by Sihaya Black

I stayed by the truck and let Jim walk through the neat rows of white stones alone. When we'd climbed out of the truck he had looked at me for a second, his request clear in his eyes. I could come this far, but he had to be alone now. So I leaned against the hood, the metal warm against my back, and nodded.

"I'll be here when you're finished."

He moved quickly through the damp grass, his steps marking a dark trail through the long blades. He stopped by one stone, a little brighter than the rest, and bowed his head, standing there completely motionless. I'm always amazed at how still Jim can be, especially when he gets upset. Some people bounce off the walls, others can't shut up, but Jim... Jim closes the blinds and dims the lights and retreats so far inside himself that I used to wonder how the hell he managed to find his way back.

The clouds were moving fast. We'd had rain and sun on and off all morning, and the pavement was damp. Must've rained right before we pulled up. Jim squatted down, picked up a pebble from the ground and placed it on top of the stone, running his hand over the polished surface. What did the granite feel like to him? Was it as smooth as it looked, or did thousands of tiny imperfections mar the surface and make it into a microscopic Grand Canyon that only he could feel? I thought about asking him, but knew I never would. Not now. I'd have found that information interesting a couple of months ago, but now it didn't matter.

A sudden shaft of sunlight spilled from the clouds, so bright it made me squint. The grass and new April leaves on the trees sparkled, like someone had suddenly decided to turn on their little white holiday lights, regardless of the season. Jim practically glowed, the light picking out his winter-pale cheek and jaw, making the blue of his jacket almost iridescent. That weird plucking sensation in my chest made me turn away for a minute and frown at the small, ugly buildings almost hidden behind the trees.

When I turned back, Jim was retracing his steps across the grass. He stopped a foot in front of me and tilted his head as he studied my face.

"What is it?" I rubbed at my mouth. "Did I miss something when I washed?"

He smiled and cupped his hand around my chin, lifting my face a little. "No, you didn't miss anything, Chief." Then he released me and jerked his head toward the truck. "Let's go. Simon'll have both our hides if we don't show our faces soon."

We were a mile down the road before I asked. "You feel better, now?"

He pursed his lips for a minute, like he was considering the question. "Yeah, I feel better."

"Good."

The play punch to my arm was gentle, like his smile and the expression in his eyes.

~~~~

The phone had rung at 6:38 on a Wednesday evening.

I was chopping onions at the cooking island and keeping an eye on the browning beef, trying to get the stew going. We'd both missed lunch and were starving. Crime doesn't wait for the good guys to finish their hot dogs, or in our case, let them take more than a bite.

Jim stood by the kitchen table, sorting through the day's mail. He likes to do that first thing when he gets home. Me, I could let it pile up for days before I bother to look at it, but not Jim.

"Hope it's not Simon," Jim muttered, frowning at the back of an envelope. The phone rang a second time and he reached for the receiver. "Ellison." A short pause, then "Cynthia?"

There was something in his tone of voice that made me look up. Jim isn't the kind of person who shows much emotion on the surface, but I've gotten pretty good at reading him over the past couple of years. He was surprised and cautious, maybe even a little bit pleased.

I figured it was an old flame, someone pre-Carolyn, who had heard that he was available and decided to touch base. Some women are always searching for a good-looking escort for the upcoming holiday parties. Jim didn't date a lot, and it worried me. I mean, the guy wasn't getting any younger, and I hated the idea of him growing old alone. Not that I was doing any better, but Jim... well, Jim has such a hard time really connecting with people. Maybe his luck with women would change.

Then he said "How's Neil?" and I shelved my previous thoughts. It sounded like Cynthia was already taken.

"What?"

Jim went still. He stood there, listening, completely motionless except for that muscle twitching in his jaw. Whatever the news was, it was bad.

"Where is he?" He closed his eyes briefly, then nodded. "I'll be there in two hours, depending on the traffic- But- No, I don't want to wait until the weekend. What about tomorrow? Are you sure? All right. I'll be there by ten. And Cynthia? Thanks for letting me know."

Before I had a chance to ask him what was going on, he had punched in another number.

"Simon? Jim. I've got to take off tomorrow... No, we're both fine. I've got to go to Seattle on some personal business. No, it can't wait." I could hear Simon's voice booming out of the receiver. Jim waited until Simon paused - probably to breathe - and continued. "Okay, I'll come in when I get back - probably mid-afternoon. Yes, sir."

He put the receiver down and turned, heading for the balcony. His shoulders were hunched protectively and he moved slowly, like he'd been beaten up a day or two before and all his muscles had had a chance to stiffen. As I said, Jim doesn't show his emotions much, but you can read him if you know what to look for. Right now he was hurting.

I went back to making dinner. Of course I wanted to ask him about the phone call, but it was too soon. All I'd get would be a growl, or he might just ignore me completely. So I kept an eye on him as he stood there in the cold, staring out over the dark harbor.

I don't think he moved once during the half-hour it took to get dinner on the table. I dished up the stew and cut up the cornbread, then went to see what state he was in.

"It's time to come in, Jim. Dinner's ready." Damn, it was cold out there. It was that raw, biting kind of cold that works its way into your joints and makes you feel like you're eighty. "C'mon, man. You must be freezing." I nudged his shoulder and he shivered.

"Dinner, Chief?" He sounded remote, and then he shivered again.

I grabbed his arm, and even through the thick wool of his sweater the chill bit into my fingers. "Yeah. Dinner," I said, steering him back inside. "Did you zone, Jim?"

"Zone? No. I was just thinking."

"Let's get you warmed up. How about a hot shower?"

"I'm fine. I don't need a shower." With another shiver he sat down and cupped his hands around the bowl, leaning over it and warming his face in the steam. He looked like a character out of a Dickens novel, his face pale and pinched from the cold, clasping his bowl of gruel. Hell, I'm not even sure what gruel is, but Jim looked like he was all alone in the world, without a friend to help him. Which was stupid when I thought about it, because I'm his friend, and I'd do pretty much anything for him.

"Who was on the phone?" I asked after a while, when it looked like Jim was going to sit there all night, doing his Oliver Twist impression. But Jim hadn't even touched his dinner, much less asked for more.

He scooped up a big spoonful of stew. "An old friend," he said, and downed it in one gulp.

"You going to Seattle to see her?" He stared at the wall and took another bite, although his throat and jaw were so tight I wondered how he could swallow.

I waited. Jim was pretty patient, but I could out-wait him when I had to. He ate some more, frowned, rubbed his forehead, and stared at the wall, working himself up to tell me what was going on. He pursed his lips, right on schedule, and then sighed and looked at me.

"She's an old friend, Chief." His gaze slid over my shoulder. "Cynthia called to tell me that her husband, Neil, is sick, and he'd like to see me."

"What's the matter with him?"

"They're not sure, yet. He's in the hospital. They're doing a bunch of tests."

"Oh. Hope it's nothing serious."

He shrugged and ate another spoonful. Guess that was all he was going to say for now. That was okay. I had a two hour drive in the morning to find out the details about these old friends.

"So, what time are we leaving?" I said casually. He looked so lost in thought that I wondered if he'd even pick up on what I was saying.

"Around seven thirty..."

"Okay." I started to clear the table. Like an automaton, he picked up his dishes and carried them to the sink. I thought I'd managed to get away with it pretty neatly, and then his head snapped around and he glared at me.

"Now just a minute, Sandburg. You aren't coming with me."

"C'mon, man, think for a second. You could use the company on the drive, and I can read just as easily in the hospital as here."

"Forget it," he said as he filled the sink, squirting dishwashing liquid into the hot water like it was going to cleanse his soul, or something.

"Jim-"

"I said forget it, Chief." The dishes clattered and soapsuds flew.

"No way. You might as well accept the fact that I'm going with you." I grabbed a couple of plates and started to dry. "Even if I have to sleep in the truck overnight and freeze my ass off."

There was silence. Well, not really silence, because Jim was making a lot of noise with the bowls and pots, but he didn't say anything for a while. I just kept drying and didn't look at him. It was only a matter of time before he agreed. I mean, he knew it was for the best.

I reached for a bowl and he nudged me with his elbow. "I'm leaving at seven thirty, Chief. If you're not ready to go, I'm leaving without you. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Besides," he threw over his shoulder as he dried his hands and walked over to the couch, "you haven't got enough ass to freeze off in the first place."

"Like you'd notice, man," I muttered as I walked to my room.

"I notice everything, Sandburg."

Yeah, right. Jim Ellison really noticed my ass.

~~~~

We were on the road for almost an hour before I asked him.

"So, how long have you known Cynthia and Neil?"

He didn't look at me, but his fingers tightened on the steering wheel. I sighed, dreading another round of dragging information out of my way repressed partner. I mean, Jim's gotten pretty good at telling me some things, but others throw him right back into silent macho mode. Sometimes I wonder if one day he's just gonna snap the steering wheel in half. All that repression isn't good for a guy.

I was getting ready to ask again, and point out the fact that he might as well spill his guts now and save us the trouble of sparring about it, when he shrugged.

"Cynthia was my high school science teacher."

"Oh, yeah?" This was interesting. "How'd you meet her husband?"

He shrugged again. "I was working on some projects, and he helped out."

"And?"

"And what?"

"And how did you become such good friends?"

Jim glanced at me sharply. "You're a nosy little shit, Sandburg."

"And you're a close-mouthed big asshole, Jim," I snapped. "But that doesn't answer my question."

"It wasn't supposed to," he said, and there was a hint of laughter in his voice - the first I'd heard from him since last night's call.

"Oh, yeah, right. Ellison Avoidance Strategy number one thousand thirty-five. Insult your partner so that he gets pissed off enough to drop the subject."

"You're learning, Darwin." He didn't even bother to hide his grin.

"Man, my life would be so much easier if I didn't have to deal with this crap from you."

He opened his mouth, like he was going to make some smart comment back, then closed it firmly. And that was that. I wasn't going to get anything else out of Jim for the rest of the trip. I spent the next hour staring out the window, wondering how many people would get upset at the news that their high school science teacher's husband was ill. Upset enough to stand out in the freezing cold until a friend dragged them inside. Upset enough to offer to drive down to Seattle that evening. Upset enough to take off a day of work to visit him.

I glanced over at Jim. What else did the man have hidden away in that mysterious mind of his? For everything that I knew about Jim, there were times I felt I didn't know him at all. This was one of those times.

~~~~

As much as I hate the smell of hospitals, they're a hell of a lot worse for Jim. All that blood and illness and death concentrated in one place, distilled in a medical crucible... Dialing down can only do so much, and once or twice I've seen him pass by a patient's room and reel like he's been struck. When I asked him about it, he just muttered something about the stench of decay, and wouldn't discuss it further. So I stuck close to him as we took the elevator to the fifth floor and walked down the long echoing corridor to room 530.

Jim paused about a yard from the door. I was looking at him closely, and saw him squeeze his eyes shut for a second, then take a deep breath. He was a couple of shades paler than he'd been when we'd walked into the building.

"You gonna be okay, Jim?" I spoke softly.

"Yeah, I think so."

"You sure?" It was pretty obvious that I didn't believe him, but he just darted me a glance and patted my arm before squaring his shoulders and peering into the room.

I hung around by the door. I'm not usually shy or anything, but I suddenly got this weird feeling of being an outsider. Yeah, I know I'm almost always an outsider, but this was different somehow. Before I had a chance to figure it out, Jim called.

"Chief? C'mon in."

The private room reeked of fake hospital cheerfulness, like flowers on a grave. A guy in his late sixties was sitting up in the bed, an IV tube snaking from his left arm. Other than that, he looked healthy. Going bald and kind of paunchy, but healthy.

Jim flashed a smile my way. "Neil, this is my partner, Blair Sandburg. Blair, Dr. Neil Morgan."

We shook hands, and Morgan gave me an assessing look. One of those laser-eyed once-overs where you swear he can see your brand of underwear and doesn't think much of your choice. Then he smiled and sat back, waving to a chair along the wall.

"Good to meet you, Blair. Why don't you both have a seat?" He craned his neck. "I'm sure there's another chair around here somewhere."

There wasn't, so Jim sat in the chair, grimacing as the vinyl cushion murmured threateningly. Another thing I hate about hospitals is the way all the chairs sound like whoopie cushion wannabes. I perched on the wooden arm. It wasn't comfortable, but I'd been invited to stay, and I was damned if I'd lose an opportunity to find out more about Jim's past just because my butt would have an extra crease for a couple of days.

Morgan's smiled faltered as he looked over at Jim.

"Thanks for coming, Jim. I know it's not convenient for you, but the doctors have almost finished their tests, and I don't think the news is going to be good. I wanted to talk with you while I still feel relatively human."

Jim leaned forward in the chair, his shoulder brushing my arm. "You know you only had to ask, Neil. I owe you and Cynthia a lot."

Morgan's smile vanished, and his gaze slid to another corner of the room. "I wouldn't say that."

"I would." Jim looked puzzled and shifted his shoulders the way he does when something unexpected happens, like he's trying on a new thought for size and isn't sure if it fits.

"Cynthia's looking forward to seeing you," Morgan said, way too brightly. "She said you sounded good on the phone last night."

"She sounded like herself. Very kind and completely in charge." Jim sat back in the chair, relaxing a little.

"That hasn't changed. You should see her with the doctors - they don't know what hit them."

They shared a chuckle and a knowing glance before turning thoughtful.

"What did you want to tell me, Neil?"

Morgan shook his head slowly. "There's so much... Cynthia!" His frown was immediately replaced with a broad smile as his wife walked in.

She wasn't a beautiful woman, and probably never had been. But she had one of the most interesting faces I've ever seen. Thin, with short-cropped dark hair turning gray and deep-set dark eyes, containing a wealth of experience. Whether it was good or bad experience, I couldn't tell.

Jim was on his feet like a shot, and I was only a beat behind. His arms rose half-heartedly, then dropped to his sides. But she said his name fondly and pulled him into a hug. After a second or two he responded, his arms going around her, and he held her for a long minute. It was really beautiful to see Jim open up like that. Eventually she patted his back and he released her reluctantly.

"It's good to see you, Jim." She glanced over at me, so I stuck out my hand.

"I'm Blair Sandburg, Jim's partner."

"Cynthia Morgan." She gave me a firm handshake and a smile, then turned to her husband.

"I told you he would come," she said, chiding him gently, fussing with his blanket and IV.

"And of course you were right."

She shot Jim an amused glance. "Have you two been catching up on old times yet?" With a wave of her hand, she motioned us to sit, while she perched on the edge of the bed, her hand stroking her husband's arm.

"We just got here," Jim said. "We haven't had much time to do anything."

There was an awkward pause in the conversation. I've noticed there often is a period like that when old friends who haven't seen each other for a while finally get together. Kind of like they have to re-adjust themselves to the way they were the last time they saw each other. I thought I'd help smooth things along.

"Jim said that you were his high school science teacher, Cynthia."

She flashed me another big smile. "That's right. Jim was my prize pupil for three years."

"Jim? You're kidding, right? Jim doing science? I mean, Jim hates the lab when-" I shut my mouth quickly, before I said something about our tests. But honestly, could you see Jim Ellison as a prize pupil in science? I glanced at him. He had turned his face away, but his neck was so red it was practically glowing. Shit. I'd really put my foot into it now. Both feet. No, both legs. Up to my sorry ass.

"Hey, man, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply... I just never thought you were interested in science..." My voice trailed off weakly, and I seriously considered the merits of sinking through the floor right about then.

"Don't sweat it, Chief," he murmured, keeping his head down and waving his hand dismissively.

"Actually," said Cynthia, with an understanding little smile, "Jim was immensely talented in an area that is often neglected in the sciences. He could take a theoretical concept, design a series of experiments to test it, and then make whatever mechanical device or instrument was required. I remember," she gave Jim a fond glance, "when we were studying earthquakes and plate tectonics. Jim built a platform that shook so that the class could test the inherent strength of various types of structures. After he built the prototype, he modified the design so that I could vary the speed and intensity of the vibrations, and made it more durable. In fact, the school is still using Jim's machine."

"Well, you gave me the idea for it and without Neil's help-"

"Jim." Cynthia shook her head and her expression softened. "You don't have to apologize for what you love to do. Your father isn't here."

Jim went pale so fast it was like someone had pressed a switch.

"Hey, it's okay." I grabbed his shoulder and searched his face, waving off Cynthia who had hopped off the bed and was hovering in front of us. "Just do your breathing, Jim..." His color returned quickly, but I waited until he gave me a nod before I released him and glanced over at Cynthia and Neil.

They were as pale as Jim had been, and their horrified expressions were almost funny. Except that they weren't.

Cynthia recovered first, her words tumbling out almost unintelligibly as she tried to apologize. Jim shook his head and held up his hand and her voice cut off. Out of nowhere, I had the sudden urge to giggle, which I stomped down real fast, like light speed. No way was this amusing.

I met Jim's eyes, and for a second I swear I could see the sixteen-year-old Jim looking back at me. It was like a door had cracked open, showing a glimpse of some glittering mysterious chamber behind it, and then swung closed. Jim's mouth slowly quirked into a sorta-grin.

"Dad didn't want me to waste my time on 'science stuff,'" he explained, almost bashfully. "So I told him I was putting in extra football practice with some of the guys. Cynthia and Neil let me use their garage to work in. That's all there is to it."

"I guess motorcycles and cars weren't the only things you enjoyed tinkering with."

Jim shrugged. "Motorcycles and cars were okay, but they weren't very challenging after a while. This was a lot more interesting."

"I'll bet," I muttered. "You've got some 'splaining to do later, man."

Jim's face pinked up again, and I could feel the heat from his embarrassment radiating off him. He opened his mouth, then closed it and shot me a beseeching look. I almost hit the floor. Jim Ellison, ex-Army Ranger, all-round tough guy, cop extraordinaire, was silently begging me to change the subject.

Well, hell.

I checked out Neil and Cynthia. They were staring at their hands and looked like their skin hurt - they kinda squirmed without moving - the way you do when you are so embarrassed that there's no way to crawl out of that hole you've managed to land in under your own steam.

Okay. Sandburg to the rescue.

"So, Neil, what's your doctorate in?" It wasn't a very graceful transition, but they both perked up at my question, and avoided looking at Jim. That was okay. I didn't think Jim really wanted to be looked at for a while.

"I was a research entomologist for the University of Washington," he said, sharing a shy look with Cynthia.

"Bugs, huh? That's cool. What kind of research did you do?"

Neil explained about his work with house flies. It was pretty interesting, and he and Cynthia relaxed and got over their embarrassment as he talked. He was obviously a born teacher, articulate and enthusiastic, but never allowing his love of the subject to blind him to the needs of his audience. I asked a couple of questions, which seemed to tickle him no end.

Finally he wound up with the results of his last study, glanced at the time and gave a rueful smile.

"Sorry, Blair. I tend to get carried away. Both Cynthia and Jim know better than to get me started." He shrugged and took his wife's hand.

"Hey, it was interesting. Besides, the work you've done could be instrumental in reducing the frequency of disease transmission in poor areas, and man, that's a real problem in a lot of countries."

"That's true," Neil offered slowly, looking intrigued, "although that wasn't the focus of my research. But it's an interesting application of the territoriality studies. You could extrapolate-"

"Neil," interrupted Cynthia, giving his hand a squeeze, "I don't think Jim or Blair drove all the way from Cascade to discuss flies with you all morning." Neil chuckled, and she continued. "It was an interesting observation, Blair. I didn't think the police were particularly interested in disease transmission as a rule."

Jim didn't move or gasp or anything, but I was suddenly completely aware of him sitting beside me. He was breathing slowly, leaning forward, his hands clasped between his knees, his arm almost touching my leg.

"I'm not a policeman," I said, forcing myself to look anywhere but at Jim. "I'm a grad student in anthropology at Rainier."

"But I thought- Jim said you were his partner..."

"We misunderstood," Neil said quickly, his glance darting between us, like we were a pair of particularly interesting flies he was studying. And, weirdly, there was something that looked suspiciously like hope in his eyes. "We didn't realize you meant partners in a more... domestic way."

Oh shit. I don't know exactly what shade of red I ended up at, but it must've been way past scarlet. I couldn't help sneaking a peek at Jim, wondering if he was going to go ballistic at the thought, or just die in an orgy of embarrassment. But he wasn't blushing at all. It didn't even seem to faze him that his friends had paired us up as a couple. He just calmly explained that I was an observer at the PD working on my dissertation and then he gave them the cover story we'd concocted. They both apologized, and Jim shrugged it off like it was no big deal. Unlike my gaffe with the science thing.

Which was great, but then I had to wonder why I was doing the coy virgin routine. I mean, me, blushing 'cause someone thought Jim and I were lovers? Please.

But I had blushed. And then some. Guess who was going to have to do some serious meditation tonight.

By the time I tuned back in to the conversation, they were talking about people who had been in Jim's classes. Who had done well for themselves, who had been less fortunate, whose life had taken an unexpected turn. Jim seemed interested, asking about a few people, telling what he knew about others. It was calm and civilized and peaceful, and rang as false as a cracked bell.

I must have drifted a bit. Listening to the life stories of people I didn't know or care about doesn't hit the red in my fascinating topics meter, but I'm pretty good at appearing interested, even if my mind's a million miles away. Actually, my mind wasn't a million miles away. It hadn't even left the chair I was sharing with my partner. It was stuck on one issue.

I couldn't figure out why Jim didn't ask Neil and Cynthia why they had called. Yeah, I know he had asked Neil earlier and been interrupted by Cynthia's arrival, but he hadn't even alluded to it once she was there.

I was still puzzling this out when some medtech in a lab coat poked her head into the room and announced that Neil was expected downstairs for some more tests. He grimaced, and Cynthia patted his hand. I peeked at Jim, and saw a shadow cross his face. Like he knew something he wasn't even admitting to himself, much less telling.

I suddenly felt cold.

"Can we take you to lunch?" he asked Cynthia as he got up. I followed suit, trying to surreptitiously rub my numb butt. Those wooden chair arms are real killers on the circulation.

"Thanks, Jim. But I think I'll stay here with Neil."

There was a really awkward pause.

"Can we-" began Jim, his voice cutting out on him like a cold engine. He cleared his throat. "I'd like to visit again, Neil..."

Neil nodded. "I'll be here, at least through next week. Any time during the weekend would be fine, and it would give me something to look forward to."

We said our goodbyes and walked out the door. As soon as Jim was in the corridor, his shoulders slumped and he stumbled once. I grabbed his arm, wondering if I could manage to lower him gently to the floor if he passed out on me, but he just shook me off and headed down the hall.

~~~~

Forty silent minutes down the road, I sighed and turned to Jim. He was driving with grim-faced determination.

"So you liked science," I started. I felt so stupid.

Jim glanced over at me - the first time he'd looked at me since we'd gotten into the truck - and gave a tiny shrug. "Yeah."

"Why didn't you tell me, man! I mean, from the way you complained about the tests and all, I thought you hated science." My gut felt like it was filled with hot lead. "And you let me ramble on and on about testing procedures, and I actually..." My throat dried up and I tried a hard swallow. "I actually boasted to you about designing the machines for the damn tests..." I looked out the side window. It wouldn't take much just to open the door and slide out of the truck. So it was going sixty...

"It was a long time ago, Chief."

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, but I could still feel my face grow warm. "You should have said something, Jim. This was an important part of your past."

"It wasn't important. Nothing came of it." His voice was calm and quiet, and I don't think that Jim was even aware of the bitterness underscoring his words.

"From where I was sitting it looked pretty important."

Jim shot me another glance. He was trying for granite-jawed unreadable as his expression of choice, but it didn't work. Not with me. I was too used to looking past that particular expression to be fooled. No, the look in his eyes, the way he squinted slightly, the tilt of his head all told me that Jim was hurting bad.

"From where you were sitting, Sandburg, I'm surprised you could think of anything but your numb little butt. That chair arm must've been hell to perch on for so long." His lips curled into a tiny smile that softened the expression on his face.

"Yeah, well, we all have to make sacrifices." I shrugged, not surprised. Jim wasn't going to talk about it now. But I still had one question. Not for his sake - for mine. "Jim..." I looked at the door handle again. One quick jerk and I could be outta there...

"Yeah, Chief?" he said, his voice kind.

"Um... When we did the tests, and I told you I'd designed and built some of the machines..." Aw, jeez, I was blushing more than the first time I'd had a boner in a bathing suit and some girl had laughed when she noticed it. "Did you... Did you notice any improvements that I could have made?" I wasn't sure if he even understood that last sentence - it had come out all in a rush.

He was silent for a while, and I finally gathered up enough courage to look at him. He was frowning, his lips pursed thoughtfully.

"Well," he began slowly, "I suppose you could have used a larger motor on the light machine, to make the cylinders rotate more smoothly, but," he turned to me, almost apologetically, "I really didn't pay attention to how you made them. I was concentrating on the tests..."

"Yeah, of course you were... Sorry I asked." Good one, Sandburg. Why would Jim even think about your damn machines when he was trying to learn more about his senses?

There was a long pause. "So," Jim said, "what kind of motor did you use?"

"You'll never believe it!" I laughed, feeling like this huge weight had just lifted off me. "I found one of those old rotating globes at a rummage sale for thirty-five cents. The globe was shot, but the base and motor were fine..."

The ride home passed quickly.

~~~~

I glanced around my office to make sure I had everything and closed my backpack. If I hauled ass and wasn't too particular about speed limits, I'd make it to the station on time. Then the phone rang. Just my luck...

"Sandburg," I said, hoping that it wasn't a student who needed me to sit and listen to some tale of woe.

"Hey, Chief." The familiar voice was a touch impatient. "You just leaving?"

"I was half-way out the door, Jim, when I had to stop and answer the phone. I'll be there in fifteen, no, make that ten minutes."

"Hold on, Mario. Why don't you meet me-" His voice cut off abruptly.

"Jim? You still there?" The line sounded fine - no crackling or hissing. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said, not sounding fine at all. "You know, I'm in the mood for a change. Why don't I drive over and we'll check out that vegetarian place you were telling me about? I'll be there soon."

"Okay. That sounds good." I put the phone back in the cradle, then walked over and locked my office door. Jim had just used a code we'd worked out a couple of months ago. If he said the words 'mood' and 'vegetarian' together in a phone conversation, it meant that there was something weird going on, not immediately dangerous, but I was to stay behind locked doors until he got here.

I'd laughed when he'd proposed the code, but then I'd remembered some of the cases we'd worked on and decided it was a good idea. And I sure wasn't laughing now.

I sat down and tried to read, but all I could think of was Jim's warning.

Finally, after fifteen minutes that felt like an hour, there was a knock.

"Hey, Sandburg, let's grab some lunch." It was Jim's voice.

I unlocked the door and Jim walked in, giving me a quick once-over, like he expected to see parts of me missing. He closed the door behind him before he spoke.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. What's with the warning, man? I never expected you to actually use the code. What happened?"

"I thought I heard something..." He suddenly looked uncertain, then he grabbed the phone and dialed. "Rhonda, it's Ellison. Has Simon left for the meeting yet? No, I'll catch him when he gets back. Thanks." He hung up the phone and stared at the receiver.

"Well?" I wished for the millionth time that I could read Jim's mind and find out what the hell was going on. Sometimes it takes him so damn long to come up with the words.

"I'm not sure," he said, frowning. "I thought I heard something when we were talking."

"Did you hear it when you spoke with Rhonda?"

"I think so..."

"What did it sound like? Static? Clicking? Voice or modem bleed-over from another line?"

He shook his head, his frown deepening. "I can't describe it."

"Can you make the sound?"

He opened his mouth, then shut it quickly and snorted. "Not a chance, Sandburg. But it didn't sound like the usual line noises. It reminded me of..." He perched on the edge of my desk and stared at the corner of the room.

I waited.

Finally he turned and looked at me. "Like some sort of wiretap..."

I took a deep breath. "A wiretap?" I thought about it for a minute. "Okay, I know you heard it when you were on the phone with me, but isn't it more likely that if it is a wiretap, your PD line is the one being tapped?"

"No." He shook his head. "I was on the phone all morning, and I only heard it when I talked with you."

"But this is stupid, Jim! Why would anyone want to tap my phone?" I stared at it, sitting innocently on my desk, and suddenly wanted to chuck it out the window.

"Been sleeping with the Chancellor's wife, Chief?"

"Really funny, Ellison." I glared at him, and he raised his hands and shrugged. I paced around the piles of books on the floor. "Dammit, Jim, what if this is someone like Brackett? Or some old case who's decided to settle the score? Or even..."

"Don't fly off the handle, Sandburg. I could be wrong," he broke in.

"What?"

"I could be wrong," he mumbled, his face turning pink. "I could have over-reacted a little. It could be something the phone company's doing on the lines."

I just stared at him.

"I'm hungry. Let's get some lunch." He stood up and grabbed my coat, throwing it to me. I caught it automatically, but didn't put it on.

"Hold it." He glanced at me and then looked over at the wall, chewing on his lip. I walked over to him, not fooled for a minute by his change of subject. "Are you saying that you were so worried about me that you drove all the way over here just because you thought that maybe my phone was being wiretapped?" His face grew pinker, and then he took a deep breath and shrugged.

"Maybe I did. Or maybe I just wanted to try that vegetarian place... What's the name? The Happy Hooker?" He tried to leer, but it didn't work. He aimed a swat at my butt, but I dodged it. "Now move your ass, I'm starved."

I grabbed my backpack and headed out the door. "It's the Happy Cooker, Jim, and I didn't think you were listening when I was talking about it."

"I wasn't."

"Very funny, man."

Jim just smirked. As we walked down the hall, he put his hand in the middle of my back. It felt good there. And that afternoon he called in a few favors with some people in the phone company - we'd know if my phone was tapped in a day or two.

~~~~

I passed the mailman on my way out of the building on Saturday morning, grabbed our mail and dumped it on the seat of the truck when I climbed in. Jim just gave me one of his long-suffering looks and pulled away from the curb. I hate those looks. Like he has to put up with so much from me. Like his life is all smooth sailing except where I'm concerned. As if.

I glared at him for a minute, and then he shot me one of his Jim Ellison specials - first a chuckle, a little, low 'heh heh heh' that always makes me grin. Then he reached over and nudged me in the arm, like he was almost petting me. And finally, he gave me one of those shit-eating grins of his, his eyes bright, his eyebrows wiggling. I caved and laughed at him, and he just turned and looked out the windshield, the corners of his mouth twitching.

I always cave when he does it, even when I'm seriously pissed. Maybe that's why he doesn't do it very often. At least there was no discussion this morning about whether or not I was going with him to the hospital. It didn't mean I was expecting to be with Jim every second; I'd even brought some work along so that he and Neil could talk in private. I picked up the mail and began to sort through it.

"Bill. Bill. Ad. Bill. Postcard from Naomi... Hey, she's in Puerto Vallarta!"

"Must be nice, Chief."

"Yeah, nice and warm, man..." I finished reading the postcard and turned to the next letter. "Oh, wow... I got an answer."

"An answer? To what? Whether or not you're going to get lucky tonight?"

"You have such a one-track mind. It's from Dr. Emil Bertson at the Institute of Anthropological Studies..." I ripped open the envelope, ignoring Jim's wince. Dammit, if he wanted every letter opened with a letter opener, then he should keep one in his truck. I started reading.

"Careful with your garbage, Sandburg!" Jim growled and swatted at the envelope, which had somehow ended up in his lap. "This isn't your room..."

"Okay, whatever." I went back to my letter. Surely Bertson wasn't implying...

I heard Jim's curse a fraction of a second before he hit the brakes. Then I hit the door and everything got kind of confusing for a bit. When things finished squealing and sliding and bouncing, we were stopped on the side of the highway, me clutching the dashboard, Jim holding the envelope...

"What the hell was that for?" The truck was in park, and besides, it had stalled, so I decided it was safe to let go of the dash. I stretched my fingers and looked around for my letter. It had to be here somewhere... "Jim?"

He was staring at the envelope, his expression blank.

"Jim? What's wrong?"

"Where's the letter?" I found it on the floor and handed it to him. He looked closely at the pages, turning them over and over. Then he gingerly sniffed a page and wrinkled his nose.

"What is it?"

He gave me this really weird look, like something hurt but he wasn't sure what, and then he picked up the envelope.

"This has been opened and then resealed."

"Maybe Dr. Bertson wanted to add-"

"It's been carefully steamed open and then resealed in almost exactly the same place. And this," he lifted up the letter, "has been wiped clean. The only fingerprints on it are yours."

I nodded to show that I was following him, but I didn't say anything.

He wrinkled his nose again. "And whoever opened it was wearing British Sterling aftershave."

"Maybe Dr. Bertson..."

He shook his head. "I don't think so. I smelled the same scent on a letter you got on Wednesday, and it wasn't from the same guy." He looked at me thoughtfully.

"Wednesday? What letter..." I smacked the seat, suddenly remembering who the letter was from. "Dammit, that was personal! You mean someone opened my private mail and read it?"

"Guess it wasn't from someone who'd normally wear British Sterling, huh?"

I threw him a disgusted look. "Would you give it a break, Jim? This is serious!"

He stared out the windshield for a minute, his lips pursed. He didn't say anything, but I knew what that look meant. It was the closest he could get to an apology.

"They must be doing this while the mail's in the post office," he offered slowly, still looking out onto the highway. "They didn't have a chance to get into our mailbox today."

"They? They who?" I balled up my fist and banged the door in frustration. "One of Brackett's cronies? Or Oliver's? Did someone else put two and two together about your Sentinel abilities? Dammit, Jim, I'm not going to let anyone mess with you! If it's some screwball federal agent, rogue or not, I'm taking you somewhere you'll be safe!"

He blinked and solemnly turned to me. "Chief, it isn't my mail that's being opened..."

The bottom dropped out of my stomach, landing somewhere way down in my gut. Not a good feeling.

"But why me, Jim?" It came out as a whisper. "Why the hell would anyone be interested in me, unless it was to get to you?"

"I don't know, Blair."

Oh shit. Jim called me by my name. He must really be worried. I glanced over and caught him staring at me, a frown creasing his face. For Mister Stoic, that was pretty much like having hysterics in public. He reached out and gave my shoulder a quick squeeze, then started up the truck. "Don't worry," he said as he pulled back onto the highway. "We'll find out what's going on, and someone," he growled, "will have to answer to me..."

Jim sounded mean and threatening and like a guy I would not want to cross. I almost felt sorry for that unknown someone. Almost, but not quite.

I was really touched by his concern. But that's Jim - he's like everyone's big brother. Jim keeps an eye out for everyone, and makes sure everyone's okay. I guess it's all part of the Sentinel gig - a genetic predisposition to make sure the tribe's safe. He'd do the same thing for any of his friends.

By the time we arrived at the hospital, I was pretty calm. I mean, sure, I was still a little spooked by all this Cold War spy shit that seemed to be going down, but Jim was right there next to me, bumping arms as we walked down the hall to the cafeteria. We each grabbed a cup of what passed for coffee. I slid into a booth while Jim snagged a donut. Even though the other side of the booth was empty, he nudged me over into the corner and slid in next to me. I don't think Jim even realized what he was doing. He just sat there, happily eating his donut and drinking his coffee, his eyes constantly sweeping the room, his Blessed Protector radar up and running.

I have to admit it, having him sitting next to me made me feel safe. It isn't his size, because Jim's not that big. I mean, he's buff but not enormous, like Simon, who towers over everyone, the same as Orvelle. It was his presence, watching and guarding, that made me relax. That and the fact that I knew Jim would risk his life to save mine, the same as he's done before.

And I'd return the favor.

Of course I know that Jim's not invincible, but that didn't matter a damn. They'd have to go through him to get to me, and he wouldn't let anyone through without doing some serious damage. And Jim, when he puts his mind to it, can do a lot of serious damage.

Jim finished his donut and coffee, and licked his fingers before wiping them on a napkin.

"Ready?" he asked.

"You know, I could stay down here and study if you want to talk with Neil in private."

He gave me his 'get real, Sandburg' look. "I don't think so, Chief."

He stuck even closer to me on our way upstairs, his hand hovering over my back and arm. I kept expecting him to touch me, but he didn't. As we neared Neil's room, Jim kept crowding me, bumping into me a couple of times, and once he even made me trip over his foot. I was going to call him on it, but then I got a good look at his face - if he'd been any paler, the nurses would have had him stretched out on a gurney, covered with a sheet, waiting for the ME to do an autopsy.

I grabbed his arm and pulled him around to face me.

"You look like hell, Jim. Are you okay?"

He gave me a puzzled look, like I was speaking Greek or something, and shrugged.

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine." I gave his arm a little shake.

"Listen, Sandburg, we both know I'll never win any beauty contests-" His voice suddenly cut off and he pressed his lips together, like he does when he's struggling with how much to reveal about himself. He reached out and ran his fingertips down my arm, from my shoulder to my elbow, and then did it again. "Blair, I have to do this for Neil and Cynthia's sakes, as well as my own. But it's..." he paused and winced, "it's not easy. For a lot of reasons." His fingers crept around my arm, gently stroking.

"What can I do to help?"

He shot me a look of gratitude that practically pinned me to the wall, and his hand slid up my arm and around the back of my neck.

"Just stick with me, Chief. That's all I need."

"Okay. Sure. I can do that. Whatever you need, Jim." I was babbling. I knew it. What I didn't understand was why I was babbling.

And then Jim pulled away, turned and walked down the hall. So I followed him.

He paused before he got to Neil's room and took a deep breath. Then he squared his shoulders and walked in resolutely, like a man facing a firing squad. I was close on his heels - so close, in fact, that I ran into him just inside the door. It was like running into a wall. A hand reached back and steadied me for a moment.

"Watch it, Sandburg," he whispered. "Neil's asleep..."

"Jim?" Neil's voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Jim?"

"I'm right here, Neil." Jim walked over to the bed. "I thought you were napping."

"I was," said Neil. He took Jim's hand. "Couldn't sleep last night... Too much noise, and they kept waking me up to take blood or give me pills." He raised the head of his bed and caught sight of me. "Hi, Blair. Thanks for coming by."

"No problem," I muttered. Neil had gone back to looking at Jim and wasn't listening to me anyway. And Jim was fussing around him, making sure he had a drink of water, bending his straw just so, straightening out the blankets. From the way things looked, if I waited long enough, I'd see Jim fluffing his pillows. I turned to the door - there had to be a quiet corner down the hall where I could sit and read.

"Hey, Sandburg? Could you take this down to the nurses' station and get some ice?" Jim held out the pink plastic pitcher to me.

"Yeah. Sure." I dumped my backpack and took the pitcher to the nurses' station and asked for ice. Since when did Jim start playing nursemaid? I knew the answer - it's what he does every time I'm sick. Every time I've been injured, Jim's there, checking on me, fetching and carrying without making a big deal of it. Jim doesn't fuss. He just goes ahead and does what needs to be done, including, and here my face got hot as I remembered the times he'd helped me, urinals and bedpans and vomit basins.

I took the ice back to the room, and helped Jim move the bed a little, so that Neil wouldn't have to crane his neck to see us when we sat down. There were two chairs against the wall now, side by side, and that made me feel a little more welcome.

I sat down, while Jim helped Neil put on his robe and slippers and walk to the bathroom. Neil took small, tentative steps, using Jim's arm for more than just show. He was weak, and a lot sicker than he looked when he was sitting in bed. Once Neil was in the bathroom, Jim stood guard by the closed door and I caught his eye. There was a depth of hopelessness there that I'd never seen before, a hollowness already carving its way inside him. He could see what was coming, and was powerless to prevent it.

The knowledge was eating him alive.

When he'd gotten Neil settled back in bed, Jim sat in the chair beside me and asked Neil about some of his old research. They had obviously talked about it when they were friends, and Jim really surprised me by his detailed knowledge of Neil's work. I mean, how exciting can house flies be to a sixteen-year-old science nerd and football player? But Jim either had found them fascinating, or else he had wanted to please Neil by acting interested.

As they talked, Jim fidgeted. He shifted in his chair, crossing and uncrossing his legs and making little pyramids with his hands on the armrests. Then he stretched his arms up over his head, and brought one down over the back of my chair. He wasn't really touching me, just brushing the back of my neck with his arm. But the weird thing was that he immediately stopped fidgeting and stillness settled over him like a blanket.

They talked about Neil's work a little longer and then Neil asked Jim about a case that we had just wrapped up. It wasn't much of a case - a series of burglaries carried out by some teenagers - but it had received a lot of publicity because the perps had videotaped themselves committing the burglaries using a stolen video camera. I mean, talk about stupid.

"The tapes will make the trial a lot more interesting," Jim said, smirking. "I can't wait to hear what their defense will be."

"Something creative, I've no doubt." Neil looked thoughtfully at Jim before continuing. "The Anderson boy was in one of Cynthia's classes a few years ago. She told me he was heading for trouble even then. He was in foster care for years, with no stable role model, and displayed the usual teenage combination of self-doubt and bravado. I can't help thinking that we could have avoided this waste of a young life if someone had taken him in hand and showed him love and discipline."

"Probably," Jim said, a shadow crossing his face. "But it didn't happen."

"Hey, don't you remember, Jim?" I cut in. "Father Crawford said that he tried to get Bill Anderson off the streets for a couple of years, and Bill just kept blowing him off. And he didn't even want to see Father Crawford when he came to ask if he could help with his legal expenses. I mean, normally I'd agree with you, but in this case, someone was trying, and Bill just didn't want to listen."

"Or maybe he desperately wanted to be taken down..." Jim's voice was very soft.

Before I could ask Jim what he meant, Neil shook his head and pursed his lips. "No, Jim. It's not the same. You got into your share of trouble," he said, his eyes darting over to me for a second, ordering me to be quiet, "but it wasn't self-destructive, like this boy's actions. You would have straightened yourself out even if Cynthia and I hadn't been around."

"Don't be so sure..."

Jim was absolutely motionless for a moment, then he jumped up from his chair and walked over to the window. He stood at parade rest, staring out the glass, but I'm sure he didn't see a thing outside.

"You didn't see me after I got back from Peru," he continued, his voice level and calm. "I was a mess." His hands tightened on each other, the tendons in his arms standing out, his fists almost white from the tension.

Neil's face was gray, and he closed his eyes as Jim spoke. But he didn't try to answer Jim or argue with him. He just listened. I just sat there, stunned at Jim's words. I could hardly breathe, much less interrupt.

"I almost didn't make it, Neil. A couple of good people caught me before I hit bottom-"

His voice wavered and he cut off abruptly. Then he shivered, and his whole body shook like he was freezing.

"Why?" The word was torn from him and flung at Neil, who flinched even before Jim turned and stalked over to the bed. "Why did you and Cynthia ignore me when I got back from Peru? I called and called and left message after message..." Jim clamped his jaw shut and stared at the wall. "And you never returned my calls," he whispered, closing his eyes.

I stared at Neil's pale face, not quite understanding. I had thought that Jim was the one who broke off the relationship - that he had wanted to cut himself off from the past after the trauma of Peru. But if he had called Neil and Cynthia, and they hadn't answered...

Oh, shit.

I was on my feet and around the bed before I even knew what I was doing. Jim swayed and his arm quivered beneath my fingers as I pulled him toward the door.

"C'mon, man, let's get you out of here and into the fresh air..."

"No, Jim, wait! I can explain..."

"Later." I glared at Neil. "Give him a minute." I pushed Jim toward the door.

"Chief." Jim turned and put his hand on my shoulder, and I knew he had made up his mind. "Thanks, but I owe it to Neil to hear his explanation."

"Fine. Listen to him." I blinked, trying to get myself under control. I don't even want to know what my blood pressure was. Jim's hand traveled down my arm a couple of times, calming me. When I met his eyes, he quirked a pathetic excuse for a smile. Okay. He wanted to stay. I could do that.

Jim sat down, and I ended up perching on the arm of his chair, my hand on his back. He leaned against me, and I could feel the tremors running through him. But his color was better, and he took a deep breath, calming himself.

"Why?"

Neil reached a shaking hand out and took a sip of water. He looked really bad, his skin gray and sweaty, and I almost felt sorry for him. Almost, but not quite.

"Cynthia and I never made any secret about how we felt about the military. We both saw promising young men killed, or wounded, or changed - twisted - so much by the brutality of the military life. It sickened us." He kept his eyes fixed on his hands, and didn't look at Jim. "And when you told us you were going to college on a military scholarship, and would join the army when you finished, we were heartbroken."

"But I called and wrote then, and you answered. What changed?"

My chest tightened unbearably - Jim sounded so lost. All I could do was rub his back a little, and let him press closer.

"I couldn't..." Neil rasped, his hands twisting the blankets. "We couldn't... The last time we talked with you, before you left for Peru, you sounded so different, so cold... We couldn't stand to see the boy we had loved turn into such a man..."

Jim took a deep, shuddering gulp of air and closed his eyes. "So you cut me loose."

"I'm sorry, Jim..."

"Me, too. C'mon, Chief. Let's go." He stood and nodded once to Neil, then walked out the door.

I grabbed my backpack and paused beside Neil's bed. "He needed you then, and you weren't there for him. Why didn't you just take a knife and cut out his heart? It would have been kinder."

His face twisted in pain, and I felt a tingle of satisfaction. No one treats Jim Ellison like that as long as I'm around.

I caught up with Jim at the elevators. He looked fairly calm, but I kept a close eye on him the entire ride home. He refused to talk about what Neil had said, which I pretty much expected. We discussed the opened letters instead, and I agreed to let them both be analyzed at the lab. I didn't think the lab could tell us anything more than what Jim had discovered, but it was worth a shot.

So we stopped by the loft and I got the other letter, and we took them to the station. I wanted to go to the university and get some work done, but Jim wouldn't hear of it. And when we got the phone company's report that they strongly suspected that my office phone had been tapped, although they weren't sure of the method used, I was just as glad to stick close to Jim for the evening.

~~~~

I sighed and looked at the clock beside my bed. 4:17 am. I guess Jim had decided to give up pretending to sleep, because I could smell coffee. He'd been up all night, wandering quietly around the loft. A couple of times I heard the balcony doors open and close, and I knew he was standing out in the cold, staring over the harbor. He'd come back in after ten or fifteen minutes, which I really appreciated. I didn't mind staying up with Jim, even though neither of us acknowledged it, but I didn't want to have to play nursemaid, and if he went outside and zoned, I'd have to drag his butt back in. And that would blow our pretense of privacy.

He was sitting at the table, cradling a mug of coffee, when I wandered out of my room. The counter light caught the side of his face, picking out the fluffed up bed hair and tired droop of his eyelid. He nodded at me.

"You're up early."

"I was kinda restless. Couldn't settle, y'know." I poured myself some coffee and sat across from Jim. "You look rocky." I took a sip, enjoying the bitter heat that trickled down my throat.

"Yeah. Well." He shrugged and stared at his mug.

"Thinking about yesterday?" I wasn't going to push too hard, but it would do Jim good to talk.

"Yeah."

"I was really surprised by what Neil said."

"Me, too, Chief." His mouth and jaw worked, but he didn't say anything else.

"It must've been tough when they wouldn't talk to you." Jim shot me a sharp look. He knew I was fishing, but hey, if he told me to shut up about it, I would. Eventually.

"Yeah." He turned the mug in his hands, around and around, and I had just opened my mouth to ask him how he felt when he sat back and sighed. "I didn't know what to think. I thought they blamed me for losing my men-" He took a deep breath and shook his head. "I wanted to talk about what had happened, and hoped they'd tell me that I'd done everything I could under the circumstances. I tried, Chief, I really tried to salvage what I could from the mission, but..." He pressed his lips tightly together and his shoulders drooped.

Pain shot through me like a bullet. "I know I'm not Neil or Cynthia, Jim, but I believe you did everything possible for your men, and more."

"Thanks, Chief." He raised his head and gave me a half-smile, the pain on his face fracturing like an ice floe breaking up.

"How about some breakfast?" I asked, suddenly filled with nervous energy. I wasn't really hungry, but I needed to do something. It sounds stupid, but Jim's silly little smile had jangled my nerve-ends, and I was practically bouncing in my seat.

"Sure."

So I scrambled up some eggs while Jim made another batch of coffee and set the table. I think we were both surprised by how fast our food disappeared - if anyone had asked me, I'd have said I couldn't swallow a bite. But we sat and ate and talked quietly about the upcoming week's schedule. It was completely, refreshingly boring.

A couple of hours later, I had covered the table with books, papers and my laptop. Jim had sat across from me for a while, cleaning his gun, and it was all I could do to keep my mind on my work. It's not like cleaning guns is... well, sexy, although I'm sure Freud would have something to say about it, but watching Jim carefully take it apart, clean and oil everything, and put it back together was like watching some intricately choreographed ballet. Not a wasted movement, and every movement had its reason.

He must have caught me staring. "I'm almost done, Chief," he said almost apologetically, startling me.

"Yeah, okay." I got a little flustered, I guess. "No problem. I was just thinking..."

"Oh?" He smiled and raised one eyebrow. "Since when do you ever stop thinking?"

//Since I was staring at your hands,// my mind screamed and I felt a wave of hysteria build in me. I must have been more tired than I thought, 'cause I usually don't get rattled by these weird little moments of attraction. Not that it happens very often. Not at all.

I buried my head in my books and managed to concentrate for a while. Until I noticed that Jim was beginning to bounce off the walls. He'd wander to the kitchen, open the fridge, close the fridge without taking anything out, sit on the sofa, turn on the TV, flick through the channels once, turn off the TV, go out on the balcony, stare into the distance for a minute, and then start all over again. I watched him do this three times.

"Jim?"

"Yeah?" He propped himself against the table and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Why don't you go down to the gym for a while and get rid of some of this nervous energy?"

He opened his mouth, closed it, then uncrossed his arms and began to rifle through my notes.

"I'm fine, Sandburg." He pushed himself away from the table and started toward the kitchen.

"Jim! C'mon, man. Do us both a favor and go show those weights who's boss or pound some machine into submission."

He stared at me, the hurt plain on his face. "I didn't want to leave you alone," he finally said, turning and pouring himself another cup of coffee.

Aw, shit.

I closed my book and mentally kicked myself for being ten kinds of fool. I hadn't forgotten about the wiretap and my mail being opened, but it didn't occur to me that Jim would make it his business to stick with me all day. Which was stupid, because that was exactly the kind of thing Jim would do. Guess I really was tired.

"Listen, Jim, I really appreciate you staying with me." I glanced at the phone, I couldn't help it. "But you need to get out. I'm gonna stay here and work. I'll be fine for a couple of hours."

Eventually he agreed, but only after I keyed his cell phone number into the phone's rapid-dial memory and promised to use it if anything happened. And I promised to keep the door locked. I saw him off and settled down at the table.

I worked for over an hour when a quiet knock at the door interrupted my train of thought. I peered out the peep-hole and then jerked the door open.

"What do you want?"

Cynthia stared back at me, startled.

"I'd like to speak with Jim," she said after a moment.

"He's not here."

"Oh." She looked down the hall and surreptitiously wiped the corner of her eye. Her eyes were red and swollen, and she swayed slightly.

Damn.

I opened the door wider. "Come in. He'll be home soon."

I got her settled on the sofa. She looked as if she'd shatter like glass at the wrong touch, a brittle fragility. I offered to make her some tea, and she nodded. Her hands shook as she took the mug, her fingers clasping it like it was a lifeline.

I'd made myself a mug of tea, too, figuring I'd probably need it. I took a sip and turned to her.

"Why are you here?"

She stared at me for a minute or two, her eyes flickering from my face to the loft, taking in the room. I guess she came to a decision, because she turned back to me with a nod.

"I wanted to try and explain to Jim a little more about why we..." Her voice wavered, and she raised the mug to her lips, although she didn't drink.

"Why you ignored him after he returned from Peru?" I didn't mean for the words to come out as harsh as they did... Or maybe I did.

She nodded once, her mouth compressed into a thin line.

I stared at the tea in my mug, picking out the tiny spots of oil as they floated on the surface, winking in and out of sight as the liquid moved and caught the light. Steam curled up, the slightly bitter scent tickling my nose. I wondered, for the millionth time, what it would be like to suddenly have Jim's senses, to experience things so intensely that you lose yourself in the experience...

"I was in college," I began softly, "when I heard this wild story on the news about some soldier who'd been stranded in the jungle for a year and a half. The army'd finally sent someone in to retrieve him, and he was back in the good ol' US of A, recovering from his ordeal." I shifted around, still looking at my tea.

"Some friends and I were talking about it. We were all anthro students, and didn't have a lot of sympathy. Hell, we knew field researchers who'd spent ten or twenty years in the jungle, and they were fine. I figured he was some cookie-cutter military jock who couldn't cope without orders and a PX somewhere nearby for cigarettes and booze." I paused, remembering how young and naïve I'd been at the time.

"A week or two later I walked by a newsstand and saw a picture on the cover of News magazine. It wasn't of anybody special. Just some sweaty, dirty guy with Don Johnson stubble and a bandanna. And then I looked at his eyes...

"I bought the magazine and read about what had happened. Losing his men. Burying them next to the wreckage of the chopper. Enlisting the help of the local tribes. Defending the pass. But I really didn't need to read about it. Everything was visible in his face and eyes - all the pain and death and uncertainty." I looked up in time to catch her staring at me. She turned away immediately.

"Did you see that picture, Cynthia?"

She nodded, but didn't look at me. "Blair, we made what we thought was the best decision at the time."

"For you or for Jim?"

"For everyone," she said, her voice sharp. "It wasn't an easy decision, or one we made lightly." She set down the mug and got up, moving to the windows and staring out. "We saw the photo, and yes, it affected us the same way it affected you. But believe me when I say that we thought we were doing what was best for Jim." She turned back to face me, her arms wrapped tightly across her chest. "We've loved Jim like our own child, and the last thing we'd ever want to do is to hurt him..." A tear suddenly spilled down her cheek.

I jumped up and coaxed her back to the sofa, then got a box of tissues and put it on the coffee table. I was confused. I mean, Cynthia sounded sincere, and the idea of hurting Jim obviously upset her, and yet what they did was so cruel... I couldn't reconcile the two. She cried a little and held my hand, while I just made soothing noises without saying anything.

There was a rattle of keys, and the door burst open. One very pissed Jim Ellison stood in the doorway.

"Cynthia?" The door slammed behind him. "What's the matter?" he said, his voice a mixture of fear and tenderness. Jim stood behind the couch, his hand hovering over her shoulders.

"It's okay, Jim..." I began, and he rounded on me.

"The door was unlocked, Chief," he growled. "I thought I told you to keep it locked when I left!"

"Hey, chill." I jerked my head at Cynthia and glared at him. The man has all the tact of a pit bull, especially when his BP radar is up. He stared at me for a second, then came around the couch and sat next to Cynthia, wrapping an arm around her shaking shoulders.

"Don't cry, Cyn," he crooned, pulling her against his chest and rocking slowly. "I'm here..."

I let go of her hand and she clung to Jim for a minute, her fingers twisting the front of his shirt into knots. He shot me a puzzled look, then handed her a tissue when she pulled away. It took her a couple of minutes to compose herself. I caught Jim's eye again, silently asking if he wanted me to leave. He shook his head no, so I settled back and waited for Cynthia to say whatever she had to say.

"I'm so sorry, Jim," she said, her voice catching. "We don't have any other excuse except that we did what we thought was the best for everyone. I don't expect you to understand, but I hope you can forgive..." She dabbed at her eyes and sniffled.

Jim got very still, his eyes focused somewhere out in space. Then he closed his eyes and pressed his lips together in a frown. "It was a long time ago, Cyn," he said finally. "If you were doing what you thought was best, I can't argue with you."

She nodded. "Thank you."

"How's Neil?"

Her throat worked as she struggled to swallow. "Not well. We got a diagnosis last night. It's cancer."

I could see that the news hit him hard, although, in true Jim Ellison fashion, he just frowned and nodded once. Always the understated one.

"How bad is it?"

"They don't know yet."

"What do the doctors recommend?"

They talked about the benefits of chemo versus radiation, surgery, courses of drug therapy, all the magic bullets in the medical arsenal at their disposal. Sometimes I think we're not all that far from the days of leeches and trepanning, but I didn't really listen. I was too busy watching Jim and feeling horrified. There, right in front of me, he was battening down his hatches and fortifying his defenses; rebuilding walls and barriers that I hadn't seen in months. It was visible in his eyes, in the way he talked with Cynthia, in the set of his shoulders and line of his jaw. Jim Ellison was preparing for the worst the way he always had - by bricking up his heart and soul, by fleeing so deep inside himself that it would take months to coax him back. I felt sick to my stomach.

Eventually they talked themselves to a stand-still. Cynthia looked exhausted, and as if she hadn't eaten since yesterday. Given the news about Neil, she probably hadn't. Jim offered her some lunch, and she agreed that she should have something to eat before driving back to Seattle.

Jim started the sandwiches while Cynthia and I cleared off the table. I carried a pile of books back into my bedroom, and when I came out, she was reading some of my notes.

"Here. Let me take those," I said, and she actually jumped, like I'd startled her. She handed me the notes, with the weirdest expression on her face. I glanced at the notes - they were nothing special, just another reference I'd found to a tribe with a Sentinel legend. I shoved them into a folder and we quickly set the table.

Lunch was quiet. Cynthia managed to eat her sandwich, which didn't really surprise me. Jim makes great sandwiches. Although he'd deny it to the death, he's actually a pretty good cook. I mean, I wouldn't ask him to make a ten course ethnic dinner, but he can handle most basic meals. And he's a lot more savvy about nutrition than most people would give him credit for. It makes sense, you know, 'cause he's really into fitness, and why would he spend all that time sweating in the gym, only to pork out on empty calories? Yeah, I'll grant you that he has an occasional buttermilk donut or cheeseburger, but he's pretty careful otherwise.

Like I said, lunch was quiet. I wanted to talk to Jim, to see if I could stop his retreat inside himself, but there wasn't much I could say in front of Cynthia. So I ate and watched him go farther and farther away. Cynthia left after promising to phone Jim when they knew what was going to happen next, and Jim mentioned something about visiting on Tuesday or Wednesday.

I was washing the plates when he wandered back into the kitchen, looking like some lost animal pretending not to be lost.

"I'm sorry to hear about Neil," I said, sticking a toe in to test the waters.

He shrugged, grabbed the dishtowel, and began to dry the plates. I tried again.

"Did you sense anything about his illness when we visited-"

A plate hit the floor and shattered. I whirled around, flinging soap and water over the counter. Jim was staring at the mess on the floor, the towel hanging limply from his hand.

"Are you okay?" I grabbed his arm and peered into his face. His eyes flickered over me, cold and unseeing.

"That was clumsy," he said calmly, shaking off my hand. A wet, soapy patch stained his sleeve. "Watch it, Sandburg. You're dripping over everything."

I dried my hands on my pants and wiped up the counter as Jim got the broom and dustpan. He swept up the shards scattered all over the floor and dumped them into the trash. His hands shook almost imperceptibly, and he winced at the noise when the broken stoneware clattered into the trash can. But his face was perfectly still, and not even the muscle in his jaw jumped. He looked like one of the totems on Easter Island, cold, hard, inhuman, standing with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the cooking island. God, I hated it when he cut himself off like this.

"Jim, what did you sense in the hospital?" I stood beside him and ventured a little touch on his arm. Nothing much, just a little human contact.

"Nothing." He walked over to the windows, staring out.

I followed him, like I always do. Sometimes I think that when I die, my last sight will be of Jim's back and butt. Not that I particularly noticed, you understand, but aesthetically speaking, he has a very nice back and butt. Anyway, I stood behind him, watching the tension ripple through his back and shoulders. It was like whatever was going on inside him had to surface occasionally, or he'd explode, or go nuts, or do something that would make the evening news.

"I know that's not true, man, 'cause you said yourself that it was hard for you..." Another ripple. I guessed I was on the right track. "I'm your friend, Jim. You can tell me." I touched his arm.

"There's nothing to tell." I bit back my angry retort and took a deep breath. Jim just needs some coaxing before he opens up.

"Was it a smell, or-"

"Don't push me, Sandburg!" he growled, and started toward the door. He checked himself halfway there, instead flinging himself into the couch and turning on the TV, ignoring me.

I don't know what it was that shoved me into oncoming traffic, but I guess I kinda went ballistic.

"Don't push you? Jesus, Jim, if I didn't push you, you'd still be back in caveman mode, repressing the hell out of everything and biting off the heads of innocent bystanders! D'you think I enjoy pushing you? That I get some kind of kick out of banging my head against the walls you've built around yourself? Think again, man." I slammed into my room and grabbed my backpack, stuffing a couple of books into it. I didn't have to stay here. I had work I could do elsewhere.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Jim stared at me as I snagged my jacket, sounding more bewildered than anything else.

"To the library. At least I can get information there..." I enjoyed slamming the door behind me, and clattering down the stairs. It was drizzling outside, which was fine with me. It matched my mood.

I half expected Jim to run out and stop me, but I pulled out of my parking space without seeing hide nor hair of him. Fine. I mean, so my office phone might be tapped, and my mail was being opened... I kept glancing at the rear view mirror, but no one seemed to be following me. Fine. I may not be a cop, but I'm not an idiot. When I got to the university, I parked next to a bunch of other cars, and in the library I set up shop on a table near a couple of other grad students I recognized. I'd done everything I could to protect myself, except drag Jim along, and I settled down for a few hours of work.

An hour later I was still staring off into space, my book open but unread, the paper in front of me blank. I couldn't get my mind off Jim. Specifically, what the hell I could do to help him through this. It wasn't like he was giving me much maneuvering room here. But then again, I was pretty used to running blind when it came to Jim's internal workings. Which didn't mean I had to like the way he shut me out. Me. The closest friend he has. On the other hand, it was classic Jim - a knee-jerk emotional reaction from a man who had single-handedly fashioned repression into an art form. But...

I sighed, suddenly feeling an intense bond of brotherhood with those rats going nowhere fast on their exercise wheels. I wasn't getting a damn thing done here, that was the one thing I was sure about. Time to go home and try a little more head banging against the Ellison Barricade, just because it felt so good and made me feel so useful. I gathered up my stuff and started toward the door, only to stop short by a table.

A table where Jim was sitting like he belonged here, calmly reading a book. He didn't even look up at me when I stopped. Well, why should he? A babysitter didn't need to acknowledge his charge...

God damn him.

What did he think I was going to do? Something stupid, like those idiots in slasher movies who go up into the attic alone? Didn't he trust me enough to be sensible?

I didn't say anything. Not that I could have, given the size of the burning lump that suddenly appeared in my throat and choked me. I turned and walked quickly out of the building, automatically pushing down the anger that crackled through me like a wildfire. My hands shook, and I shoved them into my pockets. I got to the car, and had the presence of mind to realize that I wasn't in a fit state to drive right then, so I turned and practically ran the whole way to my office.

By the time I got there I was feeling better. And a little ashamed. Jim was just being... Jim. After his admission that he didn't want to leave me alone this morning, I should have expected him to follow me. I'd over-reacted, which wasn't really like me. Okay, so what was I going to do now? I dumped my backpack on my desk and flopped on the chair. Walk back to my car, drive home, and hope that Jim hadn't noticed I'd lost it for a moment? Stick around and wait for him to show up? I propped my elbows on my desk and buried my face in my hands, suddenly tired of second-guessing Jim, tired of the whole situation.

A soft knock on the door roused me. Jim leaned against the doorjamb, his arms crossed over his chest, his head tilted to one side. "Can I come in?"

I nodded and he stepped inside. "Chief..." he began, then his head whipped up and he jerked like he'd been hit with a surge of electricity. His whole body tensed as he turned in a tight circle, looking around the room, eyes searching, hackles raised.

"What is it?" Fear trickled down my back like ice water.

"That smell..." he murmured, then swung his head around to pin me with a stare. "Don't you smell it?"

I sniffed and shook my head. Other than the usual smells of musty old books and dusty artifacts, I came up blank.

"Aftershave," he murmured, then paled. "British Sterling..."

I think all the blood in my body decided to drop right into my feet, and I leaned over my desk, suddenly dizzy. Breathe, Sandburg. In. Out. Again. Strong hands pushed me back into my chair and guided my head between my knees. I batted at the arm holding my head down.

"Let go, Jim. I'm fine, dammit!" The hand disappeared and I sat up slowly. Jim was propped against my desk, his face probably looking no better than mine. I took another deep breath and glanced around my office. "It doesn't look disturbed." I got up, ignoring my shaky knees, and walked over to the filing cabinet. None of the artifacts in the room were especially valuable, but the data in the cabinet... Well, that was irreplaceable to me.

Jim appeared next to me, concentrating on the cabinet. He peered at the drawer handles, then, hooking a pencil through the handle, opened the top drawer. The files seemed all intact as I scanned the labels. I shook my head.

"It looks okay."

Jim closed it and used the pencil to open the second drawer. Before I could even check the labels he leaned forward and sniffed.

"This one," he said. Then, starting at the front of the drawer, he hovered over the files, peering intently at them, inhaling deeply. A third of the way along he stopped and pointed to a thick folder. My heart dropped into my shoes even before he said "They stopped here."

Of course. My files contained, among other things, data on individuals with heightened senses I'd traced. The folder Jim indicated was the one for people I'd found with all five heightened senses. There was just one person's data in that folder.

"It's your folder, Jim." He shot me an inscrutable glance and looked back at the folder. I hurried on. "It doesn't have your name or address or anything in it. I just refer to you as 'the subject' and that's all, but..." My voice trailed off, a strange sort of burning started in my chest. For all his smooth, tight muscles, Jim suddenly looked very vulnerable - all it would take was a word or two to the wrong people, and Jim Ellison could find himself the object of more media attention than Princess Diana, even before she died. Every rag in the country would trumpet his abilities and Jim, probably the most private man I know, would be completely laid bare in order to thrill and titillate the public and sell tabloids. Or he could disappear into some secret military installation and never see the light of day again.

I wanted to puke at the thought.

Jim was carefully maneuvering the folder out of the drawer, his fingers wrapped in his handkerchief. "I'm going to have a quick look at this, and then we'll take it to the lab," he said.

I cleared a space on my desk. Jim opened the folder and delicately leafed through it, his eyes narrowed, intently scanning each page. About halfway through, he stopped and sat up a little. "Got tweezers and an envelope, Chief?"

I rifled through my desk drawers until I found the tweezers, and grabbed an envelope from the stack. Using the tweezers, Jim lifted whatever he had seen up to the light. It was a hair. A short, curly blond hair. He tucked it into the envelope and sealed it, then put it in his jacket pocket. After he finished looking at the folder, I got a large envelope, and he slid the folder into it.

Before we left, Jim examined the lock on the door. "They must've gotten in with a key, Chief," he said, checking the hasp. "There aren't any indications that it was forced."

"Damn," I muttered. "There's no way to trace how many people have keys for these offices."

He insisted that we ride to the station together, and I didn't argue. I could pick up my car later. Right now, I didn't particularly want to be driving around alone. It was bad enough that someone was listening to my phone calls, and reading my mail, but to have them in my office, reading my files... I looked out the windshield and shivered, and Jim reached over and gave my shoulder a quick rub.

"You okay, Chief?"

"Yeah. Just kinda... you know, creeped out, and worried about what the hell is happening. I mean, it looks like they want information about you, whoever 'they' are - and they aren't too particular about how they get it."

"Could be," he said laconically.

"Could be? Is that all you have to say?" I couldn't believe how casual he sounded; like it was no big deal.

"Until we get more information, yeah."

I stared at him. "I can't believe you, man! This could be really serious!"

He kept his attention on the road and didn't look at me. "You're theorizing ahead of your data, Darwin." I could almost hear him close the portcullis and raise the drawbridge, shutting me out.

I opened my mouth and then closed it. What was the use? Jim was a master of 'not listening' when he didn't want to. I decided to save my breath for something that might actually have a chance of succeeding, like asking Ellen DeGeneres out for a hot date.

We still hadn't said a word to each other when we walked into the lab. Linda Kim was there - I liked her. She was good at her job, and she had a really twisted sense of humor.

"Hey, guys," she said, twirling around on her stool and greeting us with a grin. "I finished the analysis of those letters. I couldn't get much, but there were some smudges that might have come from leather gloves. Nothing else, though. Here's the report." She got up and walked over to the desk. I'd never noticed how she... well, swayed when she walked, like a model on a runway.

"Thanks, Linda." Jim flashed her one of his 'killer Ellison' smiles, and I could see her knees go weak. She handed him the report, her eyes lingering on him a hell of a lot longer than necessary. Jim, the idiot, was totally oblivious to the way she was looking at him.

I stuck the big envelope in front of her face. "We have a file we'd like you to check out," I said, and she blinked, then gave me a weird look.

Jim chimed in. "We'd like to know if there are traces on the papers in this file similar to those on the letters, and if you can find anything else. I found this hair," he handed her the small envelope, "but nothing else." He leaned forward and I couldn't believe it, but she actually licked her lips. "This is still unofficial, okay?"

"You got it, Jim."

//And you'd like to have it,// I thought. I couldn't help it. For some reason, it made me really uncomfortable to see them flirting. I mean, normally I was happy when Jim paid attention to a woman, much less flirted with her. This whole surveillance thing must've freaked me more than I realized.

"Thanks, Linda." He took her hand! He actually held her hand in his and...

I turned and walked out the door. I didn't have to watch this.

I was about halfway down the hall when I heard the lab door bang open and Jim call out, "Hey, Sandburg, wait up!"

I stopped, but I didn't turn around. Suddenly, a hand wrapped itself around my arm and I was being towed down the hall in Jim's wake. "What the..." Before I could get more out, he had opened the door to a small interview room and pushed me inside.

I rounded on him as he snapped on the lights and shut the door behind him. "You damn well better have a good reason for this, man. I don't like to be pushed around!"

Jim stood with his back to the door and raised his hands. "Give me a minute before you start with the complaints, Chief."

I took a deep breath, pushed down my anger, crossed my arms over my chest and leaned against the table. "Go on."

Jim shoved himself away from the door and began to pace, his eyes traveling over the institutional green walls. "I want you to know I am taking this surveillance business seriously."

"From what you said in the truck, it didn't sound that way to me."

He pursed his lips and frowned, then ran his hand over his face. "Blair, one of the problems when dealing with surveillance is that you're never sure when you are being watched or listened to. I don't think we were being followed, but it was still a possibility. And it was possible that they were listening to us with a directional mike. I had to be careful what I said. I don't want them to know how much we know - that will give us an edge."

I nodded slowly, my anger draining away. "Okay. We can talk about it here, where there are no windows, but anywhere else..." I gave him a shaky grin. "It's gonna be tough not to mention it anywhere else, you know."

"Yeah, I know," he said, his mouth quirking. He looked at me, and I could see the worry in his eyes. "Just try not to talk about it in your sleep, okay?" He opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

"I don't talk in my sleep!" I barreled after him.

~~~~

We were almost home when Jim's cell phone rang.

"Ellison." He paused, listening intently, then made a right turn, away from the loft. "We're on our way, sir. We should be there in twenty minutes."

"What's up?"

"A homicide at one of the art galleries down in the Sanctuary." The Sanctuary was a small, maybe six square block area near the docks. The home of thieves and prostitutes a hundred years ago and poor immigrants for another seventy, it had recently become a fashionable neighborhood, especially for gay artists and the galleries that showed their work. Jim's jaw tightened, the muscle jumping. "You might want to stay in the truck. Simon said it was pretty messy."

Oh great. If Simon said it was messy, then... Well, let's just say the man was not prone to understatement. Lunch had been a long time ago, and that was probably just as well. Less to leave in the gutter.

"Do they know who it is?"

"Not yet."

The rest of the trip passed in silence. I was trying not to anticipate what we'd find, but my imagination's pretty vivid, and I was already feeling queasy by the time Jim pulled up to the curb.

Jim frowned when I opened the door and stepped out of the truck. "You think this is a wise idea, Chief?"

I shrugged. "Probably not."

Jim led the way past the uniforms, his hand hovering over my shoulder. Not touching, you know, but just... there. My stomach settled a little, and I glanced over at him. He nodded and a smile ghosted his lips. I knew that if the gore got too much for me and I had to leave, he wouldn't call me on it. He understood.

And then the door opened and we walked into a bloodbath. There was no question that the guy had been murdered. I mean, even if he had wanted to hang himself, he couldn't have disemboweled himself afterward. Not to mention cutting himself into pieces. I managed not to embarrass myself by staying in the hall, but Jim was having a hard time coping with the smell. It was worse than a slaughter house.

It was after two a.m. when we finally stumbled into the loft, tired and hungry, but not capable of eating much.

"How about fixing some scrambled eggs?" Jim suggested as he leafed through the mail. It wasn't obvious, but he scanned each piece carefully before setting it aside.

"Sure." I noticed the message light blinking on the answering machine and hit the play button.

"Jim..." Cynthia's voice sounded tinny on the machine. "Neil's blood pressure began to drop this afternoon after I got back, and the doctors suspect he's hemorrhaging internally. They're prepping him for surgery now. I..." Her voice faltered. "I'm not sure why I called, because I know you can't do anything from Cascade, but I had to tell you..." A muffled voice sounded in the background. "I have to go, the doctor wants to speak with me... I'll call you in the morning when I have news."

I got to Jim in three steps.

"Okay, man-" I steered him toward the couch. His entire body quivered, except for his lips. They were pressed together so tightly that they looked like a slash of white in his pale face. His eyes... well, they were survivor's eyes, glassy from shock and pain.

Before I could get him to sit down, he shook his head and pulled away.

"I'm fine, Sandburg," he said, his voice harsh.

So he was going to play it that way. I'd hoped for... It didn't matter.

"You're not fine, Jim," I countered, but I kept my tone level. No sense in antagonizing him any more than necessary. "You were already exhausted, emotionally and physically, and now you get more bad news. It's no sin to admit that you're in pain."

He just stood there, arms crossed tightly over his chest, like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will. I could see the tremors pass through his body, the accumulating tension lodging in his jaw as he ground out, "I can handle it."

"Yeah, you probably can, but at what price?" I slipped around in front of him and laid my hand on his arm - his flesh was cold and damp, the muscles underneath shivered like tightly stretched cables, ready to snap. "I'm your friend, remember? Remember what friends do for each other? I thought we'd already had this discussion, y'know."

Suddenly his hand swooped out and he grabbed my wrist, raising my hand almost to his face. He squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled deeply, then released me and stepped back.

"I'm going to bed." He turned on his heel and practically ran up the stairs. I just stared at the place where he had been and then went to my room. What the hell else could I do?

~~~~

The phone woke me. I was trying to haul myself out of bed when it stopped. Jim must've answered; I could hear him talking quietly. I glanced at the clock - 8:15. Damn! We didn't have time to sleep in - we had an investigation to conduct. I staggered out to the bathroom, trying to shake off that muzzy, disconnected feeling you get when you've suddenly woken up from a heavy sleep. Jim was sitting at the table, all wrapped up in his robe, phone in one hand, the other one running through his hair, making it stand up in funny little spikes. I got this weird flash of Jim painting them green and purple - punk Jim - and snorted at the thought.

He looked up and gave me a wave, so I detoured over to the table and leaned against it, waiting for him to finish.

"I do want to see him," he said, giving me an unreadable look. "But we're in the middle of an investigation, and it probably won't be until later in the week... The St. Francis Center, right. Don't worry, I can find the address. Oh, here's my cell phone number, in case... in case you need to get in touch with me quickly." He rattled off the number, then said goodbye and hung up.

"Neil?" I asked.

He nodded, rubbing his hands over his face. "They were able to stop the hemorrhaging, but the cancer is everywhere inside him. All they can do is make him comfortable. Cynthia's moving him to a hospice in a couple of days."

"Good idea. It'll be more low-key there." I chewed on my lip as I looked at him. I was sorry about Neil, but I didn't really know him - it was Jim I was hurting for now. Big, buff Jim, who, like Atlas, took the weight of the world on his broad shoulders and was almost crushed by it.

I really hate feeling helpless, especially when there's not a damn thing I can do to change the situation. I wanted to get some coffee on, and make us a good breakfast to make up for going to bed hungry last night, but something pinned me there by his side. It wasn't pity... Nah, definitely not pity. Anyhow, I reached out and squeezed his shoulder gently, and he lowered his hands from his face and gave me the weirdest look.

"Jim," I said, and then I had to clear my raspy throat. Hadn't had my first cup of coffee yet, y'know. "I'm sorry about Neil."

"Thanks, Chief." He darted a glance at the phone, then his eyes bore into me. With a quick flick of his head, he mouthed a word, and I was suddenly glad I hadn't had anything to eat yet, 'cause it would've come right back up. I guess I was so surprised that I froze for a minute. Jim tapped me on the cheek and repeated it. "Tapped."

I nodded once, wishing I hadn't understood. "How about I make us some breakfast before we head out?" My voice was steady, and Jim gave me a brief, warm smile that made my breath catch.

"Sounds good. We have to meet with Simon this morning, and I want to stop by the gallery on the way and have another look."

"Okay." I stretched, joints popping and muscles aching. "Gimme fifteen minutes to wash, and I'll get started."

Jim levered himself up and slapped my stomach lightly. "Ten minutes, Chief, and I'll put on the coffee."

"Deal, man."

I made it in eight, receiving a cup of coffee, a grin, and a shoulder smack before Jim disappeared into the bathroom.

We pulled up to the gallery forty minutes later. Although Jim had done a sweep of the gallery last night, the smell of blood and raw viscera had overpowered everything, affecting even his sight and hearing. He needed to do a sweep again, this time with no pieces of body lying around and some fresh air in the rooms. I picked up a newspaper on the way, and the story of the murder was buried back on page five, next to the embezzlement of church funds and the mall flasher stories. Fortunately, the details of the murder weren't made public.

Twenty minutes after that we were on our way back to the station with an evidence bag containing a blood-covered hair. Jim had found it in a gory corner, resting on top of a pool of dried blood. Since the guy killed had dark brown hair and this one looked like it had originally been blond, he bagged it.

We hadn't talked about our phone being tapped, but as soon as we got to the station and checked the bag in as evidence, I practically dragged Jim down to the interview room across from the lab, slamming the door behind me.

"Those bastards!" I paced the room, trying to find the words to express my anger. Usually that wasn't a problem, but this time I wasn't very successful. After a few "shits" and "damns," I stopped and turned to Jim. He was leaning against the cinderblock wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his face solemn.

"You done?" It wasn't an accusation.

I slammed my fists onto the table a couple of times, then shoved my hands into my pockets and shrugged. "Yeah."

"Right." He pushed away from the wall. "I'm fairly sure it wasn't in place last night - there wasn't any hint of it on Cynthia's message. So they decided, for whatever reason, to put the tap into place overnight. They also don't know that we know it, and we've got to assume that their surveillance is comprehensive."

"D'you think they've bugged the loft?" It was hard to breathe - something really heavy was squeezing my chest.

"No," he shook his head. "I did a quick sweep before we left, and I didn't pick up anything that indicated a bug. If they're out there, they're using directional mikes. In a lot of ways they're easier than bugs." He frowned. "Don't kid yourself, Sandburg. They know our routines and habits, down to just how often we use the can."

"Jim, I live with a sentinel. I gave up on privacy a long time ago."

His eyes went wide, his cheeks grew red, and for a second I could see the hurt in his face. Then he frowned and nodded. "Point taken, Chief."

Before I could move or say anything, he was out the door, heading to the elevators. I ran after him and managed to slip into the elevator right before the doors closed.

"Sorry, man. I didn't mean it that way."

He shrugged and stared at the blank doors. "It doesn't matter."

"Well, yeah, it does. I know you don't spy on me."

He kept staring at the elevator doors, but his face got redder and redder, and when the doors opened on six, he jumped out of the car and practically knocked over Rhonda. I followed him slowly, turning over an idea that had just occurred to me. A very weird idea. A very weird, kinda thrilling (in a shitting-in-your-pants sorta way) idea.

The big problem was going to be introducing the topic. It would have to be carefully handled. Kid gloves treatment. Jim was already at his desk, his face buried in a report. So I walked over and sat down in the chair beside his desk, turned to him and said "So how long have you been monitoring me, and is it just me or it is anyone you're around a lot, and is it conscious or unconscious?"

"Sandburg!"

Heads turned in the bullpen and in the hall. Jim did a searchlight glare around the room, and eyes fell as they met his. He gave me one of his 'if looks could kill, Sandburg, you'd be toast' scowls, but I ignored him. The topic was too intriguing to drop just because Jim Ellison didn't want to talk about it, and besides, it would make a great chapter in my dissertation. "Unconscious Partner Monitoring Behavior in Sentinels," or something like that.

"This is really great, man," I whispered. "Does it happen all the time? Which senses do you use? Or do they rotate, you know, sound now, smell another time, that sort of thing?"

He just stared at me, his mouth open, his cheeks pink. Then his mouth snapped shut and he picked up the report.

"Let's leave the academics alone for the moment, Chief. I think we've got an ID on the victim. Jenkins reports that the wallet he found in the dumpster down the back alley seems to check out, and the photo on the driver's license resembles the body." He read a little more and hesitated, his eyes flickering up to me.

"So who do we think it was?"

Jim took a deep breath. "J. Earl Wallace. He was a professor in Rainier's physics department." I shivered - I couldn't help it. Thinking about what the poor guy must have endured before he died. Jim looked at me again, as if he was expecting something. Oh, of course.

"I didn't know him, Jim. I may have seen him before on campus, but we weren't acquaintances."

Jim relaxed his jaw a fraction, then nodded. "We'll go check out his house and office - see if we can trace a connection between him and anyone connected with the gallery."

"Is the gallery owner... what was his name? Keith Roberts? Is he back in town yet?"

"His assistant said he was due back around noon today. We'll try to catch him this afternoon."

"Man, what a rotten thing to come back to." I grimaced, remembering the way the blood and gore had splattered over the paintings and almost coated some of the sculptures in the gallery. "A lot of the art is probably ruined, and even if you could clean it up, who would want it after that?"

Jim shrugged. "There are always people willing to make a buck on someone else's tragedy, Chief." That's Jim - supremely practical. But he had a point.

We met briefly with Simon and Jim updated him on the status of the case, then we headed out to talk with Professor Wallace's family, friends and colleagues. As we drove to the home address in Wallace's wallet, I thought about Jim's tacit admission that he monitored me. It didn't bother me - like I told Jim, I'd given up the concept of privacy when I'd moved in. It was like living in a barracks or a successful commune; you knew everyone's business in nauseating detail, but you pretended ignorance for sanity's sake. That was okay with me. I trusted Jim; anything he learned about me would be strictly confidential. Just like what I had learned about him. Well, except for the information that I needed for my dissertation.

Anyhow, I decided to do a little test. I stared out the window, then started to breathe rapidly, like I was scared. One. Two. Three...

"Chief? You okay?"

Wow.

I mean, that was fast! Okay, well, maybe it was because we were in a small, enclosed space, with no one else around, no other distractions. I'd have to try it again, at the station, or in a shopping mall, with lots of people and noise and-

"Sandburg?"

"I'm fine, Jim." I grinned at him and he shot me his 'amused but damned if I'm gonna smile' look. I spent the rest of the drive designing a simple test protocol.

No one was at home at Wallace's neat little house. And when I say neat, I mean neat. Whoever maintained that putting green lawn and sparkling home could have given Jim lessons in order and cleanliness. We tried the neighbors, and struck it lucky on the third try. Mrs. Mona Spencer was a widow in her sixties, who had plenty of time on her hands and enjoyed keeping track of the comings and goings of her neighbors. She carefully examined Jim's badge through the locked storm door, and then Jim himself, giving him a once-over that would do a cop proud. She smiled. He obviously passed muster. Then she turned to me and frowned.

"Are you a detective as well?"

Before I could even open my mouth, Jim smiled at her. "Oh no, Mr. Sandburg is a special consultant to the police department, and we are very fortunate that he agreed to accompany me today..."

She shot me another look, and then Jim leaned toward her and his smile widened. Oh boy, he was doing his 'killer Ellison' shtick again, and she was lapping it up like a cat with a bowl of cream. "He only handles the most difficult and interesting investigations."

Somehow I managed to keep a straight face during all the crap that Jim was dishing out like a pro. I don't know whether it was the prospect of helping with a difficult and interesting investigation, or Jim's attentions, but she quickly ushered us into her living room.

"Well, Detective Ellison and Mr. Sandburg," she said, settling herself in a brocade wing chair positioned next to the hard little couch where Jim and I sat, "how can I help you?"

"We're trying to get in touch with Professor Wallace-" Jim began.

A shadow crossed her face. "Oh dear. I hope the Professor hasn't gotten into trouble, or anything like that..." Her lips thinned and she frowned.

"In trouble? What kind of trouble?"

"Well, I don't like to speak ill of anyone, much less a well-respected man who lives two houses away, but..." She lowered her voice and leaned forward, enjoying herself enormously, "...but when a man's wife of over twenty years leaves him and then he takes up with a young man, who arrives in the evening and leaves in the morning, and who parades around the garden in shorts that are so short you can practically see his-"

Her mouth snapped shut and she turned beet red.

"I understand," Jim soothed. "When did his wife move out?"

"About six months ago, I believe," she said, squinting as she concentrated. "Yes, it was the end of May or beginning of June when Doreen moved out because the Petersen's baby was born on June 10th, and she was gone by then."

"Do you know if they got divorced?" I asked.

"Oh no. Doreen and Earl are good Catholics, and that is not an option. In my opinion, although divorce is not a practice I usually condone, there are times like this when two people are better off divorced. I always said that if the Pope was stuck in a horrible marriage the way some women are, he'd be the first to allow divorces for all sorts of reasons."

"Do you have Mrs. Wallace's address?"

She nodded. "Yes, of course. Doreen and I were friendly when she lived here, and although she was loyal to her husband and didn't complain to me, I knew there was something wrong between the two of them for three or four years." She shook her head sadly. "I know the doctors say that this... attraction to other men is genetic and that the poor things can't help themselves, but Doreen was a beautiful woman who always made the best of herself, and why Earl wouldn't find her desirable is beyond me..." She got up and retrieved a small floral address book from an ornately carved desk. "Now, here it is. I'll write it down for you. I'm afraid I don't know where she works... She mentioned something about a bank, but I'm not sure which one."

"When did you last see Dr. Wallace?" Jim cut her off neatly in mid-thought.

"Oh, my, let me see..." She paused for a minute, then nodded. "Saturday morning it was. I saw him leave around ten or so."

We said goodbye pretty quickly after that and drove over to the university. Jim wanted to interview some of Wallace's colleagues, and maybe find a photo of him. On the way, he tried to phone Wallace's wife, Doreen, but she wasn't home.

We didn't get much help from the Physics Department. It sounded like Wallace was universally respected, a brilliant physicist, and had absolutely no friends at work. No one had ever been invited to his house, or met his wife, or knew anything about him personally, except that he was always organized and prompt and kicked up a fuss whenever his routine was disturbed. Even the Department Head agreed that he was an enigma, but since Wallace was good with the students and responsible for several important discoveries in his field, he was left alone. According to a couple of his colleagues, he had left Friday afternoon as usual and hadn't been seen since. We checked out his office, and it was as neat and tidy as his house. I found it depressing. Jim looked on the organized files and books and papers with a nod of approval. Of course.

"Where to next?" I asked as we walked back to the truck.

Jim checked his watch. "The gallery owner, Roberts, should be back by now. We'll go talk with him, and then try to get in touch with Wallace's wife again. She'll have to ID the body."

"Oh man..." I felt kinda queasy at the thought. "It must be bad enough to leave your husband because he's gay and not to be able to get a divorce, but to have to look at that face..."

"Yeah, it stinks, Chief." His voice was kind, and he gently nudged me with his arm.

We got to the truck, and I suddenly remembered my car, still sitting in the library parking lot. "Hey, why don't I drive my car back to the loft now? You can follow me, and it'll save us a trip later."

Jim agreed, with the proviso that I'd make sure he was behind me all the time, and not to try to run any yellow lights. I shot him a hurt look and he grinned.

"I've seen you drive, Mario. To you, yellow means 'speed up.'"

I didn't even bother to argue with ol' Señor Law 'n' Order. I kept to the speed limit and obeyed every single damn traffic law the entire drive back. It took us twice as long as usual.

Jim pulled into the space next to me, and I leaned in his window. "I just want to grab a book I forgot this morning. It's in my room. I'll be right back."

Ignoring his snort, I ran up the stairs - the elevator is slower than molasses in January - and quickly unlocked the door. I think I was only about three steps inside when I noticed that the doors to my room were closed. I thought I had left them open this morning. I was pretty sure I had, but maybe I was thinking of another day. I opened the doors, and smelled it. Strong, sweet and unfamiliar, the scent permeated the entire room.

Shit. Oh shitshitshit...

I backed out quietly, my heart pounding, my throat suddenly parched. It didn't look like anything had been disturbed, but then, a professional wouldn't make that kind of mistake. I glanced around the living room and kitchen, but I didn't want to go up to Jim's room - at least, not without Jim standing beside me. I opened the door and ducked into the hall, slumping back against the wall for a second, my eyes closed, as I composed myself.

The hand on my shoulder made me jump and lash out, but my fist was caught and held in a firm but gentle grip.

"Easy, Sandburg. I don't need a black eye."

"Oh man, Jim..." I was really glad to see him, and my other hand clutched his jacket. It was the shock, y'know.

"What happened?"

"There's this strange smell in my room," I began in a whisper, trying not to babble. "I've never smelled it before, and my doors were closed, and I guess..." I blushed and hesitated. It sounded so stupid when I said it out loud. "I guess I thought someone had been searching my room..."

Jim nodded, like he was taking me seriously, and released my fist. It was hard to let go of his jacket, but I did. I really wanted to hold him tightly... Well, that's not important. Forget it. He held his finger to his lips and then jerked his head toward the door. "Let's go check it out."

With a quick pat on my shoulder, he drew his gun, opened the door and walked in. "I'm just going to change my pants. You know I hate when I spill coffee on myself," he said. His eyes raked over the rooms, and I could practically see him listening. He slipped into my room, tested the fire door, and when he started toward the stairs, his face was pale.

"No hurry, man," I replied, going for a casual sound. I don't think I succeeded, but he just nodded and silently disappeared upstairs. I knew empirically that he was only out of my sight for about ten seconds, but damn, that was the longest ten seconds I could remember. I must've been holding my breath, because as soon as I saw Jim, I took a big gulp of air.

He had a pair of pants slung over his shoulder, the gun still in his hand. That's my Jim - no detail is too small for him to remember. If we were under surveillance, he'd have to appear in different trousers. He ducked into the bathroom and then checked the emergency exits.

I guess he was satisfied that everything was secure for the moment, because he handed me his gun and quickly changed his pants. With another pat on my shoulder, he reholstered his gun and motioned me into my bedroom. The smell was already dissipating, but Jim wrinkled his nose.

"British Sterling?" I mouthed, and he nodded. His arm swept out in a gesture that encompassed the room, and he looked at me questioningly. I quickly glanced around, trying to remember what it had looked like this morning before we left. Books, papers, notes, journals...

Damn.

I know I'm not the neatest person in the world - Jim would call that an understatement, by the way - but I do know where everything is on my desk. And my current journal was not where it was supposed to be. I keep them organized by date, not surprisingly, and I remembered I had last written in it on Saturday night - well, Sunday morning, really - when Jim had stayed up all night. Now it was in the wrong place.

Some bastard was reading my journal.

I was so angry that I almost said something to Jim, but he quickly put his finger on my mouth, silencing me. I stared at him, my chest suddenly tight. With a strange little grimace, he swayed toward me, then jerked his hand away and turned toward the door. I touched my mouth before the warmth of his finger disappeared, licked my lips, and ignored the twisting in my gut.

We grabbed sandwiches at the deli, finishing them quickly. Mine could've been made of cardboard - I didn't even taste it. We hardly spoke as Jim drove downtown to the gallery, but my eyes kept swinging around to his still, self-contained figure, like a compass needle to the north. Anger and worry warred with confusion, but I couldn't say anything about the break-in, or phone taps or my mail being opened. Not in the truck, at least. Not until we got back to the station and down in the basement to that claustrophobic room...

Jim's hand crept across the seat and his fingers slid down my arm in long, easy strokes. He didn't look at me, but I scooted closer to him and leaned into his touch. My anger slowly evaporated, leaving the worry and an unsettled gnawing inside. Jim's face was as calm and composed as ever, but his hand trembled against me, like he was scared. Jim. Scared. Jim was never scared, at least not for himself. And that meant that he was scared for me. That simple fact sent tiny slivers of ice through my chest.

One deep breath and a stern admonishment to myself later, I was calmer. Getting freaked by this whole business wasn't going to help me or Jim or anyone. I needed to stay calm and focused so that we could beat these rat bastards at their own game. That decided, I smiled at Jim and patted his hand, resting on my shoulder. It provided a small island of warmth on my cold body, and I was really grateful that Jim was there beside me, doing his Blessed Protector thing. I can take care of myself most times, you know. I don't like to fight, but I will if I have to. I've picked up a few self-defense tricks over the years, but this covert ops stuff was way out of my league. After all this shit goes down, I think I'll ask Jack Kelso for some more tips on dealing with spies and moles and all. Whoever was doing this didn't seem to be in Lee Brackett's league, but having more information might save us some grief in the future.

And the truth is, I didn't want Jim to have to shoulder the responsibility alone. I'm his partner, dammit, and I should be able to pull my own weight in this.

"Hey, Chief, wake up." Jim prodded me in the shoulder. "We're here."

"Sorry, man," I said, scrambling out of the truck. "I was just trying to work a few things out."

"Don't strain anything, Professor." He gestured to the side of the building. "Roberts' apartment door is this way."

The freshly-painted green door opened almost immediately, and a huge bear of a man stood in the doorway. Jim introduced himself, pulling out his badge. The guy just shook his head, threw up his hands and rumbled "This way," before turning and leading the way up the narrow staircase.

I followed Jim, feeling extraneous, kinda like the tail-end of a parade. He led us to a spare, bright room and motioned us toward the sofa. It looked like some sort of crazy foam sculpture, but it was surprisingly comfortable. He sat, or perched, really, on a collection of rods dotted with strategically placed cushions, masquerading as a chair. It was beautiful, in a weird, too-much-spicy-food-dream sort of way.

"Greg told me what happened," he began, obviously shaken, "or at least as much as you told him. What can I do to help?"

Jim gave him the standard platitudes about being sorry this had happened, etc. I was proud of him - he sounded like he really meant them. Then he pulled out the photocopy enlargement of Wallace's driver's license photo.

"Do you know this man?"

Roberts took the paper and stared at it, frowning. "Was this the man who was killed?"

"That's what we're trying to discover," said Jim. "Have you seen him before?"

"Yeah." Roberts nodded slowly. "Yeah, I've seen him around. He's been to a couple of openings with Brett Paul. They made a cute couple."

"Brett Paul?"

"The artist. He did that series of small rose quartz sculptures on display downstairs."

I shared a look with Jim - we both remembered those little sculptures. I didn't have any idea that they'd been carved from rose quartz, though, because of the blood and gore that had covered them.

"Do you know of any disagreements they may have had recently?"

Roberts thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No. They were at my opening last Tuesday, and I don't think anyone could pry them apart. Brett's..." He laughed, not pleasantly. "Brett's very demanding. He likes both attention and money, and is willing to use his considerable 'charms' to get what he wants. From what I could see, and I wasn't paying them a lot of attention, you understand, Wallace is completely under his thumb." He paused. "So to speak."

"Where does Brett Paul live?"

"Wherever he damn well pleases, I imagine. He has an apartment and studio on the waterfront, about eight blocks from here, but my guess would be that he stays with Wallace as much as possible, to save on expenses."

Jim leaned back and stretched out his legs, looking steadily at Roberts. I knew that look - Jim was shifting into hunting mode. "You don't like him, do you?"

Roberts froze for a second, then shrugged. "No, I don't. He played me for a fool two years ago, and... Well, I still resent it. But he's a damn good artist, and I'm glad to have his work in my gallery. It's exquisite, approachable, and it sells well."

He gave us Paul's address and phone number, adding "I wouldn't be surprised if his phone is cut off. Brett's not very good about paying bills on time, although he never forgets what he's owed." We left soon afterward, after Jim reassured Roberts that he'd be able to get into the gallery and clean up in a couple of days.

Sure enough, when Jim tried Paul's number back at the truck, he got the 'out of service' message.

"Looks like Roberts was right," he said, pulling away from the curb and heading away from the station.

"Are we going to his place?"

"Might as well while we're in the area, Chief."

We drove down to the waterfront and found Paul's apartment building. It had been an old warehouse, but was converted into apartments in the mid 80's. Parking was a bitch at that time of day, and Jim finally found a space three blocks away. As we walked back to the building, he stayed close beside me, his arm bumping into me, his fingers brushing mine.

Paul lived on the second floor. Jim knocked on the door, then cocked his head to one side, listening.

"No one's home," he said, turning away. Then his head jerked up and he inhaled deeply.

"What is it?" He swayed, eyes glazed, and I pressed my hands against his chest to steady him.

"Blood..."

His hands covered mine for a second and he squeezed them gently before pushing them away. Covering the doorknob with a handkerchief, he tried the door - it was unlocked and swung open slowly.

"Your gun, Jim," I whispered as he started through the door.

He frowned and shook his head. "There's no one alive in here, Chief." Then he disappeared inside, and I followed cautiously.

The apartment was basically one large open space, with a little cubicle in the corner that was probably the bathroom. It had been casually divided into living, dining and kitchen areas, but the largest was obviously used as a studio. Stones of various sizes and colors were scattered over shelves and a large table, some raw, some roughly carved, some finished. There were a couple of machines next to the table - probably a polisher and grinder. A table saw of some sort stood in the corner. Apart from the clutter in the studio, the place was even more barren than Jim's when I first moved in -- there was no place for anyone to hide, except for the bathroom.

And that's where Jim was headed.

The door was closed, but even I could smell the sharp, metallic tang of blood, and the other disgusting odors that accompanied death. Jim never hesitated. He wrapped his shirt-tail over his hand and opened the door. The reek hit me like a blow - I can't imagine what it was like for Jim. I peered around the door-frame and then stepped back quickly. Another murder. It wasn't as bad as Wallace, but I don't think anything could be as bad as Wallace. This guy had had his throat cut. Almost severed, really, which I guess was why there was so much blood around. It must have gushed for a few seconds while his heart was still pumping...

"Give me your phone, Jim, and I'll call this in," I said, trying not to breathe or look into the bathroom as I held out my hand.

He handed me the phone with a grunt, and I spent the next couple of hours hanging around, trying not to get in the way. When Simon arrived, we discussed the case with him, and he decided that Jim and I should stick with the Wallace side, while Brown and Rafe would handle this. We'd exchange data and coordinate with each other. Someone pretty high up had already heard about Wallace, and had lit a fire under Simon's ass. They wanted his murder solved and the murderer on trial asap. Paul, if this guy was Paul, was definitely playing second fiddle here, regardless of how things were when he was alive.

Simon fingered his unlit cigar thoughtfully. "Sounds like our only source of solid information is Mrs. Wallace. Get some dinner, and then drive over and see if she's in. She'll have to ID the body, but that can wait until tomorrow."

"We're on it, sir."

We grabbed a quick burger, but instead of eating in the relative peace and quiet of the truck, Jim motioned me into a booth in the back corner of the crowded restaurant and squeezed in beside me.

"What's up, Jim?"

He ducked his head and shielded his mouth with his hand. "Need to talk, Chief. Without anyone listening."

I mirrored him. If anyone was paying attention to us, we must've looked pretty stupid with our heads down and our hands cupped over our mouths. But the noise of the crowd would make it difficult, if not impossible, to overhear us and the place was full of high school kids, too wrapped up in themselves to notice two older guys sitting quietly in the corner.

"How the hell did they get into my room? Everything was locked up, and I don't leave a key outside anymore."

"They came in through the front door," Jim murmured. "They had a key. And they left through the fire door." He leaned against me, a warm wall of flesh standing between me and the world.

"We've gotta tell Simon what's happening, Jim. Maybe get some surveillance of our own set up."

"No," he said quickly. "Not yet... Unless-" He swung around and looked at me, like he was searching for something. "We could do that, Chief, but it might tip them off, and then we'd never find out who's behind this."

I grimaced. He was right, at least about the counter-surveillance. "Hey, I want to know who's doing this more than anyone, man, but if something happened to you... us..." I swallowed convulsively, trying to push down the panic that suddenly rose inside me. "At least Simon would have a clue about what was going on. Maybe there's something we could do that we haven't thought of, or maybe we won't feel so isolated if we told him - I don't know, man, but it just seems the right thing to do!"

I clasped my hands together, trying to stop them from shaking. Where the hell had all that come from? I guess everything that was bottled up inside me decided to go walk-about - an emotional purge. But it wasn't cathartic - I didn't feel better afterward. If anything, I felt worse.

Jim leaned closer, his hand sliding over mine. "You're right, Blair," he whispered. "We'll tell Simon in the morning."

"But what about tonight? I mean, we can't sleep at home - they could get in and-"

He squeezed my fingers gently before raising his hand to his forehead, rubbing it hard. "We have to act as if we don't know we're being watched, Chief."

"Yeah. Okay. You're right, man." I hated the defeated tone in my voice, but dammit, this was driving me nuts.

"Don't worry, Sandburg. I'll rig it so that we'll have plenty of warning if they try to get in tonight. They won't take us by surprise."

I couldn't hide my spark of excitement. "Oh yeah? Are you gonna do some Covert Ops stuff?"

His mouth quirked into a half-smile. "Something like that. Now, if you're done, let's get over to Mrs. Wallace's and see if she's home."

It took us forty-five minutes to make our way across town to the apartment complex Doreen Wallace called home. They weren't bad apartments - the neighborhood was relatively safe and they were pretty inexpensive - but the walls were like cardboard and the rooms were small. A lot of grad students lived in the complex, and I'd been to a couple of parties there. It must have been a real let-down for Mrs. Wallace to move there after living in that beautiful house. But maybe she didn't have much choice. Or maybe it was her choice.

We finally found her apartment tucked way back in a corner building, and Jim knocked on the door. The chain rattled, and the door opened a crack.

Jim introduced us, showing his badge, and the door swung wide. I don't think I let my surprise show, but Doreen Wallace was a babe! Her husband had been in his early sixties, and so I'd assumed that she'd be about his age. She wasn't young - probably in her mid-forties - but she had one of those faces that gets more beautiful with age, and her short blonde hair didn't look like the color came out of a bottle. She was wearing a skirt and blouse - office clothes - and from what I could see, her body was as good-looking as her face. I like older women. They really know what they're doing.

I glanced over at Jim, but he had his professional face on and I couldn't tell what he was thinking. She ushered us into her tiny apartment. It was sparsely furnished, the couch and chair obviously second-hand but clean. She sat down and tucked her feet up under her, like a teenager. So she was limber, too.

"What is it, Detective?" she asked, resting her chin in her hand and giving Jim a wide-eyed look. I checked Jim to see how he was taking it.

"It's about your husband," he began. She flinched and sat back in the chair, folding her hands tightly in her lap.

"About seven months ago, Detective, my... husband made it abundantly clear that he wished to have nothing to do with me. Whatever news you have should be given to him or his..." She hesitated, and her finger