Jim didn't remember why he was running in tattered clothes at the best speed he could muster over a rough, hilly terrain. That was lost behind the pain ripping at him with every step, as if his very skin had become his enemy, trying to writhe away from muscle and bone to be free of him. How he had come to be in this place, on a gray, cold winter's day was lost, too, along with where the pain itself had come from.
All that he knew was that he *had* to move faster, deeper into the wooded wilderness surrounding him, taking as much care as he could not to stumble or fall. Summoning all the innate perseverance that had been nurtured by the Rangers and his own needs, he concentrated on where to place each foot, not allowing so much as a hint of thought as to the next step. Caught in an eternal now where the past was gone and the future too dangerous to contemplate, Jim discovered a strange sort of peace that lifted him above his physical agony, allowing his run to last much longer than it should have.
Eventually, though, his body demanded it be allowed to rest, long enough to catch his breath, for God's sake, and he staggered to a stop in a deep gully that was so narrow his shoulders brushed against the steep, stony ridge on either side. Ahead of him, it grew impassable; behind him any attackers would have to move single file to reach him. Panting harshly and absently rubbing at the hurt splintering at random through his muscles, he nodded to himself. This place was a defensible as any, and sunset was long past.
Twilight carried the guarantee of an extremely frigid night, and Jim studied the environs looking for a scrap of shelter or promise of warmth. There was nothing but rock, a thin stream of ice-fringed water, and dead scrub. Laboriously he turned to look back the way he came, vaguely aware that he had passed pockets of vegetation that he could possibly take advantage of - windbreak, fuel for a tiny fire if he could hide it well enough.
As he moved, though, he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye, and spun back, going into a crouch, fists up-raised for self-defense. Nothing had changed; he was still by himself in an unforgiving landscape. At the same time, it didn't feel the same. Before his rational mind could question the notion, he straightened to take a single step forward, peering into the deep shadows ahead of him.
One resolved itself into an indistinct human shape sketched in black and white, made of the curve of tree limbs, the line of bare stone, the toss of moss and lichen in tiny pockets of soil created by erosion and weather. Jim blinked, seeing both the reality and the illusion of a sturdy young man with short, curly hair standing a few yards away from him, smiling in welcome, thumbs tucked loosely into the pocket of his jeans. He closed his eyes to dispel the image, but when he opened them again, his phantom had gained color and clarity, though still defined by what was around him.
To Jim's surprise, the auburn locks and blue eyes were familiar to him, though he couldn't say why. The jeans, doc martens and blue flannel over a bluer Henley weren't particularly unexpected, either. He tried to convince himself that it was because that was what someone that age would be wearing out in the woods, but on a level he didn't want to acknowledge, he admitted that he dimly recognized the man in front of him.
As if he'd been waiting for that tinge of recall, the young man backed away a few feet. Without thinking Jim followed, pulling up short when he realized what he had done. Pausing, the other man waited until Jim inched forward and then he drew back again, patiently coaxing Jim farther into the ravine.
The why of that became clear once Jim squeezed past the stack of boulders overgrown with tree roots he had thought was the end of the gorge. Time and the elements had scooped out a living room sized hollow, almost a tunnel, between the two mountains hemming Jim in so closely. The stream was all the way to the left, and dried leaves had drifted in, filling one corner of the cubby. Soft sand covered the floor of the rest of the small space, looking as if it had never been disturbed by human footprints. He had to duck his head to walk into the unexpected refuge, but he wasn't about to complain about that inconvenience.
There was no sign of his companion, to Jim's disappointment, but he didn't let that stop him from lurching toward the pile of leaves. He burrowed into the heart of the heap, shuddering with the cold as the sweat covering him dried. It wasn't the most comfortable bed he'd ever had in his life, but once he accepted the scratchiness of the leaves and damp odor of decay, it wasn't the worse, either. Beyond exhausted, all he wanted was to nap a bit, just twenty minutes or so, then he would see to the other necessities of survival - drinkable water and food.
The cramps and violent tremors twisting through every inch of him wouldn't allow Jim the respite he needed so badly. Every time he was able to relax enough to nod off, a new set of vicious complaints from his body would haul him back to miserable awareness. Weirdly, the pain made him feel hot, feverish, as though his aches were a precursor to the flu or some other illness. He fidgeted constantly, trying to find a comfortable position, or at the very least, one that didn't make him hurt worse. Only instinct kept him in his makeshift bedding; only pure, unadulterated stubbornness kept his pained cries silent.
Out of sheer desperation for a distraction of any kind, he focused on his companion from earlier, trying to decide where he had seen him before, or if he had really seen him at all. Slowly he built the likeness of him in his mind, trying to find a suggestion of the young man's features in his surroundings. After a while he found the possibility of face and shoulders in a tangle of rootlets and willfully created the impression that the man sat cross-legged next to him. It was a trick of perspective, he knew, but still a delight to see that lively blue gaze directed at him.
The other man seemed happy to see him - no, more than happy. He absolutely radiated approval and praise at Jim, as if he understood how difficult it had been for Jim to find him again, and was glad that he had succeeded. It was unheard of to have that kind of admiration aimed his way, and Jim shied away from it, all the while wishing he could bask in it, instead. Or that he had done something worth having this rough and tumble angel beam at him so joyfully.
It occurred to Jim in a bemused, whimsical way that maybe his companion *was* an angel, sent to guide him through death. He certainly was beautiful enough, shining with a purity of spirit that was clearly more than human. On the other hand, that full, ripe mouth was made for sin, and the seductive promise of sensuality in the well-made body and graceful hands spoke of another kind of guiding all-together.
More fantasies, he chuckled to himself, as unlikely as finding another soul here that wasn't in deep trouble, like him. Soul? Could he be a ghost? Jim wondered, suddenly, as lost as me in this bleak, empty place?
The idea hurt, almost unbearably so, and far more than the grinding spasms tormenting him. He reached for his guide, expecting his hand to go through him, but unable to prevent himself from seeking the truth. A lightly whiskered jaw filled Jim's palm, and his thumb skated over full lips as his fingertips delved into springy locks. The other man nuzzled into the contact, eyelids dropping in pleasure.
Once he started, Jim couldn't stop touching, and, hoping that his guide's initial acceptance implied permission, he continued exploring the strong features. The myriad of textures and sensations was fascinating as he traced cheekbone, brow, the slope of a nose, as was the young man's reaction to Jim's mapping. He turned into the handling as if hungry for it, encouraging Jim to venture beyond his face to discover the wonders of his throat and shoulders hidden underneath flannel.
Without consciously meaning to, Jim painfully crept out of his nest to get closer to him, hesitantly coming to rest with his forehead in the hollow of his guide's shoulder, curled so that he half-laying across his lap and half sitting on his own hip. It was awkward, but a shy hand burrowed into the hair at the back of Jim's head, holding him close and petting at the same time. Sighing inaudibly, Jim relaxed against him, ever so slightly, and was rewarded with the other arm coming around him in a loose hug.
Distantly he worried that he accepted this person's presence so easily, that he let a man practically cuddle him when he had denied desires of that nature for such a terribly long time. For the most part, though, he soaked up the succor so generously offered and went on acquainting himself with as much of his guide as he could politely peruse. The longer Jim held him, the more real he became, as if Jim were crafting him into existence with every stroke and pat.
He could hear his companion's breath, feel it tickle against his ear and neck; hear his heartbeat, feel it pulse against his own chest. His scent filled Jim's nostrils, rich with male musk and a subtle undertone of spicy aftershave that suited him completely. Timidly, but unable to resist, he stole a tiny taste of his guide's lips, barely lifting his head enough to accomplish his goal and relishing the fresh snap of apple mingled in the flavor of him.
After a few minutes, his guide timidly returned Jim's caresses, his confidence growing as Jim murmured his appreciation of the gentle fondling and nuzzling. They melted together, and Jim honestly wouldn't have cared if whatever he had run from found him, ending his life while he rejoiced in a closeness he'd only imagined might exist. His only concern was if the hunter could be a danger to this remarkable person as well.
That stirred his conscience, and Jim drew back with the intention of warning his guide. As he did, questing fingers roamed up his side, almost into his armpit, and he instinctively flinched away. As good as his reflexes were, he wasn't fast enough to stop his companion from finding the dime-sized blisters peppered in pairs in his underarm.
"My, god," his guide whispered in agonized shock. "What did that to you? *Who* did that to you?"
Startled by his voice, Jim automatically said, "Cattle prod."
The words triggered a surge of memory that he couldn't stop, bringing with it the pain as if the ordeal were happening still. Back bowing, he hammered his fists into the unforgiving ground, jaw locked against his screams. Tremors chased through his muscles, combining to turn into a full-blown convulsion that nearly broke him into pieces before mercifully dumping him into unconsciousness.
When Jim came back to his senses, he was alone, lying in the dark on top of what was left of the leaves. While he was worn out, the worst of the spasms were gone, leaving him incredibly sore and stiff. A hot soak would help, if he lived to get to one, but at the moment it didn't sound very appealing. He was already so hot, and his skin felt stretched tight and thin.
Maybe, he thought wryly, if he tried hard enough he could hallucinate up a nice, cool Jacuzzi to both bring down his inexplicable fever and ease the after effects of the shocks he'd received. After all, if he could conjure up someone as real as his guide - Blair, the name flitted through his mind, as familiar as the sight of him had been - had seemed to him, creating a bath should be no problem at all. With an effort he dismissed his longing to bring back his companion and drifted in lassitude, trying to formulate a strategy for what he should do next. He couldn't seem to hold onto his chain of thought, though, and all that stopped him from finally going to sleep was how thirsty he was.
Languidly Jim turned his head enough to look at the tiny brook making its way down the mountain, debating whether to risk drinking from it. He was far enough from civilization that it shouldn't be contaminated. On the other hand, it was more than possible that it contained microbes that would play hell on his digestive system.
As if in answer to his dilemma, a soft sound he hadn't really paid any attention to grew louder, announcing that rain was falling on the other side of his rough sanctuary. Jim listened more closely, because it didn't sound quite right for some reason. Curiosity engaged when he couldn't figure out why, he clambered to his feet and went to stand on a flat rock shelf just beyond his cave. The rain was deliciously cold, flowing over him like a second skin, and he tilted his head back to catch some in his mouth.
The drops stung his tongue, jolting him into looking at them more closely as they fell. "Freezing rain," Jim muttered, amazed that he could see each individual drop crystallize when it hit a solid object. Absently he reached out to pluck a handful of miniature icicles from a branch to suck on for moisture, captivated with watching the world acquire a coating of ice. He didn’t notice when he started shivering, or that the bristles of his crew cut stiffened from rain his body heat could no longer melt.
He might have stood there until hypothermia killed him if Blair hadn't whispered in his ear, "Jim." Turning creakily, he looked back the way he had come and spotted a flicker of movement deep in the gloom of the sheltering rock. For a second he hesitated, not certain he could bear to summon Blair back into being again only to have him fade.
Blair repeated, "Jim," and the wistful yearning in his voice hooked Jim and pulled him in before he could remind himself of the foolishness of surrendering. As he drew closer, Blair solidified from darkness, holding his hands out. Jim gathered them into his own, not surprised when Blair tugged them to his chest.
"You're half-frozen," Blair scolded. "Come on, dig back into your burrow, man. I'll get you warmed up."
Doing as he was told, Jim frowned a little. Hadn't the leaves all been scattered earlier? Was Blair solid enough, substantial enough to have been able to collect them together? As Blair snuggled up against him, arms and legs wrapped around him tightly, he let go of the question and luxuriated in the heat they generated. Before long he was as snug as he ever had been in his own bed, all his troubles relegated to 'later, much later.' Sleep, which had been so elusive before, hovered within easy reach, and he settled in to let it take him.
"Hey," Blair said quietly. "I know you're tired, but it might be better to stay awake, because I'm not sure I'll be able to hang in here if you're not focused on me. Or do you think you can stay warm enough on your own? Maybe you can get a fire going?"
Inwardly shrinking from the thought of Blair going away again, Jim forced himself to lean up on one elbow. "A fire's not a good idea; too easy to see for too far a distance. I don't know if I'm still being tracked. It's possible even with the night and freezing rain; better to be cold, just to be on the safe side."
Fingers not quite touching the blisters from the cattle prod, Blair said, "By the people who did this?"
It took everything Jim had to fight off the rush of recall Blair's innocent question raised, but he did, sure that if he failed, he would be alone when he resurfaced from the onslaught. "Yes," he gasped out finally, head hanging almost to his chest.
Lips pressed together so tightly they were only a white line, Blair nodded, pulling Jim back down on top of him, hanging onto him with all he was worth. "You blanked out on me just now. Went too bright to look at, and I could almost see the room I'm in."
"Where are you this time, Blair?" Jim asked without thinking, but thankful that he had and could and that the question actually made sense.
"This time... you remember meeting me?" Blair said eagerly. "I mean, you know my name, and I know you, so I'm sure something like this has happened before, and I definitely want to be with you, but whenever I look for the details, man, it goes all woozy and warped and stays that way until you reach for me again."
With a soft chuckle Jim admitted, "I'm in pretty much the same boat, except that I have to stay here when you wander off." A nasty thought hit him and he added sharply, "You're safe where you are, right?"
Clearly giving the question honest consideration, Blair said, "There's sunshine pouring through French doors right next to the big, fluffy bed I'm in. I can hear surf and sea gulls, and my Mom is with me. I'm in good hands."
"Good," Jim said, relieved beyond words. "So you just went roaming and stumbled over me?"
"Not exactly, but sort of. In my physical reality, I'm always looking for you, not that I knew that it was *you* you until my not-so-corporeal self found you, and then whoa, bang, man." Not meeting Jim's eyes but clearly aware of his laughing lack of understanding, Blair mumbled, "I think Mom's boyfriend, Rick, broke Brother Leary's first rule of enlightenment."
"What?"
"Thou shalt not raise thy brother's consciousness without his permission." Blair shrugged. "From the symptoms and the way my mother is raising hell with him, I'm guessing Rick put a hallucinogenic in my juice this afternoon. He's been complaining since I got here that I'm too uptight and obsessed with my research."
"Please tell me that she'll do more than yell at him."
"Short term, no, because she won't leave me alone; long term she'll leave him to me since it was my karma he messed with." Apparently sensing Jim's ire, Blair hastily reassured him. "Don't worry; I'll think of a punishment to fit the crime. In fact, Mom's probably counting on that."
"You should go to the police. If he's done it to you, there's a good chance he's done it to others, or will again. What if the next person he doses doesn't have a parent or friend to watch over him while he trips?"
"I'll take care of it, I *promise.*" Blair massaged the muscles at the base of Jim's neck that were bunching into a knot. "What about you? Will the cops be looking for you or the bad guys chasing you?"
Reminded of his danger, Jim looked at the stone blocking his view of the gully, almost wishing he could see through it. Very slowly, trying to pick his way through the bits and pieces that had remained from the last disastrous wash of memory, he said, "That's who's after me - dirty cops. No, not cop, per se. Sheriff? Trooper? I was... They were...."
As if thinking about them was a summons, he heard the distant baying of dogs, coming his way and caught a glimpse of strobing beams from flashlights at the edge of the entrance to his safe haven. "Damn," he swore, gratefully changing gears. "It's a sheer drop down from here on this side; I'll never make it with the ice covering everything and freezing rain still coming down." Mentally he retraced his path, trying to pinpoint a place where he could scramble up the side of the ravine. If he hurried, he might find it and get over. The dogs wouldn’t be able to climb up after him, and the hunters would have the same disadvantages in the weather and terrain as he had.
Before he could move, Blair murmured, "Wait, wait. They can't see me, I bet; let me check things out." Not giving Jim a chance to argue, he scrambled out of their nest and inspected the tiny gap that opened to the downhill end of the gorge. "It's frozen over really well. I can't even spot the crack you used to get past the trees and boulders. And look - the stream's been damned by a freshly broken branch, so there's a pool several inches deep covering what tracks and scent you might have left. What are the chances the hunter's will think you backtracked on them when they hit it?"
A man's face, incredibly ugly with anger and frustration, burst across Jim's consciousness. Grinding his fists into his temple to hold onto it and let anything else slip by, he concentrated stubbornly. "He likes to kill; they all do. It's a perverse form of proving their manhood, their superiority, fueled by hatred and narrow-mindedness. So taking down a cov-op Army Ranger is a big deal. Tried to break me first, just for the extra ego boost, which gave me the chance to escape."
Coming back to sit beside him, Blair said, "Are you saying there are serial killers on your trail?"
"Mass murderers is more accurate," Jim said automatically. Framing the threat in words helped clarify his thoughts. "Soldier wannabees who couldn't make the grade or former ones who are trying to relive 'glory days,' I guess."
Floating his fingers over Jim's jaw, but sending a buzz of pleasure through him despite the barely perceptible touch, Blair said, "That's where all the bruises came from. Given the way you're only sort of dressed, I had assumed they were from your trip up the mountain. Do you know how many are following you? How far away are they? Is there any help coming, at all?"
Using the soft caresses over his face as a much-needed anchor, Jim forced himself to respond to Blair's questions without taking time to consider his answers. "I hear five," he murmured, "One's controlling the dogs, or trying to. For some reason, the animals aren't willing to work; the trainer is getting spooked by it and by the location. They're less five hundred yards, now." He fought off another burst of images, and gasped, "No one has my back."
"I do," Blair whispered directly in his ear.
"God," Jim curled in on himself, nearly fetally, sluggishly cooperating when his head was pulled into Blair's lap. "What is wrong with me, that I can't remember, can't deal with it when I try?"
"It's the shocks," Blair murmured, thumbs rubbing small, soothing circles along Jim's forehead. "I've read up on electroshock therapy for a paper I was doing, and mental confusion, lethargy and fatigue are normal side-effects." He bit his lower lip, but added hesitantly, "What I don't understand is the muscle tremors and fever. It's almost as if the charges didn't dissipate completely, like they were supposed to; like they stayed in your nerves, somehow."
"Shh, shhh. Listen." Jim grabbed Blair's hand and held it to his chest, straining to make sense of the muttered words drifting up the gully.
"I'm telling you, my dogs know their business," an unknown man said, sounding reedy and thin, as if barely able to speak without panting or inhaling the rain. "If they want to head back, they've got good reason. Ellison either foxed us and we're going the wrong way, or there's something else we need to be worried about. A flash flood, maybe, or mud slide. I say we go back. If, and it's a pretty big if considering the shape he's in, he makes it out, no one will listen to him. He's got no proof; our word against his and we're the law."
"He's a fucking hero," another growled, the one Jim recognized from his snippets of recall. He was the alpha dog, the bully and braggart who had gathered a pack of others like himself, all of whom he believed he could dominate and control. "Here on a good-will mission for one of his fallen men. That's good press, if nothing else. Some one will listen. Hell, we don't even know why he started poking his nose into the goings-on around here. Of all the places that darkie could have gone, could have ended up, Ellison picks our turf to sniff around?"
"He's hired muscle," someone else grumbled, his tone edged with worry and frustration. "Just a foot soldier sent in to draw fire to spot where the guns are."
"Shut up," the boss snarled, but Jim could hear the same suspicion underneath his bluster.
A second later the dog wrangler said in disgust, "Dead end. No way we're going to get over this in the dark with a quarter inch of ice covering everything. Damn near broke our necks getting this far. If Ellison found a way, my boys aren't going to be able to follow. Hell, they haven't had the scent for half a mile, now."
"So take 'em and get out of here, you worthless shit," Boss man snapped. "When the feds pull you in because just how many tracking dogs are there in this part of the state, you better have a damned good alibi lined up. I'm telling you now, you get pulled in for questioning, you *won't* get a chance to roll on me."
"Now, Dutch…"
While they argued amongst themselves, Jim could hear the dogs splashing, circling to find his trail. He debated whether to stay still and wait them out, or take his chances creeping down the bluff, but before he could flog his arguments into something useful for making a decision, Blair gave a last, tender stroke and gently nudged Jim's head off his lap. Silently, too silently for a real person, he slipped over to the fissure separating them from the hunters.
When a canine nose poked through the snarl of wood, rock and ice, Blair said nearly silently, "Sorry, big boy," and smacked the dog sharply on the nose.
Howling as if demented, the dog backed away, then ran for home, to judge by the Doppler echo of his bays. At least one more followed him, escaping the handler's control. Cussing monotonously, he struggled, but with a last, 'oh, fuck this', gave up and let the rest go. Splashing loudly and angrily, he went after them. "Enough is enough, Dutch. Better to ride out any trouble that might come up than risk our necks chasing after an injured man who's got a snowball's chance in hell of surviving the night."
Dutch must have needed the dog wrangler or the man had something serious on Dutch to save himself from fear of retaliation. Though Dutch called him every name under the sun with a surprising amount of imagination that made Blair snicker silently, he didn't try to stop him. After he ran out of invective, he said nastily, "Anybody else willing to take a chance that a *Ranger* won't be able to take care of himself long enough to get back to civilization?"
"Hey, I'm with you on that," a hither-to silent man said calmly, and Jim could tell he had made up his mind. "I also think that we've lost him, unless there's something in Ranger training that allows a man to grow wings. I know this part of the mountains; there's nothing on the other side of those boulders except a straight fall into Tyler River valley."
"So maybe we've lucked out and he fell to his death! I am going to find out." There was a ruffling of clothes and shuffling of leather, then Dutch stomped through the shallow pool toward Jim's hiding place. Blair eased away from the closed-over fissure to stand with his back pressed into the rock next to it, but Dutch went to the opposite side. Apparently he felt he could find better handholds there, and with emphatic grunts and more invective, began to climb.
Two of his men muttered in derogatory tones that held a certain amount of awkward guilt to Jim's mind, but that didn't stop them from walking away. The third, and last, paced back and forth a few steps, obviously unable to decide which was the better alternative: facing Dutch's wrath later for taking the sensible course or risk a perilous climb in bad weather. At the sharp snap of a broken bough, followed by the clatter of falling pebbles, he abruptly ran for Dutch.
"I'll spot you on the way up; you find a good place and spot me when I climb."
"Good man, Louie," Dutch gritted out, making a scrambling sound as if he were trying to find a foothold.
"Here."
Visualizing the overhang before the cliff, Jim pulled himself to his feet, somehow summoning his normal stealth and strength. With a gesture he kept Blair where he was, and found a deep shadow to merge into at the opening to the cave. From his perch over top of them Dutch might see the tiny ledge that marked the beginning of the cliff, but not Jim's sanctuary. If he were determined to get all the way down, though, the moment he stepped foot on the shelf he couldn't help but notice the grotto.
Warrior instinct and training took over. Patient waiting filled Jim completely, shutting out everything but the distant sounds of the two men inching along overhead. If the hunters followed the same plan coming down as they had going up, he would have a window of opportunity to neutralize the first while the second waited his turn at descending. The outcropping bulged out slightly; it was possible that the one above wouldn't even see Jim as he dealt with Dutch.
The plan was sketchy, at best, but it was a plan. Resisting the urge to grab Dutch's foot as soon as it was in sight, Jim remained hidden until he could seize the front of Dutch's coat and yank him toward him. Caught off guard, Dutch swore, apparently thinking he'd snagged on something, and Jim's punch in the face buckled his knees. He surged upwards instantly, driving his fists into Jim's gut, but Jim weathered it easily. Like most bullies, Dutch was soft and ineffectual, depending on size and intimidation instead of true fighting ability.
Flailing wildly, Dutch tried to land another blow, but Jim simply watched for the right opening and stepped into it, landing a one-two combo to his opponent's midsection. Dutch stumbled back, apparently decided that he needed help, and back-pedaled out of the shelter, shouting his friend's name. He either forgot the slippery condition of the ground or thought he had more room than he did. Arms wheeling, he fell backwards, screaming and vanishing from sight even as Jim leaped to grab an out-flung hand.
Sturdy arms locked around his waist, saving him from the same fate as Dutch and hauling him back to safety. From above they heard the other man yell Dutch's name, and a moment later he fell past, slamming into the stone ledge before literally bouncing off into the darkness. He went silently, probably dead from the first crash into unforgiving rock, Jim thought dazedly. Half expecting Dutch's death shrieks to bring back the others, he stood on shaky legs, listening to the now heavy silence filling his tiny cavern.
"Come on, man, back to warm and comfortable," Blair murmured against his back. "You didn't ask them to hunt you, you tried to take them down with, what do the cops call it, due force. Your duty, now, is to make it through what's left of the night and make it safely back to civilization. Hear me, soldier?"
Bestirring himself with painful care, Jim said, "If you're trying to imitate my CO, Chief, you're missing the mark by a good bit."
"I'll imitate the President if that'll get you under cover again," Blair said sharply, but instantly warmed his tone. "Not that I can do any of them except a really, really bad Nixon."
Obeying his gentle tugging Jim shuffled for his improvised bed, paying for his surge of energy with the worst exhaustion he'd ever experienced. He could hardly move, or think, or feel, or even worry about how far gone he was. Clumsily digging into the sand, he swept leaves over himself, curling up with his head in Blair's lap, face against his warm stomach.
Sighing, he mumbled, "Better reason to do what I'm told than the whole 'duty to god and country' thing. I'm off fighting on orders I don't understand, and back home people like that dangerous excuse for a human is killing the people I thought I was protecting."
"More than one way to protect," Blair murmured soothingly, gently stroking the back of Jim's head.
Shifting restlessly, almost grateful for the aches keeping him conscious, Jim clutched Blair's shirt. "Mmmmm. Don't let me sleep, Chief. Don't go away on me, again."
"I don't want to go, but you should rest. You've got a long hike ahead of you tomorrow."
"Not yet. Not yet."
"Okay." Blair paused, then asked, "You ever think about being anything besides a soldier?"
"Fireman, maybe, or cop." Jim thought about it a minute more, a vague memory of being someone else while living in the jungle teasing at his mind. "I don't think I can stay in the Army any longer. I think I've known it since I... ah... finished my last mission. One of my C.O.'s got his twenty in and went back to his hometown, right into a decent job on the police force because of his background. Maybe I should check into that kind of thing instead of drifting around, looking for ways to fill the time until my leave is over or the Army sends me on another mission."
"Going back to your home town?" Blair asked with barely contained eagerness.
"Cascade." Jim shook his head, but he was helplessly slipping into sleep. "Good as place as any to wait for you to find me."
Voice rich with promise, but growing oh-so-faint, Blair said, "I swear, I will be looking for you. No matter what it takes."
"Oh, not too long, please, Chief," Jim breathed, but he wasn't sure he was heard.
He skulked along the boundary between awareness and true slumber, which was restful and still allowed him the suggestion of being held. How long that lasted he would never be able to even guess, but finally the familiar 'thup, thup, thup' of a helicopter yanked him to full wakefulness, blinking at the brilliant sunshine outside his shelter. Getting to his feet was an exercise in willpower, but Jim did it, going to stand on the verge of the ledge to look for the copter.
It was a forestry search and rescue craft, and, without thinking he bent to break a thin sheet of ice from the stream to use to catch the sunlight for signaling. Weirdly, and later he would attribute it to the last dregs of the torture he'd endured, he looked right into the eyes of the pilot, recognizing him as the one who'd sent him Sheriff Dutch's way.
With that as a trigger, all the events of the past few days fell into place in his mind, shuffling into order like cards being laid out for solitaire: Rick's brother coming to see him and ask for help finding him, following the same roads Rick traveled to show his picture everywhere, meeting the pilot at a diner. The pilot had done more than a few searches for lost people, had talked to too many families or friends looking for missing people, and had noticed that too many of a certain kind had gone into a specific area and never come back out again.
Thin as it was, Jim went to only town in the vicinity, flashing Rick's picture, and had been taken by the sheriff and his men in broad daylight. The boldness told Jim that he could expect no help from the locals; the stench of death and decay at the barn on a deserted farm had warned of the fating waiting for him. Over-confident, the sheriff hadn't secured or guarded him well enough, and Jim had gotten free, instinctively heading away from civilization because he trusted the wild more.
Even as the cards of the recent past were played out, Jim realized that he had none for the night just behind him. His last clear memory was his shirt being ripped to shreds and being hung by his wrists while the sheriff and his buddies mocked him. He had no idea how he'd found shelter, but harbored an odd certainty he didn't need to worry any longer about being caught by the sheriff.
Though his hands never stopped signaling SOS, he dug through his mind, sure there was something important he'd forgotten. The feeling nagged at him, weirdly associated with the taste of apples and the inexplicable decision to go back to Cascade and join the police department. Finally, as the chopper scooted closer, obviously spying his message, Jim forcefully dismissed the lapse in recall. It was hardly the first time in his life he'd lost a bit of his life.
As the chopper got close enough for the pilot to recognize him, grinning happily and giving him a big 'thumbs up,' Jim admitted to himself that going back to Cascade wasn't such a bad idea, regardless of why or when he'd made the choice. He leaned against the rock wall next to him, absently admiring the deadly crystal and white perfection of the ice coated mountains and valley stretched out in front of him. Cascade was as good as any place to wait.
finis