

I waited. Rolling his eyes, Ellison pulled out his wallet and held out a twenty. I stared down at it.

"I thought you wanted to help us catch this guy," Blair said. "He killed Rod."

"A man's gotta live," I said.

"You don't exactly look like a charity case," Ellison growled.

"Appearance is everything in my line of work."

"Fine," Ellison snapped. "Another twenty if I like what I hear."

I sighed and took first bill, then reached for another egg roll. "This morning I saw the guy that killed Brian," I said. "The one that kicked me out of the flophouse."

"Thought you couldn't recognize him," Ellison said suspiciously.

"I heard him, first. He was talking to the shop owner. I looked him over, and he was the right height, big muscles, everything."

Ellison leaned forward. "What shop was this?"

"Sam's. Used sporting goods store, down on Green Street. Rod used to live there, in a room above the shop. I was cleaning out some of his stuff -- my stuff, really, that I left there last time I crashed with him."

"And the killer just walked in?"

"Sam had a full set of free weights, good condition, reduced prices. This guy owns a gym over on Twenty-Seventh and he was looking to stock up."

Ellison's eyebrows went up. "You know him?"

"Not me, but Sam did. I asked him about it after the guy left. Said he used to hit all the Green Street hangouts before he opened that gym, back eight or ten years ago. Used to be a hustler."

"Jim . . ." Blair said slowly.

Ellison put a hand on the little guy's arm. "Go on."

I shrugged. "That's about it. Sam said the guy was a real jerk, a closet 'phobe. Always complained about selling his ass for money. These days he pretends to be straight. Won't even come down to the neighborhood anymore, except this time I guess he heard about a good deal at the store."

"That's it!" said Blair exultantly. "Jim, that's gotta be the guy."

"Maybe," Ellison said cautiously. "We'll check it out."

"So do I get the twenty?" I demanded.

Ellison leafed through his wallet. "You get a name for this guy?"

"John something. Ain't that funny? Uh . . . Bryant, that's it. Owns Bryant's gym." I reached for the bill.

Ellison handed it over with a glare, climbing to his feet.

"You want the rest of that lo mein?" I inquired.

Blair pushed it toward me and followed Ellison out of the court.

I glanced at Jim as he drove, his eyes fixed on the road ahead as if they were lasers that could blast the traffic out of his path. He could be pretty hard to read sometimes, and today was one of the worst. Here he was, hiding his emotions in his work again. Important work, sure, but then it always was. When was Jim going to take a little time for himself? For us?

I had been so relieved yesterday when he let me help him -- when he actually admitted that he needed me, not just to help with his senses but also in an emotional and sexual way. It had been a little frightening -- painful, too -- when he went totally lizard-brained to the point of not processing what I was saying. But at least after this second sexual encounter I was certain that he was better off than he had been before. He was starting to look beyond the agony of Lila's death. When the woman he once thought might be the one had turned out to be a killer and then been taken from him, he had turned to me for comfort.

And if it wasn't the most ideal sex we could have had, at least it looked like there would be opportunities to try to improve. He needed me, he wanted me, he accepted my taking care of him -- he even asked me to stay in his bed for the night. It all looked pretty promising at the time.

Silly me. I should have realized he'd shut himself off as usual, the instant he got even a little of his equilibrium back. How was I supposed to help a man who constantly tried to push me away, insisted he was fine, and refused even to talk about it? One of these days I was going to explode and force the man to talk.

But not today, I thought as we pulled up to the curb in front of an establishment whose windows proclaimed BRYANT'S GYM in huge letters. Today was for the job.

"Hey man, check it out." I pointed at a little Honda in front of us. Silver-grey.

Jim nodded shortly and focused his piercing gaze on the slatted blinds across the door of the gym.

"Is there anyone in there?" I asked, trying to balance his focus.

He jerked his chin affirmatively. "He's got a black eye and cut lip. Fading -- maybe a week old."

"That's him, then! Rod got in a few good hits after all." I fumbled with my seat belt, an unexpected fury rising as I thought of Rod fighting for his life.

Jim put a hand on my leg, warmth searing right through my jeans. "Easy, Chief. We need hard evidence. This guy runs a gym -- he could have gotten those bruises in a lot of ways."

"Jim, come on, you know it's him."

"You're probably right. But remember, you thought the same thing about Billy Atlas."

I winced, remembering Roy's death. I still hadn't gotten rid of all that anger.

"Anyway, if we walk right up and accuse the guy, we're going to tip our hand and give him a chance to cover up. Let's just talk to him now and see what we can find out. Here." He pressed the cell phone into my hands. "Call Simon and let him know where we are."

"Looks like he's closing up," I said as the blinds were turned and the window sign flipped from 'Come in, we're OPEN' to 'Sorry, we're CLOSED.'

Jim opened his door. "Perfect. There won't be anyone else around while we question him." He climbed down from the truck.

I followed, fumbling for the speed dial on the phone. Jim pulled his badge out and tapped on the glass of the door.

"Banks."

"Yeah, it's Blair. Jim and I --"

BLAM! The glass shattered, and Jim toppled to the ground like a felled tree.

I screamed his name, cracking my knees on the pavement as I went down beside him. Oh, god, there was blood all over his chest.

"Jim, are you all right?" Dumb question. "Just keep breathing, man. Hang on, we'll have an ambulance here in just a few minutes."

His lips moved. "Bl--" Blood flecked his tongue, spattering everywhere as he coughed.

Pressure, I thought. Put pressure on the wound. I leaned both hands on the bloody patch, feeling it bubble beneath his shirt. It was on his right side -- that was good, right? Away from the heart. I tore off my flannel overshirt, sending the buttons flying, and folded it to press over the wound.

He was still trying to speak. I bent close.

"Get . . . out . . ." His words bubbled as if he were speaking underwater.

"Get what out? The bullet? Jim, I can't do that. I don't even know if it's still in there." Oh shit, what if there was an exit wound on his back? Those bled even worse. I had to turn him and see --

"Stand up." An unfamiliar voice behind my back.

I turned slowly. A man stood in the doorway to the gym, pointing a gun at me. Good one, Sandburg. Jim got shot right in front of me and I didn't even think about where the shooter went.

"Stand up," he repeated. He was a big guy, Simon's height, with cropped hair and a weedy little mustache and bruises on his face.

"He's bleeding, man, I need to keep pressure --"

"Get up!" The manic tension in his voice drew me to my feet.

My brain kicked in at last, and I wondered what had happened to the cell phone. There it was, lying against Jim's hip. Right at my feet, but I couldn't reach it. Was the connection still open? Simon must have at least heard the gunshot, but did he know where we were? I couldn't remember if I had told him or not.

I swallowed. "Look, uh -- Mr. Bryant, isn't it? Shooting a cop can get you in a lot of trouble. Why don't you let me get some help here for him?"

The gun jerked. "Inside."

"This is a public place, man." I raised my voice a little. "We're standing right here in the middle of the street in front of your gym -- you've got witnesses everywhere. Don't make it worse for you than it already is."

"I said, get inside!"

I glanced down at Jim -- still breathing painfully, eyes closed, blood trickling from his mouth -- and stepped toward the door of the gym.

I was pumped enough and pissed enough and crazy enough to jump the guy if he gave me half a chance, but he moved away as I approached, keeping the gun trained on me at all times. A few years of experience with guns told me it was a .38, and my stomach lurched at the thought of that thing being shoved inside three victims.

"On the bench," Bryant said shortly. "Sit with your hands under your thighs."

Damn, he almost seemed like a professional, if you didn't notice the terror in his eyes. The man looked as frightened as I was. No, more; I wasn't scared -- I was just plain mad. The image of Jim with blood frothing from his chest and mouth made me want to strike out.

I stepped across the exercise mats to the bench against the wall furthest from all the weight equipment. My hands were covered with Jim's blood; I wiped them on my jeans as I sat. My brain scrabbled for a plan while Bryant pulled the curtains down over the front windows, never taking his eyes from me for more than a second.

"Mr. Bryant," I said as gently as I could manage with molten hate flowing through my veins. "Can I call you John? You don't want to hurt me. I'm one of the good guys."

"You're a cop!" he shouted.

Oops. If the guy had been a hustler, he might not be too fond of the police. "Actually, I'm not. I'm an anthropologist. I can show you my credentials if you want . . ."

"Don't move!"

"Okay. I'm not moving, John." Right, use his name, build a connection. "I just want you to know that I'm not the kind of guy you're angry at. I've never hired a prostitute, male or female. I've never even harassed one. I've never raped anyone, either."

The gun trembled visibly. "You think I care about that?" he said.

"Yes, I do, John. I know you didn't want to kill that hustler. You let the other one go, didn't you? You were only after the j-- the men who hired them."

"Ass-fucking faggots!" he spat.

"But I'm not like that. You don't want to hurt me. And you don't want that man out on the sidewalk to die, or you'll be in a hell of a lot more trouble than you already are."

"Don't try to fool me," Bryant growled. "I'm not stupid; I know I'm in trouble anyway. But you're my ticket out of here. If I can't get them to let me go, I'll bargain for a lighter sentence. Those perverts deserved what they got anyway."

At last, I heard sirens approaching. "Okay, John," I said slowly. "But you know they'll be more willing to bargain if Jim lives. You'll let them take him away, won't you? Let them take him to a hospital?"

Bryant glanced at the front door, the blinds across the shattered window moving in the breeze. "In the back," he said suddenly. "Go into the office and sit down on the floor. Move!"

I walked obediently to the little cubicle at the back of the exercise area. Fuck this, I thought. I didn't want to build a connection with this psycho -- I wanted to slam his head against his own cinderblock walls until he was bloodier than Jim.

From the office floor, the arrival of vehicles and the crackling of radios was muted. I strained to hear what was going on. They weren't going to declare the area in front of the shop too dangerous for the EMTs, were they? Jim had to get out of there, now!

I pressed my cheek against my raised knees. Dammit, Jim, what were you thinking, standing right in front of that damn door? No, that wasn't fair -- with the entry set back in an alcove, there had been nowhere else to stand. But why hadn't he heard the round being chambered, or smelled the gun, or something? Distracted, maybe -- we'd seen enough horror in the last month to keep several therapists in business indefinitely. And if Jim didn't make it to the hospital, or if I couldn't talk my way out of this psycho's clutches, it was just going to get worse.

"Legs on the floor with your hands under them." Bryant stood in the door of the office, dividing his attention between me and the noises out front. "They're going to call me, right? Or do I call them?"

I tried to sound calm and knowledgeable. "As soon as they check out the situation, they'll give you a call. You'll get to talk to a negotiator. Everybody's goal here is going to be to end this without anyone else getting hurt or killed."

"You think those pigs care if I live or not?"

A joke rose to my lips about the amount of paperwork a cop had to fill out just for discharging a firearm, much less killing a suspect -- but I managed to restrain myself. If I acted calm, maybe Bryant would, too. "Nobody has to die here," I said. "Just give them a chance to deal with you."

The phone on the desk rang.

"Answer it," said Bryant. "Don't stand up."

Crawling on my knees, I reached the desk and lifted the receiver off its cradle. "Simon?" I asked.

"Blair, thank god!"

"Is Jim okay? Did you get him to the hospital?"

"They're putting him in the ambulance now. He's hanging in there. How are you?"

"I'm fine," I said, glancing at my captor. "Mr. Bryant hasn't hurt me."

"Do you know what he wants?"

"He wants to negotiate." I held the phone out.

"Put it on the desk and get back against the wall," he ordered. As if I could have jumped him when I was crouching on my hands and knees.

I had been considering it, though. I was still thinking about it as I returned to the corner and tucked my hands under my thighs.

Bryant grabbed the phone. "Who is this?" A long pause. "Well, Captain, I've got your man in here. And if you don't give me what I want, he's not going to make it out alive." Another pause. "I want a notarized document from the DA agreeing that I won't face any charges higher than manslaughter, and any sentence I'm given will be carried out at a minimum security facility."

I closed my eyes. Looked like I would be in here for a while.

"Well, you tell the FBI that I want you in charge, you got that? The DA will also promise to try me in the state of Washington, and nowhere else. Otherwise they'll have another corpse to deal with."

Great. Feds. It was definitely going to be a long day.

"Call me back in fifteen minutes with your best offer." Bryant slammed the receiver down.

"Those demands are a little extreme," I said cautiously.

He shrugged. "It's a starting point." His terror had apparently ebbed to be replaced by a hint of glee and a confidence I hoped was false. "If they want their sweet little archaeologist back in one piece, they have to play by my rules."

"Anthropologist," I corrected dully.

"So how'd you hook up with cops? That guy on the phone seemed to know you pretty well."

"I'm an observer," I recited, "studying interactions in a closed society for my doctorate."

"Ooh, fancy," he sneered. "You got rich parents to buy you an education like that?"

This really wasn't helping me control my anger. I was already unhappy about sitting here for however many hours it might take, while Jim was fighting for his life in the hospital. Did I have to put up with this shit as well? "I got it on my own. I won some scholarships, I've done teaching and research for fellowships, and I have some student loans."

"What about the cops? How'd you get them to let you into their 'closed society?' Pretty boy like you? I bet I can guess."

That was fucking enough. "Actually, I've never abased myself to the point of selling my body. Not for money, not for favors. What about you?"

"Hey, I pulled myself out of that gutter!" he yelled, taking a step back.

"Have you been tested since your streetwalking days? Late eighties, wasn't it? I bet some of them refused to wear a condom."

I caught the telltale flicker of his eyes.

"I bet some of them thought they could fuck you and make you suck them, and you should be grateful. Some of them thought you should pay for the privilege!"

"Assholes like that," he breathed, "is why I'm doing this now. They should all be wiped out of existence!"

I shook my head slowly. "Come on, man. You really think you're any better? That teenager you left to die with his skull smashed in was worth ten of you. You think I don't know what you really wanted to shove up those men's asses?"

"Shut up!"

"And you're still carrying it around with you, aren't you? All those bodily fluids you absorbed years ago, rotting you from the inside out. And all those memories, the images and sounds and feelings you can't get out of your head no matter how hard you try. Still there, aren't they? Every man that ever fucked you is a part of you now. You think you can just write those sins on the back of a bullet and shoot them away?"

"Shut the fuck up or I'll blow your head off!" he screamed, pointing the gun at me with both hands.

"Go ahead!" I challenged, rising to my knees. "Shoot me. You can even stick it inside me if you want. It won't make me half as dirty as you. You're garbage, man, filth! You're putrefying inside with hate and pain and shame and disease, and you run a fucking health club!" Whoa, I thought. Where had all that come from, and what was it doing inside my head?

The terror was back in his eyes now, and something darker. Even braced with two hands, his gun trembled like a leaf in the breeze.

I climbed slowly to my feet, watching him. I didn't think he would shoot me, but I was angry enough not to care. I lowered my voice, using the same tones that penetrated Jim's brain no matter how focused he might be. "You can't escape," I said slowly. "You can't erase the past, and you can't cure the virus. You're a walking corpse with no love life and a seriously messed up brain. Shooting people -- shooting me -- won't make a damn bit of difference."

He stared at me, shaking. The gun was pointing somewhere past my left shoulder, but still he struggled to hold it steady.

"I'm leaving," I said. "I need to go be with my friend." And I walked past him out the door of the office.

My shoulders itched as I walked between the exercise mats toward the entryway. There was no sound of movement from behind me. When the phone rang, I jumped and nearly wet my pants. The gunshot that followed hardly surprised me at all. I waited for the pain to start, but there was nothing. I was still standing, still breathing. The phone cut off in the middle of its second ring.

I turned and looked back toward the office, but from where I stood nothing was visible. A moment later, the front door slammed open and black-vested figures ran into the room with guns pointed at my head.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" I threw my hands into the air.

"Friend, friend, he's a friend!" Rafe yelled, following the first wave of men through the door. "Sandburg, you okay?"

"Yeah, uh, I'm fine," I replied vaguely as I watched the SWAT men spread out to search the place, leading with their guns. "Any word on Jim?"

"He made it to the hospital okay, that's all I know."

"Take me there."

"We got a body!" cried one of the men, and the others all gathered round the door to the office.

"What the hell happened in here, Sandburg?" demanded Simon as he strode in.

I looked back at the office, feeling a curious numbness spread through me. "I guess I killed him. Can you give me a ride to the hospital?"

My partner and I stood back to watch as Dan inspected the body. Rafe had stripped off his vest as soon as the danger was over, and pulled on his suit jacket instead. The man had been getting just a little carried away with his image ever since that temporary captain gave us a dress code. Me, I kept my vest on. I think kevlar goes great with Hawaiian prints, especially against a dark complexion.

Dan stepped away at last and pulled off his gloves. "Looks like suicide to me," he said. "That's not official yet, of course. But I don't see what else it could have been."

I looked at Rafe. "You sure Blair said he killed the guy?"

"That's what he told the captain."

I shook my head. "Maybe he meant metaphorically, or something."

"How do you kill someone metaphorically?" Rafe wrinkled his forehead.

I held up a hand. "No. No way Hairboy killed this dude."

"Well, we can run a paraffin test on Sandburg," Dan suggested. "But look here -- bring that light closer -- see that? Blow-back on the man's gun hand, clear as day. And powder burns on his temple. You say there was only one shot fired?"

Rafe nodded. "We broke through the door just a few seconds later, and Blair was already halfway across the room. I don't see how he could possibly have done it."

"Maybe he persuaded Bryant to shoot himself," said a voice from the doorway. It was one of the feds -- the younger one with the inflated opinion of himself.

"Persuaded him how?" I demanded, my voice rising. "Bryant was the one with the gun."

"The man was nuts," the agent said. "How much could it take to push him over the edge?"

I was shaking my head. "No way, no how."

"I heard one of your men saying Sandburg's a pretty persuasive talker. He teaches, right? Is it so hard to believe he could talk a man to death?"

"That's not funny, man!" I growled, remembering how I had made jokes in the past about Sandburg's motor-mouth. But this was different.

"Hey, guys, take it easy!" Rafe cajoled, stepping between me and the fed. "The captain will get a statement from Blair, and that'll probably clear everything up. Meantime, let's just do our jobs and collect any useful evidence -- okay?"

I shook my head and returned to the papers I'd been shuffling through, looking for any connection between Bryant and the murders on Green Street. We knew this guy was the killer -- we just needed proof. Anything to back up the ballistics on the gun, which was bound to match the one that killed the third victim. Anything to make Hairboy feel better, just in case he somehow had killed this perp.

I helped the nurses shift the patient onto a gurney for transport to Recovery, then headed out of the OR. Tossing my gloves and gown into a biohazard bag, I started scrubbing down again. I was going to need a better skin lotion, because the one I was using just couldn't keep up.

Larry, the anesthesiologist, bent over the sink next to me. Dr. Trudeau, with his usual disdain for an intact patient, had left right after we closed.

"You know, Joy, he's already coming around," Larry commented as he lathered up.

"You're kidding."

"Moving his head and pulling on the restraints as they wheeled him out," Larry confirmed.

I shook my head. "What does it take to keep that guy down? You only gave him enough for a couple of horses. Have you ever seen anything like that before?"

"Only in patients that were already tanked up on something else. And they're just as likely to go into a coma from some interaction no one's ever documented." He frowned, reaching for the towels we were only allowed to use for post-operative cleanup. "Back in 'Nam, we did see some guys with an amazing tolerance for morphine, but that was usually because they'd been shooting it up for months or years."

"This man's a cop," I reminded him. "I hardly think he's been taking illegal drugs."

"You never know these days," he said with world-weary superiority.

As I stepped into the hall, Dr. Sikar came rushing up. "Joy!" he gasped. "I'm so sorry. There was a dreadful snarl on the freeway --"

"It's okay," I assured him. "Dr. Trudeau was there, and we had Larry at the head. But you know Adrian -- he's not interested in having anything to do with the ongoing therapy."

He leaned against the wall, catching his breath. "Sounds like you did fine without me, then. Do you want to be listed as primary on this one?"

I considered. "I think we did a good job, but I'd like you to take a look at him. He had some weird drug reactions -- or maybe I should say non-reactions. We had to increase his anesthesia half a dozen times."

"Wasn't it being absorbed?"

"The blood gases looked normal. But the patient kept moving, sometimes gagging on the respirator. He was coming around before they even got him to Recovery -- and from the way we dosed him, his blood levels should have been peaking around then."

Dr. Sikar frowned. "I'll have to ask Larry about it."

"I don't think he knows any more than I do. I'm just worried that the reactions will affect his drug therapy."

"It shouldn't have any impact on your choice of antibiotics, so long as he isn't allergic. It may cause problems with sedation and pain management, though. Tell me about the case." Dr. Sikar fell in at my side as we headed toward Recovery.

"Well, it's a thirty-six year old male -- a police detective -- brought in with a gunshot wound to his chest involving the right upper lung. X-ray showed the bullet lodged against the scapula. He had hemothorax, of course . . ." I described the surgery and plasma replacement. "I'm pretty sure we got all the bleeders. We didn't close early even with all the trouble he was giving us. He's got a chest tube in now."

We entered recovery just in time to see the patient pull his hand free from the rubber tubing tying it to the gurney, and reach for the dressing over his chest.

I lunged and grabbed his hand before he could do any damage. He was astonishingly strong for a wounded man under the influence of multiple sedatives. "Nurse!" I yelled. "We need some restraints over here!"

He continued to struggle as we got him strapped down properly. "At least he's breathing adequately," Dr. Sikar panted when the buckles were strapped. "You might even want to reconsider the respirator, just put him on oxygen."

"I don't like it," I said. "If he keeps moving around he'll dislodge that chest tube and injure the lung even further. We need to get him sedated!"

"Don't give him anything else just yet. Let me look at his chart." Dr. Sikar considered the file. "Ellison -- I'm sure I've heard the name before."

"I only had a chance to skim his history when he came in," I defended. "No unusual drug reactions were mentioned, and he has been through here before for minor injuries."

"It wasn't my case, but I'm certain . . . here it is. Just a few days ago, an opiate overdose. An accident in the line of duty, they said. The small amount he was exposed to shouldn't have had such an effect." He looked up at me. "Maybe the detective's been taking something we don't know about?"

I craned over his shoulder to see the chart. "They did a chemical screen and didn't find anything but opium."

"Nothing known. It could have been something new."

"Even if they couldn't detect the drug, wouldn't his blood chemistry be affected?"

Dr. Sikar studied the lab report. "His neurotransmitter levels were elevated."

"Just barely above the normal range."

"Yes, but it was all of them. That could be quite a significant effect."

"They only tested for three."

"So check again -- for all the neurotransmitters the lab can detect." He pressed the papers against my chest. "He's your patient. Order any tests you think are necessary."

I sighed and scribbled the orders down, glancing at the patient as I wrote. He was still moving stubbornly, his wrists already chafing under the straps. I handed the orders off to a nurse and asked him to pad the restraints some more.

Dr. Sikar patted my back. "Now why don't you go talk to his family, see if they know anything about strange drug reactions."

"Thanks, Superman," I muttered.

"It's Subramayan," he corrected. "How you children can learn all those Latin and Greek terms and still have trouble with a simple first name . . ."

I chuckled at the familiar plaint as I headed off to the emergency department's waiting area.

It wasn't hard to identify the man I needed to speak to; he had bloodstains all down his shirtfront and on the cuffs, with a few spatters along the side of his face. He had his head in his hands, with a large African-American man patting his back soothingly.

Despite the strain and exhaustion on the younger man's face, he bounced to his feet as soon as he saw me. "Doctor, can you tell me about --"

"Detective Ellison?" I finished in unison with him, smiling. "He came through surgery well and he's in Recovery now. In an hour or so he'll be moved to ICU."

"Is he going to be all right?" the large man said. "I'm Captain Banks. Ellison is one of my best men." He frowned, as if realizing how that sounded. "And a good friend."

"I understand," I assured him. "I'm Dr. Joy Allen. I'm a resident here specializing in trauma cases, and I'll be looking after Detective Ellison. We'll have to see how well he recovers from the surgery, and of course with bullet wounds there's a very high probability of infection. But right now all the indications are promising. He's a strong, healthy man, so his chances are good."

The younger man let out a huge breath and seemed to deflate before my eyes.

"There are a few questions I wanted to ask you," I began cautiously. "Or perhaps I should be talking to the detective's family?"

The young man looked doubtful. "Well, there's his father, but --" He looked up at his companion.

"We didn't want to notify his family until there was more word on Ellison's condition," said the police captain. "They've been estranged for some time."

I frowned. "I see. Well, is there anyone who's especially familiar with Detective Ellison's recent medical history? He's had some anomalous drug reactions --"

"I knew it! Simon, I knew it!" the young man practically shouted.

"Take it easy, Blair," said the captain, grabbing his companion by the shoulders.

"What happened?" he demanded of me. "Did he zone out, or freak, or what?"

I frowned at the evidence of extreme mental stress and tried to make my voice sound calming. "Your friend is all right. We just had a little trouble keeping him sedated during the surgery."

The young man moaned.

I continued, "We're concerned that it may be difficult to keep him quiet while he's recovering. I take it you know something about this?"

"Oh yeah! Jim's always had this weird reaction to anything chemical. Cold medicine would throw him for a loop, aspirin -- well, aspirin's okay, but it doesn't do much for his pain. And even a microdose of opium or some other illegal drug, and he's out for the count."

I remembered the notation in the chart from last week's admittance: despite the dramatic reaction, Ellison's blood level had been quite low. "All right. We'll have to be very careful with narcotics, in that case. What about allergies, does he have any?"

"Does he! He's sensitive to everything!"

"What specifically? Any antibiotics?"

The young man looked blank. "I don't know. We've had, uh, flowers -- sage -- bear paws --"

"Bottled water," the captain put in.

It was apparently a private joke, but the younger man didn't find it funny, judging from his scowl. I made a mental note to test for allergic reactions before adding any new antibiotics to the treatment. "Is there some reason why none of this is mentioned in Detective Ellison's file?"

The two men exchanged a glance. "It's not in there because Jim wanted it kept a secret," the younger one said at last. "Look, is there someplace we could talk privately?"

"Blair . . ." said the captain warningly.

"Simon, she needs to know about this! Jim's life could be at stake!"

"It certainly could," I said quellingly. "If you were aware of the possibility of adverse reactions, you should have told us before the detective was taken into surgery."

"He was being held hostage at the time," said the captain.

Well, that certainly explained why he was wound so tightly.

The captain continued, frowning. "Blair, I really don't think Jim's going to like this . . ."

"Please," the younger man begged me. "An empty room, a supply closet, anything!"

It was a reasonable request; this man needed to decompress in private, and the other people in the waiting area didn't need to be disturbed further. I turned toward the Admitting desk. "Marla?"

"Room three is free," she told me without looking up from her computer. Marla always knew everything that was going on around her, whether she acknowledged it or not.

I led the two men into the empty examining room. When I tried to guide the younger man to a chair, he shook his head. I shrugged and sat down myself. Surgery was very wearing on my legs and feet, especially since I had to stand on a little platform to reach the right height. "All right, gentlemen," I said. "Why don't you tell me why your friend has such unusual reactions? Is he taking some medication or drug we don't know about?"

"What? No!" the young man objected. "I try to keep him away from all that stuff -- it just messes him up."

"And you are?" I asked.

"Blair Sandburg. I'm Jim's partner. And roommate."

"So you're a detective."

"Not exactly. Look, all you need to know is that Jim is . . . special."

"Special in what way?" I asked.

Blair looked to the captain for advice, but the larger man just shrugged. "Jim has . . . a condition . . . which affects his senses," the young man said at last.

"The strange perceptions he was complaining about a few years ago?"

"Yes, exactly! Only for him it's natural." The explanation gained momentum. "See, my theory is that Jim has semi-voluntary control over his neurotransmitter levels."

I blinked, remembering the unusual blood test results. "How do you know this? Are you a neurologist?"

"No, an anthropologist. But it's the only theory that fits the facts. But see, when I say semi-voluntary, I mean that sometimes his senses go out of whack. And his emotions too, at the same time. They can be affected by neurotransmitters, right?"

The tall captain lifted a hand to cover his eyes.

"Anyway, when you give Jim drugs -- sedatives, painkillers, anything that's supposed to affect his senses or his level of awareness -- that messes up his neurotransmitter control. His reactions go haywire, and it's never what you expect."

"Wait, wait," I said. "No one can control their blood chemistry voluntarily."

"Jim can. But it takes a lot of concentration. So if you knock him out, that isn't going to control his pain -- it'll actually make it worse."

"This is crazy!" I told him. "I've never heard of anything like this."

"Well, it's not common. I'm studying Jim for my doctorate, see."

"In anthropology."

"Right."

"So you really don't know anything about the physiological causes of what you describe."

"No, that's not it!" The young man bounced on his heels as he attempted to get his point across.

The captain laid a hand on Blair's shoulder. "Dr. Allen," he said patiently. "It's true that Blair doesn't have much of a medical background. But he knows more about Jim Ellison than anyone else, and his instincts are usually right. I suggest you listen to him."

I rubbed at my temples with both hands. "All right. If you're the expert, how do you suggest we handle the detective? We have to keep him resting quietly, or he won't heal."

"Let me work with him," Blair urged. "I've been teaching him meditation, relaxation exercises -- I can help him control the pain without drugs."

"You mean you want to hypnotize my patient?"

"No. Well, not exactly. He does most of the work himself. I just need to be there to keep him focused, help him concentrate. Especially if we're talking pain like a big hole in his chest."

I stared at the young man. Hypnotism was a recognized therapy for pain, usually in terminal cases or long-term illness. It was hardly standard treatment for critical trauma. Yet nothing else we had done had been able to calm the detective for more than a few minutes. And his overreaction to opium the previous week suggested that experimenting with different drug treatments could be playing with fire.

"Just let me try," the young man pleaded. "Let me in with Jim for half an hour. If you don't see a difference, you can kick me out."

"Sandburg!" the captain objected in shocked tones.

"I know I can help him, Simon. And I know he needs me. He does, doesn't he?" Huge blue eyes fixed on mine. "He's probably fighting your drugs right now."

I made a decision. "It's almost time for your friend to be moved out of Recovery. I'll go check on him. If he's ready, you can see him in the ICU. But you'll have to clean up first."

"Huh?"

"You're a mess," I said succinctly, leading him out into the hall. "There's the bathroom there. Throw your shirt in the red trash bag -- not the white one. Wash your face and hands and chest, and use soap. I'll try to scare up some scrubs or a gown for you to wear. And Mr. Sandburg?"

He paused with his hand on the swinging door.

"Try to calm down. I understand that you've had a terrible day, but you can help your friend better if you're not unnecessarily upset. I can offer you some sedatives, if you'd like --"

"No, that's okay." He smiled tightly. "Meditation usually does it for me." He pushed into the bathroom.

"Thank you, Doctor," said the captain in an undertone. "It'll be better for both of them if Jim and Blair are together."

"Don't thank me yet. I have to see this magic trick of his before I decide whether to give him access to my patient."

I checked on Ellison in Recovery. He was moving constantly. The chest tube was still in place, but the nurses said he'd been fighting the respirator. I didn't like to do this with a perforated lung, but the patient's level of consciousness left me no choice. I removed the respirator and put him on high-flow oxygen instead. As soon as his larynx was unblocked, he began to moan. The man was in severe pain, and all my instincts cried out to me to give him drugs -- sedatives and painkillers to ease his distress, and paralytics to keep him from fighting. If nothing else, I couldn't allow his noise to disturb the other patients.

Once he was ensconced in the ICU with his head elevated to reduce fluid buildup in the lungs, I gave Blair Sandburg the go-ahead. Wearing green scrubs that made his face look even paler than it had been, the young man bent over his friend. He murmured in the same voice that had gotten me to override my better judgment, and within minutes Detective Ellison was responding. He stopped moaning and stared at the young man.

On and on Blair droned. The lines smoothed out on Ellison's face, and the spasmodic clenching of his hands slowed, then stopped. I stepped closer. He wasn't asleep, but staring blankly into space.

"He's in a trance?" I whispered.

"Not exactly. Well, I guess you could call it that."

"That's the most amazing thing I ever saw. How long will this last?"

"I don't know. As much pain as he's in, it might not be long. I should stay with him -- make sure nothing startles him out of it, you know."

I sighed. "Visiting rights in ICU are severely restricted."

The young man grinned engagingly. "Think of me as Detective Ellison's medication. I go where he goes."

I had to smile at that. Blair was clearly in a better frame of mind, now that he'd seen his friend. "All right. You've convinced me. I'll put the prescription on his chart, and the nurses will leave you alone. But if any doctor tells you to get out, you get -- got it?"

He nodded absently, staring at his friend. I sighed and left them alone.

Just as I was about to leave the ICU, the lab report came in -- every neurotransmitter they could measure was elevated well above normal levels. I considered a moment, then ordered another test to be run on blood drawn a few hours from now. Not that I really believed Blair Sandburg's hypnotic therapy could have that dramatic an effect on Ellison's blood chemistry -- could it?

I ordered the tests, just to be sure.

A nurse directed me to the little cubicle where my brother was staying. I had a silly mylar balloon with GET WELL imprinted all over it, since flowers were not allowed in the ICU. As soon as I stepped into the room I could see what Dad had been talking about on the phone last night. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't convince our father that Jim and his roommate were not lovers -- but that wasn't the only thing Dad was worried about. I had already met Blair, and I didn't consider him to be in the 'bad influence' category, but there were certainly some very strange things in the tiny space, things that didn't seem at all to Jim's tastes.

Three differently-shaped glass prisms hung in the window, catching the afternoon sunlight. Soft New-Agey harp music plinked from a boom box in the corner, accompanied by the sound of rushing waves. My brother was lying half-inclined on the bed with an oxygen mask over his face and various machines and tubes hooked to his body, all the while staring as if hypnotized at a lava lamp, of all things, on the breakfast tray across his lap.

Only immediate family were supposed to be allowed in the ICU, and then only for fifteen minutes at a time, but Blair Sandburg had apparently taken up residence there. He was sitting in a chair by the bed with one hand covering Jim's, watching my brother intently.

No wonder Dad was disturbed.

Finally Blair noticed that I was there. "Steven!" he exclaimed, scooting hastily away from the bed. "Um . . . Hi!"

"Hi," I said uncertainly. "I brought this." I extended the balloon on its tether.

"Oh, that's great." He looked it over carefully. "Yeah, that's perfect. Look at the way it shines! That will really help." He tied the thing to the rail at the foot of Jim's bed.

I blinked. That had made no sense whatsoever. "So how is Jim doing?"

"Oh, pretty good. You want to talk to him? Here, let me --" And without the least concern in the world, he lifted the oxygen mask from my brother's mouth and held his hand a few inches from Jim's face.

Jim's nose wrinkled, and he blinked. "Wha --" he croaked, then caught sight of me. His eyes tightened in a half-smile. "Steven."

I was surprised to find him so alert; I would have expected him to be drugged to the gills. He certainly seemed to be in enough pain, judging from the lines graven on his forehead and mouth.

Blair propped the mask on its side just next to Jim's mouth, so he could get the benefit of the oxygen while still talking. He lifted a glass of water and tucked the straw between Jim's lips.

I shifted my weight uncomfortably. "Hey, big brother. How are you feeling?"

Jim canted his eyebrows, not moving his head or body. "I'll live," he replied. "That's pretty good after . . . I was stupid enough to step . . . in front of a bullet." His voice was understandable but very weak, and he paused every few seconds to catch his breath.

"You do realize," Blair put in, "this is the first time you've been shot since I met you. I got hit once, and Simon twice -- I was beginning to think you were immune to bullets!"

Jim smiled weakly. "On a good day . . . I can dodge 'em."

"So I guess yesterday wasn't a good day, huh?" I said.

Both faces quickly shuttered.

I gulped. "Um, so . . . I was really glad to hear you started talking to Dad again."

Jim rolled his eyes. "It's up to him . . . to decide if he wants . . . anything to do with me."

"You know he does, Jim. Just give him a chance. You have to let him into your life if you don't want him to get mistaken ideas about you."

"You mean about Sandburg."

I grimaced, not looking at the man by my brother's bed.

"Steven, you know how it'll go," Jim said, his voice growing stronger. "He'll compare my salary to yours . . . my apartment to your house . . . he'll say I should have made something . . . of my life by now. He just can't see what . . . really matters!" His voice cracked in the end, and he slumped back a little, breathing hard.

Blair brought the straw to Jim's mouth again, frowning in my direction. "Hey guys, maybe this isn't the best time for this. Jim needs to rest now, you know." He settled the oxygen mask back over Jim's mouth and nose.

"I'm sorry," I said. "All I meant to say is that I think Dad would be glad of a chance to be involved in your life again. I know I am. He might be more forgiving than you think." I glanced toward Blair. I knew questioning his presence would be a sure way to end this conversation badly. I had gathered last night that Dad already said anything tactless that needed to be said. "Take care of him, okay, Blair?" was all I could come up with.

"That's what I'm here for," Blair said softly. "Okay, Jim . . ." He bent toward my brother and began speaking in tones too low for me to catch. Within seconds, both of them seemed to have forgotten my existence.

I left the room in confusion, wondering if I knew the first thing about my big brother.

I paused in the doorway. Jim was lying still, his eyes open, but he didn't react to my presence. His color was getting better, I noticed gratefully. Blair was slumped in the chair between the two beds, his head teetering on the support of one fist, dark smudges beneath his eyes.

"Sandburg," I breathed.

He sat up at once, making a cutting motion across his throat. I shut up and backed into the hall, waiting for him to join me there. He slipped out and closed the door with exaggerated care.

"Hi, Simon," he muttered wearily, propping himself against the wall.

"Jim's looking better," I ventured. "Moved to a private room -- that's a good sign, right?"

"Yeah. He's doing really well. They took the chest tube out a day early because there was no infection to speak of -- really surprised Dr. Allen. She thought it was maybe because we're controlling his pain without morphine -- you know, instead of suppressing his whole system. She asked me if I'd consider working with other patients."

I blinked. "What did you tell her?"

"I said Jim just naturally heals fast, and anyway I probably couldn't help anyone else unless I had time to build a good rapport with them."

"Good answer. So what does Jim think of Dr. Allen, anyway?"

Blair sighed. "Well, you were right. He's not happy that I told her about his senses. But I managed to convince him that it's probably a good thing to have a doctor on our side, especially once she agreed not to put anything explicit in his files."

I wasn't surprised. When Blair Sandburg got persuasive, he could sell toothpicks to a lumberjack. Then I remembered why I was here, and the smile froze on my face. I looked for another topic. "Why didn't you want me to talk in Jim's room? He looked awake."

"Oh." Blair wiped a hand across his eyes. "He's in a deliberate zone-out, focusing on sound. I just didn't want you to disturb him."

"Sound? What's he listening to? I didn't hear that weird music of yours playing."

"No, he hates that stuff. He's tuned into the rain in the parking lot. Concentrating on a single sense helps him keep the pain at bay."

"Good, sounds like you're really helping him out there. But can't you get some rest while he's doing that? You look like a victim of torture by sleep-deprivation."

He smiled weakly. "Grad school teaches you to withstand that kind of torture. I sleep when Jim sleeps -- Dr. Allen's been keeping the other bed in the room free, so I can lie down when I need to. But I can't leave Jim alone when he's zoned."

"Nothing's going to threaten him here. I could even a guard on the door if you're that worried."

"That isn't it. Sometimes he forgets to breathe -- well, he's been getting better about that the past couple of days. But yesterday I dozed off and a nurse came in to give him his medicine, and she thought he'd gone catatonic or something. She tried shaking him, but of course he had his sense of touch turned all the way down . . . By the time I woke up she was ready to call a doctor. Since then I've been listening for the medicine cart, but sometimes it takes a couple minutes to bring Jim back. I really have to be on the ball here, you know?"

"I could sit with him, if you like."

"Thanks, Simon. But it's only going to be another day or two. The pain's getting down to where he can manage it without zoning, and he sleeps for more than four hours at a time. He should be out of here in less than a week if all goes well, and then all he needs is some rest and physical therapy to get his lung capacity back."

"Good, that's good. For a while there I was afraid we were going to lose him." My throat grew tight as I recalled the moment when a muffled shot sounded inside that damn gym. "Thought we might have lost both of you, actually."

The kid's face darkened; he still wouldn't talk about what had happened that day, aside from the dry statement he'd given me on the way to the hospital. "Did you need to talk to me for a reason, Simon?"

"Oh, yeah." I pulled the papers from my coat pocket. "Sign these."

He flipped to the back page and pressed the papers against the wall, holding his hand out for a pen. "What am I signing?"

"It just says that you've read the document."

"But I haven't." He turned back to the first page. Fortunately, he had already signed it.

I grabbed the papers back. "It's from IA, absolving you of any responsibility in Bryant's death."

"But I --"

"The man committed suicide, Sandburg. I just read the autopsy report. Even if you did contribute -- hell, even if you had killed him with your own hands -- it would have been self-defense. He'd just shot your partner, he was pointing a gun at you, and he publicly threatened to kill you if his demands weren't met."

"Simon, you know I pushed him to it," the kid whispered, his face bone-white.

I sighed. "Blair," I said gently. "He was already unstable. Look at the murders he'd committed. If you hadn't pushed it, chances are good he would have killed you and then turned the gun on himself. And I for one am glad it didn't happen that way. I'm sure Jim is, too."

He just stared at me, eyes huge beneath a drooping mop of hair.

"Look, IA has cleared you. That's good; it means you can stay on as a consultant. If I hadn't already done the paperwork to make you official, you might have lost your ride-along status again. So the way I see it, it worked out pretty good. The department shrink would like a couple sessions with you, but basically as soon as Jim is cleared to go back to work, so are you."

He pushed a lank strand out of his eyes. "Did you say you read the autopsy results?"

"That's right. Why, was there something you wanted to know?"

He stared at the ceiling. "Did they test him for HIV?"

"Yeah. As I recall, it was negative."

"Shit," he breathed, closing his eyes.

"If it matters, I can check again --"

"No, it isn't important. I just wanted to know how good a bullshitter I am."

I frowned. "He had some other problems -- hepatitis B or something. Yeah, that was it. Dan said it was probably mostly symptomless, but it would have given him liver cancer another ten or twenty years down the road."

Blair nodded slowly. "That can show a little like AIDS in the early stages, can't it?"

"I don't know. Fever, weight loss -- I suppose so. Why?"

"Never mind. Doesn't matter now." He sighed and squared his shoulders. "I should be getting back to Jim now. He needs me."

I watched the kid slip almost soundlessly back into the room, his words resonating through my head. That seemed to be Sandburg's whole motivation these days: Jim needs me. And he was usually right on the money about that.

But what, I wondered, would happen when Jim refused to admit that need? And when would the kid admit how much he needed Jim in turn?

End