Part 11

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* * *

 "Fourteen or fifteen at the oldest," Dan said, shaking his head as he pulled off his rubber gloves. Aside from the stench, there was little to distinguish the pile of remains as anything human, except for a couple of bone fragments. "She's been dead since the time of Redding's disappearance," he added.

"Shit."

"Yeah, that was my reaction. She was probably a runaway, street kid or something. Someone they figured wouldn't be missed. Looks like they probably chose well, because so far, the dental records on the missing girls we've got on file haven't matched up."

"What about that...mess that was on the floor behind the altar?"

"That must have been one enormous chain of lightning," Dan commented, washing his hands and leaving the tidy up work to one of his assistants as he and Jim walked into the front office. "There wasn't much to identify, but one thing I can tell you. It was Charles Redding, not his uncle."

"Have you turned in that report yet?"

"Are you kidding?" Dan responded. "I'm still trying to figure out how to answer the inevitable question of how a dead man ended up there. When he was hit, he was standing and moving--the guy who was hit by lightning was up and around. According to official departmental policy, dead guys aren't supposed to do that." Dan raised the pot of coffee in invitation, to which Jim nodded. Dan poured two cups and handed one to Jim. "How's Blair doing?"

"He's doing well. His follow-up doctor's appointment is this afternoon, so we'll know how he's progressing officially in a few hours." Jim took a drink of the coffee. "He doesn't want to see anybody..."

"You mean a shrink?"

"Yeah." Jim paused. "Should I push him on that point, do you think?"

"I wouldn't. We all have to handle our stuff our own way. Blair seems to have it together pretty well. I wouldn't hassle him." Dan sighed. "A cousin of mine was sexually assaulted in high school. She went through therapy for years, and even then she ended up an alcoholic. After fifteen years of overpriced shrinks, she wasn't as together as Blair seems to be now. We all deal differently."

"Sorry about your cousin."

"Thanks, but I didn't know her well--we met at a couple of family things, but we weren't close. Anyhow, I think Blair will go see someone if he feels it'll help. If not, pushing him is just going to put more pressure on him."

"I suppose."

"Cassie, on the other hand, could probably use a few sessions with the shrink since she analyzed that decayed tissue on your window sill." Dan chuckled. "You know, I've been waiting to see something really throw her off, and that did it. She's been through I don't know how many autopsies down here, and nothing fazes her. Give her one little chunk of gray stuff, and she's in orbit." With an evil glint in his dark eyes, Dan added, "I'm looking forward to sharing my findings about Redding with her."

"What did you do with the black semen sample?" Jim asked, and Dan choked on his swallow of coffee. "Well?" Jim prodded.

"Off the record?"

"What do you think?"

"I flushed it. I was honestly shocked that it didn't literally come back up to bite me on the ass, but I flushed it down the john." Dan shuddered, almost visibly. "It's against every rule in the book, but some things…they don't respect the rules."

"Thanks."

"Hey, I didn't want to deal with that stuff again. There was no dye in that sample, Jim. I don't know how it's possible, but it was semen, and it was black--naturally."

"I knew that. I guess I was hoping you'd find something."

"You and me both," Dan admitted, taking another drink of his coffee. "Does Blair know?"

"About the black stuff?" Dan nodded. "No. I know I should tell him, but if he knew that, it would seriously freak him out, and there's not much point in it." Jim recalled having talked it over with Blair in the hospital the morning after the rape, but he had to remind himself that Blair remembered none of that time, and that it wasn't really Blair he'd been talking to at all.

"Someone here might say something, Jim."

"Who's going to walk up to Blair and say, 'Hey, what's the deal with that black semen from your rape kit?' No, nobody around here's going to say anything, unless they want to have their lungs pulled out through their nose," Jim concluded, finishing his coffee.

"They taught you how to do that in Special Forces?" Dan asked, and Jim chuckled.

"Sorry, Dan. That information is classified," he replied, still smiling. "Thanks for the coffee."

"Sure. Here's the report on the remains, such as it is. Maybe you'll have some luck tracing the girl."

"Hopefully." Jim waved slightly with the file as he headed back into the hallway.

 * * *

 Blair shifted in his chair again, the slight discomfort of prolonged sitting the least of his worries. He'd been in the waiting room of Dr. O'Brien's office for only fifteen minutes, but the anticipation wasn't pleasant. Jim was sitting next to him, flipping through a magazine. He set it aside and turned toward Blair.

"Chair uncomfortable?" he whispered, though they were far enough away from the two other patients waiting that it was unlikely they'd hear anything.

"A little. Man, I don't wanna be here," Blair confided, though he suspected that wasn't a news flash to his partner.

"You said you were feeling better--no reason to think you won't get a good verdict."

"It's not that." Blair sighed and fidgeted with a loose thread on the sleeve of his blue sweater.

"The exam's worrying you," Jim said softly. Blair could only nod, and he felt his face flush pink. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't think it would probably be a little uncomfortable." Jim paused. "You want me to come in with you?"

"You'd do that?"

"I'd do anything for you. You know that by now, Chief. Maybe I can keep you distracted."

"Thanks. I think it would help." Blair was surprised when Jim took hold of his hand, and he squeezed Jim's hand gratefully in response. "I'm really scared," he whispered.

"I know, buddy. Having something prodding you back there right now isn't too comfortable."

"Jim, if I say 'stop'--if I can't stand it anymore--will you make him stop?"

"You know I will, honey," Jim responded, covering their joined hands with his free hand. "If the pain's too much, you should tell the doctor, anyway."

"Blair Sandburg?" the nurse called from the door she held open, which led back into the examining room area. Blair got up and Jim followed. "You can wait--" she began to direct Jim back outside when Blair spoke up.

"I asked him to come in with me for the exam."

"Oh," she said, seeming a bit surprised. "All right, then. We're going to put you in this room right here, Blair. I need you to take everything off and put the gown on. The doctor will be with you in a few minutes." The chunky middle-aged woman smiled pleasantly and put Blair's chart in a bin on the door, then pulled it shut.

"Man, I hate this." Blair picked up the flimsy blue gown.

"You want me to wait outside, or turn around--"

"We take showers together, Jim. I haven't grown anything new you haven't seen before. I just...I don't want to do this."

"I know. We need to be sure everything's okay, though."

"Yeah, I suppose." Blair dutifully stripped off his clothes and put on the gown, and Jim helped him to sit up on the table.

"Good afternoon, Blair," Dr. O'Brien greeted, smiling as he came into the room, Blair's chart in hand. "Jim," he added pleasantly.

"Is it okay if Jim stays with me for the exam?" Blair asked.

"I have to check your sutures--you understand that, right?"

"I know what we're doing."

"Okay. If it's all right with you two, it's fine with me. Jim, why don't you pull your chair up right here, near the head of the table? That way, when Blair lies down, you'll be able to talk with him easily."

"Sure," Jim said, moving his chair as directed. He waited while the doctor went through the routine blood pressure and temperature check, then listened to Blair's heart with the stethoscope.

"Temp's normal, BP is a little elevated, but that's not too unusual, considering. I need you to lie on your side on the table, and bring your knees up, okay?" O'Brien sounded so casual about something that seemed nightmarish to Blair as he dismally followed the instructions. "This may be a little uncomfortable, but at this stage of your recovery, it shouldn't pose any problems with the sutures." The doctor was moving around in front of the counter, preparing something. "I'm going to be inserting a very small, flexible lighted scope which will give me a chance to get a good look at things. I need you to relax for me, Blair."

"Sounds great," Blair said defeatedly.

"Focus on me, Chief." Jim took a hold of Blair's hand and leaned in close to talk to him. "The doc's right. Try to take some deep breaths and relax as much as you can."

Blair felt the gown being moved aside and his grip tightened on Jim's hand. His breath was starting to come out in little staccato gasps.

"Jim, I can't... I'm losing it here," he managed, feeling the onset of a panic attack like he hadn't had since childhood.

"No, you're not. Deep breath, baby. Come on." Jim used his free hand to stroke Blair's hair, leaning down close to his face. "Try to relax, Chief. Focus on me."

With Jim maintaining a soothing monotone, coming up with more small talk than Blair had heard him invent in all the years he'd known him, the doctor proceeded with his exam. As he carefully invaded the injured passage with the instrument, Blair squeezed Jim's hand fiercely.

"You're doing great, sweetheart," Jim said softly, obviously not worrying if the doctor heard it or not. "Squeeze my hand good and hard if it hurts, honey."

The combination of Jim's tenderness and concern, the pain and the invasion were a little too much, and Blair felt the tears stinging his eyes.

"You need to stop?" Jim whispered, leaning in close.

"No," Blair managed, his voice almost nonexistent. "Has to happen," he added, blinking as a couple of tears escaped. Jim petted his hair gently. "Hurts," he breathed, only audible to Jim.

"You're making me look bad here, Chief, hanging in here so well. You remember what a big baby I was about having some wax blown out of my ear?" Jim smiled at the little twitch of a grin that drew from Blair, despite the pain he was in at the moment.

"We're almost finished, Blair."

"Hear that, Chief? You're in the home stretch, honey." Jim leaned forward and kissed Blair's temple. "I know it hurts, baby," he whispered into Blair's ear. "Try not to tense up against the pain. It's almost over." Jim felt tears burning his own eyes now, wishing with all his heart there was some way he could endure this for Blair, to save him the pain and invasion of this unpleasant exam.

Mercifully, the doctor soon finished. Blair had a death grip on Jim's hand, and was intently focused on every word Jim said, though he had begun to just rattle off small talk about the paperwork he needed to catch up on at work. All the while, the gentle hand kept up the stroking motion in his hair, keeping Blair as relaxed as possible.

"Looks like you're done with the hard part, Chief," Jim said sympathetically, rubbing the back of Blair's hand with his thumb.

"Everything's progressing right on schedule," Dr. O'Brien told Blair, patting him lightly on the shoulder. "You can sit up now."

"Easy for you to say," Blair quipped in a shaky voice.

"Take it slow, Chief." Jim guided him up, tucking the gown under him as he sat. "Relax and breathe," Jim said, rubbing Blair's back with the hand Blair wasn't clutching.

"You said you were off the pain medication. That's great."

"It's not that I couldn't use it, but the nausea is worse than the pain sometimes."

"The other alternative was giving you worse side effects, right?" O'Brien dispensed with his rubber gloves and checked Blair's file.

"Yeah. I took 'em both for a while, but as soon as I could stand it, I dropped the pain meds. The antibiotic made me a little queasy on their own, but I'm finished with that now, too, so I feel pretty good."

"You're healing well. I'd advise you to take it easy for another week or so--then start gradually resuming your normal routine. Put off strenuous exercise--like working out, for example--for about a month."

"What about sex?" Blair asked, startling Jim a little.

"Well, if you're talking about penetration, I'd like to see you again before that happens," the doctor responded. "Normal activity doesn't put the level of stress on the tissues that anal intercourse would. I would assume in four to six weeks, you'd probably be safe, but I wouldn't want to risk it without a check up first. As for any other sexual activity, if it's not too strenuous, I'd say you'd be safe in a week or so. This was a very serious injury," he said, oddly averting his eyes from Blair to have eye contact with Jim. "Recovery depends on avoiding a second re-injury."

"Whoa, hold it right there," Blair spoke up, holding up a forestalling hand. "A second re-injury? What exactly is that supposed to mean? When was the first one?" he demanded.

"I think we can be honest, since we're all adults here. I'm not sure what exactly the situation is, but engaging in intercourse with someone who has significant anal tearing is asking for infection, hemorrhaging and permanent injury. We've already flirted with that once--"

"Look, I don't know what sick shit you're trying to imply here, but Jim never touched me. I was not re-injured. Just because you can't explain your own incompetence in releasing me from the hospital when I was in serious enough condition to nearly bleed to death in the next 24 hours, do not try to pin it on Jim."

"The wounds you had the second time you were admitted to the hospital were larger and deeper and most of the original sutures were loose or torn. I avoided pursuing this before, but quite frankly, there is no other logical explanation for your condition than reinjury. As far as who's responsible, that's not my concern, beyond the fact that I don't like to see my patients leave here with a good chance of recovery, well on their way, and then end up in ICU."

"I think we're done here," Jim said evenly. He helped Blair down off the table and steadied him for a second when he landed on his feet.

"I can't believe this guy," Blair persisted. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Your doctor--and I know what I saw. If Jim wasn't responsible, my apologies, but someone was responsible."

"That does it," Jim said, moving away from Blair and going nose to forehead with the somewhat shorter physician. "You make all the insinuations you want about me, but don't you dare imply that Blair was out screwing around the day after his rape. What kind of sick son of a bitch are you, anyway?"

"Jim, let it go. I'll just go back to my regular doctor for my follow up exam." Blair started picking up his clothes to get dressed.

"I have other patients to see, so if we're finished...?" The doctor pinned Jim with an angry glare.

"For now. We still haven't closed the door on the concept of malpractice proceedings."

"Do what you feel you have to, Detective. But remember, if you carry this into a courtroom, you and Mr. Sandburg may end up having some awkward questions to answer about what put him in the hospital the second time. I wouldn't advise opening that can of worms, gentlemen." With that, the doctor picked up his file and walked out of the room.

Jim started toward the door, but a hand on his arm stopped him.

"Let it go, Jim. We both know we can't explain what happened, so why dig ourselves in deeper?"

"Because I want to kill that bastard."

"Why? Because he made some ugly implications...or because the exam made me cry?" The question threw Jim for a moment, and Blair raised his eyebrow slightly.

"Sometimes you're so fucking smart that it's annoying." Jim kissed the top of Blair's head and pulled him into a hug. "I wanted to ram that scope so far up his ass that he'd have a spotlight coming out through his nose." Jim had to smile at the little snort of a laugh that earned him. Blair squeezed back briefly and then stepped away.

"He did the best he could with the exam. I knew it was going to hurt. Thanks for being here with me. It really helped. I was heading for a really nasty panic attack when he first started."

"You want some help getting dressed?"

"I'm okay." Blair went about the process of getting back into his clothes, smiling at the fact that despite being turned down, Jim was right there helping him, anyway, whether he needed it or not. The truth was, he was still sore from the exam, and a little shaken up by it, and the occasional steadying hand or help with a stubborn sleeve was appreciated.

"Ready?" Jim asked, moving toward the door.

"Boy, am I," Blair responded, happy to be heading out the door and finished with the whole ordeal instead of just starting it.

"We need to schedule your follow-up, Blair," the nurse at the front desk said as they walked by her.

"No, thanks. I'm going to be seeing my regular doctor from here on." With that, Blair opened the door and headed out of O'Brien's office, Jim close behind him.

Blair waited while Jim unlocked the passenger door of the truck and insisted on giving Blair a boost up into the seat, something he'd indicated would continue until Blair was totally healed. Pulling all his weight up on one leg into a truck wasn't something Jim deemed beneficial for Blair's recovery.

"You want to go home or stop for something to eat first?" Jim asked as he got into the truck. His question was met with silence from Blair. "Chief?"

"I just need a minute," Blair said, his voice coming out shaky.

"Is the pain bad?" Jim asked, concerned.

"It hurts...but...it's just that it makes me wonder how I'm ever going to handle it when we try to make love."

"It's too soon, baby." Jim slid over on the seat, and stunned Blair by pulling him into his arms. Right there in the front seat of the pick up. Right there in a parking lot. Where people might see. "Blair, it's okay. There's no pressure."

"I just want you to know that the times we made love were the best times of my whole life," Blair whispered against Jim's shoulder.

"They were some of the best times. Right now is a pretty good time, just sitting here, holding you." Jim smiled as he patted Blair's back. "All the best times have been with you, baby--and they weren't all making love, either."

"You're so patient with me."

"I love you, dummy. Of course I'm patient with you." Jim smiled, resting his head against Blair's. "This sucks, Chief. We just have to ride it out together, and we will. You'll heal up physically, and I think our sex life'll just sort itself out when the time is right. Don't be worrying now about what you can and can't do. I'm not going anywhere." There was a little hitch in Blair's breathing. "Is that what you thought--that I was going to take off if you weren't able to--"

"No." Blair shook his head. "I just wondered how long you'd really be happy. I mean, we just got started, and then this happened--"

"But we did get started. And I'm really happy about that--because if we hadn't, after this happened, who knows if we could have ever had a relationship like the one we have now." Jim pulled back a little. "Home?"

"Yeah, I'm ready to go home. What about work?"

"I told Simon I needed the rest of the day off. He knows this is a hard time for both of us."

"He's been great about this. I mean, lots of bosses wouldn't have been all that understanding about the time off because of me."

"Simon's a friend. That's been a real plus, well, for a lot of things, but especially in wrestling with this. You want to pick up takeout?"

"I think I feel more like puking than eating right now. Maybe I'll get my second wind later."

"I'll stop at the deli and get some fresh stuff for sandwiches, and we can eat later.""Thanks again for being with me for the exam. I really needed you there."

"I'll always be here when you need me, Chief." Jim smiled as he started up the truck.

"I know," Blair said solemnly, nodding his head. "You're my rock, Jim--you give me courage."

"You have courage all your own, Blair." Jim shook his head as he navigated the truck out into traffic. "Sometimes it amazes me how much you have."

"Yeah, but everyone needs a source that rejuvenates them, feeds their strength and their courage, and that's you."

Unable to formulate the right words, Jim took hold of Blair's hand and laced their fingers, his other hand still on the wheel of the truck. Walking through Hell had been a small price to pay for this love.

 * * *

 Blair watched from the truck as Jim went into the small deli and ordered a panorama of sandwich ingredients. He smiled as he watched the man behind the counter pulling out the tray with the low fat turkey. Jim picked out a couple of different bags of sub buns and added a few fresh veggies to the order. Of course, there was also cheese, pastrami and ham included in the purchase, but Blair's tastes, as always, were well represented.

"Enough food for an army," Jim announced as he set the bag in the truck and then got in himself. He didn't appear pleased when his cell phone rang, but he answered it as Blair dug through the bag to inspect the goodies for himself. Things seemed better now that they were out of the doctor's office and heading home, and the fresh meats and veggies had sparked his interest.

"Ellison." Jim's face seemed to pale at the words coming over the line, and Blair watched as the strong jaw twitched slightly. "When?" Another long pause. "Son of a bitch."

"What is it?" Blair asked in a whisper. Jim held up a forestalling hand as he finished the conversation.

"We're about ten minutes away. I'm on my way." Jim broke the connection. "There's been another murder."

"Wait a minute--not another--"

"A family."

"Not kids? Oh, God, Jim, not kids?" Blair asked, horrified.

"I don't know. Simon said it was the same M.O. as the other multiple homicides, and that it was a family." Starting up the truck, he headed toward the crime scene. "Must be one of Redding's goons trying to use the ceremony--you know, the Thirteenth Sacrifice thing?"

"At that rate, anyone who knows about the ceremony could be a killer."

"I'm not sure they all know the particulars. But it seems like this is a little strenuous for Redding's uncle--he's what, seventy or so?"

"Yeah, 73, I think, according to the files."

A short time later, Jim pulled up in front of an attractive two-storey colonial style home. The neighborhood was swarming with cops and emergency vehicles, and neighbors were standing out on their lawns, watching the spectacle.

"Wait here, Chief." Jim opened up the glove compartment and took out his backup .38, handing it to Blair. "No arguments. Keep this."

"Okay." Blair nodded and took possession of it. "What if you need me inside?"

"This isn't something you need to see. I'll fill you in when I come back."

Jim walked up the front sidewalk to the porch, where he met Simon.

"What've we got?"

"The Weatherby family--remember the bunch who decided to finger Redding instead of taking the heat when we made the first arrests?"

"So, that's...five?"

"Right. I guess they were all staying here together, thinking there was safety in numbers," Simon said, shaking his head. The Weatherby family had consisted of a middle-aged couple, their college-aged children and the husband's older brother, who had served as one of Redding's main henchman.

"The husband and wife are in the downstairs master bedroom. The other three are upstairs."

"Son of a..." Jim ran a hand over his face. "I thought this was finally over after the whole thing at Redding's place," he said tiredly, walking with Simon into the house.

"Taggert, Rafe and Connor are doing the preliminary stuff so the coroner's people can get started doing their thing."

"How's Connor handling this?"

"Taggert went upstairs first--Rafe and Connor haven't been up there at all. She's dealing pretty well with what she's seen."

"Who found them?"

"The neighbor, Mrs. Hausman--she lives right there," Simon said, pointing to a small, one-floor blue house with white shutters, next door to the crime scene. "She's an older lady, says she always sees the family up and around early in the morning. She said when no one appeared outside today, and none of the blinds or curtains opened in the bedrooms on the side she can see, she thought something might be wrong. She came over here and the back door was open, so she came inside. Fortunately, she spotted blood in the hallway leading to the master bedroom, and she ran back to her place and called the cops. She didn't see the bodies."

"That's good, for her sake." Jim steeled himself for the sights and smells to come, already feeling the bile threatening to rise from the stench of spilled blood. Just before he stepped through the bedroom door, Simon took hold of his arm.

"There's one other thing you should know."

"What?"

"There's another message, in the son's room, on the wall. It says 'Seven more and Sandburg'."

"We know for sure it's part of Redding's gang, then--not that there was a whole lot of doubt on that point, given the circumstances."

"That pretty much cinches it."

"Great." Jim turned without more eloquent comment and headed inside.

 * * *

 More than convinced he didn't want to see the carnage in the house, but not satisfied to sit dormant in the truck, Blair eased himself down the little drop to the cement and tucked the .38 in the pocket of his leather coat. When he spotted Simon, he made his way over to talk to the captain.

"How bad is it?" he asked.

"It's bad, Blair. Very bad. Five people."

"Oh, man." Blair shook his head. "Any kids?"

"Not young children--the son and daughter were 19 and 22, respectively."

"When is this gonna end?" Blair demanded, angry at the horror of the situation.

"Captain Banks?" Cassie stood in the doorway of the house. "There's something here you should see."

"Blair, why don't you--?"

"Yeah, I know. Wait in the truck." Blair waved him off with a flip of his hand and headed back toward the vehicle.

 * * *

 It was a good thirty minutes before Jim emerged from the house, looking pale and haggard, but still making notes as he headed toward the truck. He got into the driver's side and started the engine before even glancing at Blair.

"I'll drop you off at home and then I have to go in."

"I'll come with you."

"Blair, you're supposed to be taking it easy."

"I can sit around the station as well as the loft."

"Not really. We've got more comfortable seating at the loft." Jim headed out onto the road.

"Come on, man. I want to be there for you. I know this is a horrible case. Simon told me it was bad."

"Yeah, it was bad. Dammit!" Jim slammed the steering wheel with his hand, then retracted it toward his chest with a horribly scrunched up expression. Blair reached over and took the offended hand, kissing it and holding it in both of his.

"You've gotta start dialing down your sense of touch before you do that, love," Blair said softly, still stroking the hand with his thumb. "Is this the worst crime scene you've ever been to?" he asked.

"By far," Jim said quietly. "I've never seen anything like it. These killings were wilder, more erratic, more wantonly destructive."

"Beyond words," Blair added gently, still holding Jim's hand. "Let me come in to the station with you, huh? As long as you don't take me on any SWAT team raids, it shouldn't be too strenuous."

"Okay. It'll be good to have you there," Jim said tightly.

"I wouldn't be anywhere else." Blair kissed the back of Jim's hand again, and held it against his face. "I remember somebody holding my hand today when I needed it."

"Blair, there's something you don't know. I didn't want to talk to you about it, but in a way, I think it's only fair that I do."

"What?"

"Cassie found a fragment of some sort of grayish matter at the scene--"

"Oh, no." Blair released Jim's hand, which the other man needed for driving, and rubbed his own forehead.

"The whole M.O. fits. Of course, everyone's knocking themselves out trying to craft theories for why the killer is dragging around a decomposed body part with him and leaving flesh fragments behind."

"You think it's Yates?"

"A few months ago, I wouldn't have allowed for that possibility, but I've gotta say, now, that's what I think. We never did account for the bastard's whereabouts." Jim sighed. "There's more."

"Great."

"He left a message. This time, it was 'Seven More and Sandburg'."

"Oh, shit."

"We knew the cult was obsessed with you. I was hoping that Redding's death would put an end to that. Don't worry, Chief. This time I really won't screw up. I promise I'll protect you."

"I trust you, Jim. Last time...it wasn't your fault. It just happened, okay?"

"Okay."

"I mean it."

"I know you do."

"Then let yourself off the hook for it," Blair persisted.

"I can't."

"You have to. Because I do. Because it's what I want so I can feel good about things again. I don't want you still beating yourself over the head for it."

"I'll do my best."

 * * *

 "The press is already all over this one," Simon said dismally, the Major Crimes bullpen filled to capacity with all the department's top detectives. "What is discussed in this room goes no further," he stated, with a glance at Chief Warren. The gray-haired man with the silver-framed glasses was seated on the edge of a nearby desk, having made it clear he would be personally involved in the handling of this case. "As you all know by now, we have a dead family here. Marie and Leonard Weatherby, ages 47 and 45 respectively. Their son, Calvin, 19, and their daughter Karen, 22, and Leonard's brother, George, who was 49. All were due to testify in the Redding case. While Redding's prosecution is now a moot point, obviously, with the perp himself dead, there are still obviously people out there with a score to settle against the 'traitors.' We've initiated around the clock protection for our remaining witnesses in the case." Simon opened the file in his hand. "We have a point of entry through a patio door on the first floor, though there's no sign it was forced. The murder weapon appears to have been an axe."

"Is the M.O. the same as the frat house killings?" a male voice from the back of the room asked.

"As a matter of fact, it was very similar. Which leads us to believe we are dealing with either the same killer, or his accomplice. The murders are becoming...messier, more erratic."

"So, you don't think the killer in the campus murders was Redding?" Brown asked.

"That's still a possibility, if this is one of his freak friends trying to imitate him. These killings were sloppy, hasty and displayed a spirit of brutality about them that indicates either a different killer, or an escalation in this killer's level of rage."

"What about the tissue sample Cassie found at the scene, sir?" Megan asked.

"That's the other peculiar element here. We have reason to believe that the killer is hauling around with him some sort of relic, possibly from a past kill. There was a fragment of badly decomposed human flesh found at the point of entry. It's too old to have come from one of the victims of this homicide."

"Frankly, it's too old to have come from the victims of any of these homicides," Dan Wolf spoke up from his seat near Jim's desk. "This tissue sample is very old, and in an advanced state of decomposition. All of the victims, to my knowledge, were embalmed or cremated once the bodies were released from evidence."

"What about the foot that was missing from the second crime scene?" one of the detectives asked.

"My assistant is cross-checking this sample against samples from all the victims, but it's still too old."

"Other crime scene details you should know--a pentagram was drawn in blood on the wall of the master bedroom. There was a inverted cross in the upstairs hall. The son of a bitch left a message in the son's room--'Seven more and Sandburg'. Apparently, this bunch of nutcases who were following Redding around developed some sort of sick...jones for Sandburg as a human sacrifice, and are still holding onto the idea--"

"Any thoughts as to why?" Wilkins, who had posed the foot question, spoke up again.

"Possibly because of all the publicity in the papers last year when Sandburg was clinically dead and then revived. We figure it's something they latched onto that makes them think he would be more valuable in some way as a sacrifice," Simon stated. "Now I want everyone in this room to go over the file, get familiar with the details of the case. This is top priority. You will report directly to me. Chief Warren?" Simon turned to the chief.

"I'd just like to add that while all our cases, especially the homicide cases, should be considered priorities, we have to put special effort forth when something like this happens. Not only do we have a maniac committing multiple homicides out there endangering the community, but as soon as the news spreads, we'll have a panic on our hands. Expect to field calls and questions from frightened citizens, and get ready to take a lot of heat from the press and the public. How much heat we take will be directly proportional to the length of time it takes us to catch this bastard. If you need additional hours, resources or anything at all to adequately pursue this investigation, don't hesitate to ask." He paused slightly. "And don't hesitate to avail yourself of the services of Dr. Reynick," he added, referring to the department's psychiatrist. "This is an unusual case, and it wouldn't be surprising if even some of our most seasoned veterans found it troubling. I'll turn the floor back over to Captain Banks now."

"Thank you, sir," Banks said, nodding at his superior. "You have your instructions. Now let's get out there and do some fine police work and find this lunatic. Remember, all of you--be careful, use backup and don't be dead heroes. This is a dangerous maniac we're tracking. So, go after him, but use your heads and watch your step. That's it," he concluded.

"How're you doing, Chief?" Jim asked Blair. The younger man had been quiet, listening to the pep talk, sitting next to Jim with little or no expression on his face.

"I'm okay. " He looked at Jim thoughtfully. "How about you?"

"About the same, I guess." Jim paused. "I'm going to make some arrangements for a guard and then I want to drop you off at home and get a few guys together and check out all of Redding's old haunts."

"Jim--"

"No arguments. Going back to the scene isn't going to do you any good right now, and those places all need to be checked."

"I know you're right."

"Hopefully, I can wrap things up and come home in time to catch a few hours of sleep." Jim smiled at his sullen partner. "You'll be back in the saddle soon enough, Chief. Just take it easy for a while longer, okay?"

"I don't like you working without backup. Well, without me as your backup."

"I don't like it, either, but it won't be forever." Jim got up and headed into Simon's office to make arrangements for a unit to watch the loft and two cops to be stationed inside the building while he was working the case. He figured Simon would balk at that much manpower, but after the bloody destruction he'd seen that morning, he would settle for no less protection for Blair.

 * * *

 Blair tossed and turned in bed, not finding a comfortable position. He'd carefully made his way up the stairs, the first time on his own since the rape. Relieved that he'd completed the trip with a minimum of ill effects, he had curled up with Jim's pillow and courted sleep. It had proven evasive. There was a unit patrolling around the building, a cop patrolling inside the building, and a uniformed officer downstairs in the living room watching one of the late night talk shows on television.

Tired of being in bed and not sleeping, Blair sat up and blinked a time or two, then got up and put on his robe. It was a little soon to tackle the steps again, but it beat writhing around sleepless. Maybe one of the really late shows would have somebody funny on their line up. A little humor would be a good thing.

He carefully and somewhat slowly went downstairs, and paused at the bottom of the steps.

"Anybody good on for guests?" he asked the officer who sat with his back to Blair, watching the TV. "You like watching TV with no lights? I told you a lamp wouldn't bother me," he added, walking into the living room and turning on a lamp.

When he turned to look at the silent man on the couch, a scream died in his throat at what he saw. Officer Shaw was sitting there, remote control in hand, glassy eyes staring straight ahead. Bright red blood covered his light blue shirt, oozing from the gaping wound where his throat had been slit from ear to ear.

Blair flattened himself against the wall near the balcony windows, tearing his eyes away from the horrible corpse to scan the shadow-shrouded loft. The laughter from the talk show's studio audience was the only sound in the silent apartment. Swallowing hard, he cautiously and stealthily walked over to the couch and picked up the walkie-talkie that lay on the cushion of the couch, next to the dead man.

"Turner, do you read me? Are you there? It's Sandburg," he said into the radio and waited. Nothing. Tossing the walkie-talkie aside, he ran to the phone, and picked it up, but was greeted with nothing but more silence. The studio audience laughed again as he set the dead phone aside.

The hall leading to the bathroom, as well as his old bedroom, were nothing but darkness and shadow. Moving toward the door, he flipped on the light switch there. It flickered twice, and then the entire loft was plunged into darkness. Since he was leaning against the front door, and feared the killer may still be lurking in the apartment, Blair carefully felt for and slipped his stockinged feet into the pair of athletic shoes he'd left by there. He quickly turned and unlocked the door, darting out into the hall, hoping that one of the other residents had a functional telephone or cell phone.

He approached the apartment next door before he remembered that the tenants there were out of town for two weeks. As he moved gingerly back past his own door, the hinges creaked ever so slightly. He froze, and then he heard it. A low, throaty chortle of laughter. Resisting the urge to break into a run immediately, he looked behind him. The moonlight coming through the window in the hall fell upon Warren Yates as he stood in the doorway, his gray face split by a hideous blackened yellow smile as he laughed at his prey's predicament. In his hand was a large butcher knife taken from the loft's kitchen. Blood coated the blade and dripped from the tip of it.

Blair ran down the shadowy hall and pounded on the button for the elevator. He turned to look behind him, and saw that the killer was advancing, moving slowly but surely in his direction. Giving up on the elevator which was most likely disabled by the power outage, he ran for the stairs, taking them at a break-neck speed despite the complaints his body made about the strain and the speed of his movements. He'd almost made it to the bottom of the stairs when Yates stepped into his line of vision at the foot of the steps, laughing and staring back up at him.

Turning, Blair started running back up the steps again, but froze when he found himself faced again with Yates, who now stood on the second floor landing.

His heart pounding wildly, baffled as to which way to move next, Blair started hesitantly moving downward. He cried out and prepared to suffer his fate when two hands grabbed him from behind.

"Blair! It's me, Chief," Jim said, turning the panicked man around to face him. "What's going on?"

"Sh-Shaw...up...he's...d-dead. Yates is here!" Blair finally exclaimed in a breathy whisper, grabbing onto Jim's jacket.

"I know. I smell the son of a bitch." Jim pulled his gun and moved up the stairs, keeping Blair behind him.

"The gun isn't going to matter," Blair whispered, following closely behind Jim, still holding onto a fold of the fabric of his jacket.

"Okay, stay behind me, Chief. I mean it." Jim led the way down the third floor hall to the open door of their apartment. The sounds of the television carried into the corridor. "Nobody's home around here?" he asked Blair in a breathy whisper.

"The power's out. The people next door are on vacation, and nobody else came out to check on the power situation."

"I've got a bad feeling about this." Jim darted into the apartment, gun drawn, vainly attempting to turn on the lights. The slaughtered body of Officer Shaw gaped back at him, a look of surprise eternally etched on his features. "Have you seen Turner?" Jim asked Blair.

"I tried to call him on the radio."

"Great." Jim took out his cell phone and called for backup. "I don't hear heartbeats from the other apartments on this floor," Jim said, moving out into the hall again. "We know they're gone," he pointed to the apartment next door. "But over here..." Jim tapped on the door across the hall and waited. Then he knocked more assertively. "Mr. Gordon?" he called, hoping to rouse the middle-aged man who lived in the apartment. "Mr. Gordon, Cascade Police, open the door!" he called again.

"Jim, wait for the backup," Blair said, knowing that Jim wouldn't, but figuring it was worth asking. Jim's response was to kick the door open and walk into the apartment.

"Shit," he said, turning around and pulling the door to the ruined frame before Blair could see what was inside the apartment. "He's dead."

"Oh, man," Blair responded, his voice shaky, and getting a little higher. "What're we gonna do?"

"Wait for the backup," Jim responded, keeping his gun drawn, but pulling Blair against him with his left arm. "You okay, sweetheart?"

"No. God, Jim, did you see Shaw? And where' s Turner? And Mr. Gordon--he didn't even have anything to do with all this! When is this sick fucking shit gonna end?!"

"When we nail Yates. We'll do it. We just haven't figured out how yet."

 * * *

 Backup arrived in record time, and before long, 852 Prospect was crawling with Cascade law enforcement personnel, as well as the utility company, whose workman had managed to restore power to the building. Residents on the second floor were questioned, but asked to stay in their apartments. The unfortunate Mr. Gordon had been the only third floor neighbor home at the time, and his apartment swarmed with crime lab and coroner's personnel. Officer Turner, a ten-year veteran cop, was found stabbed to death behind a dumpster in the alley.

"No signs of forced entry," Jim concluded, as he watched Dan Wolf's team bag Shaw's body and then place it on a gurney. "Same deal across the hall in Gordon's place."

"He's up to ten now," Simon added grimly, shaking his head. "Damn. We've lost three men on this case, Jim."

"Three of our men and how many innocent civilians? This son of a bitch is just taunting us."

"You think it's Yates, don't you?"

"Blair saw him."

"It was dark, Jim. Sandburg's eyes aren't perfect…how can he be positive it was Yates?"

"He told me he first saw Yates in the doorway to the loft. There's some moonlight there, and a little light from a streetlight. He's positive, all right. Besides, he said the bastard is rotting on his feet--so I think the ID is pretty solid."

"You know, Jim," Simon began, pacing out into the hall, Jim behind him, "when you and Sandburg told me all this Sentinel stuff," he said in a hushed voice, "I thought things couldn't get any stranger. Then that whole incident with the ghost..." He shrugged. "Now this. I feel like I've taken about a four-year detour into the Twilight Zone."

"But you believe about Yates."

"Unfortunately, yeah, I do. But it doesn't much matter what I believe. We can't investigate it that way. Not officially. Off the record, how do you propose to stop him?"

"I think ultimately, it'll have to come from Blair. He stopped Redding."

"He wasn't even there, Jim."

"Apparently, he doesn't have to be."

"Maybe this is something I should just take your word for."

"Maybe," Jim responded, nodding.

"You're saying Sandburg has some kind of strange powers now, too?"

"I'm saying he saved my life at Redding's place that night, and that lightning was no freak of nature."

"Sandburg did that?"

"He made it happen."

"Come on, Jim. Almost everything else I can swallow, but--"

"How do you explain the pattern of that lightning and the precision with which it hit Redding? Or, better yet, with a full clip emptied into his miserable guts, how do you explain him getting up off a morgue slab and walking away? If you're looking for logical explanations in this case, you're going to be sorely disappointed. You believe that I have special abilities; I guess now you'll have to accept that Blair does, too."

"He can conjure up lightning to hit someplace when he isn't even there?"

"I told you what Incacha told Blair before he died."

"That he was passing on some sort of shaman thing to him, right?"

"Apparently, he wasn't kidding about that. Blair is a shaman, Simon. And it looks like he's a pretty powerful one at that. Everything that's happened has just brought that to the surface." Jim watched the gurney move through the door and toward the elevator as the coroner's people wheeled Shaw's body past them. "He was supposed to get his kids for next weekend…he was really looking forward to it."

Simon shook his head. "Turner had a wife and three kids."

"We've got to figure out where this guy is hiding out--"

"Jim," Serena interrupted, approaching the two men, carrying a tiny evidence bag. "Guess what."

"The gray stuff," Simon said, letting out an exasperated breath.

"It's in the apartment, and there's more on the landing where Blair said he saw the killer. Blair didn't see any kind of...dead body part that this guy was carrying around, so I'm not too sure how he's dropping this stuff."

"Serena, would you compare the prints from the homicide this morning, and what you find here, against the sample of Warren Yates' prints?" Jim asked.

"Wait a minute--I thought that was a dead end. No pun intended," she said, dangling the evidence bag with a confused frown.

"Blair ID'd the photo of Yates as the frat house killer, and he's maintaining this guy tonight was the same one." Jim paused. "We've got no reason to consider Blair an unreliable witness, and according to him, that gray stuff is falling off of Yates."

"Because he's rotting," Serena repeated, deadpan.

"Check it out and let one of us know what you find. This is confidential," Simon added.

"All right. I'll be in touch as soon as I have something." She walked down the hall and joined a couple other crime lab people waiting for the elevator.

"You know that Dan 'lost' that black fluid sample," Simon said. "I don't buy that the loss was accidental."

"Regardless of what happened to that sample, Simon, there's no way we're going to keep this out of the press forever, and no way that we can investigate this case properly without going out on a limb with the truth."

"For God's sake, Jim, do you have any idea how absurd this sounds?"

"Truth is stranger than fiction, sir," Jim added.

"Look, this place has to be preserved as a crime scene for now. You want to grab some stuff and you and Blair crash at my place for a night or two?"

"That'd be great, Simon, thank you." Jim paused before going back into the apartment. "Is it going to bother you that we share a room?"

"I only have one guest room, so it would bother me if you didn't. I'm not going to sleep with you."

"I guess it's settled, then," Jim responded, chuckling as he went back into the apartment to gather up a few things for their stay at Simon's.

 * * *

 "Nice room," Blair commented, his tone lackluster in spite of his best attempts to compliment the accommodations. The bedroom in question was about 12 x 12, with a double bed, a dresser, an overstuffed chair and a closet. It adjoined to the house's main bathroom, and the two windows looked out into a partially wooded backyard. The attractive, newly-built brick home was Simon's pride and joy--having finally arm-wrestled the bank to write the mortgage without input from his ex-wife.

"I've got my own bathroom off the master bedroom, so this one's all yours," Simon said, flipping on the light in the adjoining room. "Help yourselves to the kitchen or whatever you need for towels. There're some in the bathroom, and the linen closet's right across the hall."

"Thanks, Simon," Jim spoke up, grateful for the room, and immensely relieved when Simon said his goodnights and left them on their own.

"I can't believe this." Blair sat on the bed and dropped his face in his hands. Looking back up at Jim, he added, "Ten people."

"Serena's checking the prints against Yates'." Jim sat on the bed next to his partner and put his arm around him. "Feeling okay? You were up and down those steps pretty fast tonight."

"I'm okay." Blair leaned into the contact. "When I went downstairs, I thought Shaw was just watching TV. He wasn't answering me, and I thought that was funny, you know? But then I turned on the light..."

"We're going to get this bastard, Chief."

"How?"

"That's the part I haven't figured out yet," Jim responded honestly. "Let's grab a few hours of sleep before we have to start all this shit over again in the morning, huh?"

"It is morning."

"Humor me, Chief. The sun isn't up yet."

"Okay," Blair responded, chuckling.

"I'm going to grab a shower. You want to join me?"

"I think I'll just lie down if you don't mind. I'm really wasted, and I showered earlier."

"Okay." Jim kissed Blair's temple and headed into the bathroom, leaving the door cracked between that room and the bedroom.

Blair turned back the bed and shed his clothes, climbing under the covers and letting out a long breath. God, but this has been a bitch of a day. Closing his eyes, he took solace in the lamp light of the room and the sounds of Jim's shower nearby. It wasn't long before he was startled by the dip in the mattress, and figured he must have dozed off. Smiling and turning over before opening his eyes, he met with a horrible odor, and in the ghastly moment before he opened his eyes, realized the shower was still running.

Powerful hands fastened on his throat, and his eyes shot open, looking straight into the bloodshot dark eyes of Warren Yates. There was no air to scream from the throat that was being compressed by the strangulation. One hand frantically groping on the night stand, Blair managed to get his hand on the telephone there, bringing the cordless handset up hard against the side of Yates' head. The fiend merely laughed, releasing a puff of rotted breath into Blair's face, revealing yellowed teeth and a black, rotting tongue behind them. The hands around Blair's throat were icy and slimy to the touch.

Then three shots rang out, and Yates lost his grip a moment, rattled by the shots. He laughed then, and released Blair, turning toward Jim and moving off the bed back onto his own two feet.

"Don't move," Jim ordered, and the part of Blair's mind that wasn't preoccupied with the effort of breathing again admired his partner's firm demeanor against a man who had just treated three bullets like three love taps. "Blair, get out of here. Now."

Simon, Blair thought. Another gun, more manpower. Maybe Jim was right. He took the order and ran for the door, racing down the hall to the captain's room. Bursting into the master bedroom, he didn't stop to turn on the light but merely pounced on Simon, not unlike a frantic child jumping on a parent's bed. He started shaking the other man, then pulled back quickly when his hand slid in something wet.

"God, no," Blair muttered, turning on the bedside lamp and staring at the red wetness on his hand with a look of pure horror on his face. Simon's beige sheets were spattered with blood that came from a significant wound on his chest, in the center of which was imbedded a butcher knife.

"Nooo!" Blair cried out, feeling his last grips on his sanity slipping. Kneeling on Simon's bed, his hand covered with blood, he simply crouched there a moment with tears running down his cheeks when Yates appeared in that doorway. "No more!" he shouted at the thing.

"Now there are twelve," Yates said, his voice rasping and terrible.

You share a single life force, a voice echoed in Blair's brain. He can't be dead. Jim isn't dead...

His mind darting frantically for some way to stop Yates, Blair gave thanks silently for a moment of inspiration, as he sprang from the bed, grabbed Simon's pants off the nearby chair and raced into the master bathroom, slamming and locking the door.

"You have no where else to run, shaman. You will be my Thirteenth. You will restore my life, my power," Yates said ominously as he approached the bathroom door.

Goddammit, Simon, I know you've got a lighter in your fucking pants somewhere! Blair rifled the garment until he pulled out the captain's lighter. Shit. You've got no damn hair! Where the hell am I gonna find hair spray in this place?! Blair started ransacking the bathroom counter, then swung open a cupboard and wildly grappled with its contents until he pulled out a can of aerosol hair spray. It looked pretty old, so he experimentally pressed the button, delighted when a healthy spray came out. Getting the lighter in position, he held up the spray can.

"You want me, Yates, you come and get me, you homicidal asshole!" Blair challenged. If this trick is a myth of Hollywood, I am so dead...

There was one loud thump against the door, and then another, and then it swung open, and Yates stood there, laughing wickedly.

Blair held up the lighter and flicked the flame into being, then held the aerosol spray can behind it and sprayed it at Yates as hard as he could.

Blair himself was shocked at the blowtorch he had created as the flames shot toward Yates, catching his clothing and setting it ablaze. He watched, mesmerized, as the rotting fiend shrieked and clawed at his flaming garments, staggering back into the bedroom, past where Simon lay motionless on his bed, spinning and staggering and trying to bat at the flames that were consuming his rotting flesh, raising an odor that defied description.

Yates made his way into the hall, slamming into the wall, leaving a charred black mark there. Flames were spreading in his wake, the carpeting catching fire in the bedroom from a piece of fallen clothing. Blair easily batted that fire out with a pillow, then rushed to the doorway, taking the lighter and spray can with him just in case. Yates was running awkwardly down the hall now, finally staggering into the living room, spinning and shouting and tearing at his flaming clothing--and flesh.

Fighting the instinct to gag at the ungodly stench, Blair raced back to the guest bedroom. Jim was on the floor, no part of his body that wasn't obscured by the towel around his waist, marked in any way--except for reddish marks around his neck that were easier to see as Blair got closer.

"Jim!" Blair grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. "Jim, come on, there's a fire!" Aside from Yates' stench, there was a definite smell of smoke in the air, and it was doubtful that the house would escape all damage from the burning thing running through it.

With a couple of gagging coughs, Jim moved, then sat up quickly.

"Chief--" he croaked.

"I'm okay. Simon's bleeding. I think he's dead, Jim," Blair said, the horror of that discovery coming back to him.

"God, that smell," Jim coughed more severely now, gagging.

"Dial it down. Yates is burning. I set him on fire. Jim, the house is catching fire. We've got to get Simon and get out of here."

"Simon...you said... Oh, man..." Jim pushed up off the floor, and Blair grabbed Jim's robe, tossing it to him as he grabbed his own, pulling it on over his tank shirt and boxers. With Jim still coughing and wheezing a little, trying to get his airway on full power again, they rushed down the smoky hallway to the master bedroom.

"I hear a heartbeat!" Jim announced triumphantly, approaching Simon's bed. "Shit. With that knife in there..." He seemed momentarily perplexed at how to move the larger man who was sprawled there, teetering precariously between life and death. "Well, I guess we don't have much choice. Here, Chief." Jim worked at hoisting Simon into a sitting position, and then with Blair's help, swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Get his robe," Jim directed Blair, who grabbed the burgundy garment off the foot of the bed. Together, they carefully slipped it on Simon's arms. "Get his arm around your neck, and try to lift at the waist. I'll do most of the heaving. We don't want to jostle that knife any more than we need to."

With Simon upright between them, though completely motionless, they began the slow trek down the hall toward the living room, and ultimately, the front door. The smoke burned their eyes and polluted their lungs as they coughed and fought to make it through the burning room. The drapes were burning, spots of the carpeting were on fire, and the couch was almost consumed in flames. Yates was nowhere to be seen.

Finally emerging into the icy shock of the night air, the three men spilled onto the lawn, finally laying Simon on the grass.

"Jim, I can't find a pulse!" Blair shouted, as Jim started to move away to direct the incoming emergency vehicles their way. Neighbors had obviously called for the fire department, and someone had had the presence of mind to call an ambulance. For that, Jim was truly grateful.

"I still hear his heart, Chief. It's weak, but he's hanging in there."

"Where the hell is Yates?" The question had no sooner left Blair's mouth than both of them turned to see a horrible sight.

Staggering across the front lawn, an axe clutched in a sooty, black, slimy hand, Warren Yates moved toward them steadily. There was nothing left of him but a disfigured, black mass of charred human remains, but still he moved, his eyeballs standing out a grotesque yellow-white against the darkness of the ruins of his burned face.

"Thirteen..." he growled through clenched black teeth, raising the axe as he moved toward where Blair sat on the ground with Simon. Jim, Blair and the gathering neighbors and emergency workers watched in horror as the thing moved forward, then froze in its tracks, and after emitting a grotesque gurgle that produced a drizzle of black slime from the hideous mouth, fell forward on the grass.

By the time paramedics rushed to what they thought was a burn victim, all that remained on the lawn was a mass of sticky, black slime and the axe it had wielded seconds earlier. Jim crouched next to Blair on the grass, putting his arm around his partner as paramedics moved in to attend to Simon. They supported the fallen man while they ushered Blair and Jim out of the way.

"It's finally over," Blair whispered to Jim, accepting the offered hug gratefully. "Are you okay?"

"I passed out when he was choking me--can't believe I let the bastard get the upper hand like that. I guess he thought I was dead. He was getting sloppy."

"Desperation does that sometimes. I wonder if he had a time limit," Blair pondered, watching the fire department swarm on the house, and a few puzzled emergency workers examined the sticky mess on the lawn that had been moving and speaking moments ago.

"Apparently, he didn't make it." Jim squeezed his lover tighter, not caring how many camera crews showed up. If Channel 12 captured a shot of them in their robes holding each other, that was fine with him. Saved him the trouble of announcing it.

"The TV news crew is here," Blair said, pulling back. Jim pulled him in tighter.

"Let's make sure they get a good shot of all the news, huh?" Jim held on for a moment before letting go. "I love you," he said, leaning in for a gentle kiss.

"I love you, too," Blair said, smiling up at Jim. "Maybe more than ever."

"Ride with Simon. Get checked out at the hospital. I'm going to talk with the cops, okay?" Jim said, nodding toward the arriving police units.

"You should be checked out, too, Jim," Blair said, still holding onto Jim's arm as the other man moved away.

"I will, when I get done here. I'll have somebody drive me--and I'll stop at the loft and get us some clothes. Now, go before you freeze to death, and get one of the EMTs to help you make the big step up into the ambulance--don't risk the stitches. Got it?"

"I got it, Mom." Blair smiled and squeezed Jim's arm before making his way across the lawn toward the ambulance, which was just getting ready to leave as they loaded Simon in the back.

 * * *

 "Oh, man," Simon groaned, looking at the pile of paperwork spread out on his hospital bed. "I hate insurance companies," he added. A week after his stabbing, he was recovering well, the knife having barely missed his heart. His house wasn't recovering as well, having suffered major fire and water damage. "You had to set the guy on fire, Sandburg?" he groused, looking at another form.

"I could have just let him kill us all, Simon," Blair teased back, shaking his head. "You shouldn't be getting all worked up about this stuff now. The insurance guy said--"

"I know, he'd wait. Sure, he'll wait. So will my claim. Now get me a pen, will you?"

"I think you should rest," Blair said.

"Give the man a pen, Chief. He'll do more damage getting pissed off at you for insisting he rest than he will filling out forms," Jim added as he walked into the room, carrying a bundle of helium-filled mylar balloons bearing various cheery messages. "The bullpen crowd heard you were out of ICU. I'm the designated delivery man." Jim tied the balloons to the foot of Simon's bed.

"They wouldn't be so chipper if they saw my deductible."

"Cheer up, Simon." Jim froze at the glare that earned him, but then continued. "You're alive. The house can be fixed."

"Tell that to the claims adjuster," Simon grumbled, starting in on his forms.

"This probably isn't the best time to ask this, sir--"

"Sir? Okay, Jim, out with it."

"I want six weeks off." Both Simon and Blair stared back at him, stunned.

"Six weeks?" they chanted in unison, then looked at each other, and back at Jim.

"I never take vacation. I've got the time." Jim walked around behind the chair where Blair sat. "First, I want to marry this guy," he rested his hands on Blair's shoulders, "and then I want to disappear for a month or so and forget all this shit."

"Can't say I blame you." Simon shook his head. "Chief Warren was real happy about that bit of footage on the eleven o'clock news of one of his star detectives kissing his partner on the lawn. In bathrobes, no less."

"There was a fire, sir," Jim responded calmly.

"Thank you for that reminder," Simon shot back with a completely insincere smile.

"It hasn't caused a lot of trouble. I mean, since it was a back view shot of me, nobody knows for sure who Jim was kissing, do they?" Blair asked, frowning.

"I don't know. Joel probably knows more than I do. Everyone thinks a knife in the chest causes brain damage, I guess. I don't get consulted unless I call in and ask. I haven't seen your name on the six o'clock news when they showed the footage, so they probably couldn't get confirmation on your identity."

"Joel's doing a great job running things, Simon. He probably wants you to rest and get well, and I'm sure he's got a gag order in place," Jim supplied helpfully.

"If we're lucky, since it was a back view, maybe the public are just assuming Jim was kissing a girl with big shoulders and funny taste in lingerie," Simon suggested dismally.

"Gee, thanks a lot," Blair retorted, but he laughed all the same.

"So, what do you say?" Jim persisted about the extended vacation request.

"What did Taggert say?"

"It was fine by him if you approved it, since you'll be back in charge in a couple of weeks, and I'll still be off."

"Fine. Go ahead. What I want to know is how you two plan on getting married when it's not legal in this state--or most anywhere else."

"We've already done the paperwork--we're legally about as tied to each other as possible. Anything major we own is now in both our names; we dumped everything into a joint bank account, and we're seeing a lawyer tomorrow about changing our estate plans to trusts, so there's no room for anyone to contest wills because of our relationship," Blair stated. "And then we want to have a really nice party with all our friends, and celebrate."

"And then go on an extended trip," Jim added, pulling up a chair next to Blair.

"How did this go over with Naomi?" Simon asked.

"Sleeping with a cop and riding with a cop got about an equal approval rating at first, but when she calmed down, she called back and told me she was happy for me as long as I was happy."

"Let me get this straight--Naomi was more upset that Jim's a cop than she was that he's a man?"

"Right," Blair confirmed. "The whole gay thing would never be a problem to her. She was just hoping, I think, that I was gonna get over this riding around with cops thing, and now that I'm marrying one, it's not too likely."

"How about your dad and Stephen?" Simon asked Jim.

"I, uh, haven't told them yet." Jim caught the admonishing glower from Blair. "But I will. I figured on going over to my dad's and talking to him in the next day or so."

"Wear your kevlar," Simon advised.

"Think you'll be up to attending a dinner party in a week or so?" Blair asked.

"Oh, sure. Sitting around and eating is something I'm getting good at here." Simon paused. "So, what's the official party line on the pile of slime in my front yard?"

"An unidentified burn victim," Jim responded. At Simon's incredulous expression, he added, "Everyone's chalking it up to a freak occurrence--that somehow he just kept going when he should have been dead."

"The fact his remains turned into silly putty doesn't bother anyone?" Simon persisted.

"You asked for the official party line, sir. That's it. No one ever promised it would make sense."

"They're still denying that the man who was killed by the lightning was Charles Redding, and they categorically deny that Yates ever had any part in any of this." Blair slumped back in his chair. "I guess if you're looking for honesty, look elsewhere."

"You won't find many PDs that are going to acknowledge a dead man as a serial mass murderer." Simon scrawled an annoyed signature at the bottom of the form he'd just completed. "I suppose, thanks to Yates, I'll need a new front lawn, too." He arched an eyebrow as Blair started shaking in his chair, as if the laughter were bubbling up from deep in his soul. "You think this is funny?"

For all of Yates' power over death, and resurrection ceremonies, he'd ended up as a landscaping problem on Simon's insurance claim. It seemed a deserved fate for such a horrific being.

 * * *