Disclaimer: Pet Fly and Paramount own the copyright to The Sentinel 
and its characters. This piece of fan fiction was written solely 
for the love of the characters and to share freely with other fans. 
No profit is being made from the posting of this story.

Author's Notes: This story is a sequel to "Do Not Go Gentle" by Nancy
Taylor. *That* story being an alternate ending to Kikkimax's "The Long
Goodbye." It is advised to read those stories first. Kikki's story can
be found at: 

http://www.fanfic.otherplaces.net/long_goodbye1.htm

"Do Not Go Gentle" can be found at:

http://home.attbi.com/~nat1228/gentle_g.htm

For those of you without the time to savor these gems, I have recapped
the essence of the stories in spoilers, placed at the end of "Rage,
Rage." While these are sufficient to give you the basic background,
actually reading the stories would be preferable.

Acknowledgments: I would like to sincerely thank Kikkimax for allowing
me to dabble in her universe. For some reason, her story really
grabbed my imagination, and I've since run with it. I'd like to
dedicate these stories to her. 

I would also like to thank Kikki for the use of her original
characters: Warden Burgess, Randy Wolfe, Boo, Stratton, and Pug
Fletcher. --Nancy Taylor--

My thanks, as well. She [Kikki] created a great story line to play in.
Her story is one of my all time favourites. --Susan Foster--

Betas: Kimberly, Montserrat, and Elaine. Thank you all very much. Your
efforts have made this an even better story.

Warnings: NC-17, contains RAPE scenes (in a series of flashbacks,
varying in degree of explicitness). Angst, H/C, bad language. This
story is *GEN*.



    RAGE, RAGE
(Against the Dying of the Light)

        by 

   Susan Foster 
       and 
   Nancy Taylor

----------------------------------
And you, my father, there on the sad height, 
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. 
Do not go gentle into that good night. 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 
--Dylan Thomas
----------------------------------

His heart rate soared as they strapped him to the execution gurney.
Leads to a cardiac monitor were attached to his chest. Then, as the
doctor set the first needle into his arm, he couldn't help the small
cry of fear that escaped his lips.

"Calm down, Mr. Sandburg," the doctor told him, smiling slightly.
"We're just setting up. Nothing is going to happen for a few more
minutes. I'd like to let you know how we're going to work this. First,
we'll start a saline flow, and then the first drug will be
administered."

"I'm aware of the procedure, Doctor," Blair said, cutting him short.

Slightly flustered, the physician continued, "I can assure you, you'll
feel no pain."

"Thanks. That's very reassuring," Blair replied, an edge of sarcasm
lacing his tone. He craned his neck to get a look at the closed
one-way mirror. Jim sat on the other side of that barrier. Of this, he
was certain. Taking a deep breath, he willed his heart rate to return
to normal.

As the Pentothal began entering his system through the IV line, Blair
felt a momentary spike of fear. Then, darkness settled over him like a
warm blanket.

0-0-0-0-0

Soft sounds of distress wafted up the stairs to disturb the Sentinel's
rest. Tossing aside the blankets, Jim rose and made his way down to
the tiny storage room that had so recently become his new roommate's
bedroom. He pulled open the newly-installed French doors and quietly
observed the occupant of the bed. Arms and legs were hopelessly
entangled in the sheets, while long hair flared out on the pillow,
sticking in random patterns on the sweat-drenched face. The body
writhed in its captivity, while moans escaped from the open mouth.

Jim knelt next to the bed, placing his hands on the heaving shoulders
to calm the younger man. "Shhh, Blair. It's all right. C'mon -- wake
up." He shook the shoulders gently, watching as glazed eyes opened to
stare up at him. Slowly, the eyes focused, the struggling quieted.

"Jim?" 

"Yeah, kid. It's me. You okay?" Jim asked, settling on the edge of the
bed and smoothing the wild hair away from the damp face.

"Just... you know." Blair's vague reference was punctuated by his
hands, gesturing meaninglessly in front of his face.

"Another nightmare?" Jim couldn't begin to fathom the demons that
haunted the young man's dreams. He hadn't just been scheduled to be
executed, he *had* been executed. Only a last minute stay, after the
deadly drugs had been started, had saved his life. In the nearly two
weeks since his pardon, Blair's nights were still routinely
interrupted by the frightening memories.

Blair nodded. "Sorry, man. I didn't mean to wake you up again." He sat
up, pulling his legs free from the twisted covers. 

"That's all right," Jim soothed. "You survived hell. I'm not surprised
you're still having trouble dealing with it." 

"The dreams haven't been so bad lately," Blair told him, running a
hand through the mass of hair threatening to fall into his face. "But
Randy called this afternoon."

"Randy Wolfe, from the prison?"

"Yeah. We've kept in touch," Blair explained. "Anyway, Randy told me
that Boo's execution is scheduled for next week and he wants me to be
there. I guess it just sort of dredged up old memories."

"Want to talk about it?" Jim reached around Blair to the nightstand
where he kept his ever-present stash of M&Ms. While in prison, the
candy had been a treat administered by the nurse who dispensed the
nightly medications to the prisoners, and had become a comfort food
for the troubled young man. Jim offered the bag, which was readily
accepted. "You don't have to attend the execution, you know," he
added.

"I owe Boo so much," Blair whispered. "This is the least I can do to
repay him."

"Because of what he did for you?" Jim asked softly.

Blair nodded, his mind casting back to his early days on death row.

*****

"Hey, guard!" Pug Fletcher called out as Stratton made his nightly
rounds. "I got fifty bucks for ya if you'll put Sandburg in with Boo
tonight. I think it's time the little fag learns what prison life is
all about."

"Oh you do, do you?" Stratton stopped in front of Fletcher's cell and
sneered. "What's in it for me besides the cash?"

"A little entertainment on a quiet night." Fletcher chuckled. "Should
be fun watching Pretty Boy there getting his dues."

Stratton considered the offer. He'd had a taste of their newest guest
himself, when Blair had first been processed into the prison. No
chance of that again, but vicarious pleasure wasn't totally out of the
question. "Pay up, or shut up," Stratton threatened, approaching the
cell door.

Fletcher dug the money he'd saved from his pocket, pushing it through
the bars at the guard. Stratton quickly pocketed the cash and looked
up at the monitoring room. The guard on duty there gave a predatory
smile and released the lock on Cell 10.

Stratton approached the sleeping Sandburg with caution. With one quick
move, he had the smaller man off the bunk and firmly gripped. Blair
yelped with surprise and began to struggle against the hold. "No use
fighting, kid. You're the night's entertainment."

"No!" Blair yelled over the catcalls and vulgarities being shouted
from the other cells on the block. He fought his captor, briefly
breaking free.

Stratton whipped out his baton and leveled a stunning blow to Blair's
temple. The young man collapsed, unconscious. Flinging the body over
his shoulder, Stratton made his way to Boo's cell. "Back off, Boo," he
ordered. "I've got a treat for you."

The big dark-skinned man stepped back, waiting for the cell door to
open. As soon as Stratton crossed the threshold with his burden, the
giant snapped the man's neck. Cradling Blair's body in his arms, he
waited for the cavalry to come rescue his precious charge.

*****

"I woke up in the infirmary three hours later, with no memory of what
had happened that night. Randy replaced Stratton and told me the story
when I was feeling better. He said that they had to sedate Boo to get
him to let me go. He was that protective of me."

"So you figure you owe Boo -- for what? For killing Stratton? For not
raping you?" Jim asked.

Blair flinched at the mention of rape. The movement was no more than a
tell-tale narrowing of his wide blue eyes. "All of the above," he
answered, quickly recovering his composure. "He treated me well, when
he could have had his way with me. Boo had a reputation to maintain
and he put it in jeopardy that night to save me." Blair sighed and
leaned against the strong shoulder next to him. Jim reached out and
circled his arm around the slight form. "I have to do this, Jim. I
have to honor his last request."

"You do what you have to do, Chief," Jim said. "I'll back you up all
the way. If you'd like me to come with you, I will."

"You'd do that for me?" Blair turned hopeful eyes on his friend.

"I can't let you go there alone. Not after what you've been through,"
Jim asserted. "Now, do you think you can get a little sleep? We've got
a big day ahead of us tomorrow."

Blair looked up at his partner, then down at the bag of M&Ms in his
hand. "I'm nervous about going down to the station," he admitted. "I
mean, what do all your colleagues think of you having an ex-con for a
partner?"

Jim sighed. "You've got to stop thinking of yourself like that. You
were wrongly convicted and wrongly executed. The Governor gave you a
full pardon and assigned you to the department as an observer. The
guys down at the station are just going to have to deal with it."

"Yeah, but what if they don't?"

"Screw 'em!" Jim said. Blair had pulled his legs back up onto the
mattress. Jim tucked the blankets securely under his chin before
continuing. "Most of the guys that I've talked to are fine with it.
Those that aren't will have to answer to me. Now, you close your eyes
and try to get some quality rest. I'll stay until you've fallen
asleep."

"That's not necessary," Blair mumbled. He snuggled down into the warm
nest of blankets, still clutching the bag of candy, and closed his
eyes.

"No, it's not," Jim agreed. "But I want to."

Blair drifted off into a dreamless sleep, while Jim remained, absently
stroking the wild mane of curls spread across the pillow.

0-0-0-0-0

The elevator stopped at the sixth floor, the doors sliding open to
allow its occupants to exit. Jim stepped off the car, then turned to
his partner. "You coming?"

Blair peeled himself off the back wall and slipped through the doors
just as they were about to close again. "You said Captain Banks wanted
to see us?" he asked, catching up with his long-legged partner at the
door to the Major Crime bullpen.

"Yeah. Said he had a big case and that we were the perfect team." He
turned to give the young man a final check. Blair had insisted on a
suit and tie for the occasion. He wanted to make a good impression.
With his hair tied back in a neat ponytail and his glasses perched
squarely on his nose, he looked like the young academic he had been
prior to his arrest. Jim nodded his approval. "Ready?" He pushed
through the door, Blair close on his heels.

All eyes followed the pair as they walked the gauntlet from the hall
to the Captain's office. Quiet whispers rose and fell in a dramatic
Doppler effect as they passed by. One deep voice carried to the
Sentinel's ears.

"Damn murdering fag's got no business being here. He should have died
when they executed him," Braddock mumbled to his partner, Mick Dawson.

Dawson put a hand on Braddock's arm, shaking his head and gesturing to
the detective staring at them.

Jim had stopped midway to Banks' office, pinning the offending officer
with a glare that clearly said, "Shut up, or deal with me later."

Braddock shook off his partner's arm and pointedly went back to
writing his report. Once the man's attention was no longer on Blair,
Jim urged him forward. They made the safety of the captain's private
office, closing the door behind them with a quiet click.

"Welcome back, Jim. It's good to see you again." The tall black
captain smiled at his newly-reinstated detective, then turned a
disapproving gaze on his partner. "And this must be the infamous Mr.
Sandburg." His voice was a low growl.

The anthropologist swallowed nervously, but straightened his shoulders
and stood tall. "Blair," he said, extending his hand.

The captain took the offering and shook hands with the young man.
"Captain Simon Banks," the captain introduced himself, then looked
over at Jim. "I wasn't expecting a long-haired hippie kid. He doesn't
seem your type," he said, ushering the pair toward the conference
table.

"And just what is my type?" Jim asked, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

Blair hastily interrupted. "I don't want to cause any trouble."

"You're not causing any trouble," Jim assured him. "Is he, sir?"

Captain Banks cleared his throat, giving the young man one last
appraising look. "No trouble at all... And see that it stays that
way." He turned to the conference table. "I wanted you both to look at
this." He spread the case file on the table for the men to see. "I
thought, considering Sandburg's background, that you would be the
perfect team to work this case."

Jim examined the crime scene photos. "Aw, shit, Simon!" He scowled,
looking up at his boss. "This isn't funny."

"No," Simon agreed. "It's not."

Jim tried to shield his new partner from seeing the graphic pictures
of the murder victim: a young woman, strangled, with her eyes gouged
from bloody sockets. A strangled cry of distress told him he had not
been successful. Turning, he watched as all the color drained from
Blair's face and the young man started to shake.

"No." A pause, followed by the shaking of his head and a backing
toward the door. "No!" Blair shouted, bolting from the room.

Jim followed his partner out, leaving a stunned captain in his wake.
He caught up with Blair in the hallway.

"Which way? Which way, man?" Blair's head turned left, then right,
looking down the corridors. "Gotta get to the bathroom!"

Jim steered his partner in the right direction, following him into the
men's room. He watched as Blair barely made it into one of the stalls
before he started retching. Dialing back his sense of smell against
the onslaught of the vomiting, Jim waited.

Blair looked up and swallowed convulsively. "David," he gasped.

"What?" Jim helped the younger man to stand, supporting his weight as
he leaned against the cool tiles of the bathroom wall.

"David Temco," Blair elaborated. He trembled, feeling the bile rising
once more. "But it can't be. David's dead."

"Yes," Jim agreed. "David's dead. This isn't David doing these
killings. Blair, you're not responsible for this."

"Why?" Blair's voice was weak. "Why us?"

"Without more information from Simon, I can only guess," Jim answered.
"I'd say it's because this murder copies David Temco's first assault.
If this guy is a copycat and a serial killer, perhaps the two of us
would have more insight into his psyche than another team."

"I don't know if I can do this," Blair admitted. "Maybe I'm not cut
out for police work."

"None of us is 'cut out' for seeing death like that." Jim's voice was
soothing. "It makes me sick, too."

"But you're not the one in here puking up your guts."

"No, not anymore," Jim answered. "But it's not something you get used
to overnight. And if you're a really good cop, you never get
completely over it." He patted the slumped shoulders of the man in
front of him. "Are you ready to go back yet?" he asked gently.

Blair shook his head, still looking pale and ill. "I need a few more
minutes, I think," he answered. He took off his glasses and tucked
them in a pocket, then rubbed hard at his watering eyes.

"Okay. You think you can make it back to Simon's office by yourself?"
Jim asked. "I'd like to go back and hear what he has to tell us about
this case. The sooner we're up to speed, the sooner we're out of
here."

Blair nodded, watching as Jim walked through the swinging door of the
restroom. Alone at last, he slumped against the wall, swallowing down
the bile that threatened to rise once more. When he felt steady enough
to walk, he went over to a sink and turned on the faucet, splashing
water over his flushed face. Cupping his hands, he gathered a few
drops to bring to his mouth. He swilled the water around, spitting out
the first mouthful, then tilted his head to drink directly from the
faucet. Finally feeling refreshed, he straightened his suit coat and
tie, and walked out into the hallway.

0-0-0-0-0

Joe Braddock and Mick Dawson had received their orders to report to
the Major Crime Unit. Braddock had been a police officer for ten years
and made no apologies in telling anyone who would listen that he
belonged in Major Crime. The Manifesto Murders had been his limelight
case, the one that was going to put him and his partner in the public
eye and into Major Crime. Only it hadn't happened. There had been
rumors that they had bent some of the rules to get the case closed --
not all the T's had been crossed, not all the I's dotted. Now Sandburg
was out; he had been pardoned. The word was that the sixth victim was
the actual murderer, that they had railroaded an innocent man. 

But Braddock knew different. The Manifesto Murderer was back and they
already had a body in the morgue to prove it. Captain Flynn had okayed
their transfer into Major Crime because of their involvement with the
original case. 

Joe fixed his eye on the man that had just come out of the men's room.
He nudged his partner. "See him, Mick? The little shit is walking
around the PD as if he owned the place. Come on."

Mick Dawson caught the larger man's arm and pulled him back. "Leave
him alone."

"Banks gave us the job of running down some leads on this, while he
lets Ellison showboat the deal. That entitles us to have a little chat
with Sandburg."

0-0-0-0-0

Blair entered the break room and dug some coins from his pocket.
Pushing them into the machine, he paused, then hit the M&Ms button.
There was a small delay before the packet fell down. He bent to scoop
it up, his hand shaking as he opened the bag. He looked up as the door
to the room opened, then closed again. One man blocked the door, while
another lowered the blinds on the window.

"Blair Sandburg." Braddock spoke the name slowly. "I think we should
talk." 

The blood drained from Blair's face as he recognized the detective
team who had been instrumental in putting him in prison and getting
him the death penalty. The M&Ms fell from his fingers, spilling across
the floor.

Dawson came up from one side as Blair, his eyes fixed on Braddock's
face, tried to back away. 

"Jim Ellison really buys this story of your being innocent?"
Braddock's smile was chilling. "What does an ex-con like you have to
offer him? Of course...," he sneered. "How do you pay him? On your
back, or on all fours? You got enough practice in prison, so I heard:
a sweet treat had by all. They're going to love you when you go back;
meet some old friends."

"I'm nobody's whore! Least of all Jim's." Blair's voice shook with
anger and fear, but he stood his ground. "And I *am* innocent!"

"Huh," Braddock snorted. "Does this ring a bell?" He let the folder he
was carrying fall open and pictures of the mutilated young woman from
that morning's briefing fell out on the floor. Blair took a step back,
right into Dawson, who pushed him forward. He collided with Braddock,
an elbow taking him in the stomach. As he dropped to his knees, a hand
tangled in his long hair, forcing him double so that his eyes were
only inches from the picture of the murdered girl. Blair retched, his
empty stomach rebelling at the photos.

"Filthy pig!" Dawson pulled Blair to his feet and the pair manhandled
him to the interrogation room.

0-0-0-0-0

Rafe was coming out of the bullpen when he saw Dawson and Braddock
marching a pale-faced Sandburg toward Interrogation Room 2. "Hey, Joe!
What's up with the kid?"

Braddock paused, turning a scowling face on the young detective. "Just
gonna have a little talk," he said, pulling Blair close so that he
couldn't struggle. The captive turned large, worried eyes on Rafe,
pleading silently for help.

Rafe nodded slightly in acknowledgment of the look. "Ellison might
have something to say about that," he warned.

"Just keep your damn mouth shut," the senior detective ordered. "It's
none of your business." He turned away from Rafe and signaled Dawson
to follow him as he headed back down the hall toward the interrogation
room.

For a moment, Rafe hesitated, then turned back. Ellison was in with
Simon. He'd want to know about this.

He knocked on the door of the captain's office.

"Yes?" Simon growled the word as he looked up from the evidence board.

"Sorry, sir," Rafe apologized. Turning to Ellison, he addressed the
detective. "Jim, I just saw Braddock and Dawson taking Sandburg to
Interrogation Room 2." Stepping quickly to one side, he only just
managed to avoid being run over by the larger man. 

Ellison was a volcano about to explode, and Rafe didn't want to be in
the way. 

0-0-0-0-0

Braddock closed the door, blocking it with his large frame. "Sit," he
commanded, indicating the chairs around a small table in the center of
the room. His partner, Mick Dawson, already occupied one of the
Spartan wooden chairs. Blair sat, trying to contain his rising panic
as he realized he was defenseless against the two larger men. Braddock
advanced on him, stopping only when he reached the table. A huge fist
pounded the surface, causing Blair to jump. 

Swallowing his fear, Blair managed to find his voice. "Jim should be
here."

Braddock circled the table, coming up behind the young man. "We only
want to ask you a few simple questions. That's all," he said, his
voice deceptively mild.

"I'm not answering any questions without my lawyer." Guilty or not,
Blair had been through the system before and knew his rights. His
voice was soft with fear, but he stood his ground.

"What do you know about the latest victim of the Manifesto Murderer?"
Dawson asked, rising from his chair and advancing to stand in front of
Blair. The two men now had the smaller man boxed in.

"Nothing more than you do!" Blair spat.

Dawson backhanded him, nearly knocking Blair out of his chair. "Enough
of the smart talk, kid! This murder has all the earmarks of the ones
you were accused of four years ago. Is it just a coincidence that the
killing starts up again within a couple weeks of your pardon?"

A noise in the hall drew the attention of all three men. 

The door to the interrogation room all but came off its hinges as Jim
Ellison burst in. Braddock moved to block his access to Sandburg. "Get
out of here, Ellison. This has nothing to do with you. The little fag
killed again. You might have gotten him off last time, but this time
when they execute him, he's going to stay dead."

A shove sent Braddock flying, as Jim fixed on his Guide. The younger
man was deathly pale, his heart racing. He circled around and placed a
heavy hand on the stooped shoulders.

Blair looked up into the concerned eyes studying him. "I'm sorry, Jim.
I didn't mean to make trouble for you at the station. I shouldn't have
come."

"You have every right to be here," Jim assured him. "Your knowledge
will be an asset on the case." His fingers dug deeply into the young
man's shoulder and he smiled encouragingly. He leveled a gaze at the
two detectives. "What pisses me off, is when two cops try to railroad
an innocent man."

"What makes you so sure he didn't do it, Ellison? Just because you're
fucking him doesn't make him innocent." Braddock took a step back at
the cold fury he saw in Ellison's eyes. 

Dawson pulled his partner behind him. "Cool it, Ellison. Joe's got a
big mouth. He didn't mean anything. You have to take whatever he says
with a grain of salt. Nobody's accusing you or Blair of anything." He
maneuvered to keep himself between the two warring detectives.

Ellison lunged at Braddock, despite the barrier Dawson put up between
them. "Sounded like an accusation to me," he growled. "You'd better
watch your mouth, Joe, or you'll be looking into getting dentures."

Braddock took a step forward, only to be pushed back by his more
conservative partner. "Look, Ellison," Dawson explained. "We were only
attempting to get a little more information. Maybe help solve the
case. We didn't mean any harm."

"Before you pull my partner in next time, check your facts." Jim's
voice was a feral snarl. "The coroner pegged the time of death as
yesterday afternoon, around three o'clock. At that time, Blair was at
the Pioneer Memorial Clinic getting a check-up and having blood drawn.
He's still suffering from the aftereffects of his *wrongful*
execution. You can check with Dr. Payton, his nurse, and the clinic's
receptionist. All will verify Blair's presence there at the time of
the killing. The fact that the state is covering all his medical
expenses ought to tell you something, too. The government doesn't pay
restitution to the guilty." Ellison's voice softened. "Come on, Chief,
we're out of here."

Keeping one hand on his shoulder, Jim steered Blair toward the door.
"Oh, and Braddock? We *will* talk."

Blair had to fight to keep his breathing normal. He could feel his
chest tightening as a full-fledged anxiety attack began. Jim had a
hold of his arm and was escorting him into one of the restrooms. A
glare and a snarl sent the only occupants of the room fleeing. 

Jim got Blair seated. "Keep your head down," he instructed, gently
pushing on the young man's shoulders until his head was between his
knees. Looking around, he fished a paper bag out of the trash and
handed it to Blair. "Breath into this. Easy does it." As the young man
slowly pulled himself back together, Jim stood by his side rubbing
soothing circles across his back.

0-0-0-0-0

Kathleen O'Brien stood back from the media huddle and viewed her prey
carefully. So far, any member of the press that had approached
Detective James Ellison had disappeared quicker than a snowball in
hell. If she was going to get the inside track on this story, she was
going to have to take a different tack. Here was a story that was
going to get her off the late night news, into a prime-time spot and
the career she knew should have.

She looked past Ellison and caught a glimpse of another man -- smaller
and younger, long hair pulled back in a ponytail, his face pale... his
expression almost haunted. The Manifesto Murderer himself, Blair
Sandburg. One of the few people to survive an execution. Good looking,
but then looks could be deceiving. Sandburg had been cleared of the
original killings in a dramatic last minute reprieve, but there were
people out there, cops and relatives of the victims, that believed he
had gotten out on nothing more than a slight-of-hand trick. Now, it
seemed they were correct. Sandburg was on the outside and within a few
weeks, they had found a body that screamed Manifesto Murderer. 

Kathy watched as Ellison strong-armed his way through the cameras,
bundling Sandburg into a blue and white truck, then floored it,
roaring out into the morning traffic. Already her plan was forming.
Ellison was going to be a hard nut to crack, but Sandburg... A smile
touched her lips. If her source was right and the station was hostile,
then a few soft words and Sandburg was going to play right into her
hands. Meeting him without his watchdog, Ellison, was going to be
hard, but her source might have a few ideas. She got in her car and
pulled into traffic, following the pickup.

0-0-0-0-0

Blair rested his head against the window of the truck, feeling the
nausea churning inside of him. Jim glanced over, noting the pale
complexion. "How you doing there, Chief?"

"Not so good," Blair mumbled, swallowing hard. "I think I'm gonna puke
again."

Jim pulled the truck over to the curb and got out, running around to
the passenger side and opening the door. He held on to his partner as
the young man retched, bringing up only bile from his empty stomach. 

Jim quickly dialed back his sense of smell, rubbing soothing circles
across the broad back as Blair rode out the spasm.

Finally, the young man flopped back against the seat, his arms crossed
over his face. "Sorry, Jim," he gasped, fighting the queasiness that
continued to grip him.

"Not a problem," Jim soothed. He had heard the young man's heart rate
increase. "The doctor warned that you might be more physically
sensitive to stress for a while. Your body has been through hell with
that Pentothal overdose. Seeing those crime scene photos would count
as a shock to anyone and I don't even want to start on those goons in
the interrogation room." He reached into the glove compartment and
took out a bottle of mineral water, knocking it gently against Blair's
hands to get his attention. "Drink this, Chief."

Blair swilled the water around in his mouth, then spit it out and took
a sip. "Thanks."

A car pulled up behind them and a woman got out, approaching the two
men. "Is your friend all right?" The voice was pleasant, with a soft
Irish lilt. She looked concerned.

"I'm okay now." Blair watched her, waiting for the look that told him
she had recognized his photo from the newspaper, but she only smiled
gently at him. 

Jim went on the defensive, stepping between his Guide and the woman.
"Why did you stop?" he asked gruffly.

The woman glanced around Jim to the man he was protecting. "I thought
it looked like you might be in trouble. I wanted to see if there was
anything I could do to help."

"We've got it under control." He turned around, herding Blair back
into the truck.

"Jim! She was only trying to be nice," Blair complained, holding up
the bottle of water. He poked his head and shoulders out the open
window. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." She offered her hand. "My name's Kathy O'Brien."

Blair stuck his hand out the window, accepting the friendly gesture.
"Bl..." He was stopped suddenly, as Jim pulled him back inside the cab
of the truck.

"That's enough," Jim whispered to the shaken young man. He couldn't
quite understand it, but he knew that he had to get Blair away from
this woman. Turning back to business, he pulled the truck into the
oncoming traffic.

"She was only asking how I was," Blair commented as they headed down
the street.

"Then why did her heart rate go through the roof when she shook hands
with you?" 

"Maybe she *cares*, Jim. She was just being helpful."

"Yeah, and I'm a ballet dancer," Jim snapped. He sped up, needing to
put as much distance between themselves and the woman as possible.

Blair curled up in the passenger seat and watched the world going
past. He glanced at Jim, then shook his head and looked back out the
window. There was so much about the Sentinel/Guide dynamics that he
still didn't understand. David Temco had wanted only to be rid of his
senses. Jim wanted to work with them to protect the tribe. But how
could he do that with a Guide half the other cops thought was a
convicted killer and treated like a leper?

Blair rubbed a hand across his chest. He could still feel the blow
that had put him down on the floor in the break room -- a little
welcome present from the cops who had originally worked his case and
who had put him in prison. They disliked the fact that he was in their
station and in the elite Major Crime Unit.

It was with a jolt that he realized they were back outside of the
loft. He still couldn't believe that Jim had opened up his home to
him, taken him in. That meant a lot to the young man who had spent the
majority of his adult life in prison. He had never really had what
could be called a home. Growing up with a nomadic mother, college had
become the closest thing he had to a permanent address. Even David
Temco had not invited him to stay. He had spent the last four years in
one of the state's maximum-security lockups, thinking the cold, gray
walls and steel bars would be his last residence. And now, here he
was, welcomed with open arms into the heart and home of one of
Cascade's toughest cops. The thought caused the ghost of a smile to
curve his lips.

0-0-0-0-0

As Kathy O'Brien watched Sandburg get out of the old blue and white
truck, she slid further down in her seat. That the young man was ill
had been an unexpected bonus. She had come across looking like a Good
Samaritan. Now all she had to do was make contact again, make it look
natural, and she would get her inside story.

She glanced at a file on the seat next to her. She needed something
more to make a good story into a great story and the man whose face
stared back up at her was the one to do it. 

Picking up the manila folder, she flipped through its pages. Craig
Andrews was the father of one of the original victims of the Manifesto
Murderer. He had been there throughout the entire trial and was in the
front row at the execution. She had been present at the execution as
well, and could still remember his anger when the Governor's call had
come, halting the execution. Andrews had been complaining loudly, to
anyone who would listen, that Blair was guilty. He couldn't accept the
fact that the real killer had died four years earlier, by his own
hand. He had needed closure, and the pardon had taken that from him.

If she could engineer a meeting between Sandburg and Andrews, it would
get her the story that would see her through to a network job.
Sandburg might get hurt in the bargain, but you couldn't win the brass
ring without climbing over a few bodies. She shrugged, putting the
file back down on the seat. What did she care about an ex-convict? If
his destruction suited her purposes, she'd do anything she had to do.

Kathy put the car in gear and pulled smoothly into the traffic. Her
plan had just begun. 

0-0-0-0-0

Jim coaxed Blair into the loft and onto the couch, letting his hand
rest on the young man's shoulder. "It's going to be okay, Chief."

Blair looked up and nodded, trusting that Jim would take care of
anything. "If you say so." His heart still hammered in his chest as he
fought against the panic that had gripped him that day.

"I say so," Jim confirmed. "How about I go brew you a cup of tea?
Chamomile?" Blair nodded, and Jim turned toward the kitchen to heat
the water.

When he came back, Blair was missing. He swore, then turned toward the
stairs. Just as he suspected, Blair was curled up under them. This was
the second time this had happened -- a holdover from his time in
prison when he had hidden under his bunk to hide his anxiety attacks.

Jim knelt down, his pupils opening wide so that he could see. Blair
was huddled up against some of the old camping equipment. 

"Sorry, Jim." The Sentinel could barely hear the words spoken by his
shaking friend.

"It's okay." He held out the tea as an offering. Trembling hands
accepted the gesture. Jim watched as Blair took a tentative sip. "You
can stay as long as you need to, until you feel safe. I'm just going
to sit over here." Jim moved to the stairs. He wrapped his heightened
senses around Blair, monitoring the progression of this latest panic
attack. The young man's heart raced, his breathing shallow and rapid.
Slowly, he began to pull himself back together, gathering strength
from Jim's nearness.

Finally, he emerged from under the stairs, coming to stand in front of
Jim. Without speaking, the older man got to his feet and cocooned
Blair in a hug. The young man was still trembling slightly when he
eventually let go. "There's nothing you need to apologize for," he
reiterated. "Those two morons who molested you today wouldn't know
their own asses from a hole in the wall. You've had a rough day. Maybe
I took you into the station too soon. You're not fully recovered yet."

"It's okay, Jim. I'll be fine," Blair said, moving toward the couch.
About halfway to his goal, he stopped, swaying ominously. Jim made it
to his side with barely enough time to keep him from hitting the
floor. Scooping up the young man, Jim carried him to the couch.

"Blair?" Sitting next to the supine form, Jim slapped gently at
Blair's cheeks, trying to rouse him. Dialing up his hearing, he
detected an erratic heart rhythm which disturbed him. When continued
efforts failed to bring results, Jim called for an ambulance.

0-0-0-0-0

"How is he, Doc?" Jim asked, snagging the physician who had finally
left Blair's side after over two hours of examinations and tests.

"Not so good, I'm afraid," Dr. Mason replied. "I had his medical files
sent over from the prison. Except for the rapes and the aborted
execution, he's generally been quite healthy. I suspect it's the
Pentothal to blame here."

"Wait a minute," Jim said, reaching out to place a hand on the
doctor's arm. "Rapes?" His jaw twitched from the stress of forcing the
word from his mouth.

Dr. Mason looked down at his chart. "It says here, he was gang raped
by four prisoners his second day of incarceration. He claims two
guards joined the inmates, but there's no evidence to support that."

Jim swallowed the lump in his throat, anger simmering just beneath the
surface. "Is he all right?"

"He was regularly tested for HIV and other STDs while in prison, but
always came up clean. He's a lucky young man." The doctor looked up
from flipping through the file. "On the other hand, luck has some
drawbacks."

"What do you mean by that?" Jim asked.

"Well, I'd have to say he's pretty damn lucky that stay order came
through before they started the pancuronium bromide, or he wouldn't be
here," the doctor said. "On the other hand, the Pentothal has done
some damage to the heart muscle. Physical exertion, or extreme stress,
can trigger an irregular heartbeat."

"How serious are we talking here?" Jim's face had become an
emotionless mask, while a jumble of conflicting feelings jockeyed for
position in his mind. "He passed out at home and I couldn't wake him.
Could he die?"

"Loss of consciousness is the most likely symptom. Prolonged
unconsciousness is not unusual, until the heart rhythm stabilizes,"
the doctor explained. "Death is unlikely, but possible, if the
conditions are extreme enough."

"So, what does that boil down to, then, Doc? What special precautions
will Blair have to take?"

The doctor made a quick glance down at the medical history in his
hand, then addressed Jim. "His records indicate a history of anxiety
attacks. Do you know anything about that?"

Jim shook his head. "I've seen him have them. I don't know what causes
them.... Stressful situations, I guess. He had a really hard day
today. We went into the station for the first time and he was accosted
by a couple of cops who thought he didn't deserve the pardon he
received. Blair was pretty shaken up by their reception."

"I see," Doctor Mason said. "Well, I would highly recommend keeping
him away from stressful situations, or you may find him passing out on
you again. I can prescribe medication for the anxiety." He scribbled
on a pad and handed the prescription to Jim. "Be sure to have that
filled before you take Blair home."

"Thanks, Doc." Jim tucked the piece of paper in his jacket pocket.
"Any chance I can see him now?"

"He's being settled into his room. Because this is the first episode
of unconsciousness, I'd like to keep him overnight for observation to
see how he reacts to the medications, and how long it takes him to
recover. I'll have someone let you know just as soon as he can receive
visitors." Dr. Mason thrust out his hand, which Jim clasped and shook.
"If you have any questions, feel free to call. I'd be more than happy
to help in any way that I can."

Jim watched the doctor walk off, and resumed his pacing of the waiting
room floor. Fifteen minutes later, a nurse approached.

"Detective Ellison?" Jim looked up at the sound of his name. "Blair is
settled now and ready for visitors."

"Is he awake?" Jim asked, following her down a corridor and through a
set of stainless steel-and-glass swinging doors.

The nurse nodded. "Yes, but he's still a little disoriented. He's been
asking for you." She gestured into the room.

Jim squeezed passed the nurse and walked over to the figure lying on
the room's sole bed. "Hey, Chief," he greeted Blair, picking up the
nearest hand, which was resting on top of the blankets. "How're you
doing?"

"Jim?" Blair's head turned toward the sound of his friend's voice.

"That's me, buddy. You okay?" He brushed his hand across the high
forehead, pushing matted strands of hair away from Blair's face.

"I dunno," Blair answered. "I feel kind of funny. What happened?"

"You passed out on me," Jim explained. "Scared the shit right out of
me when you didn't wake up. I called for an ambulance and had you
brought here to the hospital. Has the doctor talked with you at all?"

Blair shook his head. "Not yet. Just woke up." He gazed at Jim's
worried expression and frowned. "What's wrong?"

"You've got a heart condition," Jim muttered, not really wanting to be
the bearer of the news. "The doctor can explain all the particulars to
you better than I can, but it boils down to the Pentothal damaging the
heart muscle. You're going to have to avoid stress and anxiety
attacks."

A weak chuckle sounded from the bed. When he spoke, Blair's voice was
tired, defeated. "Like with my life, that's possible? Get real, Jim.
Since I got out of prison, my life has been one long panic attack. I
don't see it getting better any time soon."

"Well, we're going to have to work at it," Jim insisted. "The doctor
said it probably wouldn't kill you, but it *could*."

"Jim, there's nobody who wants my life to be quiet and normal more
than I do," Blair explained with a sigh, "but how realistic is that?"

"For one thing, you'll be staying home for a while. No going out
without me at your side. No going into the station." Jim listed his
conditions.

"We have a case to work on," Blair reminded him.

Jim shook his head. "No. I'll tell Simon you're off the case."

"But you need me, Jim," Blair insisted. "You still don't have a
perfect handle on your senses, and you may need them to solve this
crime. Simon will back you up. And the Governor. Braddock and Dawson
can't do anything to me without some serious shit coming down on their
heads."

"We don't need to worry about that now." Jim patted the hand he held
and gave it a squeeze. "We have some stuff to talk about, but it can
wait until you get home."

"What kind of stuff?" Blair turned a concerned look on the man sitting
next to him.

"Nothing you have to worry about," Jim assured him.

Blair continued to gaze for a moment longer, then cracked a smile.
"When do I get sprung from this place?"

"Doc wants you here overnight, to see how quickly you recover and how
you react to your new medications," Jim answered.

"Medications?" The wary look was back. "I don't like taking drugs,
man. What are they trying to push?"

"Just some anti-anxiety pill. Nothing heavy," Jim assured him.

"Jiiiiiim," Blair groaned out the name, "that's the same shit I was
avoiding in prison! I'm not gonna take it. It makes me feel all
whacked out."

"It should make you feel *calm*," Jim shot back.

"Yeah, calm, like the loopy drugged kind of calm," Blair returned, a
weariness in his voice. "I don't want to fight you over this," he
said. "But I can't take that stuff. Please don't try and make me."

"But, Chief...."

"No meds, Jim. I can't..."

Both men turned as a nurse entered the room and bustled over to
Blair's bedside. "The heart monitor indicates that Mr. Sandburg is
agitated," she said, adjusting the IV flow and injecting something
into the line. Turning to speak directly to Blair, she scolded,
"You're supposed to be relaxing. If having a visitor is upsetting you,
I'll have to ask him to leave."

"Please don't do that," Blair spoke hastily. "It's my fault. I
shouldn't have gotten upset over a little thing like taking meds."

"Well, you make sure you take it easy. I'll be checking the monitor,"
the nurse admonished as she turned to leave.

Once she was out of earshot, Blair turned once more to Jim. "I'm not
taking them," he whispered.

"We'll see about that," Jim countered.

0-0-0-0-0

Home felt wonderful. It was uncanny how easy it was to think of Jim's
loft apartment as home. Blair settled his meager belongings in his
room and sank down onto the futon.

Jim poked his head through the open French doors. "Why don't you lie
down and rest? I'll fix us a little lunch."

Blair considered protesting. All he'd been doing the past day and a
half was resting. He ought to feel up to helping fix lunch, but he
didn't. Mumbling his reluctant agreement, he lay his head on the
pillow and pulled his feet up onto the mattress. In minutes, he was
sound asleep.

The hushed sound of snoring brought a smile to Jim's lips. In the few
short weeks the young man had occupied the space beneath his bedroom,
the sounds he made as he slept or studied quietly had become a
pleasant background noise that grounded Jim's senses and gave him a
feeling of well-being and peace. He could no longer imagine not
sharing his space with the longhaired hippie boy.

He put the finishing touches on their sandwiches and then waffled over
the decision of whether or not to wake his sleeping roommate. Setting
the plates on the dining table, he made his choice, heading for the
closed doors and cracking them open. "Sandburg!" he stage whispered.
"Hey, Sandburg! Wake up!"

With a sputter and a shake of his head, Blair opened his eyes. "Huh?
Wha...?" he replied with all the intelligence of a single-cell
organism. 

"Come on, Sleepyhead. Time for lunch," Jim informed him.

Blair swung his legs off the futon and sat up, rubbing hard at his
eyes. "Did I fall asleep?"

"Sure did, Einstein. Got it in one." Jim chuckled, but offered a hand
to help Blair up. "I figured that right now you needed food more than
you needed sleep."

"I suppose," Blair agreed, stumbling after Jim toward the table.
Sitting at his place, he picked up his glass of juice and took a sip.
"Got any coffee?"

"It's brewing," Jim said, taking his own seat opposite the younger
man. "Drink your juice. It's good for you."

"Yes, Mom," Blair answered, wiping the hair out of his face with one
hand, while lifting the glass to his lips with the other. Jim just
grunted, trying to sound annoyed, but not succeeding very well.

Jim took a bite of his sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. Swallowing,
he looked up at Blair, making the decision to speak. "It's just two
days until Boo's execution," he started. Blair paused in mid-bite to
listen with blue eyes wide and staring. "Don't you think that given
the circumstances, you ought to find a way to get out of going?"

Blair put his sandwich down, shaking his head. "Can't do that," he
said.

"Why not?" Jim argued. "I can't think of anything more stressful to
you right now than observing the execution of a friend so soon after
your own."

"That's not the point," Blair replied evenly. "I owe Boo. I *owe*
him." 

"I know he protected you," Jim broke in.

Blair shook his head vehemently. "You don't understand. How could
you?" He turned away and started to stand.

Jim rose and reached across the table to snag Blair's hand and bring
him back to his seat. "Was it because you were raped?" he asked
softly.

"How - how, did you know about that?" The young man's voice was
trembling. He sat heavily in the chair across from Jim and turned a
pained look on his friend.

"The doctor at the hospital mentioned it off-hand as part of your
medical history," Jim answered. "Can you talk about it?" he added
gently, aching to know, to help his friend, but at the same time
worried about Blair's state-of-mind. 

"I'd rather not," Blair whispered.

Jim stood and walked around the table. Pulling Blair to his feet, he
wrapped the smaller man in a firm embrace. "No secrets between us," he
whispered in Blair's ear. Then turning, he led Blair over to the couch
and sat down beside him, his arm still wrapped firmly around the
trembling shoulders.

"It happened so long ago." Blair's voiced sounded softly from Jim's
shoulder, where he had rested his head. "It almost feels like another
lifetime, or a different person." Jim listened without comment,
knowing the sordid tale would come forth at its own rate. He couldn't
rush it, no matter how much he wanted the ordeal over and done. Blair
took a deep breath. "I'd been in the county jail while the trial
proceeded," he continued. "But once I was convicted, they moved me to
the prison. I hadn't been sentenced yet, so I was put in with the
general population.

"It was the first time I really regretted my looks." Blair fingered
the long, spiral locks of his hair, tugging at a strand. "They let me
keep my earrings, too. Big mistake. My God, I was a college student!
What did I know about life in prison?" He looked up to see that Jim
was watching him intently. He stuttered to a halt, trying to bring his
breathing back under control.

Jim studied the face turned up to his. The wide blue eyes spoke
volumes of the naïveté of youth, and of the feeling of overwhelming
incredulity over what happened next.

Blair dropped his eyes and stared at his hands, which twisted
nervously in his lap. "They called me 'Pretty Boy' and 'Girlfriend'.
There were wolf whistles and catcalls as I was paraded down the hall
to my cell. I had led a fairly cloistered life behind the walls of
academia and the vulgarities flung my way scared the shit out of me.

"On my second day, one of the guards came to get me and take me to the
showers. I didn't really want to go, but I wasn't given a choice. Do
you have any idea what that feels like? To have all the decisions
taken out of your hands? To have your most basic right of privacy
taken away?" Blair's voice was tight with the recalled pain.
"He made me strip while he watched, then he shoved me into the
showers." Blair shivered, and Jim pulled him closer.

"It's okay, kid. Nobody can hurt you like that anymore." Jim's own
voice had turned husky with emotion. He felt what Blair had felt, saw
through his eyes. Every angle of the lean body, the tilt of Blair's
head, and the glimmer in his wide eyes spoke of the fear and
humiliation he had endured.

"There were four other prisoners in the showers at the time." Blair's
voice had gone very quiet. Jim had to dial up his hearing to make out
the words. "They were big men. Any one of them could have easily taken
me on his own." He stopped to draw in deep droughts of air to his
starved lungs. When had he stopped breathing? "T-they took me. Dragged
me under the shower spray. Two of them held me, bent me double.... Oh,
God, Jim! They took turns. While one was taking me from behind,
another would fuck my mouth. It seemed like it went on forever. The
two guards just stood and watched."

Jim petted the long hair, stroking a soothing rhythm down the back of
Blair's head. When the young man stopped speaking, he whispered into
the silence. "The doctor said the records indicated the guards..." He
didn't complete what he was about to say.

Blair took a shuddering breath and looked up at Jim, his face red with
rage. "They didn't believe me! Oh, there was no doubt the four guys in
the shower raped me, but the prison doctors wouldn't believe me when I
told them the guards..." He broke off, gasping in more air. "By the
time the prisoners were done with me, I was so battered, I had no
fight left. One took my ass, the other my mouth. They used condoms, so
there was no DNA evidence. They told me I was a good fuck and to look
forward to more. I was almost relieved when the judgment came down to
isolate me on death row. At least there, I thought I might be safe."

"But you weren't, were you, Chief?" Jim stroked the moisture on
Blair's cheek away with his thumb. The young man shook his tousled
curls and blinked back the tears of shame. "Stratton was one of the
guards who raped you." 

Blair nodded. "He's the one who took me... from b-behind," he
stuttered. "At night, he'd come and stand in front of my cell,
stroking himself as he watched me.

"There's no such thing as rape crisis counseling for prisoners," he
continued after a pause. "My nightmares began to morph into panic
attacks any time Stratton was near or I was forced to leave my cell. I
took to hiding under my bunk so that they wouldn't put me on those
damn meds."

"But, Blair.... If you were in so much emotional pain, why not dull it
a little with drugs?" Jim asked, trying to sound reasonable.

"I wasn't brought up that way," Blair answered, his voice firming up
again. "I don't pollute my body with chemicals unless there's no other
way. Besides, I had no idea how long I had left to live. I wanted to
live every minute of it, no matter how painful."

"And Boo?" Jim asked, bringing the conversation back to the original
subject.

Blair backed out of Jim's tight embrace and squared his shoulders.
"Because of Boo's big talk, everyone figured he'd rape me in a New
York minute if he got his hands on me. Fletcher got bored one night,
and wanted a little entertainment. It didn't take much convincing to
get Stratton to agree to put me in with Boo."

"But Boo protected you," Jim filled in.

"Yeah. My rape was common knowledge on the block, although most people
never talked about it. I think that somewhere deep inside, Boo really
did, *does*, love me. He knew what they wanted, but he wouldn't let
anyone fuck me, not even himself. 'No one fucks with Sandburg.' That
was his motto."

"And that's why you owe him this," Jim finished.

"He protected me. Kept me safe, when everyone else only wanted a show.
This is all I have to give him. My only way to say 'thank you' in a
manner that will really mean something to him." He spread his hands in
front of him, beseeching Jim to understand.

The Sentinel nodded. "It's really that important to you, isn't it?"

"Yeah." Blair folded his hands in his lap and watched his friend.

Taking a deep breath, Jim let it out slowly, then spoke. "Then we'll
go."

Blair nodded and clasped one of Jim's hands. "Thanks."

Jim stood up, pulling Blair with him. "Think you feel up to finishing
your lunch?"

"I don't think I have much appetite left," Blair admitted. "Maybe I'll
just go back and finish that nap." He turned, and headed for his
bedroom.

Jim followed, sitting on the edge of the futon as Blair got
comfortable and closed his eyes. He reached out, smoothing the hair
away from Blair's face. "Sweet dreams, Chief."


The next day:

Jim pushed the cart around the market, as Sandburg carried their
shopping list. It was still very much a voyage of discovery for the
detective. It was amazing the stuff Blair would consider eating. He
gently nudged the young man out of the ethnic food section, as he
viewed the wizened fruit in their basket -- the latest addition to
their shopping -- with suspicion.

Cutting through the candy aisle, he snagged two large bags of M&Ms
from the shelf. The confection had become Blair's comfort food, a
treat his Guide craved. He had the feeling that he was going to need
them. 

Jim suddenly froze as Blair's heartbeat went ballistic. Immediately,
the Sentinel was by his side, looking around for anyone that would
dare threaten his Guide. It was then that he followed Blair's line of
sight and swore, hard and fast. Emblazoned across the line of papers
at the newsstand were the headlines:

FROM CON TO COP

CLEARED KILLER HELPS COP

MANIFESTO MURDERER BACK.

Jim rested his hand on Blair's shoulder. "It's okay, Chief. Just keep
breathing."

Blair let out a shuddering breath. "I can do this."

"Sure you can." Jim ignored the pictures of Blair that stared
back at him from the papers, and moved him along gently toward the
frozen food section.

This time Blair kept close to him, not venturing far away. He kept his
head down, frightened that someone might recognize him from the
newspaper, and not having the energy to fight them this time.

Kathy O'Brien came around the corner of the frozen food aisle and
watched the two men. Sandburg looked as if he was falling apart. For a
moment she felt a spike of pain -- guilt -- but she pushed it
ruthlessly away. Sandburg might not have been the Manifesto Murderer,
but he wasn't innocent, either. He was guilty by association. It
didn't soothe her conscience, but it made what she had to do easier.

She smiled brilliantly at the young man. "Hi." Sandburg froze. She
ignored the newspaper he was clutching so tightly that the print was
blurred into his skin. When he made no effort to answer, she added,
"Are you feeling any better? You look better."

"Yes, thanks," Blair managed to choke out. He recognized the young
woman as the one who had stopped to offer help a few days ago. He knew
he sounded pathetically grateful, but Kathy didn't seem to recognize
him, despite the blaring headlines.

He looked past her to see Jim trawling up and down the frozen food
aisle, loading items into the cart. He knew that the Sentinel would be
eavesdropping on him; it was the nature of the beast. A Sentinel
protects, and this time Blair had one worthy of the name.

"I-I have to go," he said, edging away from Kathy. Turning his back on
the young woman, he hustled over to where Jim was finishing the last
bit of shopping.

"Everything all right?" Jim asked, throwing a warning glance over his
shoulder at the woman.

Blair nodded. "Yeah, fine," he answered. "She's just trying to be
friendly."

"I don't trust her," Jim growled, hurrying them through the checkout.
He was anxious to get Blair out of the public eye. Already his heart
rate was climbing and Jim feared a repeat of the swan dive he'd
witnessed just a few days ago.

As they came out of the market, Jim saw the camera crew coming toward
them. Catching Blair by the arm, he dragged him to the truck and
bundled him inside.

"Keep your head down, Blair."

"Jim..." Blair looked around nervously at the advancing news people.

"It's going to be fine, Chief. You're the innocent here and they're
just going to have to understand that."

Blair caught his arm. "Don't hurt anyone."

"You know me better than that..." Jim left the statement hanging in
the air.

"*You* might not, but the Sentinel in you could," Blair declared,
anxious to avoid a confrontation.

"Nothing illegal, I promise." Jim lightly ruffled the long curls and
turned to meet the advancing news crew, his eyes flashing, ready to
rend and destroy.

Suddenly, the idea of running down the former Manifesto Murderer
seemed like a very bad idea. The cameraman backed off, allowing Jim to
enter the truck and drive away.

As they pulled into traffic, Jim's cell phone rang. "Ellison. Oh,
yeah, Simon. What's up?" He paused to listen, frowning at what his
boss had to say. "Okay. We'll be right in."

"What's going on?" Blair asked.

"There's been another murder."

0-0-0-0-0

"Looks like our copycat is at it again," Simon said, tossing the file
onto the table for the two men to look over. "This one was a male
victim; strangled, with linen strips stuffed up his nostrils."

Blair paled as he looked at the Polaroid of the victim, but swallowed
the lump in his throat, determined not to make another scene in the
precinct. "Looks just like David Temco's work," he commented.

"Shit, Simon!" Jim exploded. "It's only been three days since the last
one! Do you have any idea of the hell we've been going through -- that
*Blair* has been going through -- these past few days because of this
damn case?" He grabbed his partner by the arm and led him over to one
of the chairs, pushing him to sit. "Take it easy, Chief," he said, his
voice turning soft and reassuring.

"I'm okay, Jim," Blair answered. "Really." He turned his gaze on
Simon. "So what do we know about the killer? What reason would he have
to duplicate the Manifesto Murders? And why now?"

"I think the 'now' is a pretty easy one to answer," Captain Banks said
with sympathy. "Your release was widely publicized. Not everyone
agrees that you're innocent."

"He's *not* involved, Simon!" Jim said, turning in anger on his boss.

"I never said he was," Banks returned, trying to stay calm in the face
of his detective's protective rage. "But he makes a convenient media
target. As long as the reporters are looking at Sandburg, they aren't
looking anywhere else. 

"For all we know, this guy might be out there among them. A thrill
seeker. Killing just to get his kicks out of seeing the media mob you
and Sandburg. It's a common occurrence for the actual killer to be a
part of the media mob. They love to gloat and wallow in the publicity,
even vicariously."

"I realize that, Simon," Jim snapped. "But in the meantime, Blair's
got a medical condition that this case is aggravating. I won't see him
hounded by the press because of it."

"I don't see how we're going to avoid it, Jim," Blair spoke quietly
from his seat. His fingertips brushed the crime scene photo and he
pushed it back toward his partner. "How long before this leaks to the
press? Two murders. Both imitating the Manifesto Murderer's style.

"You gotta admit it, Jim. There's been no closure for the families of
the original murder victims," he continued. "For four years, nearly
five with the trial, the spotlight was focused on *me*. Now the
evidence says David Temco was the killer, but he's dead. He died by
his own hand shortly after the fifth murder. All this time, people
have seen him as one of the victims. It's hard to switch gears and
believe he's the killer. I make an easy target."

"The kid's right," Simon said, trying to reason with Jim. "Doesn't
mean the situation doesn't stink like a pile of manure on a hot August
day, but it's the way things are." He gathered up the files and placed
them back into the manila folder and handed it to his detective. "Your
best bet is to get this one solved, pronto. Then Blair can finally be
free of suspicion."

Jim took the folder and slapped Blair across the shoulders with it.
"Let's get moving, Partner. We've got a crime scene to investigate."

"You don't have to tell me twice," Blair said, rising from his chair.
"I'm so ready to be outta here." He headed for the door to Simon's
office, then paused. "Um, is the press still out front? I'd rather try
and avoid them, if possible."

"There's only one way out of the parking garage," Jim reminded him.
"But if you keep your head down, out of sight, I think I can get us
through without too much trouble." He placed a guiding hand in the
small of Blair's back, ushering him through the door and out into the
bullpen.

A quick trip to the elevators and down to the garage had them in the
truck and moving in minutes. Blair bent double in his seat, trying to
stay below the level of the windows. Reporters flocked around the
now-familiar blue and white Ford pickup as it pulled out of the
underground parking. Jim revved the engine and honked his horn in
warning, all the while making slow, steady progress out of the
driveway and into the street. A few intrepid cameramen followed a
short way before giving up.

"It's okay. You can sit up now." Jim patted Blair's shoulders as the
young man unfolded himself, turning to look out the back window at the
crowd they had left behind.

"And to think I used to dream of being out of prison," Blair sighed.
"Right now, the protection of a set of iron bars doesn't sound so
bad." He fell silent, gazing out the window at the buildings that they
passed.

A few miles out of the downtown area, in a quiet suburban
neighborhood, Jim pulled up in front of a tan stucco two-story house.
He set the brake, then looked around cautiously, extending his senses
to determine whether or not they had been followed. Satisfied that
they were alone, he opened his door and got out.

Blair followed the detective past the yellow crime scene tape into the
house. They were met by a uniformed policeman who led them to a back
bedroom where the body still lay.

"Has Forensics been here?" Jim asked.

"Yes, sir," the officer answered. "They left about ten minutes ago."
He gestured toward the body. "He's all yours."

Jim walked over to the bed while Blair stood near the door, reluctant
to move closer to the victim. The officer left them alone, going out
front to make sure the crime scene remained secure.

"This is a good test for your senses," Blair said from where he stood.
"Try dialing up sight. Do you see anything out of place? A hair that's
the wrong color? Signs of blood?" Jim was shaking his head as Blair
spoke, studying the corpse closely for any signs the forensic team
might have missed. "Well, how about smell? Any odors that don't
belong?"

Jim paused, turning to look at his Guide who hovered just outside in
the hallway. "Yeah," he said slowly. "Yeah, as a matter of fact." He
stood up and circled the room, then came to stand next to Blair.
"There's a scent here that I recognize."

"Great!" Blair put a hand on Jim's shoulder and smiled proudly. "What
is it?"

"Tobacco," Jim muttered, lost in thought. "Some exotic blend... most
likely for a pipe or custom cigarettes. Not the sort of thing you'd
pick up at your local convenience store."

Blair glanced around the room. "But there's no signs the victim is a
smoker," he commented. "No ash trays, no containers for the tobacco. I
didn't see any as we came in, either. Where did you say you smelled
this before?"

"At the first crime scene," Jim admitted. "I didn't think anything of
it, then. But now... well, it's strange." He turned, guiding Blair out
of the room.

"That's it?"

"For now, Chief. I need to get back to the station and fill out my
report. I'll drop you by the loft first," Jim said, leading the way
back through the house. He stopped short as he entered the front room.
"Shit!"

Blair came up short behind him, bumping into his backside. "What is
it?"

"Reporters!" Jim hissed.

"How'd they find us?" Blair wondered. "Jim, you gotta get me out of
here!"

Jim approached the door cautiously. "Stay close behind me," he
ordered.

Blair flinched as he came out of the house following the detective
closely. He was pale, and his heart was pounding. He had needed to get
out of there and Jim hadn't argued, simply acted as his shield.

He stumbled backward, away from his protector, as he saw the press.
The cameras immediately swung toward him as they leaned forward across
the yellow police tape, yelling his name, howling like wolves for his
blood.

Blair took a deep breath. He did *not* want to talk with these people.
His only thought was getting back to Jim, to his Sentinel, where he
felt safe.

"Sandburg!"

Blair turned at the sound of his name. He never had time to duck as
the fist connected with his face. His knees buckled and he staggered
backward. A second blow put him down hard.

"Filthy murdering scum!" The man stooped down and began to pound at
the unresisting smaller man. Even as he was being dragged away by the
uniformed cops, he was still screaming. "You should have rotted in
hell, Sandburg! Next time, you won't cheat death. If the state won't
kill you, I will."

Then Jim was there, pulling Blair to his feet, manhandling his Guide
back into the house.

Blair was shaking violently, his eyes dazed from the attack.

Jim put his arm around the young man, holding him close until he got
him seated on one of the kitchen chairs. Only then, when he was sure
he would not fall, he switched his hold to cupping Blair's face. He
dialed up his sense of touch so that he could check for any fractures.

Blair flinched at the gentle touch, moaning a soft "Owww..." as Jim
probed his jaw and cheekbones. His mouth was bleeding and his face was
going to be heavily bruised. 

"Who was that?" he demanded, once his initial check was finished. "He
looked familiar." When he didn't get an immediate answer, he hardened
his tone, trying to get through the haze. "Speak to me, Chief. You're
worrying me here."

When Blair spoke, Jim had to extend his hearing to catch it. "Craig
Andrews. His daughter was one of David Temco's victims. He was at my
execution. He said I-I cheated death."

Jim released Blair's face and caught his shoulders, giving him a soft
shake. "Blair you're *innocent*, don't forget that. You did *nothing*
wrong."

"I could have stopped him," Blair whispered, referring to David Temco,
the Sentinel he had nearly died to protect.

"Blair, we have been over this. You couldn't have stopped him. You
acted as soon as you knew. You couldn't have done anything more."

"Different," Blair muttered. "You're so different."

Jim was concerned by the dazed look in the young man's eyes. "C'mon,
Chief. You're not making any sense here," he complained.

Quietly, Blair added, "You protect; he destroyed."

Simon Banks, who had accompanied the backup team, closed the distance
between himself and the younger man, being careful not to loom over
him. 

"Andrews has been arrested and will be charged with assault."

"No, you can't," Blair pleaded.

"Sandburg, he hit you," Simon put in sharply.

"He had reason."

Jim cut across his boss, adding his own two cents' worth. "No. He
doesn't have the right to attack you like that. You're innocent and he
has to learn to live with it." Then to Simon he added, "Blair won't be
interfering with the arrest."

Blair opened his mouth to protest, but the look on the older man's
face made him close it, his words unsaid. Jim would never listen to
him like this. He was determined to protect him, and wouldn't take no
for an answer.

Jim slid out of his jacket and pulled it around Blair, as he noticed
the young man was shivering with shock. Blair twisted his hands in the
fabric, pulling it close, taking comfort in having Jim wrapped around
him. 

Ducking down so that he could look up into Blair's face, Jim covered
one ice-cold hand. "I'm nearly finished here, then I'm taking you
home. Just hang in there, okay?" 

Jim had kept his voice level, giving comfort to his shaken partner,
but the anger burned deep in the core of his being. Blair didn't
deserve any of this. 

One question puzzled him -- how did Andrews get there so quickly? The
only people who knew there had been another murder were the killer and
the media, and they didn't have a live feed.

When he got the person who leaked the news to the anguished father, he
would feed them their camera blunt end first. 

Jim finished up quickly. He left the scene with Blair tucked up
against him. As he scanned the sea of faces, his jaw twitched when he
saw Kathy O'Brien. She could wait.

0-0-0-0-0

"Damn her, anyway!" Jim cursed, once they were back in the truck.
"I'll lay you dollars to donuts that *woman* had something to do with
Andrews being at the crime scene!"

"Calm down, Jim," Blair whispered. "It's all right. Really."

"How can you say that?" Jim turned incredulous eyes on the young man.
"That guy knocked you down and was prepared to beat you to a pulp!"

Blair hung his head. "I may not be directly guilty of the murders
David committed, but I should have known. I should have been able to
stop him." When Jim opened his mouth to protest, Blair rushed on.
"Ignorance may not be a punishable crime, but it doesn't assuage any
of the guilt I feel over all those deaths. How could I have *not* made
the connection?"

"Chief, you're an idealist. You were an academic in pursuit of your
Holy Grail. You had blinders on. It's not the first time something
like that has happened," Jim explained. "It doesn't make you the
world's punching bag. You served your time, four years more than you
deserved to serve. Hard time. And you were executed. What more do they
want from you?"

"I was *pardoned*," Blair corrected.

"Not before the execution was underway," Jim huffed, still righteously
indignant. "That damn Pentathol damaged your heart. I'd say that both
the victims' relatives *and* the media have already gotten their pound
of flesh from you."

"You'll never convince them," Blair sighed. "I'm a pariah here in
Cascade. Heck, with all the media coverage, I'd probably have to go to
Tibet to find someone who hasn't formed an opinion about my guilt or
innocence." 

The truck pulled into its parking space at 852 Prospect and Blair
slipped out of his seat belt. "All I want is a little peace and quiet.
Boo's execution is tomorrow night at midnight and I plan to be there."

Jim followed the young man into the building, reaching around him to
push the elevator button. "After what you've been through today, are
you sure you still want to go? I mean, it's not like Boo will know
you're there."

"I'll know." Blair leaned heavily against the cold metal of the
elevator wall. "This is something I *have* to do, Jim."

Jim wrapped an arm around the sagging shoulders and helped support
Blair as they walked down the hall to their apartment. After
depositing his burden on the couch, Jim raided his special store of
M&Ms, bringing out a small bowl as a peace offering.

"Thanks, man." Blair's face lit up at the sight of the treat. He
popped two brown ones into his mouth and chewed.

Jim settled next to his friend, draping an arm casually across the
back of the couch, letting his hand rest on one shoulder. Blair turned
and offered the bowl. "What some?"

"No thanks, Chief," Jim declined. He turned to look at the head of
brown curls bent over the candy dish. "You're still going to let me
come with you, aren't you? I'm not comfortable with you going back
into that prison alone."

"Sure, Jim. I want you to be there," Blair agreed. "I have to do this.
I owe Boo so much. But that doesn't mean I feel *good* about it. I'm
scared shitless." He nibbled another small handful of candies.
"Thanks."

"For what?"

"Everything." Blair set the empty bowl on the coffee table. "Thanks
for believing in me, for saving my life. Thanks for giving me a home
and a safe haven. Thanks for the candy," he waved a hand at the dish,
"and for volunteering to hold my hand at the execution tomorrow
night."

"It's called being a friend," Jim answered softly. "Everyone needs at
least one." He let his arm slip from the back of the couch to settle
around Blair's shoulders. "Now, I think it's high time you hightail it
to your room and get some rest. I'll call you when dinner's ready."

0-0-0-0-0

Jim followed behind as Blair made his way through the mostly empty
rows of chairs to the front, closest to the execution chamber. He
settled into a seat midway down the row, centered on the observation
window.

Jim settled next to him and turned to look at his companion. "Are you
sure you're okay with this?" Blair's face was pale and coated in a
fine sheen of perspiration. Tight lines of tension around his eyes
marred his otherwise smooth complexion.

"You keep asking and I keep telling," Blair sighed. "I made Boo a
promise. I'm not going to compromise my self-integrity by reneging on
it now." He leaned forward to grasp the railing in front of his chair.
His white-knuckled grip on the cold metal worried the Sentinel, who
was keeping tabs on the racing heartbeat of his partner.

The clock ticked toward midnight. A few of the scattered reporters
recognized the young man in the front row and came forward, crowding
around him. "Mr. Sandburg... why are you here?" "Can you give us a
statement about the recent murders?" "What can you tell us of your
whereabouts on...." 

Jim stood, shoving the obnoxious men and women back. "That's enough!
It's none of your damn business why he's here. Leave us alone."

"And you are...?" one of the reporters persisted.

"Your worst nightmare," Jim growled.

A guard approached and broke up the confrontation. "Everyone, back to
your seats. The execution will proceed in the next few minutes." He
stood near Jim and Blair, waiting until the reporters had returned to
the back of the room. "Sorry about that, Blair." Randy Wolfe laid a
hand on the trembling shoulder. "How are you doing?"

"I've been better," Blair admitted to his friend. "I thought life on
the outside would be easy, but then the copycat killings started." 

"I heard about that," Randy said. "They're not blaming you, are they?"

"They're trying." Blair sighed. "If it weren't for Jim, here, I'd
probably be locked away by now in some psych ward."

"Panic attacks?" The guard well remembered the nights Blair had spent
under his bunk in his prison cell.

Blair nodded. "You know it."

"Wolfe!" The call came from beside the chamber. Randy looked up and
saw the Warden gesturing to him.

"Sorry, Blair. Gotta go." He patted the shoulder he'd been holding.
"Take care of yourself." He nodded to Jim and smiled, then headed back
to where the Warden stood. 

"Thanks." Blair watched the guard go then turned and looked at Jim.
"Can you hear what's going on inside there?" he asked, returning his
attention to the impending execution.

"The room's soundproofed," Jim reminded him. "But, yeah, I can."

"Were you listening when they brought me in there?" The question was a
timid whisper.

Jim nodded. "I was proud of the way you conducted yourself," he
admitted. "You were scared. I could hear it in your heartbeat, but you
didn't fight. You were going to take it like a man, with as much
dignity as you could muster."

"I tried. But when they put that first needle in my arm..." Blair
couldn't complete the thought.

"That was nothing," Jim assured him, remembering the yelp of fear that
had escaped at the last moment. "I've seen hardened criminals crying
and begging for mercy. You had no business being in there in the first
place and you knew it, yet you didn't proclaim your innocence, didn't
try to plead or beg. That's courage, Blair. You're a strong man."

"I don't feel so strong right now," he admitted. "They should be
bringing Boo into the chamber."

"Yeah," Jim agreed. "They're strapping him down now and explaining the
procedure to him."

"The doctor tried to explain it to me," Blair remembered, "but I had
asked the Warden about it during my twenty-four hour suicide lock
down. I didn't want to hear it again." He sighed. "They'll set the
needles next, then test the lines. The curtain should be opening
soon."

Jim reached over and took hold of a perspiration-coated hand. "You're
doing great, buddy. Just like last time. You can do this."

"I'm going to watch a man die," Blair confessed softly. "A friend."

"But he earned this," Jim reminded him. "He killed his family. He's
guilty. You were innocent."

"Doesn't matter," came the quiet voice. "He's still a friend. He was
good to me."

The curtain was pulled open. Blair shrank back at the sight of Boo
strapped to the execution gurney, needles set in his veins, awaiting
the execution order. The order came and Blair buried his face in Jim's
shirt. "I can't do it," he cried. "I can't watch. Tell me when it's
over."

Jim let a comforting arm wrap around the distraught young man. He
watched the large black man convulse on the table as the drugs began
to take effect. He stared in morbid fascination, watching the man on
the table die and imagining a fair complexion instead, punctuated by
wide blue eyes and cascades brown curls. He held Blair tight and felt
a tear slip down his cheek for what might have been.

0-0-0-0-0

"You did it, Chief," Jim praised as he led the shaking young man from
the prison.

"I-I c-couldn't watch," he sniffled.

"There's no shame in that," Jim confided. "It's hard for anyone to
watch, but you've been there. I can't imagine the maelstrom of
emotions that must be whirling around in that noggin' of yours right
now."

"But I promised Boo."

"You promised you'd be there and you were." Jim opened the door to the
truck and helped Blair into the seat. "You fulfilled your obligation.
Given what you've been through, I think Boo would forgive you for not
being able to watch."

"You think?" Blair asked, his voice hopeful.

Jim nodded. "Yeah, I do." He started the engine and pulled out of the
parking lot into the nearly empty streets of early morning Cascade.

Blair stumbled into the apartment fifteen minutes later, hung up his
coat and headed straight for his room; exhausted from the emotions
Boo's execution had brought to the surface. At the door, he turned to
face Jim. "Thanks for being there. It helped a lot."

"No problem, buddy. Sweet dreams." Jim watched as the young man
disappeared into the small room, closing the door with a soft click.
He headed for the stairs to the loft bedroom and was soon undressed
and settled beneath the blankets.

*****

Stratton watched as the four prisoners took their turns with Sandburg
in the prison's showers. He nudged his fellow guard. "I gotta get
myself a little piece of that ass before he goes back to lock-up. What
do you say?" His partner nodded, licking his lips and watching the
spectacle before him.

"All right, boys, that's enough!" Stratton stepped in, breaking up the
little fuck-fest. "Get your asses out of the showers and back to your
assigned jobs." 

As the four men left, and the water was turned off, Blair breathed a
sigh of relief. It was over. Thank God. It was over. He stumbled,
dropping to his knees to crawl toward his savior. He tilted his head
upward, words of thanks freezing on his lips. His eyes widened as he
watched the guard roll a condom down over his ample cock. "Noooo...."
he begged. "Please. No."

"Hey, Peters!" Stratton called to the other guard. "Keep him quiet,
will ya?"

Blair scuttled backwards into the shower stalls as Peters came
forward, a condom rolled over his own erection. "Doesn't look like
he's got a lot of fight left," the guard commented.

"No, but he can make a lot of racket. Make sure he stays quiet,"
Stratton instructed.

"My pleasure." Peters approached Blair, who had backed himself into a
corner. "Come on, little man," he coaxed. "You're going to suck my
dick while my friend here gets a little fuck. Then we'll take you to
the infirmary where they'll fix you all up before throwing that pretty
little ass of yours behind bars."

The battered man was no match for the two guards, his feeble struggles
easily contained by the hands that held his head and hips while hungry
cocks fucked his mouth and ass....

*****

Blair moaned and tossed in his bed as the nightmares continued to
pound at his subconscious.

*****

Stratton paced the death row cellblock, intent on his goal. He nodded
up at Peters, who manned the surveillance cameras to the area. A
simple turn of a switch and an "electrical short" kept the cameras
from recording the action down below.

Approaching Cell 10 with caution, Stratton signaled his partner to
release the door lock. Sandburg was sleeping. An easy target. With one
quick move, he had the smaller man off the bunk and firmly gripped.
Blair yelped with surprise, and began to struggle against the hold.
"No use fighting, kid. You're the night's entertainment." Catcalls and
obscenities were shouted from the other cells, as the inmates looked
forward to a little break in their normal routine. 

"No!" Blair yelled over the noise. Despite the warning, he fought with
his captor, briefly breaking free.

Stratton whipped out his baton and leveled a stunning blow to Blair's
temple. The young man collapsed, knocked out. 

*****

"Oh, God!" The scream echoed through the quiet apartment. "Please...
help!"

Jim knelt beside the futon, shaking the sleeping man with desperation.
"Blair! Wake up, kid! C'mon! Wake up!" Unfocused blue eyes opened and
stared up at him in the darkness.

"Let me go! Don't touch me!" Blair scooted into the corner, pulling
the blankets up under his chin to protect himself from the shadowy
figure.

"It's me... Jim," he coaxed, softening his voice. "You were having a
nightmare."

Finally completely awake, Blair slumped back onto the mattress.
"Sorry." The quiet apology was laced with sadness. "I didn't mean to
wake you."

Jim settled on the bed next to his shaken partner. "That's all right.
It's what friends are for, right?" He wrapped a protective arm around
the shaking shoulders. "Did Boo's execution bring this on?" he asked
with sympathy.

Blair nodded. "Yeah. I think so," he admitted. "I still feel guilty
for not watching."

"There's no reason for that," Jim insisted. Not relinquishing his hold
on the young man, he leaned forward and plucked the bag of M&Ms from
the nearby desk, handing it to Blair. "After what you went through, I
think it's a miracle you were able to be there at all. You kept your
promise to Boo. There's nothing to be ashamed of."

Blair clutched the candy to his chest, but didn't open the bag.
Despite his distress, he couldn't contain a yawn.

"Look," Jim continued. "Why don't you try to go back to sleep? I'll
stay here for a while to make sure the nightmares don't come back. How
does that sound?"

Blair nodded. "Thanks, Jim. I'm really tired, I just..."

"You don't have to explain," Jim assured him. "Just sleep. I'll be
here." Jim tucked the covers in around him and smoothed back the wild
hair from his forehead. "Sweet dreams, Chief."

Guarded and safe, Blair closed his eyes and slept.

0-0-0-0-0

Simon Banks looked out of the window at the young man Jim had pushed
out the door. The kid had looked as if he needed a breath of fresh
air. Murders were bad enough for seasoned professionals, but these
were horrific and hitting far too close to home.

He watched as a young woman approached Blair. The young man had seemed
to draw himself up and then started to back away as a cameraman came
around the side of the van.

*****

Blair drew in deep breaths of the fresh morning air, feeling the
oxygen revive his mind and body. He smiled when he saw Kathy, and for
the first time he felt the tension seep out of him. "What are you
doing here?" He looked past her and saw the camera pointed his way.

Kathy spoke into her microphone. "We have with us today, Blair
Sandburg, former Manifesto Murder suspect and death row convict." With
the smooth move of a professional, the reporter thrust the microphone
into Blair's face. He backed up a step, shocked. "Mr. Sandburg, why
are you here today? Do you have inside information on the killings?
Are you..."

"Kathy?" Blair interrupted, astonished that the woman who had been
kind to him was one of *them*, a reporter. "Please don't do this. I
thought you were my friend."

Kathy put her hand over the microphone. "Do you really think that I
would want anything to do with you? Just because you didn't *commit*
the murders doesn't mean that you didn't know about them. Why else
would you take the fall for them?" She removed her hand. "So, Mr.
Sandburg, what's with gouging out the eyes and..."

Simon saw Blair take to his heels -- he had to get away from the
reporter. She caught his arm and he gave her a shove that sent her
flying into her cameraman. Then he was gone.

"Rafe, get Sandburg before he gets into more trouble."

"Sir, Ellison will..." the detective began.

"Just get him before Ellison knows he's missing," Simon commanded.

When Rafe got down to the street, Blair was already well ahead of him.
He quickened his pace. Coming around the corner, he saw that trouble
had already found the young man; he was pinned up against the wall by
a uniform, his route cut off by a patrol car.

Rafe approached the officer. "Hi, Benton. It's okay, he's with me."

The uniform looked Blair up and down. He had manhandled the smaller
man and managed to pin him, but he was more concerned with his mental
state -- he had started to struggle the moment he had been touched.
Benton had only pulled up because Sandburg seemed to have trouble
breathing.

"He gave you the slip, Rafe."

"No. He's a police observer -- Ellison's partner. He's going to be
looking for him soon." Rafe still had not formed his own opinion of
the ex-convict, preferring to keep an open mind despite the
circumstantial evidence that pointed to his involvement in the current
copycat killings. If Jim Ellison vouched for the young man, Rafe
wasn't going to argue the point.

Benton gave a theatrical shrug. "Icy Ellison, brrrr. No way." He gave
Blair a brief glance. "But I'd have the doctor look at him. He's not
too good on his feet."

"Sure." Rafe moved forward and took Blair by the arm. "It's okay
Sandburg, deep breaths." Then to the officer he added, "Do you have
any water?"

"Yeah." He reached into the patrol car and handed the detective a
bottle. Rafe broke the seal, handing it to Blair. The young man
accepted the offering, spilling a few drops as he brought the bottle
to his lips, gulping down the refreshing liquid.

"Slow down," Rafe admonished. "You're okay, Sandburg. Easy." He
spotted a small shop on the corner. "Ben, stay with him. I'll be back
in a minute." It was a gamble, but worth it. 

Rafe felt slightly idiotic with the large bag of the new crunchy M&Ms
in his hand, but he had seen the magic the small sweets performed on
the anthropologist. Jim always had them on hand. The junior detective
offered Blair the bag. For a brief moment, he thought the young man
would refuse, but after a heartbeat's hesitation, he reached for the
treat.

"Thought you might like trying something new," Rafe commented, trying
to lighten the mood. He watched Blair savor the candy, relaxing as if
he'd been given some magic potion.

His cell phone sounded and Rafe pulled it out on the first ring. "I
got him Captain... Ellison is on his way? Okay. Yeah, I can see him
now," he said, glancing up the sidewalk.

Rafe was relatively new to Major Crime and one thing had been pounded
into him right from the start -- you don't piss off Jim Ellison. The
man was a legend. Looking at him now, he could believe it. He knew it
was cowardice, but he stepped back and allowed Sandburg to be seen. It
was like magic. Instead of steamrolling the younger man, he was gently
pulled to the detective. Ellison's voice was soft and soothing. When
Blair answered, Rafe could barely hear him, but Jim did and he could
see his jaw clench. Blair was pulled a little closer. 

"Thanks, Rafe." Jim's appreciation was curt, but heartfelt. Turning
back to his charge, he spoke gently. "Come on, Chief. Let's get you
back to the loft."

Jim was all too aware that Blair was going to be in for one hell of a
night. He could see stairs featured heavily in his near future. But
whatever Blair needed, he would give and would always give. The
Sentinel would protect the Guide even from the Guide himself.

0-0-0-0-0

Jim went straight to the kitchen to put the kettle on, then opened the
cupboard and took down one of the packets of herbal teas that Blair
liked. His eyes kept flicking over to his young Guide. Why the hell
did this crap keep happening to him? Blair was one of the kindest
souls he had ever met. Even being on death row and putting up with all
the shit that had happened to him, had not made him bitter. And what
did it get him? Over and over again, he was forced to relive the past
and what he saw as his failure.

The whistling of the kettle brought Jim back to the present. He poured
the hot water and then looked around. Blair was missing. He dismissed
the small bedroom... Blair didn't feel safe there, not at times like
this. That left the stairs. Picking up the tea and taking a new packet
of M&Ms from the cupboard, he went and sat on the stairs. The steady
beating of his Guide's heart was comforting to the now over-protective
Sentinel. At least this latest incident had not brought on Blair's
heart condition. But it might if the kid couldn't settle down quickly. 

His mind made up, Jim rose. He heard a frightened gasp from Blair and
his name being called.

"It's okay, Chief. I'm not going anywhere... quite the opposite."

Putting the tea down, he went to the side of the stairs and stooped to
look at his Guide. Blair was rocking slowly, his eyes wide, seeing
things only he could see, locked into the past. 

"I'm sorry, Jim... so sorry." His voice was heartbreaking. "I had to
get away and then..."

"You made a mistake, Blair." The expression on the young man's face
could have melted the hardest of hearts. "You should have run *to* me,
not away."

Slowly, Jim reached a hand out and stroked one finger down Blair's
face. He caught his chin and eased it up so that Blair was looking him
in the eyes again. "Remember that: a Guide runs to his Sentinel, a
police observer to his partner, and you to me."

Jim looked around the small, cramped space. Even with the sleeping bag
it was uncomfortable. Keeping eye contact, he slid his hand down to
Blair's and grasped it... the skin was chilled. He gave the hand a
firm tug.

"No, Jim, please." 

Blair knew that Jim would not take no for an answer, but the Sentinel
surprised him. He was pulled firmly into strong arms that wrapped
around him, his head tucked under Jim's chin. Timidly, he reached a
hand up and pressed it against Jim's chest. He could feel the
Sentinel's body heat coming through the material, the scent of his
aftershave. With a sob, he buried his face against Jim, and for the
first time really let go. He felt safe and protected.

Jim seemed to tense up and Blair waited for him to push him away. It
was well known that the ex-Covert Ops Ranger did not do emotions well
and here he was blubbering all over him. He tried to move, only to be
pulled closer, if that was possible. Jim's lips brushed his forehead.
"It's okay, Blair. It's okay." Then his hand went to guide Blair's
head back down again. 

For Jim, it had been like a bolt from the blue. Suddenly, it didn't
matter that Blair was crying; the kid deserved to be able to vent, and
if he cried, then so be it. Somehow, holding Blair like this felt so
right. A Sentinel giving comfort to his Guide. Eventually, he felt his
back starting to register its displeasure. 

He got to his feet, taking Blair with him. Refusing to release his
hold, he helped him up the stairs.

He calmed the young man as he began to panic. "Blair, trust me. If you
need to feel safe, this is the safest place in the loft. No one can
hurt you here."

"Your room." 

"I know it's not perfect, but anytime you need it..."

"You mean that?" Blair couldn't believe a man as private as Jim
Ellison would offer him this. He bit his lip. "What if the other
officers..."

"Think you're my lover?" Jim chuckled. "I hate to break it to you,
kid, but half of them think we're doing the horizontal tango already."
Blair laughed. It was strained, full of the day's tension, but it was
progress.

Blair slowly eased away from Jim, but kept a grip on his wrist,
needing to know that he was still there. Half of him was telling him
to run, that the dark of the stairs was the most he deserved, that he
could not accept Jim's offer... it was wrong for him. He ran a hand
over the comforter.

"Anytime... Anytime, Chief, day or night... your sanctuary." 

Still keeping his grip, Blair sat down, then leaned to look through
the gaps in the rail, and shuddered.

"You won't fall. I won't let you."

Blair's head snapped around to see his Sentinel. There was a tone to
the man's voice that he hadn't heard before, a possessive nature --
what he had read about in the Burton books -- the feeling his previous
Sentinel had never had, the true connection between Sentinel and
Guide. He gave Jim's wrist a tug, not able to put into words what he
needed; frightened to tell the older man what he wanted.

Carefully, Jim peeled Blair's hand from his wrist and took off his
shoes and jacket, placing his gun in the drawer by the bed. Then, he
bent and removed Blair's shoes, easing the smaller man back on the
mattress.

Before piling the pillows up, and settling himself against them, all
he had to do was open his arms. Blair moved into them, safe. The
nightmares of the cell on death row seemed to become distant. Sleep
finally claimed the exhausted man as the Sentinel kept watch over him.

0-0-0-0-0

Samuel Peters looked at the newspaper headline: Murder Victim's Father
Attacks Suspect. He threw the days-old paper down with disgust. This
wasn't good enough. So far, that Sandburg brat had continued to slip
off the hook. He still hung around with that damn cop, too.
Circumstances were making his job all the more difficult.

Flopping down onto his battered couch, he picked up a beer and let his
mind wander. He was on psychiatric leave from his job as a prison
guard at Cascade's maximum-security prison. That, in itself, was
Sandburg's fault. Even though no one believed his story about him and
Stratton raping Sandburg in the showers, the accusation had left a
cloud of doubt in the mind of the Warden. Add to that the murder of
Stratton, and Peters feared for his own life. Sandburg had turned his
job into a living nightmare. If he had to murder five people to set
the kid up, he'd do it. He picked up the remote and flipped on the TV.

A bright, perky redhead had thrust a microphone into Sandburg's face.
"Mr. Sandburg, why are you here today? Do you have inside information
on the killings? Are you..."

"Kathy? Please don't do this. I thought you were my friend." The young
man pleaded with her.

Kathy put her hand over the microphone and spoke softly to the man.
Then she uncovered the mic and continued her interview. "So, Mr.
Sandburg, what's with gouging out the eyes and..."

The coward took off running. The reporter grabbed at him, but he sent
her flying into her cameraman, who continued to tape Sandburg's flight
down the block and around the corner.

Kathy O'Brien righted herself and smoothed back her ruffled hair.
Clearing her throat, she addressed the camera. "Sometimes, actions
speak louder than words. Blair Sandburg, guilty or innocent? You
decide." 

Peters turned off the TV and set down the remote. The O'Brien woman
had been after Sandburg recently. Her many spots on the local news
stations attested to the fact that she was harassing the young man, as
eager as Peters himself to see the brat back behind bars. Or better
yet, dead, like he should have been weeks ago.

An idea began to form slowly in the back of his mind, lighting his
face with an evil smile. Next on the list of Manifesto killings would
be the cutting out of the tongue. What better victim than a chatty
reporter who had recently been hounding the prime suspect? Her death
would surely put Sandburg back on death row. He picked up his
hand-rolled cigarette and lit it, taking a few contemplative puffs as
he considered the next "Manifesto Murder."

Eventually, he stirred, getting out of his chair and rummaging in his
closet. A few minutes later, the door closed softly behind him as he
walked out into the coolness of the evening.

0-0-0-0-0

The story went out at 6:00 p.m. on the prime spot. The word was that
it was being picked up nationwide and that was a step toward network
placement for her. If she thought of Blair at all, it was only to
wonder how she could use him further. 

Kathy came out of the television station and looked around her. It was
dark; and while she always parked under the lights, she still
suppressed a shudder. It felt as if someone had just walked over her
grave. She was reaching for her car keys when her phone rang. She
pulled out the cell. "Hi, Frank. Yeah, I'm just leaving." She rolled
her eyes; her boyfriend was such a worrier.

She broke off the conversation as she saw a man coming toward her. She
frowned. "What are you doing here?" she asked, her tone scathing.
"Yeah, okay -- so I used you, so what? You would have done the same,
if you were in my place. Where else would I get the info I needed for
the story?"

Frank listened over the phone as Kathy spoke to someone who had
apparently approached her in the parking lot. He heard her scream.
Then came the sound of two successive dull thuds. Kathy's screams
trailed off, just before the phone was disconnected. 
 
Without hesitation, he dialed 911.


The following morning:

Jim took the phone call and his jaw tightened. The last thing they
needed now was this. Blair was going to take it hard. He had readily
taken to the young woman, making her betrayal all the worse. Now he
had to tell Blair she was dead -- the next victim of the Copycat
Killer.

Simon called his detectives straight into his office and waved them to
a seat. "Okay, gentlemen, we had another one last night. The victim
this time was Kathleen O'Brien. She was murdered in the car park at
the TV station. Our killer knew exactly where to strike -- the one
area where the CCTV cameras had a blind spot. As you can see," he
said, sliding the crime scene photos across the table to the assembled
men, "he removed her tongue and replaced it with her cell phone.
Communication, lies -- that's what the profile is saying. She's our
third victim. If we don't catch our copycat now, then once he's killed
twice more, completing the cycle, he'll most likely go underground and
we won't get him until he starts again. Gentlemen, I want this
person."

Turning his back on them, Simon collected up the additional paperwork
and began to assign individual tasks to the detectives. Once they
received their assignments, they left the office. He deliberately kept
Blair and Jim until last. He sat back, eyeing the pair.

"We have a problem, Jim. The man who called in the murder was the
victim's boyfriend. He'd been on the phone with her at the time she
was attacked." Simon sighed, shuffling the papers in front of him. "He
said it sounded as though she recognized her killer... said it sounded
like she was talking to the guy she'd interviewed for her news spot
last night. As of now, Blair is an official suspect in the copycat
Manifesto killings."

Blair's hand tightened on the chair arm, his eyes widening. "Captain,
no! I never... I...." His voice trailed off as his heart began
thudding in his chest.

Jim heard the increase in Blair's heart rate and the catch in his
breath. "It's okay, Chief. We know you didn't do it. Now try and
breathe slowly. Remember what the doctor told you about getting
upset." He placed his hand on Blair's shoulder and was pleased when
the younger man calmed a fraction. He turned back to his superior.
"What time of death did the coroner assign to the victim?"

"7:30 p.m."

Jim didn't hesitate. "At that time, Blair was in the Major Crime
bullpen, working on Rafe's computer fixing a virus that had infected
the system. He never once left the area. There are at least four
officers that can swear to it."

Simon's gaze rested on the nervous anthropologist. "Sorry, Sandburg. I
had to ask," he rationalized. Blair acknowledged the apology with a
silent nod. 

Simon turned back toward his detective. "The Chief of Police phoned
and read me the riot act where Blair is concerned." He paused, then
added, "You still need him for that Sentinel stuff?"

"Yes." Simon was surprised by how quickly Jim answered. He spoke
without any hesitation. "I still need Blair."

"Then make sure he keeps a low profile," Simon ordered. "No more six
o'clock performances." He handed them their assignment. 

Jim gave Blair a tug to get him on his feet. "Come on, Chief. We have
work to do." Blair stood, quietly following Jim from the office.

Rafe stopped them at the elevator. "You better take him down the back
stairs, Jim," he said. "The media is out for blood. I spotted two
local stations and three national out front." What blood remained in
Blair's already pale face drained from his complexion, leaving him
white and shaken.

"Thanks." With a hand on Blair's elbow to steady him, Jim steered him
into the elevator. They got off on the second floor, then took the
stairs down and out through booking. 

Officer Ellwood watched Sandburg and Ellison as the pair made their
way past. He noticed the grim way Ellison was almost manhandling the
smaller man into booking and with a quick look around, dropped a dime
into the public telephone.

"Give me the news desk." He waited for the connection. "Johnny, here's
a tip for you," he said in a hushed voice. "Jim Ellison has just taken
the Manifesto Murderer, Blair Sandburg, into booking. Seems the little
creep did it after all. How much for the whole story?" He waited.
"Make it $500 and I can get you the inside scoop." Another pause. "You
have a deal." He hung up and headed in after the pair. They were
nowhere in sight. Puzzled, he looked around.

"Missing something, Ellwood?" the booking Sergeant asked, his tone
indicating that the officer had better things to do than be staring
into space.

"Ellison was in here with Sandburg."

"Sure. They went out the back way."

"He wasn't booking him?"

"No, why?"

"Nothing." Ellwood swore under his breath. He could see his payment go
flying out the window. 

The Sergeant smelled a rat, but decided to give the officer enough
rope to hang himself.

Ellwood pushed past the incoming officers and took the phone nearest
the garage. With a sharp stabbing motion, he punched out the numbers.

"Johnny, it's me again... no," he snapped. "Just shut it and listen!
It looks like they're not arresting Sandburg. The little creep must
have a get out of jail free card. I still think that if you put a team
on him, you'll get your story. I’ve heard some tales on the
grapevine... It appears that while he was in prison, Sandburg was the
main bitch of..."

A hand came down over his shoulder and the phone was cut off. Before
Ellwood could even turn, he felt a grip on his collar and he was
pushed head forward into the phone. Dazed, he was manhandled into the
stairwell of the garage and thrown up against the wall, held in place
by a forearm across his throat. He was face to face with James
Ellison.

Ellison's anger was ice cold and calculating, a deadly combination in
an ex-Army Ranger. "Blair, go wait in the truck," he snapped, pointing
toward the door. The young man took one look at the Sentinel and
scuttled out to the parking lot and the relative safety of Jim's
truck.

Jim turned his anger on the police officer. "So, Ellwood, it was *you*
tipping off our friends in the media, targeting Blair... yes or no."

"No."

"Wrong answer." Jim moved his arm. Ellwood began to panic; he could no
longer breathe. Then, as quickly as it started, the pressure was
released. "Try again."

"Okay, okay... yes," the police officer sputtered. "Why shouldn't I
get something out of this? Sandburg struts around here as if he owns
the place. You know how long I've been trying to get into Major Crime?
He does it without having to do anything."

"So you decided to get even with him."

"You bet." The pressure on his neck eased some more. "I'm not the only
one, either. You put in a call for assistance for him and see how fast
the unit arrives. Officer down and they'll burn rubber, but for
him.... Forget it, Ellison. The world is better off without his kind."

Jim shook his head, then hit Ellwood. The man doubled over. Jim’s knee
caught him on the chin, putting him down. Looking into the bloody
face, the Sentinel snarled. "Tell your friends that if anything
happens to Sandburg, I'm coming looking. And believe me, you don’t
want to be there. Also, if you tell anyone about what happened to
Blair in prison, you'd better hope your will is in order. Understand?" 

Ellwood saw the Sergeant standing nearby. "You heard him. He
threatened me."

The Sergeant didn’t even look at the fallen man. "Detective Ellison,
you want to be careful... this floor is really slippery. You could
fall and hurt yourself, just like Ellwood did here. You best take Mr.
Sandburg home. He didn’t look too well. Don't worry, I’ll see to the
trash." 

With a nod of thanks, Jim left. As he walked across the parking
garage, he couldn't help a smile touching his lips. The Sergeant had
made it all too clear what Ellwood could expect if he tried that crap
again. 

When he opened the door to the truck, Blair leaned forward, concerned
by the spatters of blood on his shirt and his bruised knuckles. "Jim,
are you okay?"

Jim's grin widened as he spoke his reassurance. "I'm fine, Chief, just
fine." 

0-0-0-0-0

"You don't have to come with me," Jim assured his partner. "I could
drop you off at the loft first."

Blair shook his head. "If you're going to be using your senses, you
need me there, man." His hands were trembling slightly as they rested
in his lap, but his voice was steady and sure.

"At least the body is gone. You don't need to be looking at crap like
that right now." Jim turned down the street that would take him to the
TV station parking lot where Kathy had been killed. "Shit!" He pulled
into a parking space and jumped out of the truck. "What the hell do
you two think you're doing here?" he addressed Braddock and Dawson,
waving at Blair to stay put.

Joe Braddock looked up, eyes blazing. "We're here to prove that little
prick friend of yours is the Copycat Killer," he sneered. 

Jim was on the big man immediately, fists wrapped in Braddock's
collar, pushing him back. "He's innocent!" he growled. "There are
witnesses to prove he was at the station at the time of the murder!"

"There's a witness says he was here, too," Braddock hissed, not
intimidated by Ellison's tactics.

"A telephone witness," Jim shot back. "Hardly proof. I can give you
half a dozen police officers to testify that Sandburg was working on
Rafe's computer that night."

Braddock twisted out of Jim's grip and backed off a step. "It doesn't
matter whether the kid did this murder or not," he spat. "He's still
guilty. One way or another, I'll see Sandburg back on death row." He
grabbed Dawson's arm and steered his partner away from the scene.

"Over my dead body." Jim's cold voice carried across the distance to
the two departing detectives.

"What was that all about?"

The soft voice caused Jim to whirl around. "I thought I told you to
stay in the truck!"

"I did," Blair reasoned, "until I saw Braddock and Dawson leaving.
What was that all about?" he repeated.

"Nothing that should concern you," Jim answered. "Don't worry. I'll
take care of it." He turned around, surveying the area where they
stood. Crime scene tape blocked off several parking spaces, and a
chalk outline marked where the body had fallen. He approached the
area, slipping under the tape.

Blair was close behind, a hand resting comfortably on the Sentinel's
shoulder. "Try using sight, first," he suggested. "Just remember:
you're a human crime lab. You can find evidence the 'experts' missed."

Jim moved slowly around the marked off area, pulling on a pair of
latex gloves as he walked. "According to eyewitness reports, the man
came from that way." He pointed, moving in the indicated direction.
"They said long, dark hair." He concentrated, spotting something
snagged in a crack of the pavement. Bending over, he picked up a long,
curling hair.

Blair blinked rapidly, trying to focus in on the slender fiber. His
heart began beating a rapid tattoo in his chest, drawing Jim's
attention. "Don't worry. It's not natural. Probably from a wig," he
said, bagging the evidence. He looked around a while longer, finally
shrugging. "Nothing more here to find," he said. "I'm going to drop
you off back home, then go check out the body at the morgue."

"Do you plan to use your senses?" Blair asked quietly. "I should be
there."

"I can do this," he assured, turning to face the younger man. "You've
had enough excitement for one day. Come on." He turned Blair toward
the truck and gave a gentle shove. "You need to rest."

After dropping Blair off at the loft, Jim made a beeline for the
Coroner's office. Dan Wolfe greeted his friend. "How can I help you,
Jim?"

"I need to get a look at Kathy O'Brien's body."

"I just finished with her," Dan told him. "Same as the others:
strangulation and mutilation. This time, with the tongue cut out."

Jim snorted. "Seems almost appropriate somehow, considering the way
she was hounding Blair for her story."

They stopped in front of a stainless steel locker. Dan opened the door
and pulled out the table containing the draped body of the reporter.
"She's all yours. Let me know when you're finished."

Jim just nodded and pulled back the sheet. A close examination of the
body brought nothing new to the investigation. He looked up. "Do you
still have her clothes?" Dan nodded. "Could I get a look?"

"Sure can," Dan answered, handing him a large evidence bag filled with
clothing. "You got here just in time. I was about to send that
upstairs."

"I'll just be a minute." Jim snapped on a pair of latex gloves and
opened the bag, spreading the contents on one of the exam tables.
Having been closed in the plastic for several hours, the odors from
the discarded clothing were strong. In particular, a tobacco scent
stood out. Carefully extending his sense of smell, Jim homed in on the
scent, eventually picking a few small fragments of leaves from the
garment with a tweezers and dropping them into another evidence bag,
which he stuffed in his pocket.

He put the clothing back into the plastic bag and handed it to the
Coroner. "Thanks, Dan. I really appreciate it."

"Anytime, Jim," Dan said to the man's retreating back.

0-0-0-0-0

Hours later Jim walked out of yet another tobacco shop feeling
drained. Without his Guide along to help him focus, he was getting
nowhere matching the scent to a particular blend. He decided to call
it a day and headed back to his truck.

"Mister!" The voice rang out behind him. Jim turned, watching the shop
owner hustle over to where he stood. "I forgot about the special
blends, the ones we custom make for our clients."

"You make custom blends?" Jim was intrigued.

"Yes, but not many," the shop owner replied. "That's why I forgot to
mention them. Come." 

Jim followed the man back into the store, standing in front of the
counter while the owner produced three containers. "These are all we
have on order."

As Jim lifted the lid on the second container, he knew he'd hit pay
dirt. "Who buys this one?" he asked.

The shop owner looked up in his records. "We have two people who order
that particular blend," he said. "Maxwell Gutterind and Samuel
Peters."

Jim's heart skipped a beat at the mention of Peters. He wrote both
names down and thanked the shop owner. Now he had a place to start.

0-0-0-0-0

As five o'clock came and went, Jim was still searching the PD database
for information on Samuel Peters.

"Time to go home, Jim," Simon said, walking past his detective's desk
as he settled his coat over his shoulders. "The kid's probably worried
about you by now."

"Hey, Simon," Jim said by way of greeting, looking up from his
computer monitor. "Yeah. Yeah. I should call and tell Blair not to
wait dinner for me."

"You got something?" Simon asked, curious.

"Maybe," Jim admitted. "There's a possible link between the latest
victim and one of the guards responsible for raping Blair while he was
in prison."

Simon came around the desk and studied the document Jim had displayed
on the computer. "That man has some serious problems," he commented,
noting the man was currently out on a psychiatric leave of absence,
and had been since shortly after Blair's pardon and release.

Jim nodded. "Looks like it's time to head back to the prison and talk
to a few people who knew him while he worked there."

"What it's time for, is for you to go home," Simon said in a no
nonsense voice. "Blair is waiting for you. I don't think it's a good
idea to leave the kid alone too long right now."

"You're right," Jim agreed, standing and stretching. "Tomorrow's
another day."

0-0-0-0-0

As Jim neared the door of his apartment, he could hear the rapid and
irregular beat of Blair's heart. Flinging the door open, he scanned
the room with hearing and sight. He finally focused on the cramped
area under the stairs. 

He approached the hiding place and ducked his head into the tight
confines. "Hey, buddy. What's up?"

At first, there was no answer. Then a weak, unsteady voice spoke.
"T-they think it was m-me." The damaged heart beat a syncopated rhythm
as Blair drew another breath. "I-I s-saw it on the news. The reporter
said I k-killed Kathy O'Brien."

Jim fought the urge to break something, instead steadying his voice.
"Breathe, Chief. Calm down. Nobody's accusing you of anything."

"B-but it was on the news!" Blair hiccupped -- a bad sign with his
injured heart. Jim reached in to pull him out, but the young man just
burrowed deeper into his hidey-hole.

"They don't know what they're talking about," Jim assured him. "We
have the time of death pinpointed almost to the minute, thanks to the
fact she was on her cell phone at the time of the murder. You were in
the bullpen helping Rafe with that computer virus. There are a dozen
witnesses -- police officers -- who can vouch for you."

"But the public thinks I did it! They want me back in prison.
T-they're saying I need to - to die...." Blair's breathing grew more
erratic and his heart pounded in his chest. To Jim's horror, he heard
the rapid patter of atrial fibrillation just before a dull thump
brought Blair's head and shoulders out far enough for Jim to reach.

He pulled the unconscious man from under the stairs and carried him
over to the couch. Laying him down, he covered the chilled body with
the afghan and perched on the cushions, rubbing one of the cold hands
between his warm ones. He hated that Blair had to suffer like this.
His heart condition made the young man more vulnerable, and now fear
of returning to that nightmare had triggered the irregular heartbeat
that caused him to pass out.

At least Jim now knew that the condition would right itself given a
little time. He kept his hearing tuned to Blair's heart, relaxing as
he heard it slowly return to the steady lub-dub of sleep. He rose and
went to the kitchen, filling a candy dish with M&Ms. Returning, he set
the dish on the coffee table next to the couch. When he woke, Blair
was going to need reassurance and comfort.

He perched on the cushions beside the sleeping man, brushing an errant
strand of hair away from his face. Blair brushed at his nose with the
back of his hand as the hair tickled his skin and slowly blinked his
eyes open.

"Jim?"

"Just lie still," Jim soothed. "You got a little over excited there."

"I passed out?" Jim nodded. "The heart thing?" Jim nodded again. "Oh,
man..." Blair groaned. "Why me?"

Jim propped a pillow behind Blair's head and handed him the candy
dish. "I wish I had an answer for you," he said, sighing. "What you
have to understand here, Chief, is that I'm not going to let anything
happen to you. The press is like a school of sharks scenting blood in
the water right now. They're circling in for the kill, but they're
homing in on the wrong guy. You can't let them get to you. You're
innocent."

"I know that and you know that," Blair said around a mouthful of
candy, "but as long as the press thinks I'm guilty, I can't go
anywhere without a bodyguard. It sucks."

"Yeah, I know." Jim patted his knee. "The important thing now is for
you to relax. Do you think you could get a little sleep?"

Blair shook his head. "I'm gonna have nightmares. I'd rather stay up."

"After an fainting episode, you're supposed to rest," Jim reminded
him. "Do you want me to take you back to the hospital?"

"God, no!" Blair cried, sitting up and spilling the M&Ms. "Please
don't do that. I'll try to sleep."

Jim looked thoughtful. "It's getting late and I've got a busy day
tomorrow. I ought to be hitting the sack, too." He paused to gaze at
his friend. "Would it help you sleep if I were there with you?" Blair
nodded mutely. He always slept with fewer nightmares when Jim was
nearby. "Come on, then." Jim stood and took Blair's hand to help him
up.

Still a bit unsteady on his feet, the young man didn't argue as Jim
led him toward the steps to his bedroom. He sat on the far edge of the
mattress, allowing Jim to undress him down to his underwear. The
Sentinel lifted the blankets and Blair crawled in, rolling to his
side, facing out. "Thanks, Jim," he mumbled, closing his eyes.

Minutes later, the mattress dipped slightly as Jim crawled in on his
side, careful to avoid touching his upset partner. He had to admit, he
liked having Blair here, near to him. He worried about the young man
when he slept downstairs alone, often staying up late monitoring his
respiration and heart rate until he could no longer remain awake. This
way, if Blair had a nightmare, the comfort would be immediate.

Blair was already asleep, exhausted from his ordeal of the evening.
Jim prayed he would rest peacefully until morning. Snuggling under the
blankets, he closed his eyes, lulled by the slow, regular beat of his
Guide's heart.

When Jim awoke the next morning, he felt more rested than he had since
this whole mess with the copycat killings had begun. Curled up against
him was his bedmate, who had sought out the comfort sometime in the
middle of the night.

Careful not to wake Blair, Jim climbed out of bed and went downstairs
to put on the coffee and see about making breakfast. He had a lead to
follow now, in the form of Samuel Peters, and was anxious to get in to
work. He was turning the pancakes when he heard the shuffling
upstairs. Minutes later, a ruffled Sandburg made his way down from the
bedroom.

"Sleep well last night?" Jim asked as the sleepy-eyed anthropologist
made his way to the breakfast table.

"Yeah." Blair was wearing one of Jim's robes, the sleeves at least six
inches too long. Strong fingers wrapped around the cuff of the right
sleeve as the back of Blair's hand wiped the sleep from his eyes. Jim
couldn't help thinking how innocent and young his friend looked at
that moment. "Thanks for letting me sleep upstairs last night. I was
really spooked. I probably would have kept you up all night with my
bad dreams if I'd been in my own room."

"Think nothing of it," Jim said, brushing off the gesture. "I was
worried about you after you passed out on me. I really think we ought
to let the doctor know what's going on."

"Aw, Jim...," Blair sighed. "If we do that, he'll want me on
medication. You *know* how I hate the way that stuff makes me feel --
all detached from myself. Brrr..."

"I know," Jim admitted reluctantly, "but it scares the shit out of me
when you do that."

"I'm okay now," Blair assured him. Changing the subject to a safer
topic, he continued. "You said you had a good alibi for me."

"Yes, and I'm going to make sure the reporters know about it, so they
can correct last night's story." He dished up their breakfast, and sat
across from Blair, muttering, "Irresponsible bastards. They have no
right..."

Blair reached across the table and covered one of Jim's hands with his
own. "Of course they do. It's called 'Freedom of Speech'. We don't
have to like it, and they *are* responsible for the facts, but they
were just doing what they thought was right."

"You're too damn understanding for someone they're trying to execute
in the court of public opinion. Once is enough. You shouldn't have to
go through this again."

Blair flinched at the mention of execution. The memories were far too
fresh. "You won't let them," he said with surety. "You're my Blessed
Protector."

"Your what?" Jim said, looking up from his breakfast.

"The Chinese believe when you save a man's life you become his Blessed
Protector and it's your duty to do that for the rest of your life,"
Blair explained. "You've saved my life a dozen times over."

"And I'm going to save it again today," Jim said, grimacing over
delivering the news. "I want you to stay home."

"Why?"

"I got a solid lead on a possible suspect," Jim explained, "but it
means going back to the prison to interview the Warden and some of the
guards. I don't want you anywhere near that place."

"Y-you gonna need to use your senses?" Blair stuttered, determined to
help, if needed.

"Not this time, Sport," Jim replied, pushing back from the table to
stand. As he carried his dishes to the sink to rinse, he looked over
his shoulder and spoke. "It's just routine interviews. You don't have
to worry about me."

"Who's your lead?" Blair asked, unsure if he wanted to know.

Jim sensed the hesitancy, his smile grim. "I'll tell you when I'm a
little more positive," he answered. "I don't need you more upset."

"It's Peters, isn't it?" The question was delivered in a flat,
emotionless tone.

Jim shook his head. "Nothing's certain yet. You stay home. Go back to
bed." He turned to go into the bathroom. 

Moments later, Blair could hear the hiss of the shower being turned
on. He got up to rinse his own dishes and load the dishwasher. He felt
unaccountably drained, despite getting a good night's sleep. He
shuffled into the room beneath the stairs, pulling the door shut
behind him and throwing his body down across the futon, memories of
Samuel Peters swirling through his mind.

*****

Blair huddled under his bunk, hiding the remnants of his most recent
panic attack from the prison cameras. A nightstick rattled across the
bars of his cell and a hushed voice spoke to him.

"I don't know how you did it, punk, but you're not going to get away
with killing Stratton. He was my friend. Getting Boo to do your dirty
work doesn't fool me for a minute." The voice stopped for several
beats of his heart before resuming on a level nearer the floor, its
owner speaking directly to the frightened young man. "You've got a
sweet mouth, boy. I wouldn't mind a little more. Give it up willingly
and I might be able to 'forget' your duplicity in Stratton's death."

Blair backed out from under his bunk and moved to the far end of his
cell, pressing himself against the cold wall. He shook his head. "No."
The word was barely audible.

"Oh, I think you'll think differently when I talk to the Warden." He
opened his fly and pulled out his penis, stroking the organ to
fullness. "All you have to do is suck my dick and I'll keep quiet."
Blair continued to shake his head, mouthing the word 'no'. "You'll
spend your last days in solitary confinement," Peters threatened. "I
can see to it that you don't even make it to your formal execution.
Accidents happen... don't they Sandburg?" Blair shook, feeling another
panic attack building. "Come here!" the voice commanded.

Reluctantly, Blair moved toward the front of his cell. Fear warred
within him as he tried to consider which was the lesser of the evils.
But in the end it came down to life. He didn't want to die; and the
longer he could stave off the inevitable, the better. He knelt behind
the bars, while Peters thrust his erect cock through the opening.
Blair leaned forward to take it into his mouth. 

Peters' hands wound through the bars, fingers tangling in Blair's
hair, pushing him harder against the unyielding steel, forcing his
dick further down Blair's throat. The young man gagged, nearly
vomiting up the remnants of the meager meal he had consumed a few
hours before.

"Now, now, Sweetheart," Peters crooned. "None of that. You're going to
suck me off and you're going to do a good job." He thrust into the
warm mouth, unable to penetrate as deeply as he wished because of the
barrier between them.

Blair licked and sucked, as ordered, swallowing the bile that
repeatedly rose in his throat. Peters kept pushing into him, groaning
his pleasure until, finally, he came. With the cock rammed down his
throat, Blair had no choice but to swallow the vile semen. When Peters
finally let go of his head, he collapsed back onto the floor.

"Very nice, boy. That wasn't so bad now, was it?" Blair stared up at
the man with hatred and fear mingled in his eyes. He wiped his mouth
with the back of his hand. Peters chuckled. "Yeah, that was so nice, I
think I'd like it every night." He hunkered down to be on Blair's
level again. "The first time you refuse, it's solitary confinement.
The second time you refuse... Well, let me just say, you don't want to
refuse a second time."

Peters tucked himself in and zipped up his pants, then waved at his
cohort in the control room, who resumed the camera scans down to Cell
10. He reached through the bars and patted Blair's cheek. "Until
tomorrow, eh, boy?"

He sat on the floor of his cell, feeling his stomach roil and toss.
Before Peters reached the end of the cellblock, Blair had emptied his
stomach on the floor where he sat.

*****

He awoke in a cold sweat, tangled in his blankets. His heart hammered
in his chest as he dressed hurriedly, then burst from his room, unable
to stay confined in the small area, and certainly unable to sleep. Jim
had gone on to work as he had been dozing. He had to get out. Out in
the fresh air. He needed to find his Blessed Protector.

Blair rounded the corner and plowed headlong into another pedestrian.
He backed up a step, preparing to apologize, but strong hands grabbed
his biceps, holding him in an iron grip. His blood turned to ice water
in his veins as a familiar voice greeted him. "Well, well, well... my
sweet little cocksucker," Peters grinned at the stricken young man,
"we meet again...."

0-0-0-0-0

Jim looked up at the tall chain-link fence topped with razor wire. He
had sworn, once Blair had been pardoned and released, that he wouldn't
set foot inside the prison walls again. Yet, here he stood for the
second time in as many weeks. Taking a deep breath, he squared his
shoulders and walked through the doors. After passing through the
security checkpoints, he found himself greeted by Warden Burgess.

"Good to see you again, Jim! How are you doing? How's Blair?" the
Warden greeted him.

"That's why I'm here, sir," Jim answered. "Have you seen the news
recently?"

Burgess shook his head. "With the crazy hours I keep here, there isn't
time for trivial things like TV. I *have* gotten wind of the Copycat
Killings, though. Got any leads?"

"The press wants to pin it on Sandburg," Jim said with disdain. "I
can't tell you the number of cops who think he's guilty, too."

"That's rough," Burgess sighed. "He's a good kid. I never did believe
he was guilty of the original murders. Figured he was covering for
someone."

"He was... for David Temco." Jim shook his head. "He's taking this
really hard. The reporter who was his biggest adversary was just
killed. Makes it look really bad for Blair. Fortunately, he has an
air-tight alibi."

"Good." Burgess nodded. "So... what can I do for you? I'm sure you
didn't stop by just to catch me up on the news."

"No, sir," Jim agreed. "Actually, I have a possible lead I'm checking
out. What can you tell me about Samuel Peters?"

"Peters?" The Warden grimaced. "I always suspected he was dealing
dirty. Never had any evidence, though."

"What do you mean, exactly?"

"Come into my office," Burgess said, guiding Jim through the door and
indicating a seat. He settled behind his desk, folding his hands in
front of himself. "There were rumors circulating that he was involved
in some 'extracurricular' activities with the prisoners."

"What sort of activities?"

Burgess frowned. "Sexual. Several prisoners complained of Peters
extorting sexual favors from them, down to outright rape. There was
never any evidence or witnesses to corroborate the claims."

"What about Sandburg? Did he ever say anything?"

"The kid was raped in the showers right after his initial confinement.
He claimed two guards worked him over after the prisoners were through
with him."

"And he named Peters and Stratton, right?" Jim probed.

"Yeah, he did," the Warden agreed. "But there was no DNA evidence to
prove it and the prisoners who had raped him had been sent away before
the alleged attack."

"*Alleged*?" Jim rose out of his seat and leaned across the desk.
"That kid couldn't lie about something like that if his life depended
on it!"

"I know. I know," Burgess soothed, waving Jim back. "It's just that
there wasn't any proof."

"Any other incidents reported by Sandburg?"

"No." Burgess shook his head sadly, his eyes cast down at his folded
hands. "I suppose he figured there wasn't much use."

Jim jumped at the implied confession. "There *were* other times?"

"There was the incident with Stratton and Boo," the Warden said. "But
otherwise... nothing but rumors."

"What kind of rumors?" Jim was leaning across the desk again, but this
time he stayed in his seat.

"Some of the death row inmates talked... Guards overheard. Nothing you
could call substantial evidence...."

"What kind of rumors?" Jim repeated, getting steadily more upset with
the circumspect conversation.

"The talk was that Peters would see Sandburg had an 'untimely' fatal
accident, if he didn't give the man regular blowjobs." Burgess studied
his fingernails. "He must have had an accomplice on the cameras,
because there's absolutely no proof that anything happened."

"And Blair never said anything?"

"Not a word."

Jim sat back in his chair, placing his hands in his lap in a
non-threatening pose. "Did Peters smoke?" he asked, turning the
conversation a neat one-eighty.

Startled by the sudden change of topic, Burgess, too, sat back and
relaxed. "Yeah, he had a habit. Rolled his own. Some custom blend.
Stank like Hell's kitchen."

Jim nodded knowingly, a small grin tugging at the corners of his lips.
"Can you tell me anything about his state of mind after the death of
Stratton? They were friends, right?"

"Partners," the Warden confirmed. "He was pretty upset. I remember he
kept raving on and blaming Sandburg, even though it was Boo who killed
Stratton, and Stratton who put Blair into that situation in the first
place. It got so bad, he was given the choice of going into
counseling, or losing his job here."

"Did he go into counseling?"

"Yeah, for a couple months. Then he just dropped out. I was forced to
put him on a psychiatric leave of absence."

"When was that?"

Burgess thought about the question carefully, tapping at his chin as
he reflected. "I think it was right around the time of Sandburg's
pardon; shortly after. It was like Peters snapped. He couldn't stand
to be here any longer."

Jim rose and held out his hand. "Thank you very much for the
information. May I call you if I have any more questions?"

"Absolutely." The Warden rose and shook the proffered hand. "I'd hate
to think it was one of our men on a killing spree, but whoever is
doing this, I hope you catch him. Sandburg's too sweet a kid to be
going through this hell."

"I agree," Jim said with feeling. "Don't worry. We'll find who's doing
this."

0-0-0-0-0

Blair sat, bound and gagged, on the filthy sofa in Peters' ramshackle
apartment. His heart thudded in his chest, making him feel giddy. He
was afraid he might pass out, but he didn't want to lose
consciousness. He needed to be in control as much as possible, if he
intended to survive.

Peters was nowhere to be seen, but Blair was certain he was still in
the apartment somewhere. He ducked his head against his shoulder,
trying to rub the gag away from his mouth. Unsuccessful, he tried
using the back of the couch. Slowly, the bandana used to keep him
quiet began to slip up the back of his head, until he was able to
shake it free and spit it out. "*Help!*" he yelled at the top of his
voice, continuing to scream until Peters stood in front of him.

Peters grabbed Blair's jaw, sinking his fingers into the tender flesh
of his cheeks. "I wouldn't be so ready to scream, if I were you," he
growled. "There's more than one way to shut you up." His free hand
went to the zipper on his jeans. "It's been a long time since I fucked
that pretty mouth of yours."

Blair swallowed hard; the sound issuing from his throat was a
strangled gulp. "Please. No..." he whispered.

Peters shoved him back against the cushions. "It doesn't matter much,
anyway," he said, prowling around the couch. "You don't have much
longer to live. You should've died by lethal injection, but that cop
got you off. Now, you get to be Victim Number 4, strangled and flayed.
How does that sound?"

Blair just looked up at him, his eyes round with fear. He had no doubt
this madman would do as he said. The better he behaved, perhaps the
longer he would live. The longer Jim had to find him. He had to
survive at all cost, no matter what he had to do to achieve that goal.
He had to survive... for Jim.

0-0-0-0-0

Jim stormed through the doors of Major Crime, breezing past a shocked
Braddock and Dawson, walking straight through the bullpen and into
Simon's office.

The captain looked up, startled by the abrupt intrusion. "What can I
do for you, *Detective*?" His voice reflected his irritation.

"I need a warrant to seize the psychiatric records of Samuel Peters,"
Jim told him, coming to stand in front of the captain's desk. He
rested both hands on the smooth surface and leaned in toward his boss.
"This is important, Simon," he pleaded. "I need to get my hands on
those files ASAP. Every nerve is telling me this guy is bad news."

"You think he might be our Copycat Killer?" Simon asked, all sense of
anger gone in the wake of his detective's earnest request.

"I can feel it," Jim stated firmly. "The longer we wait, the closer he
comes to taking a fourth victim."

Simon picked up the phone and dialed. Jim waited impatiently, shifting
from foot to foot as the captain talked, pulling strings, calling in
favors. Finally, he hung up and looked up at Jim. "You've got your
warrant. A court officer will meet you at the doctor's office with the
document."

"Thank you, sir." Jim was out the door as abruptly as he'd entered.

Fifteen minutes later, he stood in the offices of a Dr. Harvey Benson,
Psychiatrist, papers in hand. "Dr. Benson can see you now." The
receptionist beamed a practiced smile on the detective.

As Jim approached the door, it opened. An older man, mid-sixties with
white hair and wire-rimmed glasses, greeted him. "Welcome. I'm Dr.
Benson. What may I do for you?"

"My name is Jim Ellison. I'm with the Cascade PD," he said, holding
out his badge for inspection.

"Come in, Detective." Benson waved toward a comfortable upholstered
chair. "Why are you here today?"

Jim declined the seat, standing in front of the doctor's desk. He
passed over the papers. "I've got a warrant to seize your files on
Samuel Peters."

"I'm quite sorry," the doctor apologized, "but patient files are
strictly confidential. I can't turn them over to you." 

"This says you *can*," Jim insisted, pointing at the document in
Benson's hand. "Mr. Peters is a suspect in a current murder
investigation."

"I see," the doctor murmured, skimming over the warrant. "Well, I
guess I have no choice in the matter." He turned to the filing
cabinets behind him and sorted through the folders until he came to
one marked "Peters, Samuel J." He handed it to the waiting detective.
"I hope this helps," he said with sincerity. "Mr. Peters is a troubled
young man."

"Thank you very much. I'm sure it will be a great help." Jim took the
folder and shook the doctor's hand. His whole body thrummed with
excitement as he drove back to the station. He was certain he now held
a precious link in the chain of evidence that would put Peters on
death row.

0-0-0-0-0

"I tell you, Simon, Peters is our man." Jim paced the captain's
office.

Banks looked over the psychiatric file of the suspect, nodding.
"Between this file, your talk with the Warden, and the tobacco
evidence, I'd say you have a pretty good case."

"I *know* I do, sir." Jim stopped in front of Simon's desk, leaning on
his hands to put himself within his boss' personal space. "I need a
warrant to search his place."

"You'll have it by morning," Banks assured him. "Why don't you go
home, Jim? It's been a long day. You're going to want to be fresh."

Jim straightened and looked at the captain, then relaxed. "Yeah,
you're right. Blair probably has dinner waiting for me."

Simon smiled, waving his detective out of his office.

Jim hurried down to the parking garage and slipped behind the wheel.

Minutes later, he had pulled up in the parking lot outside 852
Prospect. Dialing up his hearing, he focused on the third floor
apartment. Although the balcony doors stood open, he could hear no
reassuring heartbeat. Quickening his steps, he headed across the lot
to the building.

On the corner, a familiar scent captured his attention. He stopped in
order to locate the source of the smell; it was at his feet. Stooping,
he picked up a charred cigarette butt with his handkerchief to avoid
contaminating it. Hand rolled. Bringing the fragment of tobacco to his
nose, he sniffed it appraisingly. Alarm bells went off in his mind, as
he wrapped it in the handkerchief and stuffed the evidence in a jacket
pocket.

He bounded up the stairs two at time, unwilling to wait for the old
elevator. The door to 307 was locked. That, in its own way, was a
relief. Still, there was no sound from inside the apartment.

Once in, Jim scanned the entire loft with his senses. Blair had been
here today, but wasn't here now. There was no sign of struggle.
Perhaps he'd just gone for a walk.

But Blair wouldn't do that. Not now. Not with his face on every
tabloid in the city. He fingered the cigarette in his pocket. No.
Something more was going on here and he didn't like the implications.
Turning around, he left the apartment, heading back down the stairs
and out to the parking lot.

0-0-0-0-0

Samuel Peters gazed down at his captive, admiring the smooth, pale
skin. Blair lay on the bed, bound and gagged, stripped down to only
his boxer shorts. Round blue eyes followed every move of the madman
who had put him here. His heart thudded rapidly in his chest.

Peters stroked a hand down one sleek side, smiling wickedly. "It's
going to be a great pleasure, flaying you inch by inch," he said. "Too
bad you'll already be dead." Blair struggled in his bonds, attempting
to scream obscenities through the muffling gag. His captor chuckled.
"Now, now... None of that. There's nothing you can do, you know," he
continued conversationally. "You really should have died in that
execution chamber; died for killing a good man." His hand continued to
stroke over Blair's body in a possessive manner. "Stratton didn't
deserve to die. All he wanted was a little entertainment." Blair's
muffled cries continued to fill the room. "But you wouldn't give it to
him. All you had to do was give up a little ass. But, no.... You had
to kill my... *friend*." To emphasize his words, Peters grasped
Blair's genitals through the soft cotton cloth and twisted. 

Blair screamed at the top of his lungs, the sound muted by the gag
shoved into his mouth. His eyes watered, sending tears streaking down
his cheeks. He squirmed in his bonds, unable to free himself.

"It's time for a little pay back, Baby," Peters sneered, picking up
the yellow nylon rope that lay on the nightstand next to the bed. "I'm
going to enjoy watching you die." He wrapped the rope around Blair's
throat and began to pull. 

Blair's eyes bulged as his oxygen was slowly cut off. His struggles
against his bonds became frantic in an effort to escape, but gradually
lost strength as he felt his life ebbing away. //"Oh, God, Jim!"// he
thought. //"I'm so sorry. So sorry. So sorry...."//

0-0-0-0-0

As he roared his way through the streets of Cascade toward 2173
Cleardale Road, Jim got on the radio and called for backup. Moments
later, the radio crackled to life again.

//"Jim? What the hell do you think you're doing?"//

Swerving through the traffic, Jim caused more than one near-collision
and a myriad of honking, angry drivers. "Blair is missing and there's
evidence that Peters was at the apartment building." Jim's voice was
clipped as he ran a red light, dodging the oncoming cars.

//"Sandburg's been kidnapped?"//

"Looks that way, sir," Jim answered. Pulling up in front of the
apartment building, he didn't even bother to park properly. "Gotta go,
Captain. Light a fire under that backup, will ya?" 

//"We'll be there in five."// Banks told him.

Jim dropped the microphone, climbing out of the truck and up the
stairs to Apartment 417 as fast as his feet would carry him.

Not waiting on the niceties, he kicked in the door, leading with his
weapon as he swept his senses over the front room. Nothing. Then,
heartbeats from further back. Cautiously, he made his way down the
short hall to the bedroom.

Peters had heard the precipitous destruction of his front door and
ceased his efforts to strangle his captive. It didn't matter anyway.
The young man had stopped struggling over a minute ago. He picked up
the gun he kept stashed in the nightstand drawer and waited.

The scene before him as he entered the room, stopped Jim cold. He
could only spare a quick glance at the still form on the bed. His
attention was wholly focused on the slender barrel of polished metal
pointed at his head. For several moments, the two men were frozen in
time, guns locked on each other in a deadly standoff.

"Put the weapon down and move away from the bed," Jim demanded.

Peters shook his head. "You'll have to kill me... before I kill you,"
he threatened. "It's already too late for your friend here."

The mention of Blair drew Jim's attention for a fraction of a second.
The utter stillness of the body caused his heart to sink into his
shoes. A slight flicker of movement in front of him drew his attention
back to the man with the gun. Focusing on the barrel, he aimed and
fired, sending a bullet straight away down the metal shaft, knocking
the weapon from Peters' hand. In the flurry of activity that followed,
Jim made his way to the bed.

Backup had arrived just as Jim fired his shot. Simon took charge,
seeing that Peters was cuffed and read his rights.

Jim pulled a blanket over Blair, then began a thorough sensory mapping
of the young man. The sound of faint respiration could be heard over
the clamor of activity, but only by trained Sentinel ears. Gently, Jim
unwrapped the nylon cord from around Blair's neck, grimacing at the
angry red welts that rose in its place.

Jim's hands brushed lightly over the damp cheeks as he removed the
sodden gag. "Oh, God, Blair. I'm sorry. So sorry," he whispered in
unconscious duplication of Blair's silent prayer. He listened to the
birdlike flutter of the damaged heart and prayed the paramedics would
arrive quickly.

0-0-0-0-0

"How is he?"

Jim looked up from the magazine he was reading. "Oh, hey, Simon." He
turned to the quiet figure in the bed, reaching out to squeeze an
unresponsive hand. "The doctor says he's doing pretty well,
considering. They want to hold him for a couple days' observation. His
trachea was bruised and they're treating the rope burn on his neck.
He's going to be sore, but there's no reason he can't come home."

"What about his heart condition?" Simon pulled up a chair next to
Jim's and studied the peaceful features of the sleeping man.

"No better. No worse. The strangulation triggered the condition, but
there doesn't seem to be any additional damage. They ran an EKG and
are keeping him on the monitor as long as he's in the hospital." Jim
reached up to brush an errant lock of hair from Blair's face. The
young man's nose twitched at the touch, but he didn't wake up.
"They've got him under heavy sedation for now. He should wake up later
this evening."

Simon nodded, relieved that the young newly-instated police observer
was going to be all right. "Peters is behind bars, awaiting
arraignment. A search of his place turned up souvenirs the bastard
kept from all his victims. There's no doubt in the D.A.'s mind that we
have our Copycat Killer."

"That's good news." Jim breathed a sigh of relief. "Maybe this
nightmare can finally come to an end. Blair's suffered enough for ten
lifetimes. It's time he got a break."

"I reassigned the case," Simon added, shocking Jim. Before the
detective could react verbally, the captain hastened on. "You'll get
the credit for collaring Peters, don't worry. And Blair will get good
press as an innocent victim. I'm only turning over the post-case work.
I thought you might like a little time off to spend with your partner
here."

Jim didn't respond immediately. He turned to watch Blair sleep and
smiled. "I'd like that. Thanks, Simon." Then, turning back to his
captain, he asked, "Who's taking over the case?"

"Brown and Rafe." 

Jim nodded. "What matters is, the case is finally solved and Blair's
going to be all right."

"You take care of the kid, you hear me? I don't want to see you back
in the bullpen for at least two weeks." Simon rose, resting a hand on
Jim's shoulder. "And take care of yourself, too."

"Thanks, Simon. I will." Jim turned his attention back to Blair as the
captain let himself out of the room.

Hours later, Jim's light doze was interrupted when a seeking hand came
in contact with his hair and stroked him lightly. Lifting his head
from the mattress, his eyes connected with those of his best friend
and Guide. "Hey, Jim," came the rough, sleep-drugged voice.

"Hey, yourself," he responded with a smile. "How're you feeling?"

"Okay, I guess. Sore." Blair's hand drifted downward as he waved it
over his crotch.

Jim captured the roving hand, clasping it tightly between both of his
own. "That'll go away in time," he assured Blair, trying not to
grimace with sympathy pain. "The doctor said there was no permanent
damage; just some bruising and a little swelling. There are some rope
burns on your neck, and your trachea is bruised as well, but other
than a sore throat, you survived."

 Blair's eyes grew glassy with the memory of Peters and his
kidnapping. "You caught him?"

"He's locked up tight, Chief," Jim assured him, squeezing the hand he
held. "You've been cleared of all suspicion in the copycat murders,
and you'll never have to worry about Peters again. The D.A. wants to
throw the book at him, including the death penalty."

"Do I get any say in his sentencing?" Blair croaked. Jim spooned some
ice chips into his mouth, and Blair sucked gratefully on the small
pieces.

"I'm sure that if you have a statement you'd like to make, considering
your circumstances, the D.A. will most likely take your suggestions
seriously." Jim studied the man in the bed. Blair was frowning. "What
is it you'd like to go on record as saying?"

Blair took a deep breath, then blew it out slowly before answering.
"I'd prefer he got life in prison without parole," he whispered. "I
don't believe in the death penalty. The state already nearly killed
one innocent man."

"Peters isn't innocent," Jim reminded him. "He deserves whatever he
gets."

"And he'll get what he deserves with a life sentence," Blair stated,
his voice firming as he spoke. "As an ex-guard, he won't be popular.
His life will be a living hell in the general population. I guarantee
it."

"An eye for an eye, Chief?" Jim asked, skeptical that his gentle
friend would want revenge.

"Biblical justice; do unto others as you would have them do unto you,"
Blair paraphrased. "It sounds reasonable to me. Death is too easy for
the likes of Samuel Peters."

"I'll have someone from the D.A.'s office stop in tomorrow for your
statement... *after* you've rested," Jim told him.

Blair gestured for the cup of ice chips again. Jim fed him a spoonful
and waited until he had swallowed. He offered another spoonful, but
Blair began speaking. "How long do I have to stay here?"

"A couple days," Jim answered. "The doctor wants to make sure
everything's okay. You had another heart episode at Peters' place," he
explained. "Nothing to get upset over, but between that, your throat
and..." he gestured over the lower portion of Blair's anatomy, "...he
wanted to hold you for observation."

Blair nodded and settled back into his pillows. "Will you stay?"

"As long as you need me," Jim answered sincerely. Blair smiled and
closed his eyes. Jim clasped Blair's hand and listened as the young
man's heart rate and respiration leveled out into sleep.

0-0-0-0-0

Blair hobbled into the loft with the air of a man returning home after
a long enforced absence. Jim hurried up behind him, taking him by an
elbow and guiding him over to the couch. "You just sit and rest,
Festus. You're hobbling like an old gimp."

The young man in question looked up at his tormentor with a grimace.
"You try having your gonads twisted by some psycho and see how *you*
walk!" he shot back, his voice still raspy and hoarse.

"Point taken, Chief," Jim said, settling next to Blair on the couch.
Picking up the remote, he turned on the TV, surfing until he found a
replay of the previous night's Cascade Orcas' hockey game on one of
the cable sports channels. The two men watched in silence, enjoying
being home together. At the commercial break, he turned toward Blair.
"How about some orange juice?"

"Sure, thanks." Blair's gaze followed the Sentinel as he got up to
walk into the kitchen. "Got any of those crunchy M&Ms?"

Jim chuckled, then looked in the cupboard, considering the options.
"Let's see, I've got plain, peanut, crunchy and some pink and white
ones left over from Valentine's Day."

"You ate all the red ones?" Blair asked with bemusement.

Jim looked sheepish as he brought over a packet of the crunchy M&Ms, a
glass of juice for Blair and a beer for himself. He shrugged off the
question, asking one of his own. "You sure those things go together? I
mean, chocolate and orange juice?" He glanced over at Blair who was
about to pop some of the candies in his mouth. "Don't answer that; you
shouldn't be talking."

It wasn't long before he felt a warm weight pressing against his side.
Blair leaned against him, resting his head on Jim's shoulder. His hand
rose to finger the bandages around his throat. "It's not going to be
that easy, you know?" he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "I've still
got a lot of baggage."

Jim tightened his hold. "Just remember what I said about my
bedroom.... It's your sanctuary, any time you need it. Nothing -- no
one -- can hurt you there."

"Would you mind if I-I, um..." Blair fell silent, looking up at Jim
with wide blue eyes. "It's just that, well," he stammered, "I'm not
quite through *processing* yet, and I, um..."

"You can sleep in my bed tonight, Blair. You don't have to ask; you
don't even have to think twice. Any time -- day or night." He placed a
chaste kiss on top of the unruly mop of curls. "No more nightmares. No
more sleeping under the stairs. Hear me?"

"I hear you," Blair answered softly. "Thanks, Jim."

The older man grunted, shifting slightly so that Blair's head nestled
on his chest, beneath his chin. "And don't you forget it," he mumbled
over the blare of the announcer's voice.

As the game droned on, Jim felt the weight resting upon him intensify.
The compact body pressed against his began to shift, sliding down into
his lap. Focusing his hearing, he noted the slower heart rate and
shallow breathing. Blair had fallen asleep. He shifted, sliding out
from under the young man and lowering him carefully to the sofa
cushions. Rising, he headed upstairs to his bedroom.

As he slowly turned down the comforter and fluffed the pillows, he
considered the young man sleeping in the room below. Blair had
suffered a lot in his short life: wrongfully accused of serial
murders, imprisoned, raped, executed.... Then under suspicion again
and, finally, the kidnapping. It was way more than anyone deserved.
Despite having his innocence ripped from him, Blair had avoided
becoming cynical. Instead, he chose to live and let live; to forgive.

Jim descended the stairs, determined to put the kid to bed, then
return to sleep on the couch. Blair needed to feel safe, not
threatened. He leaned over the supine form, shaking a flannel-clad
shoulder.

"Hey, Chief... Blair, wake up," he said softly, not wanting to startle
the young man.

Sleepy eyes blinked open and focused up on him. "Jim...?"

"Yeah. It's time to go to bed. You're exhausted." He slipped a hand
beneath the nearest elbow and helped to lever Blair to a sitting
position. "Need some help?"

"Nah, I'm fine," Blair answered, pushing up to his feet. He wavered a
moment, finding his balance, then took a step toward the stairs. "Ah!
God!" He stumbled, grabbing for the back of the couch.

Jim was on him immediately. "Blair? What's the matter, kid?" He
wrapped an arm around Blair's waist and steadied him.

"Forgot," came the succinct reply. "Hurts."

Jim winced in sympathy. Despite the fact his injuries had happened two
days ago and were not considered serious, the wrenching of Blair's
balls had left bruises, which still caused the young man a world of
pain and misery. Without comment, he steadied his friend and helped
him to the stairs. Blair hesitated at the first step. "Anything I can
do to help?" Jim asked.

Blair shook his head. "Just watch my ass, so I don't fall." He
carefully raised one foot and set it to the bottom step. One after
another, he made his way slowly to the top, Jim following behind with
a steadying grip on the student's waist.

It was just a few steps to bed from the top of the stairs. Blair
stumbled over and collapsed on the mattress.

"Need some help there, buddy?" Jim knelt beside the bed, carefully
removing Blair's shoes and socks, setting them off to one side of the
room. Blair rolled over, fumbling with his belt buckle.

"Don't know what's the matter with me," he complained. "I'm all thumbs
tonight."

"You're exhausted," Jim explained. "Here," he said, batting the
useless hands away, "let me do that." Blair started to protest, then
relaxed, knowing he had nothing to fear from the older man. Jim
quickly had the belt undone, the fly unzipped, and was tugging on the
tight jeans to get them off. "How did you ever get into these things,
anyway?" Blair chuckled hoarsely. "Don't answer that," Jim admonished,
holding up a hand to stave off a reply. "Save your voice... and your
throat."

Five minutes later, he had the young man stripped to his underwear and
tucked under the heavy down comforter. "Comfortable?"

Blair nodded and sighed. As he settled down, he turned toward the
Sentinel. "You coming to bed?"

Jim shook his head. "I don't want to be the cause of any more worry
for you," he explained. "You've been through enough."

"I trust you," came the soft reply.

"It's better this way," Jim said, taking a step toward the stairs.
"Call if you need anything."

"Where will you sleep?"

"On the couch."

Blair frowned. "That's not right, man. This is *your* bed." Stiff
muscles protesting, he pushed back the covers and started to swing his
legs over the side of the mattress. "I'll sleep on the couch."

"No!" Jim hurried over, lifting Blair's legs and placing them back on
the bed, then covering him again. "This is your safe place; your
sanctuary. I promised you, and I don't go back on my promises."

"But it isn't fair," Blair complained.

"Don't you even get me started on *fair*!" Jim growled. "When I think
of your life, compared to mine, *fair* doesn't even begin to cut it."

"But..."

"No 'buts'," Jim insisted. He fussed over the blankets, pulling them
up to Blair's chin. "You settle down and get some sleep."

Blair opened his mouth as if to speak again, but Jim silenced him with
a stern glance. "That's better. Sweet dreams," he added as he headed
down the stairs to the couch.

~oO0Oo~

The sound of a cry broke the stillness of the loft. Jim opened his
eyes and looked around. Disoriented at first, he hesitated, then
remembered he was sleeping on the couch, and Blair was upstairs. It
was still dark. A glance at the clock told him it was just after three
in the morning.

Dialing up his hearing, he could easily make out the sound of muffled
sobs from the bedroom. He took the stairs two at a time.

Blair lay in a tangle of blankets, his face buried in a stack of down
pillows. Jim had to crawl across the mattress to reach him. "Blair?"
He put a hand out tentatively, afraid of startling the skittish young
man.

"*Don't touch me! Go away! Leave me alone!*" Blair sobbed, attempting
to move away from the gentle touch, but too twisted in the bedclothes
to get out of Jim's reach.

"Blair! Blair, calm down. It's me, Jim." Jim kept up a soothing litany
as he wrestled with the blankets, trying to free their captive.

"Jim!" Blair finally turned comprehending eyes on the man trying to
help him. "God, it was awful!" He threw himself against the Sentinel,
who cocooned him in a warm embrace.

"Nightmare?" Blair nodded. "Want to talk about it?" Blair shook his
head. Jim petted the long hair, settling the flighty student. "Was it
about Peters?" 

The head against his chest nodded again. "H-he was g-going to kill
me." Blair's voice came in rough gasps. "T-then f-flay me..." 

Jim pictured the nearly-naked body of the young man, bound helpless
and vulnerable on the bed, Peters kneeling over him with the yellow
nylon rope. "You're safe, now, Blair. Peters can never hurt you again.
He's locked up, and the Governor is throwing away the key."

Blair's sobs became louder. Jim could feel the wetness spread across
his shirt, as he smelled the salt tang of the tears. Broad shoulders
shook beneath his hands. He began rubbing soothing circles between the
tense shoulder blades, whispering quietly into an ear. "Shh, shhh,
Blair. It's all right. Everything is going to be okay. You're safe
now. I'll always protect you. You're my Guide. I'm your Sentinel; your
Blessed Protector. Remember?"

Blair pushed away slightly, but not completely out of Jim's embrace,
and looked into the sincere blue eyes. "You mean that?" His voice
faltered; his injured throat hoarse from his tears.

"Of course, I do. You'll always have a home here. For as long as you
need or want it."

"W-would you... Would you... stay?" Blair's eyes held a mixture of
fear and hope.

"Here? Tonight?"

Blair nodded. "I-I'd feel better; sleep better."

"Then I'll stay." Jim lifted the covers and slid beneath them, only
relinquishing his hold with one arm. Once the men were settled beneath
the comforter, Jim pulled Blair to his chest. "Sleep, Chief," he
whispered. "No more fears. No more nightmares. I'm watching over you."
Blair snuggled against the broad, firm chest and closed his eyes.

~oO0Oo~

The next morning, Blair awoke to find himself alone in the large bed.
Smells of breakfast cooking wafted up from the kitchen. Moving slowly,
in deference to his injuries, he pushed the comforter aside and
scooted to the edge of the bed.

"Stay put!" The command came from the kitchen. Blair looked through
the open railing to find the Sentinel looking back up at him. "I'm
bringing breakfast to you this morning." The anthropologist settled
back beneath the covers and waited.

Jim came up the stairs with a bed tray laden with a bowl of warm maple
oatmeal, a side of scrambled eggs and a glass of milk. "Where's my
toast?" Blair asked, looking at the offering.

"With that throat?" Jim shook his head in surprise. "Nothing but soft
foods for a while."

"Coffee?" came the plaintive request.

"And nothing *hot*," Jim admonished.

Blair scooted into a sitting position and Jim placed the tray across
his lap. "Aren't you eating?" he asked.

"I had my breakfast an hour ago," Jim said, smiling. "I couldn't wait
for you to wake up."

There was an awkward silence while Blair took his first few bites of
food. Swallowing was difficult, even with Jim's choice of menu.
Eventually, he looked up, capturing the intense blue eyes with his
own. "Thank you."

Jim smiled and shook his head. "Not a problem, Chief. You have to eat
to keep up your strength."

"Not the food," Blair explained, his voice still tired. "For last
night. For staying with me. You didn't have to do that."

"Sure I did." Jim rested a hand on Blair's knee. "I promised you
sanctuary up here, and you still had a nightmare. I didn't deliver on
my word."

"That's not *your* fault," Blair protested. "I'm the one that's
screwed up here. I know I'm safe with you. There was no reason for me
to have a nightmare."

"I guess this means my room isn't your safe haven anymore." Jim looked
disappointed. He did *not* want to wake in the middle of the night to
find his friend huddled beneath the stairs.

Blair swallowed, then took a sip of milk to moisten his sore throat.
"It never *was* the room," he explained. "I know this sounds
incredibly sentimental, but my security doesn't reside in a place, it
resides in a person... you." He reached out to place his palm flat
against Jim's chest, over his heart. "You're my Sentinel; the one I
was meant to find. I felt it the first night we met, at the prison. It
was like a spark of something that passed between us. You felt it,
right?" His hand dropped back onto his lap.

Jim nodded. "Yeah, I did. You know, I never wanted to get involved. I
was determined not to like you."

Blair nodded, as if he had expected that all along. "What made you
change your mind?"

"I couldn't stop thinking about you. It's like there was some -- I
don't know -- psychic connection between us." Jim looked embarrassed
by the confession.

"That's okay, Jim," Blair assured him, reaching out to clasp a hand.
"Go on."

"I *knew* you were innocent; that you were covering for someone.
Whether I liked you or not was irrelevant. I wasn't going to let an
innocent man die."

"But...?"

"But, I couldn't *not* like you," Jim admitted. "It was like there was
some invisible connection between us, even though I didn't understand
it at the time."

"The Sentinel/Guide bond," Blair muttered, nodding.

"Whatever," Jim agreed with a wave of his hand. "Given how things
worked out, I wouldn't have it any other way."

Blair looked up as the morning sun shone through the skylight,
lighting his face in a golden glow. Slowly, a smile creased the
corners of this mouth. "Given how things worked out, I'm glad." His
hand brushed against the bandages on his throat. "A real sentinel...,"
he murmured. The grin turned impish. "You know, you could be the
subject of my doctoral thesis when I start back to work on my degree."
Even hoarse, his voice conveyed his excitement. "I could set up
tests.... We could see just how far we can stretch your senses...."
His eyes sparkled at the thought.

"Hold up there a minute, Chief," Jim interrupted, raising a hand in a
"stop" gesture. "I don't know..."

"You could use your senses on the job. Just like you've been doing,
but more so," Blair barreled on. "You'd need a guide in the field,
though. I could..."

Jim smiled and listened as the excited man rambled on. One thing was
certain: after a token resistance, his Guide would get his way. There
was no use in fighting against a force of nature as strong as the man
who sat next to him.... The Sentinel didn't even want to try.

*The End*

------

*Spoilers for "The Long Goodbye":*

Blair Sandburg is in prison on death row for a series of grisly
killings known as the Manifesto Murders. The evidence against him
consists of a document in his own handwriting describing the murders
in vivid detail. After nearly four years in prison, he now faces
execution in just thirty-four days due to his refusal to appeal the
conviction.

Blair's congenial personality has won him the favor of the warden and
most of the guards on death row duty. They regularly talk with him,
play chess, bring treats and other small offerings. Each cell is
monitored with cameras. 

In comes James Ellison, the new night prison guard. A hard-nosed
ex-detective, Ellison left Major Crime before he could be fired. His
senses had begun to spike wildly. The doctors he visited said there
was nothing physically wrong with him, and he knew he wasn't crazy.
The relative quiet of the night watch on death row was just what he
needed at this time in his life.

Determined to follow orders, but not be sucked in by the friendly
inmate in Cell 10, Jim finds himself under Sandburg's spell before the
first night is over. Their friendship begins to grow, and Blair slowly
begins to realize that the newest guard may well be a sentinel. As his
date of execution grows nearer, Blair puts Jim on his visitation list,
and begins to tell Ellison his sentinel theories.

One night, a month out from the execution, Jim finds Blair huddled
under his bunk after being put on suicide watch. He coaxes Blair to
explain himself, and finds out that the young man suffers from panic
attacks. He didn't want anyone to know, because he didn't want to
spend what was left of his life medicated and in a stupor. So he hides
under the bunk, where the cameras can't see.

Jim finds himself drawn to the young man, and is flustered by Blair's
refusal to appeal. Desperate, he delves back into the old case file
and trial transcripts, searching for what had to have been overlooked
at the trial. Unable to find what he needs quickly enough, he suggests
staging a prison break to free Blair. This announcement upsets the
young man, who has a panic attack on the way back to his cell.
Medicated and in the infirmary, Blair babbles enough information for
Jim to fill in the blanks from his research. 

Breaking into the Governor's mansion at night, using his sentinel
skills, Jim convinces the Governor, through documentation and
demonstration, that Blair's theories were correct, and that the real
killer, David Temco, another sentinel, committed suicide. The Governor
pardons Blair, and he is released.

------

*Spoilers for "Do Not Go Gentle":*

This story is not set after any specific scene in Kikki's story, but
assumes that Jim's efforts to date have failed. It's the day before
the execution, and Blair has a last request of Jim. They have grown
close over the course of the month. Blair has taught Jim as much as he
can about how to control his senses. He now wants only one thing: that
Jim be present at the execution.

Jim is shocked and dismayed. He does not want to see his good friend
put to death, but understands Blair's reasoning. They have developed a
sentinel/guide bond, and that bond will keep the younger man from
having a panic attack during the set-up for the execution. 

Jim agrees to be there. But first, he makes a mad dash to the state's
capital to see the Governor, who is perversely back in Cascade at a
conference. Jim brings him the case files and the evidence, and later
shows up in the Governor's motel room to demonstrate his sentinel
abilities. Then it's simply a matter of waiting for the Governor to
make his decision.

Blair spends his last night in the company of the warden and a
chaplain, and is taken to the execution room at the appointed time. As
the first of the deadly drugs begins to flow into his veins, the
Governor's call comes through, granting a full pardon.

Blair is rushed to the hospital, where he manages to survive after
some close calls. Jim brings him home to the loft, and they start
their lives as Sentinel and Guide.