As alleys went, the one Blair waited in was typical for Washington, D.C., or any other major city for that matter. Nothing about it, at first glance, made it stand out, and that was exactly what he needed. At one end was a fairly busy side street, at the other it opened onto a small court with a chain-link fence separating it from another alley. In between was the usual debris of human life - graffiti, dumpsters full to overflowing, rusty fire escapes, windows of broken glass and locked doors. The differences that made it important to Sandburg could not be seen, unless the observer had more light than the early evening provided.
Behind him, tucked into the corner of the fence and adjacent building was an over-sized dumpster, the kind used for construction. Blair, who this week was going by William Winters, the most recent of the many pseudonyms he'd had since he and Jim had begun their search for the un-named enemy that had driven them from Cascade, had positioned himself in the lee of the huge dumpster. The shadows covered him, even to night goggles, and it seemed that he was cornered. Shivering under his coat despite the mild late spring weather - there were days when he thought he was never going to be warm again since their hike through a blizzard last winter - he said "Man, I wish this party would start. What if Nelson doesn't show?" He used the jailhouse whisper he and Jim had perfected over the long months they had been learning the streets here.
"You're a threat, Chief. He has to show, if for no other reason to assess how much of one you are. Besides, by now you know half the trick is not letting the wait get to you." To Blair it seemed as if Jim was standing close enough to speak into his ear, calming him.
"Are the other guests in place?"
"Unmarked unit on the other side of the fence; man's clever; he can see in but you couldn't see him unless you were right on top of the fence. He's shooting for sound, but all he can pick up of our conversation is static." Quietly chuckling Jim added, "He thinks you're psyching yourself up to take on Nelson. I've made another cop three stories up, on the fire escape. He's got a camera, and is chewing you out regulation style because he hasn't been able to get a clear shot of your face. Good job, there, Chief."
"McNab in the unmarked or on the fire escape?"
"Neither. He's prowling around trying to find a way to get close without tipping you off. Looks like he may position himself on top of the dumpster."
"Yuck! Talk about above and beyond."
"Heads up."
Raising his shoulders and hunching his head, Blair tried to burrow deeper into the shadow created by the hood loosely framing his head. It, the jacket it was attached to, and his jeans were as unremarkable as possible. From under his brow he watched Nelson stomp up the alley, not bothering to use any discretion. Good, he thought. The arrogant school counselor was now tagged as thoroughly as if he wore a tracking collar.
A few feet from where Sandburg lurked, the slender man stopped and threw a manila envelope at him. "You sent me this?"
Letting it fall to the ground at his feet, Blair calmly confirmed, "Think of them as calling cards. You'll notice the negatives are included."
"But there's more, of course." The classically handsome face distorted with a snarl, the green eyes clearly poisonous even in the uncertain light of their location.
"No, though you have no reason to believe that. I'm not interested in blackmail, Mr. Nelson. What I have in mind is more...lucrative... for both of us."
"You want a piece of my business."
"Not precisely. Rather, I would like to see you expand it, and become one of your 'suppliers' for that expansion. You have the customer base, and a good product, but a successful business man can always use, shall we say, top of the line items for the more discriminating customer."
Suspicious, but apparently interested in spite of it, Nelson paced in a half circle around Sandburg. "My girls are already cream," he said finally. "What do you think you can supply me with that's better?"
"I'm sure you already receive more than adequate remuneration for those in your service." Staying loose, Blair pivoted slowly to stay face-to-face with him.
"$300 an hour," Nelson couldn’t seem to help himself from bragging.
"But as the school counselor at Union, your contact with prospective 'employees' is limited to those who could be considered spoiled goods. Drug users, abused sexually or physically, some mental problems, that sort of thing."
"Doesn't matter to their clients as long as they're young and do what they're told without a fuss." Nelson's tone was considering, and he stopped pacing to shove his hand in his pocket.
"Certainly, there are always those who are happy with a hamburger instead of filet mignon. However, can you imagine the class of customer you could attract if you had filet on the menu as well? And the proportional fee increase?" Blair didn't watch the hands; his back up would take care of that, but he tried to stay on the balls of his feet.
The counselor snorted. "And *you* can provide better whores?"
"Let's just say I'm in a better position to use the same techniques as you on a higher quality of prospective employees."
"Are you telling me you're so good you can get near virgins into the business? What kind of a fool do you take me for?" Nelson went back to pacing, but gave the impression this time it was to help him think.
The entire conversation had been slime in Blair's mouth, and he had had to use formal language to distance himself from the fury simmering at the so-called teacher in front of him. He tensed, uncertain if he would be able to keep up his cover until the listening officers decided that they had enough to move on. "Apparently a substantial one. After all, the sweet and fresh are as susceptible to blandishment, flattery, and - once you have them in hand, judiciously applied pressure - as the property you procure."
"Damaged goods aren't exactly worthless, either." Nelson's laugh was decidedly unpleasant, and his steps began bringing him in closer to Blair. "Especially to those with darker appetites."
Suppressing his shudder, Blair merely commented nonchalantly, "High overhead would be the problem there. Not to mention, avoiding the attention of the authorities."
"Cops don't bother me. My girls know better than to finger me as their pimp; that's the first lesson they learn." His emphasis was sneering. "And that is something I can't be sure of from you." Without warning, he snapped a kick at Blair with the accuracy and precision of an accomplished martial artist.
His foot connected only with the dumpster. Blair ducked and broke into a run for the chain-link fence as if to climb over it. Nelson pushed off the dumpster, racing after Blair, raising his fists as he did for a two-punch combination. At Jim's hissed, "Now!" Blair dropped, letting Nelson's right fist sail over him to smash into the fence. Nelson's pain exploded into blind rage, but before he could recover, Blair drove an uppercut into his chin and fired a kick of his own to his would-be assailant's groin. Ignoring the call of "Police! Freeze!" Blair ducked around the confused and bruised pimp, and ran for the construction dumpster, black clothes blending into the inky corner instantly.
At Jim's prompting, and without hesitation, Blair flung himself into the air along the wall. Strong, sure hands caught his to haul him up onto the ledge that ran the length of building and couldn't be detected from the ground at night. Rolling, he tucked himself next to Jim’s prone body while Jim dropped the discarded piece of construction drywall down in front of them. Face on his partner's breast bone, hands between them so not even that spot of paleness could give him away through the spy-hole, Blair relaxed and listened to the police arrest Nelson.
"Good clean bust," Jim murmured, using the same ultra quiet tones from earlier. "And I don't think Nelson made you as the substitute teacher at Union. Good chance the cops didn't make you, either; one less worry for the principal."
Reacting to the trace of censure in Jim’s words, Blair defended the man quickly. "Hey, he's a good person who made a mistake. That he chose to pay for it by hiring us rather than risk exposing his students at the school shows that he's trying to do the right thing."
"He's a man who bought an under-aged hooker while his wife was in the hospital. He’s protecting himself as much as he's protecting the kids." Jim’s rebuttal was mild; bringing down Nelson was the important thing here. "They found the gap in the fence behind the dumpster; only McNab doesn't think you're long gone. He'll keep up the search for a while."
"Why don't you catch some Z's, then?" Blair suggested. "We have to clear out of the neighborhood as soon as we can, and set up in the new place. It'll be a while before you're able rest again. Me, I'm too wired."
Instead of replying, he heard Jim slowly inhale and exhale several times, as his body lay limp beside him. Cautiously Blair positioned himself until he could peek through their blind and watch the alley, silently envious of his partner's ability to drop off like that when he wanted to. Neither of them slept unless the other guarded, and they had grown accustomed to doing it side by side. At first, when they had arrived in D.C., sleeping on the streets or sharing a cot in a shelter, it had been a necessity, as their funds were as low as the profile they needed to keep. Both learned to wake the instant the other sensed danger, allowing them both to respond to trouble with a speed that had saved them more than once. Eventually, it became an ingrained habit too useful to change, to the point where, more often than not, they shared a bed even when safe.
Or as safe as it was possible for them to be.
Taking control of his own breathing, Blair watched as much as he could while the cops went over the alley and surrounding environs looking for him. Grinning, he heard McNab argue, standing almost directly under them, that the second man couldn't have vanished into thin air, and if anyone wanted out of this stinking hole before dawn, they had better find *some* trace.
Some hours later, though, McNab was forced to give up; something heavy was going on elsewhere and all units were needed. As the last of the uniforms left, Sandburg raised their cover a few inches and edged out enough to make sure they were really clearing. Not surprised when a powerful hand latched onto his belt, he pulled himself back in as McNab leaned back with one foot up against the wall beneath them.
The muscular black man had a piece of paper in his hands, and was tearing it into tiny, precise squares, apparently giving his fingers full attention as he worked. "Street says that The Panther doesn't have to be standing in front of you to hear what you got to say," he said out loud to no one. "Sure hope so, cause I damn well feel like a fool standing here talking to myself.
"But I think you're probably listening, 'cause this mess has your stamp all over it. Evidence landing on the right desk, a formerly terrified witness showing up at the right time, the suspect implicating himself in front of witnesses or even the cops. Nelson will no doubt find all his hidden stashes are empty, and I'll hear about a donation made to a woman's shelter or halfway house in the amount that’s mysteriously missing, less, what, ten percent?
"Thing is, if I said anything about The Panther being behind this to the brass, I'd be laughed right out of my precinct. Most think The Panther is like Paul Bunyan or the New York City Moorlocks. A myth made up by despairing people in this town to give them a little hope." McNab paused, then went on in a hard voice. "Most, but not anyone who was at the twenty-first when all those dirty cops went down. Not those who heard that panther roar as a single shot took the out the officer trying to shoot his way out."
"I *told* you that you sounded exactly like a big cat."
"Sandburg, you were right in the line of fire. All I was trying to do was warn you to get down in a way that *you* would know was from me."
McNab continued, not hearing the faint, faint whisper from the partners. "Thing is, why me? I got the credit for the tie-in to the PA system that exposed them and for the evidence on my desk. But everyone, *everyone* at the station knows I couldn't have done it alone. So, why give me the bust?"
Under cover of the conversation from the man below them, the two partners began stealthily retreating along their escape route. At McNab's last words, Blair nudged Jim and raised his eyebrow significantly. "Talk to him."
Jim's sigh of resignation was only a movement of his chest, but he answered McNab aloud. "Because you not only tried to stay clean yourself, you helped others do the same. Not easy for a rookie detective surrounded by bad cops."
The acoustics in the ally reflected Jim's voice such that McNab couldn't make their position; he jumped, then stalked around the small space. "Well, maybe I didn't want it! I don't have any use for a vigilante!" he snapped. "Or someone with too much to hide to show his face when he talks to me."
"Not vigilantes," Blair volunteered. "We let the law deal with the problems we find; we just make sure the courts have what it needs to clean them up. Think of us as a different kind of snitch. And don't expect trust to come all at once."
Following Jim through the half opened window as silently as his partner, Blair heard McNab mutter in frustration and worry, "Us? US!"
With Jim listening and watching for trouble, Blair took the lead, holding him by the elbow to steer them through the wreckage of the building. In very short order they were on the street and Blair took off his jacket, turned it to the gray inside, tucking the hood in. Beside him, Jim took off the black gloves and folded his trench coat over his arm, placing his stocking cap into a pocket as he did. With minutes they were walking away from the neighborhood casually, as if they had been visiting friends and were strolling back to their own homes.
Once he was sure they weren't being tailed and there was no trouble close by, Jim asked, "Why talk to McNab? And let him know The Panther doesn't work alone?"
"Jim, we have to trust someone sooner or later. We've been able to pick up some names behind the federal warrant on you, but we're too far down the social ladder to get close enough to learn anything really useful. McNab's dad is a former police commissioner with some good connections on the Hill. The detective might not like using us, but my bet is the next time he sees something he can't touch for whatever reason, he will. He's too good a cop not to use what tools he's got. In exchange, he could give us the information we need to get closer to finding out just who the hell we're running from."
"Which he won't do unless *he* trusts *us.* So, we have to make the first move," Jim interjected, a twist of amusement at the corner of his mouth.
Seeing that promise of a smile - the first in weeks - Blair deliberately enthused. "Taking advantage of the opportunity, man. I for one can't wait. Party crashing time, like we discussed. All right! Perfumed ladies, Champaign, some music, some dancing, maybe something else if I'm lucky."
"Been a while, hasn't it, Chief, since we've had even the imitation of a good time?" Jim said reflectively, slowing as he did.
Matching his pace and mood, Blair answered seriously, "Depends on your definition of a good time. Moving around like we do, always on the edge of the different ethnic neighborhoods, trying to blend in without becoming noticeable, despite so obviously being outsiders: it's what an anthropologist *does,* Jim. Once we get this all settled, I have ideas and materials for dozens of papers and tons of research, enough to keep me academically busy for the rest of my career. Most of the time I love what we're doing."
"And the danger?"
Shrugging with his hands, moving them in a swift ballet to match his thoughts, Blair told him, "As if I lived such a safe life before, huh?" At Jim's wry snort of acknowledgment, he went on. "There may be more potential trouble here than on a typical planned expedition, but I feel safer than I ever did on any of my travels. I mean, before, I was looking out for myself, you know? No Sentinel to watch my back, not to mention my top, front, or sides."
Not rising to the attempt at humor, Jim said seriously, "But you chose those roads, Sandburg. You didn't get dragged onto them without warning."
Stopping under a streetlight, Blair turned up his face to address his partner. "How long has this been bothering you?" he asked quietly. Pursing his lips and tilting his head away in his 'What are you talking about, me bothered by something' stance, Jim didn't answer, but started to move on. Holding him in place by the simple expedient of not moving himself, Blair asked, "Has it ever occurred to you, that if it hadn't been for me, you wouldn't have been dragged into this? Whoever's looking for you may have had no idea of what you were if I hadn't been studying you, or maybe your abilities would have gone dormant again if I hadn't forced my way into your life."
"Or I'd be in an insane asylum or dead. And they could have found out from my military files. You saw them; hell, you're the one who insisted we steal them. They knew what went on with me in Peru."
"But no one understood it or how to use it; you had no control at all then. And this is all moot, anyway. Jim, the only part of our old life I miss is teaching - and being able to keep in contact with people I like. What we've accomplished has more than made up for it, okay?" At the silent urging of Jim's body language, Blair started walking again, but didn't let the topic drop. "How about you? No home base, no routine, no down time…."
"No brass to answer to, no regs to follow, only my own rules, picking and choosing our cases and feeling like we're actually accomplishing something." Though the words were encouraging, something in Jim's tone didn't ring true, but before Blair could call him on it, he went on. "Not to mention, if we keep bringing down people like Nelson, we'll be in a hell of a lot better shape come retirement." The last was said with a true smile. The ten percent 'finders fee' had been an ongoing argument between them, though Jim had invested or hidden it for Blair very carefully, despite his disapproval.
"Hey, it's not as if we can give it back to the people they took it from, and it's better than letting them keep it. What if one of us gets sick or hurt?" Blair said reasonably, as he had the first time they stumbled onto a crook's stash. "Anyway, we're going to need some front money if we're going to start swimming with the sharks."
"Are you sure about this, Sandburg? Cruise them to get the information we want, yes. But working for them is too close to selling out for my taste."
"Hey, it's not like we've ever let money, or the lack of it, decide what job we were going to take. Rich people need honest help once in a while, too. If we both want to take on some of the big boys, drug people for instance, we need powerful connections to do that and live, sentinel or not."
"Long as we don't have to live that lifestyle, Chief. Letting them think we do is all we need; the honest problems of living street level are more my speed." He was quiet for the rest of the block, and Blair let him be, busy in his own mind with the steps necessary to make this next move.
Jim’s mind must have been running along the same lines; at the next light he said, "If we're going to let McNab closer, we should do the same with Father Pendelton and that desk sergeant...what's his name?"
"Louis?"
"That's him, at the 101. They should have a way to contact us. You scoping out prospectives like you have been won't work much longer. Can't use a beeper; numbers can be traced and we don't want people to be able to get that close. Maybe an answering machine with remote access, or a computer bulletin board." He kneaded the back of his neck, then smiled down at his companion. "Looks like we'd better get ourselves fitted for tuxes while we're figuring it out."
Spinning on his heel in a complete circle, Blair whooped. "AALL riiiight! I can hear the music!"
***
Tenderly Jim shifted Sandburg from his shoulder, easing the heavy head down to his thigh. With a mumble the sleeping man rolled to his side, stretching out the length of the car's bench seat. Jim was going to be sorry to change this one; they switched vehicles periodically since they started using cars again after they'd started directly working with McNab and the others over a year ago. The old Buick was the most comfortable transport they’d had since he'd lost his last Expedition, but they couldn't afford to let any one car become associated with their presence. Blanking that memory of home, almost without noticing it, he stretched out his long legs, and scanned the area visually again. The six-year-old car fit into this neighborhood well and their observation spot was almost all shadow, but tailing a cop was tricky. He wasn't going to take any chances.
Following Blair's hunch and taking off after McNab when they saw him leave the station this evening was bad enough, but it was the cop and not the hunch that bothered Jim. Blair's uncanny knack for seeing the right thing, or guessing what a person was going to do next had grown steadily since their hasty departure from Cascade, so tailing him was a foregone conclusion. But in the weeks and months after they'd talked to the detective and began keeping tabs on him, he decided McNab was one of the best he'd ever seen in action. Jim wouldn't be surprised if the detective did spot them.
He focused his hearing again. Sounded like the Redskins were winning this one. He chuckled quietly; Sandburg was going to owe him a dollar. McNab, Jr. had bet against them, too. He groused good-naturedly at his father to the sound of leather over fabric — his wallet opening. A long swallow came next, then the TV was shut off, and McNab, Sr. put his beer on the coffee table.
"Much as I enjoy your company, son, the only time you bet against the 'Skins is when you want me in a good mood." Ulysses McNab was as tall as his son, and still straight and slim for a man of his years. It sounded as though he was taking advantage of that height now, the leather of his chair squeaking as he rose to stand over his son in a parental reminder of authority.
There was a soft hissing sound; Emerson tearing the paper on his bottle. "'Ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight?'" he quoted.
"Emerson, you watch too many movies."
"Yeah, well, I'm not the only one, and at least I keep reality and the movies straight from each other." The young man sounded distant.
"This about that vigilante - what's his name, Jaguar? Tiger? - that I've been hearing about?"
"Panther. 'Cept he's really sort of a mercenary; I think." The tiny sound of tearing paper went on, and Jim could almost see him staring at his working fingers.
"It doesn't matter whether he's a merc, a vigilante, or a crackpot. Panther - how the hell'd he get a name like that anyway? - he's not the law." Again, there was a creak of springs and leather; McNab, Sr. was sitting back down. "He's dropped another case into your lap?"
"Beat cops started calling him that after he provided back up for them a time or two. No one ever sees more than a black shadow moving almost 'inhumanly' fast in places where only a big cat or vampire could see. Add that roar at the twenty-first and the nickname became inevitable, I guess." With that, his voice shifted from cynical disappointment to wonder. "He respects the law, Dad, even when he's walking around it. If he helps an officer in a tight situation, he never uses deadly force, though we know he's capable of it. Again, like that shootout at my precinct. Vinton was shooting at anything that moved, but The Panther targeted his gun." McNab fell quiet, except for the sssssst of the paper.
*There wouldn't have been any shooting if we hadn't been there, acting like computer techs to get into their system and back-track that federal warrant,* Jim thought to himself as he considered father and son. *It was an accident overhearing him and his partners talking about how to break you and the other rookies to the department before you could learn anything useful. Once I heard...couldn't let it lay...had to do something.* Jim looked down at the tussle of curls exploding over his lap, and smiled. The PA tie-in had been his partner's idea.
"You sound like you admire the man." Ulysses was carefully non-judgmental, but his son bristled anyway.
"Maybe I admire that he's trying to pick up where the law can't or won't go. He doesn't kill, he doesn't judge, he just *helps.*" McNab took a long breath. "I think he was a cop himself. He knows procedure, regs, and the law too well. You know, the DA hasn’t dropped one case that Panther's given us? They've all been prosecuted. Not all successfully, but they all went to trial."
"So, what's the problem? If you can accept what he's doing and use what he gives you, you have to accept him and his methods."
"What if he wants more?"
"Emerson, why don't you quit dancing around it and tell me what's really bothering you?" The father's words were stern but kind.
"What if I catch them doing something blatantly illegal?" McNab blurted. "I can guess that they're getting some of their evidence by breaking the law, but never had proof. What happens when they cross the line in front of me? I don't know that I could use the trust they may give me to bust them!"
Tiredly Jim waited for the older man's reply and was not surprised when he said slowly, "'They,' Emerson, 'they?"
"The Panther has a partner he calls 'Chief.' I think he's the slight man with blue eyes and curly hair that I linked to The Panther calls. Nobody else has made the connection between him and the man fitting that description that keeps showing up on the edges of those cases. Chief seems to work as a front man, since he's usually involved long before The Panther pulls the department in. As far as I know, I'm the only one who has a clue that he doesn't work alone.
"Between that and knowing Panther was a cop, I could find them, Dad. Hunt them down if I needed to. But they trust me. I've still never laid eyes on either of them, but they've given me a way to contact them, talked to me directly a time or two on the phone. How can I let them trust me if I'm willing to use whatever I can pick up from them to bring them in if I need to?"
Hearing the confusion in the young detective's voice, Jim closed his eyes against the echo of his own misgivings for how he and Blair were living.
"Is that what you’re planning on doing? Using them until you have what you need to arrest them? Or just as long as you can before they cross some invisible line they don't know about?"
"You make it sound like I'm the one in the wrong, here," Emerson said sulkily.
"Not wrong, not exactly. Look, son, your mother and I raised you to respect the spirit of the law, not to follow the letter of it slavishly. Laws are made by men, and men make mistakes. To disobey a law that's wrong, especially for the purpose of pointing out that it *is* wrong, is at the heart and soul of this country. If these men are doing what you say, showing that same respect, then they should have nothing to fear from you. But the day respect becomes contempt, then they should *expect* you to bring them in. In a way, it's no different from any other working relationship you might have with your fellow officers."
A knot that Jim hadn't admitted existed throbbed in his chest, and he perfectly sympathized with the protracted silence that followed.
"Dad," McNab said finally, "are you sure you're an ex-cop? ‘Cause that sounds a lot more like something I'd expect to hear from a public defense attorney."
"Emerson Michael McNab, you are not too old for me to wash your mouth out with soap!"
His own unexpected snort of laughter made Ellison loose his concentration and when he got his hearing back online, the McNabs were walking through the house, chatting about the next Redskins game. Listening with only half an ear, Jim spotted a black and white unit as it began to cruise down the street they sat on. It had already been by twice, and though he didn't see or hear anything to make him worry, he started the Buick, put it in gear, and pulled away from the curb leisurely. No reason to let a patrolman notice an unfamiliar car parked too long on his beat.
Restless, mind re-hashing the McNabs' conversation endlessly, he aimed for the beltway. Though he and Blair were between jobs at the moment, he didn't feel like going back to their current apartment. For some reason, the relative safety of moving appealed to him more than sleep. Fingers idly combing the locks away from Blair’s forehead, he stepped on the gas and put the suburbs behind him.
***
Ulysses McNab stood at the door with his son, saying good night, when the military Ford sedan parked in front of his house. They both watched as the driver tiredly unfolded himself out of the vehicle and reached into the back seat to pull out an overnight case. Exchanging an amused look, Emerson patted his father on the back once and went down the sidewalk to intercept their visitor. "Well, well, Al! Don't tell me; Bethie kick you out again?"
Sheepishly Al Calavicci shrugged and offered his free hand to the detective. "I think she just wants the bed to herself once in a while. Got use to it all those years of sleeping alone while I was on assignment. Hi, Shrink."
Instead of shaking it, McNab used the hand to pull the Admiral into a loose hug. "So you'll take her a dozen calla-lilies, go out dancing, and she'll forgive you...again. And if you ever call me 'Shrinky-dink' in front of my men, I swear I'll bust you for assaulting an officer!"
"Who, me? Never. Good to see ya, though."
"Can't stay. Early shift tomorrow." With a last thump on Al's back, McNab went on down the sidewalk toward his own car. "If you're still here tomorrow, have Dad call me, and we'll have dinner at my place."
"You're on. Should I bring a date for your dad?"
With a hoot of laughter, McNab got in and drove off while Al and his father watched.
When the taillights disappeared, Al and Ulysses exchanged a long, tired look, then the black man stood aside to wave his friend through the door. "Come on in. No use in standing out here all night." Wordlessly Al did as he was told, setting his bag down at the threshold as the door shut behind him. For McNab, senior, there was no offer of a handshake; they swept each other into an enthusiastic hug immediately. "Wish you wouldn't show up here only when you need someplace to sleep," he grumped.
"Wish you'd show up at *my* door once in a while. You know Beth and the girls love you," Al grumped back, breaking away from the hug reluctantly.
"I know, I know. It's just too much effort to get these old bones far from home anymore. You're going to have to bring that bevy of ladies out here for a weekend soon." He studied his guest consideringly. "Maybe very soon. It's serious this time, isn't it?"
"As it can get," Al said grimly. Gesturing with his overnight bag, he indicated the stairway to the basement. "Usual place? I need to splash some cold water on my face."
"Sure thing. Care for a cup of coffee?" Ulysses was already on his way to the kitchen.
"Black!"
"A man of taste." Ulysses chuckled.
Less than ten minutes later he was standing in the doorway of his rec room, cup in hand, watching the admiral sweep the walls of the basement with an electronic gadget. Face going very serious, he didn't need Al's cautioning signal for silence as he looked for listening devices. When Al sighed deeply and put the detector away, Ulysses said, "Much more serious."
"And Bethie doesn't know a thing about it, and I want you to keep it that way," Al warned him belligerently.
"Not a good idea, Calavicci. Your woman is your strength, and you know it," McNab shot back.
Al dropped his face into his hands, and scrubbed hard at his features. "Not in this case, McNab, I swear. Look, sit down, put some brandy in that coffee for yourself, and let me get started."
"Started?"
Hours, an entire pot of coffee, and half a bottle of brandy later, McNab leaned back on his couch and closed his eyes. Beside him was a file filled with memos, transcripts, witness reports, and photos implicating Weisman and half of his Funding Committee for everything from illegal campaign funding to drug trafficking. "And why exactly are you bringing this to my attention?" he asked tiredly. "You know who should be looking at this, and one old, retired Police Commissioner is not the right person."
Leaning forward in the club chair, elbows on his knees so that his hands hung loosely between them, Al said somberly, "Because this is just the start of it, Ulysses. None of that," and he nodded at the file, "is really good for more than some scandals and an arrest or two. It won't even brush the first layer of dirt away on something hidden really deep.
"Look, you know that I act as a sort of liaison between the military, the senate, and the scientists for all of the Umbra clearance level programs. I do Dick and Jane explanations for the politicians to convince them to give the projects money, keep the soldiers off the necks of the brains, and keep the brains producing things to make everybody happy. It's part of my job to keep track of the really smart eggheads and their research, so the government or whoever can pull them in when something potentially useful comes along."
"Thank God that's your headache and not mine," McNab said fervently. "Talking to any of the three takes more patience than I have."
"This from a POW who used to simply sit and not move for hours at a time no matter what the Cong did, suuuurrre, old man!" Al shot back to his friend.
"Difference between being stubborn and having patience," McNab shot back. "Though I grant you, in your case, it's an invisible one!"
Wryly Al acknowledged the hit and leaned back in his chair, picking up his cigar as he did. "Invisible; good word. Applies here, too. I'm pretty damn sure there's another level of secure research past Umbra, 'Zee. An invisible one that's not documented or sanctioned. Like I said, I keep track of scientists, and some of them have been simply dropping out of sight. People from the Umbra projects that were dismissed because of ethical concerns or malpractice, outside researchers with shady reputations, or men doing questionable lines of investigation. None of them have been employed by corporations or universities, but all of them are working somewhere because they have bank accounts, residences, credit cards - all the financial trappings."
Looking at the level of booze in the brandy bottle, McNab shook his head regretfully, and picked up his empty coffee cup, fiddling with the handle. "I'd like to think you're wrong about that, but truth is, if we could do some of the experiments we did with radiation back in the fifties, I don't think it's much of a stretch to believe we're doing equally immoral things now. Weisman is the Funding Committee chairman. Money for that kind of undercover project would have to come from there because it's the one that controls 'undesignated' funds. You think he's using this," McNab slapped the file, "to manipulate the votes on who gets how much. Why?"
Frustration wrinkled Al's forehead, and he rubbed at it worriedly. "I don't know. I thought money, maybe at first, but if it's questionable research or low success probability, then it's probably too risky to be able to easily make a dollar from it. Power makes the most sense; maybe he's just doing it because he *can.*"
"From what I know of Weisman's reputation, that's a possibility, but a handful of unauthorized projects would hardly satisfy his ego."
"Then as a stepping stone? I don't know. But that, Ulysses is why I want...why I *need* your help. I'm in the best position to watch without being noticed, and to follow the people/money trail. If Weisman's position starts to unravel, he'll have to make some fast moves to adjust for it. There's a chance he could make a mistake or expose his belly. You," Al leaned forward again, putting a hand on his friend's knee, "could give this to the right people in the police department, or maybe the press, I know you have sources there, without having it linked back to you."
"Which means no way to trace it back to you," McNab finished for him thoughtfully. "I don't know, Bingo. I'm too old to get caught up in all this intrigue business, and so are you. Weisman is just one more slug on the Hill; there's so many it doesn't make sense to go out of your way to salt this one. Hell, they all self-destruct sooner or later anyway."
There was an undercurrent of challenge in his words, but Al didn't rise to it. For McNab, the fact that Weisman was a crook was really all he needed to act, and he would do it Al's way out of respect for their shared years as POW's, if nothing else. What he was doing was the same thing that kept their friendship intact since that time: he made Al question his own decisions. For once though, Al didn't need to examine his motives, only decide how much of it to share with the retired cop.
Choosing his words carefully, Al stood and walked around the small room. "Zee, this is something you're going to have to take on faith, because I don't have one shred of evidence to prove it. Weisman is not your garden-variety slime; accidentally or thoughtlessly, or, for all I know, maliciously, he could do some serious damage. Not to a handful of innocents, or a few hundred or even a few thousand; this whole world could be in trouble because of him." He stopped where McNab could see into his face clearly, and waited.
McNab studied him, clearly thinking about what he had seen Al come through in his life. Battered, dented and tarnished, he had survived it all, damn it, and survived it with his mind and spirit intact. He had no reason to be ashamed, and Al straightened proudly, hands held loosely at his side. He knew there was no trace of dissipation in his features; McNab had drunk all the brandy by himself. Al had not had anything stronger than wine in months, and thought it showed.
Seemingly against his will, McNab asked carefully, unbelievingly, "Why haven't you told Beth about this?"
Some of the starch flew out of Al, and he hunched his shoulders forward. "I'm being watched, and the house and office are bugged. Not that I couldn't get around that, but she and the girls need to act normally. It's not that they're not strong enough to hide what's really going on. They don't know how, and dammit, I don't want them to have to! Not until they need to."
"And Beth is completely oblivious to what you're doing?" McNab asked incredulously.
"I didn't say that," Al admitted uncomfortably. "She's waiting for me to have enough rope to hang myself with. If you're looking for patience, she's the Calavicci you need."
There were several long minutes of silence, then McNab picked up the brandy and drank from it deeply. "You know what I think, Bingo?" he said as he put the nearly empty bottle down.
"What?" Al asked warily.
"That I'm going to give this file to someone to give to someone to give to someone. And an election year is coming up for Weisman. Wonder how his opponent looks?"
Al grinned, and bounced on the balls of his feet. "Ulysses McNab, I like the way you think."
Turning off the headlights on the car, Jim slowly followed the dirt track into the West Virginia forest, trying not to bottom out in the dried ruts. Absently thinking he would either have to abandon the car or leave at the first sign of rain - he'd never get this boat through the resulting mud - he crept along looking for a flat place wide enough to park in.
About the time the setting moon began to create silver slats of light through the pines, a small clearing appeared about fifty feet to the left. He eased off the accelerator, cut left across small crags created by pickups and SUV's, and eased the car into a soft, grassy hollow. Gratefully he turned off the engine at last, rolled down his window, and let his head loll back on the seat as he sucked up the relative silence of the woods. Sentinel hearing found no man-made sounds, not even a plane flying overhead. It was a balm on nerves he hadn't realized were so ragged. The breeze carried only the scents he would expect in this location, and suddenly the artificial ones in the car were more than he could stand.
For one moment he was torn. Curled into a tight ball, head still in Jim's lap, Blair slept deeply and Jim didn't want to wake him. Circumstances had taught him long ago to make do with a nap whenever he could, and he could run for weeks without needing to catch more than twenty minutes or so at a time. Blair, on the other hand, would run on pure nervous energy for days, then crash unexpectedly and have to sleep at least eight hours. Waking him now, without an emergency to pump adrenaline through him, would leave him groggy and tired until he could sleep again. Yet Jim would either have to do just that, or leave Blair to possibly wake alone without warning or explanation.
His patience was suddenly exhausted; Jim wanted *away* from this last reminder of civilization. Snagging a blanket out of the back seat, he carefully bundled up his partner and picked him up in his arms like a drowsing child. Murmuring nonsensically, Blair wiggled until he was comfy again, and then fell back under. When he was far enough away that seeing or smelling the car took an effort, Jim found a mossy nook under a tree and sat, keeping Blair in his lap away from the cold, damp ground.
One by one he released each of his senses, letting them roam at will, paying no particular attention to what any one of them had to report. As they sent back nothing but what God had created in this place, tension and conscious thought began to seep out of him, untying the knots in his muscles and his mind. At one point his head drooped so that his cheek rested on the fall of curls close to his chest, and he closed his eyes, no longer needing to *see* anything.
Walking in that world which is not quite dreams and not quite memory, Jim slid through the impressions his senses left on him, experiencing them contentedly. Some caused a reaction - there was a skunk about half a mile off. Part of him checked to make sure it was traveling away. Some he accepted and forgot at the same instant. By and by, his body, taking advantage of the first down time he had allowed himself in nearly a year, added its own input.
With a small ass snugly tucked onto it, his manhood noticed how *nice* the heat from the firm backside was and belatedly remembered it had been idle longer than it liked. It snaked out an inch or two of its length, seeking more sensation, and the living weight on it instinctively adjusted to its presence. That was good, very good, and his erection grew to full size and hardness, digging into the slightly yielding bottom covering it.
Whether it was an automatic response to the contact or simply that he was completely in tune with his sentinel, Blair's maleness took notice of the proceedings and began to harden. Clearly dreaming deeply, he began squirming restlessly, as if the half-formed images of his evening theater were taking on an erotic and compelling force. As erratic as the movement was, it was more than enough to encourage Jim's erection, and it demanded more, forcing Jim into an involuntary bucking of his hips.
That was better than good. Jim tightened his arms automatically in answer to the animal drive commanding his body. The secure embrace must have triggered infantile memories for Blair; he mindlessly turned his face into the hard muscles under his cheek to suckle at them, noises of satisfaction coming from the back of his throat. His body thoroughly aroused now, one of Blair's hands found his own swollen flesh and began to squeeze it through his jeans.
Between his long-ignored appetite, the scent of arousal, and the provocative actions of his partner, Jim was soon on the verge of climax, dragging Blair along with him. From habit and preference, he sought the mouth of his lover, wanting a kiss to help finish off their excitement. Tilting Blair's head back over his upper arm, Jim opened his eyes to find his target and was jolted back into full awareness, desire fleeing, as the other man blinked sleepily and met his startled gaze.
With a violent shake of his head, Jim took in where he was and what he was doing. Then he looked back down into the up-turned face of his companion, his own alarm evaporating when all he saw in those grinning features was very male understanding. "Jim," Blair murmured groggily, "we have got to get you a date, man."
A burst of laughter exploded out of Jim, and he gave one last hug to his partner before the two of them began untangling from each other, unselfconsciously adjusting themselves in their pants. "I think I can find one on my own." He stood and inhaled deeply, his head craning all the way back as he looked up into the early morning sky to judge the day's weather.
"Just remember to introduce yourself *before* you club them on the head to drag them back to your cave." Blair scrubbed at his hair, widening and contorting his eyes in an effort to get them to focus better.
"Cave? I have to wait 'til I get to the cave?" Jim shrugged off his outer shirt, still casting a weather eye upwards.
"Well, if you want another date with her, yeah." Slowly turning in place, Blair took in their surroundings. "Whoa! What'd I miss last night?" Shrewdly he looked Jim over, nodding as he saw that his partner was already reverting to Sentinel wilderness mindset. "Suffer an overdose of city, man?"
Starting down a barely visible trail, hand in the middle of Blair's back to propel him along as well, Jim said, "Something like that. Come on. I hear and smell water nearby. If you'll set up camp from the gear in the car, I'll see about catching some fish for breakfast. We can talk then."
Perking up at the prospect of breakfast, Blair asked eagerly, "Did I ever tell you about this great recipe I know for trout?"
***
From long habit Jim kept track of Blair by listening to him as the younger man puttered around the clearing where the car was parked, preparing to build a fire. That only took a small amount of his attention, and he devoted the rest to studying the stream before him. The refractive qualities of the water were a challenge to penetrate, but he and Blair had worked on this before; after a few minutes, he rediscovered the trick of compensating for the bending of light in broken water. Rewarded with the sight of half a dozen or so trout cruising the stream, he flipped a line with his best lure on it ahead of them for the current to carry back. No strike, this time, but he was in no hurry, and it would only make them taste better when he did catch one.
The rhythmic flow of liquid, line, and casting was hypnotic, so the crash of the doe through the underbrush and into the stream jarred him. Instinctively, Ellison dropped his rod and reached for his weapon. As he brought it up, the deer staggered halfway across the stream, fell to its knees, then lurched upright, only to fall completely before it could reach the shore. Warily scanning for what spooked the animal, Jim went to it, picking his way carefully over the rocks. When his shadow fell onto it, the deer made a final attempt to stand then fell again, sides giving a last convulsive heave before stopping completely.
In the distance he heard men talking about losing the trail, swearing drunkenly as they did. Narrowing his hearing onto the doe to make sure it was dead, Jim heaved it the rest of the way out of the water and found the lower half of an arrow still embedded in the animal's ribs. Already angry with the idiots hunting out of season, his fury nearly consumed him as a closer examination showed the doe was lactating. Somewhere out there was a fawn, or perhaps a pair of them, doomed to starve to death because some ass couldn't wait for the right season to relieve his need to kill for sport.
Scanning the opposite bank to find precisely where the deer had first appeared, Jim crossed the water himself, not sure at first why he did. It only took a few seconds to find the animal's blood trail and begin to backtrack it. At this hour of the morning, the female had probably been feeding with its offspring. As drunk as those two bozos had sounded - he paused to make sure they had given up their chase and were on their way back to their blind - it was unlikely, but possible that they had shot the mother as the fawn played nearby. They both would have run, in that case, until the young one could no longer keep up. Then it would have simply lain down in some concealing spot while the mother drew the hunters away.
There the fawn would wait for the return of its parent, patiently unmoving, until it starved to death. It was nature's way with the species, but for some reason Jim felt responsible for the abandoned orphan. It was the actions of his own species that had brought the fawn to its cruel fate, and that struck him as wrong, no matter what. If he had been a free man, he could find it and give it to a forest ranger, who would find a home for it in a petting zoo or other facility. But since he would have to explain not only what happened to the mother, but who he was and how he found her baby, he didn't have that option.
The only one he had that he could live with was to give the fawn a quick, painless death, rather than let it slowly starve.
Finding the hidden animal was an exercise, even for a sentinel. But with his ability to see and smell the mother's blood trail, he eventually located it beneath the low branches of a dense stand of sumac. Barely thirty pounds and two months old, the fawn huddled against the stalks of the brush, wide-eyed and quivering. Feeling its fear stab relentlessly, almost un-forgivingly at him, Jim quietly, cautiously, crawled toward the small deer, drawing the flint knife Blair had lent him from its sheath. Wind and light were with him; the small morsel of life didn't so much as blink as Jim crept close enough to deliver the killing blow.
He forced himself to make eye contact with the animal to keep its attention as he worked his free hand behind the deer's head, not wanting it to startle and make his task more painful than necessary. It would only take a moment to clasp the back of the its neck with the left hand and slash the knife across its throat. Only *one* moment more, a *little* closer, then its fear and his guilt would be done.
The second before his hand struck, the fawn's look transformed from wide-eyed fear to calm, unrelenting sadness, as if it understood and accepted its fate. It may have been too tired from its earlier flight to try stay terrified, or it may have simply read the unwillingness in Jim's heart. In either case, it neither moved nor made a sound, seemingly content to wait out the few moments left to it. Why that un-nerved Jim, he had no idea, but for him time and motion stopped while he stared into its peaceful eyes, battling with himself over what had to be done.
Though the fawn could not ask for mercy, a part of Jim begged for it in the beast's place, insisting that it shouldn't be destroyed because of someone else's mistake. The rational part of Jim answered that it made no difference, death was inevitable, and the knife was the mercy. And it was more than he usually had to give. Unbidden, unforgettable images from his years as a solider and police officer swam from their hiding places deep in his mind, hardening his heart.
Before he could command his body to act, the sound of a something crashing through the underbrush yanked at both him and the deer. The deer tried to make itself smaller and more hidden as the man flung his senses at the intruder, lifting the blade defensively. Then standing, whirling, sheathing, and catching, all in one flowing motion, Jim took the impact of Blair hurtling into him without so much as rocking on his heels. "Easy, easy!"
"No! Jim, don't do this, please don't do this, I know you don't think there's any other choice, but I swear, I swear, there's gotta be another way, here. Please, please, give me a chance to work out something else." Enduring the flow of words the same way he had taken the force of Blair crashing into him, Jim mutely shook his head, blindly accepting that his partner knew exactly what had been about to happen and why.
Taking on a desperate tone, Blair went on, "Look, I know this doesn't make any sense. Hell, my crashing in on you out of the blue like this doesn't make any sense, but you can't hurt that fawn, not without hurting yourself. You might as well be ready to draw that knife over our own throats. It's a mistake we'll never be able to correct. Jim, please, please don't do this!" Breathing hard, barely able to stand he was shaking so badly, Blair still somehow managed to get himself between Jim and the small animal.
Deliberately making his face so empty it might as well have belonged to a corpse, Jim shook his head again. In the gentlest voice he’d ever used on anyone, he denied softly, "It's just another abandoned life, just another thing that has to die. What's one more, Blair? Among all the other losses in the world, it's just one more."
"No, this one is different," Blair argued persuasively. "This one can be saved. Maybe tomorrow it will die from disease, or hunger, or another hunter; but right here, right now we can make a difference, if only for the right here, the right now. It *is* worth it, Jim, to the deer, to every life we touch however briefly. What do you think you'll remember when your life pales around you? The assassins, the psychos, the CIA assholes and the damage they've done? Or will it be the Simon Banks, the Incachas, the Sam Becketts, and the way they've blessed life? Which do you want to remember? Doesn't everyone, everything deserve that bit of grace, those moments of true kindness in their lives to carry with them for however long they have?"
"And where is our moment of grace?" Jim asked with a child's frank curiosity. "We’re just like that dumb beast lying there: not in control of what's happening to us, moving at the whim of forces we can't begin to understand, waiting stupidly for some power beyond us to take mercy and end this...this... *parody* of life." As he spoke, his voice rose, growing angrier and more powerful, until he was shouting like a Baptist minister. "We've lost our home, our friends, our jobs and we don't even know who is responsible or why! Ever since we left Cascade, we haven't had time think about anything or do anything but survive. I'm tired of it! Tired of it for ourselves, tired of seeing it happen to other people in the same helpless, hopeless position, tired of waiting for the knife to fall.
"Last night I listened to a good man fighting to make the exact same decision for us that we're making for this fawn. What, Blair, what is going to make having to put another person through that worthwhile? For putting ourselves through it? You've *known* so damn much, *know* so damned much, well, I want you to tell me. What on earth is worth living like this? Damn it, what?"
In direct contrast to his partner, Blair had grown steadier, calmer all during Jim's tirade, and was able to say as gently as his partner had begun, "Let me show you, then. It is all worthwhile. You're right, we haven't had a chance to see that for ourselves lately, but it *is.* They're not all helpless and hopeless; *we're* not. Let me show you. Please. Trust me on this."
They stood face to face, much as Jim and the fawn had earlier, Blair the one now patiently waiting for Jim to make up his mind. It wasn't until he offered the blade to his friend, hilt first, that Jim was aware of his decision. "Tell me you have an idea."
"As a matter of fact, I do. Where are the hunters that killed this one's mother? The last thing I want is to have them blunder into us," Blair began matter-of-factly.
Shutting down all of his senses except his hearing, Jim cast about for signs of the men and soon pinpointed their heavy snores in the far distance. "Out cold," he reported, then grinned with evil intent, mentally marking their spot. As soon as Blair was finished with him, he had an appointment with those idiots.
"Okay." Blair spoke as if Jim's thoughts had summoned him from deep concentration. "Now, can you find another doe that's nursing? I know it's a little late in the season for them, but try anyway."
Eyes flying open, Jim fixed Blair with a sharp look, but said mildly enough, "They have been known to adopt orphans, haven't they?"
"That's what I've heard, and we’re going to see if we can point one in the right direction. Now, focus; try for a milk scent, first."
***
The female deer nosed the bit of honeyed granola bar, then, as she had with all the other pieces that Blair had baited her path with, daintily devoured it. Raising her head, chewing, she was already scenting for another bite as she stepped by where Jim and Blair lay on their stomachs watching her and her child. Her fawn pranced past, then back, then to one side, seemingly attached to his mother by an invisible bungee cord. As worried as they were for their charge, the two men couldn't help but smile at the baby deer's play. With a bit of patience and luck, they might have the chance to see the other fawn as carefree.
*Come on, Mamma, come on...I know it's later than you like to be up and around, you want to be chewing your cud and resting with your baby. But there's a lovely cool spot a few yards away, with lots and lots of tasty sweet oat stuff to eat. There you go,* Jim mentally coaxed the grazing deer.
The doe picked its way through the brush and grass, following the trail of food laid out for her. When she found the stack of crumbled bars just beside the orphan, she jumped back suddenly and froze. Eyes wide and ears up, she searched the air, as the scent of man was strong here. Cautiously stepping forward, she sniffed the tempting pile and the fawn next to it, hesitated, and then shied away a foot or two.
*Yes, Mamma, that's not your baby, but my guess is her parent was part of your herd. Any deer smell lingering on it has got to be familiar to you, or at least not frightening. It's okay, look at that delicious fodder, come on now...come on now...yes!*
Hesitantly the female bent to take a mouthful of the granola, and was soon standing right over top of the compacted fawn, contentedly eating. Her offspring continued its play, while the hidden animal watched as much as it could without moving. After a bit, with the heat of the day beginning to tell on it, the fawn came back to its mother, butted at her underbelly, and began to nurse. The sight and smell must have been too much for the orphan. It unfolded on shaky legs and tucked its head under her other side.
Startled, the adult sprang away, almost, but not quite running. It half loped in small circle around the stash of grain, clearly of two minds about what happened.
In their special whisper, Blair and Jim coached the deer. "Calm down, lady, take it easy, just a baby, just a baby." As if hearing them, it slowed, then stopped, and, after a minute or two, went back to feeding. Its fawn had bounced away as well, but the orphan stood in place with no instincts in place to tell it what to do. When the mother came back, it approached again, much more slowly and carefully.
Ears flicking and skin trembling visibly, the female allowed it to stand close. When her own offspring nursed again, she relaxed, tensed up when the orphan found a teat, but was soon feeding the pair of them as if she'd borne them both. Before long the fawns were sated, and mom was ready to lie down herself. The new siblings cuddled together in the same hiding spot, and were soon asleep under mother's watchful eye.
Withdrawing as invisibly as they had hid, the partners somehow restrained their reaction until well away from the animals. Pumping his fist up and down, jumping in place, Blair celebrated silently, grin practically splitting his head. Jim watched in amusement, hands on his hips, but wore a matching grin. "It's just a deer. Not the president's daughter."
"The president's daughter has an entire cadre of secret service agents taking care of her. That baby only had one untrained shaman and a stubborn-assed sentinel to help it. And you know what? I think the fawn got the better end of that deal! Yes! Yes! Yes!" Blair whirled and planted a finger in his partner's chest. "And don't you dare belittle what you've done. Don't even think about it, hear me?"
"Sandburg, I'm not even sure what we *have* done here," Jim said bluntly. "You have to know as well as I do that deer don't take on orphans that easily. Even getting her to follow the bait was unlikely." Heading his way back toward their camp, Jim went on thoughtfully, "It was almost as if it happened because we wanted it to happen."
Falling into step beside him, still smiling but looking as introspective as his partner, Blair nodded. "Want to hear something as weird?" At Jim's half grin and raised eyebrows, Blair punched him in the arm, but went on stubbornly. "I'm serious. Jim, when was the last time you saw me lie perfectly still, without fidgeting or complaining, for hours on end?"
The look Jim slanted at him was his patented get-to-the-point one. "You were motivated. So?"
"More motivated than I've been in life or death situations? How successful have I been then?"
"You've always been able to do what you need to do."
"Thank you." There was a shy pleasure in Blair's reply that Jim carefully didn't comment on. "But we're getting off track here. Look, while we were waiting, every time the sun got too hot and was bothering me, or I'd get an itch, or a bug would buzz, you would lean your weight on me or catch my eye and I'd forget what was getting to me. It was like, like, like you were sharing patience with me, giving me part of your strength."
"Chief…." Jim began.
"And then there was how I knew about the fawn in the first place," Blair butted in, paying close attention to where he placed his feet, not daring to watch Jim's face instead. "I had built a fire, and was sitting there, trying to get my brain in gear, not looking at the flames, not really, kinda looking past them, and without noticing it at first, I was looking out of your eyes, hearing your thoughts about what you needed to do.
"It hit me hard, so hard, that it was wrong for you to do it, beyond even all the reasons I gave you, and I was up and running to you without ever deciding I was going to. I didn't even have the slightest clue where you were, but that wasn't a problem. It's never been a problem, has it, Jim? Running from that madman in the hospital, or from those good ole' boys when we were after Quinn; I always run straight for you. I bet if we compared notes on when Iris and company had me, we'd find I was always heading right for where you were."
Stopping to suck in a huge breath, Blair lost it explosively at the sight of the unmasked rage Jim could not suppress. Swearing to himself that this time, *this* time, he was not going to give his partner the undeserved brunt of it, Jim became motionless, trying vainly to stuff the unreasoning, inexplicable fury back into its box. Eyes closed, he felt the slight current in the air that told him of motion, and slapped away Blair's hand before it came close.
He used more force than necessary, and sent Blair backwards a step or two. With conciliation and patience, but not backing down a whit, Blair spoke up. "Get a grip on this, okay! Just get a grip! We'd been living in each other's back pocket for years before we had to run, and right now we may as well be wearing the same damn pants! In the first place, I woke up this morning with *you* wrapped around *me* tighter than if we were married to each other. Secondly, like I have ever had any privacy at all, living with a fucking sentinel who can tell me how far I got with my date last night and whether or not she enjoyed it! Last, it's not like I want to be popping in and out of your mind, especially if you're going to act like you're the only one whose inconvenienced or exposed by it! This is no time to start going postal over the lack of privacy you think me being in your head means, if that's why you’re pissed!"
Each and every word whipped through Jim's red haze of anger, leaving black trails of reason and sanity, but he had denied the monstrous thing for too long for Blair to have the impact Jim needed to drive it back. Unable to express that to his guide, unable to talk at all, he opened feral eyes and roared. Blair stood his ground, though poised for flight. Prowling forward until he was chest to chest with him, Jim walked him backward until he was pinned to the trunk of a tree.
Even then Blair didn't back down; he waited, warily. Sentinel gifts spoke to Jim, giving him the ragged, racing pulse, heartbeat battering at the too-thin ribs, the sour cast of fear-sweat, too pale face with eyes too big - and his shaman's utter, complete determination to not let him hide, deny, or fight the truth.
All of that, but the last especially, gave Jim the will and strength to gather his illogical wrath into one place inside him, focus it, and slam his closed fists into the tree on either side of Blair's head, making the trunk shudder with the blow. Pain leached away passion; he did it again, and again, until the smell of his own blood broke through, shattering the hold his pent-up emotion had on him. The rage shrank back, not leaving, but no longer in control, and Jim sank to his knees weakly.
"Not mad at you. Don't know *why* I'm mad," he muttered, head bowing to his chest. "Not your fault. None of it's your fault. Wouldn't hurt you."
Capable hands urged his head onto a warm, familiar shoulder and stroked his hair when he rested on it trustingly. "I know, man, I know."
The sound Jim made had little to do with laughter, but served to let him start re-ordering his control. "Yeah, you do, don't you?" For a few minutes longer he let himself hide in the sanctuary Blair had provided. Finally a distant noise egged him out of it, and he lifted his head, shame and apology coloring the look he gave Blair. "Doesn't it bother you?"
"Scares me out of my fucking mind." Blair began to shake, and their roles were suddenly reversed as Jim hugged him close until it subsided.
When it did, Jim stood reluctantly, taking Blair with him, flexing his bruised and bleeding hands painfully. "Those hunters are beginning to stir," he said. "And we haven't eaten today. Time to get moving. Can you find your way back to the camp? There's…ah…a few things I want to see to before we take off."
The grin that raced over Blair's lips was vaguely familiar. A second later Jim identified it as similar to the one he wore when he was going to do something he should probably regret, but was going to do anyway. "Sandburg?" he questioned cautiously.
"A few things? Those hunters, right, Jim? Good. I may have some ideas myself on how to deal with them. Most won't take that much time before we have to go back to D.C. and get back to work."
"As I believe I've said before, I like the way you think, partner."
Thoughts occupied by the party he just left, Blair strolled down the dimly lit D.C. street hardly paying attention to where he put his feet, let alone anything else. Hair pulled back into a braid - he really had to find time to get a haircut - and tuxedo looking as fresh as when he first put it on hours earlier, he was out of place and knew it, but he was more concerned about getting back to Jim quickly than how much he stood out. As a result, for the first time in months, especially since he had become aware of his awakening gifts the day he and Jim had helped an orphaned fawn, someone was able to get the drop on him.
The young Hispanic man swung out of the winter's evening shadows where a lamp should have been, letting his knife-edge pick up a reflection from the next light down. "You know the drill, man. Save us both some time and just get on with it."
Suppressing a sigh, but not his shrug, Sandburg dug carefully into the jacket pocket, letting the mugger see his fingers clearly. He took out the bills folded there and extended them to the man, looking him over carefully as he did. Whoever he was, he was as cool about this as he sounded, which meant not a junkie, just a thief who only wanted to get the cash and go.
"Twenty dollars! You have got to be kidding! Twenty lousy dollars!" The words were snarled, but not frantic, but Blair stealthily went onto the balls of his feet and kept his hands loose, ultra aware of his knife in its sheath at the small of his back. "Dressed like that, you got to have serious bills on you."
"Spent them all," Blair said softly, meeting the thief's eyes. "And she was worth every penny of it, too." He laughed, honestly, and added, "Ever had a lady so fine, a time so fine, that eating peanut butter sandwiches for a week is worth it?"
For a second the other man didn't seem to know how to react, but then he dropped the knife fractionally, and said in man-to-man tones, "Yeah, once or twice." He shook his head. "Shoulda known a good hit wouldn't be on these streets, just walking along."
"Sorry to disappoint," Blair told him, sincerely. "The earrings are worth a few if you want them, but that's all I got."
"Should take some of your hide, teach you not to falsely advertise." The warning sounded half-hearted, like a man exercising a tradition he didn't feel like following.
"Believe it or not, even that couldn't ruin this evening," Blair assured him cheerfully. "But I wish you wouldn't." Not answering, the thief shook his head again, bringing his knife back up reluctantly. Demeanor changing abruptly, Blair told him very seriously, "I really don't recommend it."
This time Blair was on the receiving end of an assessing look, and it was rapidly obvious the thief did not like the confidence with which his victim stood and waited. He backed off a step, folding the knife and putting it into his pocket. "If you say so, man. If you say, so," he conceded, ironically.
"Thanks! It would have been a lousy way to end the day."
From the darkness behind Blair, Jim's voice growled, "Lousy end for you, Tomasa." Materializing from the dark, looking mostly like the night, Jim took his place behind Blair, one hand going to his shoulder meaningfully. Dressed in black, from boots to overcoat to gloves, he stood in stark contrast to Blair's party clothes, looking all the more dangerous for it.
"Hey, Panther, man..." Tomasa backed off hastily. "Didn't know you was...uh, he's with you? Man, why didn't you *tell* me?" Wailing the last, the thief turned and ran for the nearest open doorway, throwing anxious glances over his shoulder as he did.
The partners watched him, and then Jim drew Blair close to his side, stepping back into the deep shadows. To a casual observer, they all but vanished, swallowed by the element that had become their natural home. As soon as they were far enough from the thief that Jim felt comfortable speaking, he used their whisper. "Chief…."
"I know, I know...and I can't even feel sorry enough about it to give you an insincere apology," Blair broke in with the same tones.
"Actually, I was going to say that you handled that really well. Though I would have paid to see his reaction if you’d told him the lady in question was five years old and celebrating being formally adopted by her biological father."
"In this neighborhood, he would have probably asked me if I were willing to share the action," Blair said cynically, but shook it off stubbornly. "You should have come, Jim. Alyssa asked for you, and Wilson would never have been able to get her away from her mother without you."
Jim shook his head, and for a second Blair could see the rage that was all too close to the surface these days. Like always, the feeling that there was something he could *do* about it hovered on the edge of his mind, like a word on the tip of the tongue. It faded even as he groped for it, and Jim went on, not noticing his Blair's concern. "Sometimes I hate this, Chief. Taking his money for getting his daughter free of that psycho mother of hers feels wrong. We shouldn't have been necessary; if she didn't have all those millions, it would never have been a question that she was abusing Alyssa."
"We didn't take the money," Blair said quietly. "You're right; it would have been wrong. But a cop, even a regular P.I. couldn’t have gotten the evidence. We could; we did. *We* made the difference. Can't you focus on that, and not what Alyssa went through? Thanks to you, her suffering is over."
Ellison was quiet for so long that Blair anticipated the subject change and re-started the conversation. "Wilson had a name for me: Senator Steward Weisman, head of the Funding Committee. It sounds like a good lead; that committee is in charge of the money given to secret research projects. One of them might have an interest in studying a person with enhanced senses. If you're sure that it's not CIA or one of the other agencies after us," at Jim’s nod of confirmation, Blair went on, "then he could be part of whoever is. According to Wilson, he is one nasty dude. At the very least, he’d be aware of any project that might be interested in 'acquiring' a sentinel, even if he didn't have a clue what they were or how they could be used."
"Any way to get close to him?"
"Not that Wilson knew. Time for more research." Blair’s sigh was contented and happy. This part of their lives was familiar, calling up the memories of better times at the police department in Cascade. Not only that, but their methods let him see files, records, books that few people knew existed and fewer had access to, and knowledge would always be his worst addiction.
It must have pleased Jim that he looked forward to it; he draped a lazy arm over Blair's shoulders and pulled him even tighter to his side, giving the bare lift of the corners of his mouth that he used for a smile now. "We have another stop to make, first. McNab left a message at the drop for us; wants to meet at Father Pendleton's church in an hour or so."
"Did he say why?"
Shrugging, Jim paused to check with his senses, then pried open the hidden door to their current lair, the basement of a mini-mall that was under reconstruction. "Probably has a case for us, or needs some information. Could be he heard that the Blades and the Lords are working themselves up to a gang war."
Stepping inside, already working on his buttons, Blair said, "I have an idea on that, if you want to do something about it, and the gangs wouldn’t have to know we were involved."
"Thought you wanted to take the Roberson case?" Jim leaned on the wall, not really seeing his partner change into street clothes.
Pausing, head half through his T-shirt, Blair said, "Maybe we could do both?"
"And Quinn thought *I* needed a cape," Jim muttered, but there was nothing but humor in the words. Blair grinned at him, relieved to see the rage drained - for now.
***
Detective Emerson McNab got as comfortable in the pew as best he could, and stared up at the life-sized crucifix hanging over the altar. "Lived and worked as a carpenter, as a man who used the strength of his hands and his back to make a honest living, and millions of Catholics think of him like this — pale, weak, dying, a victim. Got to make you wonder how much that influences the way they see themselves."
"Maybe that's why they identify with him so strongly," Chief's voice answered unexpectedly.
Jumping, swearing silently at himself for it, McNab was barely able to stifle the urge to turn and look at the men behind him. If he did, he knew from experience they would fade as if they had never been there, and it would be days before he could persuade them to meet again. Putting his will into keeping the surprise out of his voice, he returned, "They see themselves as victims?"
"They see that all men in the end, even God's Son, must die. But that it can be done with courage and dignity," Panther said quietly.
"Me, I'd rather go down fighting." Only half of McNab’s attention was on the conversation. The rest listened to the tiny sounds of the two men behind him; garments rustling, the wood of the pew creaking, shoes scraping on the floor.
"Lots of different ways to fight, man."
Chief was to his left, and Panther sat to the right. Picking up a hymnal from the rack on the back of the pew in front of him, McNab ruffled the edges of the pages to give his restless hands something to do. "Some better than others. Personally, I don't know if I care for the way the two of you go about it, always lurking and sneaking around, never showing your faces."
"If you're trying to start an argument, McNab," Panther said dryly, "you need to pick a better weak spot."
The fanning motion of pages tickled his fingertip, and McNab abandoned the mock belligerence he usually put on when dealing with the pair. "The department's found yours, man. They've finally figured out you don't work alone, that Chief is always with you or nearby."
To himself he had admitted that he had no idea how they would react to his news. What they did left him astounded. They stood, and one large, somehow elegant, hand landed on his right shoulder and an equally large, but square fingered one landed on his left. "Hungry?" Panther asked casually. "We haven't eaten tonight and some company would be appreciated."
"Ah...I...well, I, uh…." With an effort McNab snapped his mouth shut, exhaled hard, and tried again. "There's a diner around the corner that has a pretty decent chili."
"Man," Chief murmured, "do *all* cops have cast-iron stomachs?"
"Naw, we just think we do," McNab shot back, feeling smug that he'd been right; at least one of them had to have been a cop, or be family to one.
"Come on, Chief." The hands left, and a tall white man walked around to stand in front of McNab, a smaller one standing close enough to his side to have been Velcro'd there. "Well, McNab?" Panther said.
They stood patiently while he stared at them, marking their faces in his mind. To have more than voices, more than actions to measure them by, made them *real* to him in a way that he didn't understand. Uncertain, he stood and wordlessly led the way.
His silence and theirs lasted until they'd been seated and ordered a meal. Between the partners, it sat effortlessly, unnoticed. It wasn't as easy for him, but McNab managed to settle into it well enough, though he kept stealing glances at their faces. Panther seemed mildly amused by his scrutiny; Chief returned it, his grin growing wider each time their eyes met.
Finally McNab relaxed into the booth they had chosen at the rear of the restaurant, near the back exit, and stretched his arm along the back, deliberately giving the impression of being mellow. "You know, with a name like 'Panther,' I was half-expecting you to be a brother."
Eyes laughing, Panther said solemnly, "Thank you."
That did make McNab laugh. "Well, you're doing the best you can. Though a brother wouldn't walk around in all that black; be picked up for sure on suspicion of something or another."
"Depends on the neighborhood. Some places we fit right in."
"Though the Goth clubs are more my thing than his," Chief added.
"Can't see him," and McNab lifted a lazy finger to point to Panther, "even trying to fit in there."
"Saying I'm too old for that crowd?" Panther came back with a wry grimace.
"Saying you're too close to the real thing for those spook-wannabes. Scare most of them right out of their middle-classed minds."
Chief laughed and elbowed his partner. "Told you!"
Before McNab could answer, the waitress arrived with their coffees, and set them down. While Chief talked to her, keeping her focused on him, Panther lifted his cup, sniffed, sipped, then set it down to do the same to Chief's. All the while he did it, as he had during the entire conversation so far, he unobtrusively looked up each time someone went in or out the front door. The waitress left, patting her hair in a woman's pleased-with-herself-way, and Chief took the two sugars that Panther had left next to his cup and tore them open.
He looked up from stirring it in, and lifted his eyebrows, still smiling, at McNab's intent gaze. "Problem?"
"Question. So how long were you two cops?"
"What makes you think we were cops?" Chief said evenly, expression never changing.
"Come on... my old man was one for twenty years before he became a commissioner. I grew up around them, and I *know* cop partners when I see them. Two of you might as well still be wearing badges."
"Wore a badge for nine years, give or take," Panther said softly. "But him," and he inclined his head toward Chief, "You can't even begin to guess what he is."
Checking Chief over once again, McNab realized that was nothing but the simple truth. The ratty clothes were worn like any kid's anywhere, and though he thought Chief looked about thirty at first glance, a second showed that he could have been mistaken for seven or eight years on either side of that, in the right light with the right expression on his face. He didn't hold himself with the same assessing alertness as his partner, but rather kept checking out the room as if delighted by its contents and waiting for a chance to go explore.
McNab took in the crumpled, wrinkled place on Panther's trench coat, just at his waist, as though a hand spent a great deal of time clenched there, and the protective arm slung over the back of the booth, almost mirroring his own position, but differing in that the hand brushed loosely over Chief's shoulder as he moved. McNab found himself saying honestly, "Precious to you."
The deceptive ease of Panther's pose vanished, and for a second McNab wondered if he would be fast enough to get away before he was slashed. He rushed on, determined to say his piece. "Which makes me wonder even more why the hell you aren't on your way out of this city, maybe on one of those high-classed jobs you been working lately."
A muscle jumped in Panther's tightly clenched jaw, but Chief said mildly, "You sound as if you disapprove of us taking those cases, and you sent some of them our way yourself."
Looking away from the mesmerizing motion, McNab said distractedly, "Hey, you got what you needed from the streets, a rep. You're entitled to move up; you're good enough. Doesn't mean I have to like it."
"Have you heard that Panther doesn't prowl the streets anymore?" the big man said dangerously, leaning forward. "Have you seen anything that makes you think we're not out there doing what we can?"
Yanking back to meet the hard blue eyes, McNab said carefully, "That was out of line. You're right; if anything, I've heard the opposite." Panther subsided slowly, Chief's hand wrapped in his coat as he said something too softly for McNab to understand. The young detective laid both hands, palms down, between them, to show he meant no insult.
"Panther," he said earnestly, "they know your weakness, now. They didn't want to believe you were real, but the evidence kept mounting, and now they think they have a way to get to you. They don't have anything to charge you with, but that won't stop them from trying. If you don't want to take a job out of town, then take a vacation, for chrissakes, until they get complacent again.
"Anybody who thinks Chief is the way to get to me is seriously underestimating both of us, but especially him," Panther said flatly.
"Emerson," Chief put in quietly, "the department is always way behind what's happening on the streets. We've already had to deal with a few mercs that thought the way to get their reputation was by taking Panther out. And by people looking for revenge. Once by someone who simply saw us as a potential problem he wanted to get rid of before it became too much of a nuisance. And some of them thought they could use me to get what they wanted."
"We're still here. They're not," Panther finished for them.
Looking back and forth between them, McNab dug for words, grateful that the waitress came back with their food. Seasoning his, using it as an excuse to think, he watched as she sat a filled plate before the other two, along with an empty one, and realized Chief hadn't ordered. After smelling and taking a taste of everything, Panther divided the food, putting the salad, and half of the vegetable sides that came with his meatloaf, on the empty plate for Chief.
"Hey, too much," Chief protested.
"Too thin, partner," Panther shot back. Chief shrugged, made a face at the food, and began to eat slowly.
Mentally resigning himself to being confused by the pair, no matter what, McNab took a mouthful of his own dinner, then said, "Having the police after you is only going to make it tougher. You gotta have a reason for hanging around here. Tell me. Let me help."
Like he had told them, he had grown up around police officers, good men and their partners, and he knew how much could be said between them with only a glance. What passed when Panther and Chief looked at each other made everything he'd seen before seem like baby-talk.
After another couple of bites, Chief admitted, "It wasn't that long ago we had real jobs, friends we could trust, family...a home. Then somebody, somebody with a lot of power, took it all away, and we don't even know *why!* We've got some educated guesses, a few leads, enough to know that if we're ever going to be able to stop, uh, 'always lurking and sneaking around, never showing our faces,' this is where we need to be."
Shame-faced, McNab broke in, "I shouldn't have said that."
"S'okay, man. It's the truth." At his partner’s derisive snort, Chief added, "Doesn't mean we like it, though."
"Anyway, it takes time to dig your way through as many layers as some people can put around themselves. We thought we may as well put it to good use, at least while we were here looking around." Chief shrugged and took another bite.
Not sure he wanted to believe them, but finding it hard to call Chief a liar, if only in his mind, McNab asked curiously, "How close are you?"
"Got a name," Panther said, after a swallow. "Might not be the one, but might be a step to him."
"Maybe I heard of him."
"Had to, in this town. Senator Weisman."
McNab dropped his fork, and sat up in his seat, instinctively scooting back from them.
"Take it you've more than heard of him," Panther said wryly.
As fast as he had tried to distance himself from the partners, McNab closed the space to get as close to them as he could. "I want a piece of this. Let me in. Please. That piece of garbage has been polluting this town for years, has been responsible for the loss of more good cops than I want to think about, including a friend of mine," he said urgently, quietly. "Most of the time when you say, 'everybody knows,' no one does, but this time, it's true. Everybody knows he's dirty, and nobody's been able to get anything on him."
They stared at him, still eating their food, and then Panther put his lips against Chief's ear. The smaller man listened, nodding once or twice. McNab listened too, but could only pick up a sibilant hiss of air that he didn't think could possibly carry any meaning. To his amazement, Chief answered him, moving his lips silently, his throat working in speech and Panther watched him carefully, nodding once himself. *Lip-reading? Panther is deaf? No way, man. Ab-so-lute-ly no way.*
As if hearing that thought, Chief shot him an odd look, then grinned his easy grin. "You're in. We don't know how or when, but if we take Weisman on, you're our back up. Okay?"
Picking up his fork again and digging into his meatloaf, McNab smiled to himself. *Oh, wait until the old man hears about this.* The thought made him slow his chewing for a second, and he asked thoughtfully, "My father... you know he used to be Police Commissioner?" At their nod, he swallowed again, and offered, "He might have some information on Weisman, might have an idea if he could be involved in whatever happened to you."
They didn't even need to check with each other, this time. "You're a cop," Chief said gently. "Part of your job is taking risks. But your dad? Man, do you really want to drag him into this? I know it's only letting him know you're asking questions about Weisman, but, if this dude is as bad as you're telling us, even that much can be dangerous."
"The last thing my old man wants me to do is to 'protect' him by not talking to him about what's going on in my life," McNab said, hearing the pride in his voice and not ashamed of it. "No matter if he can help or not, he'd be hurt and angry if I didn't tell him that I was diving head first into a load of crap, and he found out only after he had to identify the body. Won't do that, people. Keep your name out of it, yeah, he understands confidentiality. Keep him ignorant? I don't think so."
For a minute Panther's eyes were the most human he'd seen, and it took McNab by surprise when he realized it was pain that made them so. But it was only a flash, and Panther said, matter-of-factly, "Tell him anything you want; even what Chief just told you. If we didn't trust your judgment, we wouldn't be sitting here."
"What made you decide to?" the detective couldn't help asking.
Loading his fork again, Panther answered, "You warned us; you broke department regs to do it, though you don't like how we operate."
"That's all?" McNab nearly shouted.
"Think about it, for a second." Chief tapped one finger on the back of McNab's hand, the contact so fleeting it almost didn't happen.
He did, a bit unwillingly, putting himself into their place. Maybe *they* had known his news wasn't of any particular use to them, but he hadn't. It could have meant life or death to them, and he had told them with no strings attached. A gift, if he wanted to think like that, and with a little self-satisfied thrill he discovered he did want to think like that, because it had been the right thing to do.
In return, he'd been given the gift of trust, which until now, he hadn't known he wanted so badly from these two. Not willing to look at why he wanted it, not just yet anyway, McNab hid a smile by bending over his plate. *Dad doesn't go to bed 'til late, since he's been retired. Got time to drive out there, maybe spend the night and go to work from there.*
Mind made up, he put down his fork, and lifted his coffee, suddenly sure that neither of them would appreciate his commenting on their decision to trust him. "So," he said, as if it had been the topic of conversation all along, "you two hear anything about problems between the Lords and the Blades?"
Panther smiled for the first time, though it wasn't much of a one, and Chief relaxed, lifting his own coffee cup in silent salute.
***
The sight of the military sedan sitting in front of his father's house almost made McNab change his mind. It was a long way back to his place, though, and Uncle Al would understand if he wanted to speak to his dad privately. Locking his car up and starting up the sidewalk, he was thinking about whether to come right out and say it, or just wait for a chance to pull his dad aside, when he abruptly remembered *who* Al was, besides an honorary uncle.
If anyone had his finger on what was happening behind the scenes on the Hill, it would be that sneaky old buzzard. Just his ability to stay in his position as long as he had meant Calavicci had some good connections. The question was, how much could he get away with, while not revealing too much himself, and still pump the admiral for what he needed?
Giving a perfunctory knock, then letting himself in with his own key, McNab headed straight for the basement where the two were likely to be. Recently his Dad had taken up an interest in model trains, and was spending most of his time down there, slowly filling up the room with tracks and miniature scenery. Half running down the steps, looking forward to a cold beer and getting his feet up, he whipped through the door to the rec room.
And pulled up short at the sight of two guns, held by his father and Admiral Calavicci, pointed straight at him. The scene held, as if all were waiting for a "Cut!" from an unseen director, then his dad holstered his weapon and came forward.
"Emerson, what are you doing here at this time of the night! And without calling first!"
"Whoa, whoa, Dad. Last time I checked, I had an open invitation to be here. If that's changed, you don't have to tell me at gunpoint."
"Don't be silly, son." The elder McNab changed his demeanor quickly. "But startling two old war-horses like Al and myself isn't a good idea. You should have called out, and let us know it was you in the house." Ulysses gave his son a quick hug, and began steering him out of the room. Behind him, Admiral Calavicci hastily scooped papers into a folder and closed down a laptop.
Peering back over his shoulder at the mess, McNab clearly saw one photo, and froze in place, refusing to move even when his father took him by the upper arm and pulled, hard. It was a picture of Senator Weisman, talking in an outdoor setting to a man who had gone to such great lengths to look neutral and unassuming, that he screamed 'operative' to McNab's trained eye.
"I especially shouldn't interrupt them when they're working on something illegal, huh, Dad?" he said shortly.
"Not illegal. I swear, Shrink," the admiral said hastily.
"Just something you'd rather nobody knew about."
Looking tired, but with a father's glint and smile, Ulysses released the younger man and sank onto the couch. "Might as well tell him, Bingo. He has the right to know the muck his father is shoveling. It's beginning to look like some of it might splatter on him, no matter how cautious we are." He handed a paper napkin to his son. "Might as well sit down and get to shredding, son. You've got a long story to hear."
Several hours later, holding the photo that had captured him earlier, McNab told the image ironically, "*You* are a popular man, Senator Weisman."
"So your mercenaries are out for him, too?" Ulysses asked, rubbing his face and turning in his seat on the couch to face his son.
"Not mercs, Dad," he corrected. "Not vigilantes, even. That is...I guess." He stood and began pacing around the room, busy fingers exploring and examining the trains and their settings. "They're kinda, well, going around putting things right that shouldn't have gone wrong."
Calavicci sat up straight in his chair suddenly, pinning Emerson with a hard look. He didn't say anything though, and settled back with an obvious effort.
"Quite a turnaround from the last time we talked about them, son," his father pointed out.
"Trust takes time, Dad," McNab said to himself as much as to Al and his dad. "On both sides. And it didn't help that Panther was working the way I wished I could," he admitted, with a flash of insight. "Not that I'd ever have that kind of strength." He put down the engine he wasn't really looking at and faced the other two squarely. "I think you should meet with them, if they're willing. If nothing else, Panther would be the best bodyguard you could get for Janson, if you really think he's in danger from Weisman because he's running against him in the election."
"He's looking too good in the polls and giving the senator a much closer race than he's happy with," Al said reflectively, watching his fingers toy with the cigar between them. "The last person who did that wound up having an unexplained heart attack a few months before the election, despite being a health nut. Someone at the hospital leaked that she needed a transplant, and the press, who by coincidence were perfectly placed for the story to have the most impact, took off with it before her people could debunk the lie. Cost her the election. Too neat, too convenient for Weisman, if you ask me. And everyone in this room knows there are drugs that can simulate a heart attack in a healthy person."
"Asking a lot of Panther and Chief to guard against that level of cunning." McNab looked over at his father. "And it's only the two of them."
"Not to mention that if he is responsible for their current disenfranchised state," Ulysses reminded them, "they could be recognized."
"From the sound of things," Al said, not looking at anyone, face closed down, "they're still our best bet for Janson. And it should be their decision. To them, the risks might be worth it. Since we all seem to be on the same side, fill them in, Shrink. Set up to meet, if they want, so your father and I can tell them what we know. If not, well, we can filter it through you, and they can use it anyway they want."
Father and son stared at Calavicci, but he refused to respond. Finally, Ulysses said, worriedly, "Bingo? That's an enormous amount of confidence in someone that even Emerson, who's been working with them, has his doubts about."
Putting out his cigar, and standing, automatically brushing his hands over his clothes to smooth and straighten them out, Al told the floor, "Remember the night I came to you with this, and I told you part of what I knew, you were going to have to take on faith? I'm asking again, Zee." At that he looked up, and Emerson saw an odd mix of hope and worry sitting on the distinguished features of his uncle. "We can trust Panther and Chief. Trust me on this, okay?"
"You know something," McNab said suspiciously.
Calavicci shook his head. "Suspect something. Have a hunch, if you will."
"Bingo…"
"Uncle Al…"
"Please," he interrupted them quickly. For a minute he fumbled for something to add, but could only repeat, sadly, "Please?"
The two McNabs regarded him first expectantly, then said in unison, "Done."
*You cannot close it down.* Even over the phone the man managed to sound unremarkable; his precise English was the only hint of his character.
"There isn't any other way," Weisman soothed. "It's not permanent. There will be enough funds to keep key people under contract, but the facility will have to go into mothballs and the personnel, ah, released from their services."
*Use funds from one of the other projects.*
"All the rest have been closed as well, except for Stallion's Gate, the one closest to success at the moment. We've managed to reconstruct the start-up sequence for the hybrid computer, and the technicians have puzzled out the hardware enough that they only need a few more months to attempt a reboot on the machine."
*You'll need the research, then.*
Clenching his fists to keep his voice level, Weisman said patiently, with no trace of the mockery he had previously used, "We have learned all we can from secondary sources. Without Ellison, our primary subject, there is simply no fiscal reason to maintain that phase; the imaging chamber will do as is. It will be difficult enough to justify Stallion's Gate to the audit."
*The audit was supposed to have been under your control.*
After an uneasy silence, Weisman admitted, "Roberson managed to elude us."
*How?*
"The little nerd found the courage somewhere to face his wife and tell her that he had lost her inheritance with bad investments, instead of embezzling from his firm as he should have. And when we put our secondary plan into play, the operative was fired before he could activate the evidence that would implicate Roberson in embezzlement, anyway. There was a surprise security background check, and his didn't hold up this time." Weisman double-checked that the call wasn't being recorded or traced, nervously staying away from his office window.
*You could pay to have someone else activate the evidence.*
"That was done. It wasn't there any more. And Roberson has taken a leave of absence with his spouse, so that he can begin preparations to declare Chapter 13, but not before taking a few weeks for a second honeymoon at his in-laws' mountain cabin. Physical threat isn't an option."
*He had to have help.*
"Rumor has it, he enlisted the help of specialized mercenaries, using what was left of his wife's inheritance."
*The Panther and Chief,* the distant man announced promptly.
"Likely. This sort of crusade is their modus operandi, after all."
*Again they are disrupting one of our operations?*
"This time their interference has been enough of a problem that I think we should affect a permanent solution to it."
*Shall I deal with it personally, now that my present assignment is terminated? Or would you prefer that I take over security and personnel management at Stallion's Gate to guarantee the same co-operation you enjoyed from The Shop?*
The other man was telling, not asking, and Weisman suddenly wondered if the balance between them was as even as he thought. Hastily pulling together a plan to provide more insulation for himself from the man, he faked nonchalance. "It would probably be better to inform the local authorities of my interest in having The Panther's activities cease. If you wish to visit the project to determine if you would like to take residence, please feel free. There is one thing you could do before you decide, however."
*Janson.*
"If you please. Nothing permanent, mind you. That is of no help to me. A scandal, something discrediting; the specifics I'll leave at your discretion."
*While you're neutralizing the mercenaries, you may as well accelerate your campaign to redistribute the members of your committee so that the mix is more to your advantage. Challenged as you are for re-election, it's a maneuver the ones causing difficulty will not be expecting.*
Feeling stretched too thin and from only talking to the Assistant Director of The Shop, Weisman groaned silently, but agreed aloud smoothly before ending the conversation. Putting down the phone he considered hiring The Panther himself, before he had him killed, to eliminate the Assistant Director before the nondescript man found another patron for his talents. And no longer needed him alive.
***
At his desk in the precinct, McNab shuffled aside the files lying open on his desk, looking for his mislaid pen. Mind still on the hunt, he picked up his phone when it rang, answering automatically, "McNab."
*Well, one of them, anyway.*
Abandoning his search, McNab swiveled around his chair to put his back to the bullpen, and said happily, "Hey, Dad."
*You ready for that party we've been planning, son?*
Checking his watch and keeping his voice innocuous, Emerson answered, "Invitations are out, and I'm supposed to call to confirm the guest list in about ten minutes. No reason for you and the guest of honor not to start on your way."
*You sure you want to do this? Not to late too settle for taking the old man out to dinner, his treat.*
"Hey, no way. My treat if the party's a bust," McNab said firmly. "But I'm pretty sure it will come off as planned, unless an emergency comes up."
*An hour then, Emerson.* Ulysses’ voice dropped, taking on a stronger paternal timber. *Look after yourself, son.*
"As always, Dad, as always." McNab hung up, looked around the bullpen quickly, and then went back to work. Or at least, pretended to; his middle was bunched inside, clenching and releasing in waves of nausea, like when he had been a rookie quarterback on his first call of a big bowl game. It made concentrating on the words in front of him nearly impossible.
Why the meet between The Panther and Chief, and his family had him in an uproar, he didn't know. All he knew was that if the partners hadn't already been involved in a case when he first contacted them, delaying the introductions, then he wouldn't have had time to second-guess his decision about setting it up at all, and he wouldn't be so spun up now. Not only about arranging the meet, but also about telling his father and Uncle Al about them in the first place. The way Al had reacted...it still didn't seem right. Too much, too fast, too easy.
After a furtive glance, he picked up his phone, acted as if the call was giving him trouble, as he had complained of legitimately more than once, then scooted over to another detective's desk. The brass had been turning an overly attentive eye to him lately, asking him pointed questions about his sources. A bug on his phone or random checks on the numbers called from it wasn't entirely unlikely.
He had the cell phone number memorized, though he knew it would only be good for a few calls at specified hours before being discarded by the partners. As little as that was, it was an incredible risk for them, and he treated it like the gesture of trust that it was. It was answered immediately with a "Yes" that was growled as much as spoken.
Despite his knowledge of Panther, a shiver rippled over him. At times the man didn't seem entirely human. In a friendly, cheerful voice that he forced from somewhere he spoke up. "Looking forward to our party, tonight? The guest of honor checked in with me a few minutes ago, and will be at your address in about an hour." Picking up a scrap of paper, he tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder and began to tear the sheet into tiny squares, not consciously aware of his actions.
*Fountain at the far end of the Potomac Park, one hour. You sure a face-to-face is needed, McNab?*
"Believe me, if there was any other way…." McNab muttered, without thinking. Hoping it was too indistinct to be understood, he returned to his false good cheer. "Hey, have to keep the big man, happy, right? His party, his rules. Besides, you want to be introduced to him, believe me on that."
*Emerson,* Chief came on unexpectedly, *we know you're worried about getting them involved, the way things are right now for us. But you're right, it is their party.*
Sighing, not caring if anyone noticed the change, McNab dropped his paper and held the phone close, dropping his head almost to his chest to speak softly. He admitted tiredly, "Just game-time jitters, man. Just jitters."
*Understood,* Panther said, and McNab could almost see the promise of a smile the big man used for reassurance. *One hour.*
"See you then." He hung up, stared at the phone for a second, then went back to his desk to actually find his pen, this time.
Less than ten minutes later, he was called to the captain's office to discuss a new case he was being assigned. Behind him, the owner of the desk he had borrowed sat down, looked at the pile of tiny squares on his ink-blotter, and chuckled. "McNab, why don't you get your phone fixed, buddy?" He swept them into his palm, dumped them in his trash, and then opened his top desk drawer to pull out the sound-activated tape recorder he kept there.
Strictly speaking, it wasn't legal, but it had saved his ass on more than one occasion. He started to hit the erase, not wanting to hear McNab screw up his love life again, or another boring conversation with the cop's big-shot old man. As it was rewinding, his finger slipped, and he heard a growl of a word in a voice that he had heard only once before, ordering a perp that he had just turned loose for his own reasons to put his gun down. Quickly he listened to the entire conversation, then put the recorder back on before dialing a number. This bit of tape was going to make him rich; very, very rich.
***
Most of D.C. was a sewer, as far as Blair was concerned, but he had to admit there were parts of it that he liked. Around the time the first few stars appeared, he and Jim strolled along the path beside the water in Potomac Park, enjoying the hint of breeze flowing from it and ignoring the traffic roaring by on the road on the other side of the narrow green. Joggers and bikers passed them by, but paid no attention to either of them; they were only another couple of obstacles to get around as far as they were concerned. That suited him just fine.
They had been past the meet point twice, making sure it wasn't staked out or bugged, and even Jim didn't think the third time was necessary. He was simply enjoying the soft, warm air as much as any tourist or evening pedestrian. For far too long, the only pleasures they had had were the little ones, like this. Weird how that made such moments that much sweeter.
Ahead of him he could see the fountain; two men sat on its rim, chatting and smoking big cigars. Even Blair could smell them from where he was. Thinking briefly of another big black man and the same smell, he smiled, losing it quickly when Jim pulled up short beside him.
"Chief, I know him. The man with Ulysses McNab, I *know* him," Jim whispered.
Blair strained, but they were too far for his eyes. "Who, Jim?"
"Calavicci. The admiral who works as military liaison for special projects; Sam's project manager, when he was alive."
"Are you sure?" They started walking, more slowly. At Jim's nod, Blair wondered aloud, "Man, this could be good or bad. He's made us, and wants to help, or somebody else has made us and he's bait, or...he's exactly who McNab said he was: someone in a position to know what Weisman's up to and needs our help to stop him. Which could be both good and bad. Co-incidence?" Blair finished doubtfully, close enough now to see an older looking man, rocking lightly on his heels and glancing at them, cigar hanging loosely from one hand. McNab, Sr. stood by him, protectively, supportively.
"Or more of Sam's work." Jim stopped again. "He's recognized me, I'm sure of it. But McNab hasn't. Chief, I don't think he told McNab he knows me."
"Stay or go, Jim?" Blair looked around their part of the park, chills creeping over his neck. Nothing out of place, and he knew what to look for; Jim had taught him well enough. It was no reassurance, however; his unease grew worse. "Jim?" He clutched at the trench coat, giving it enough of a tug that Jim tilted his head down toward him, though his eyes swept the area, too.
"Police are chasing a mugger a half-mile away or so," Jim mumbled. "Two motorcycle units are diverting toward their call; he's armed and firing, from the sound of it." Another visual sweep of the park, then he stepped forward decisively. "We make contact, then quickly move to another location."
Opposite them, Blair saw McNab, Jr. moving toward the fountain, already waving to his father as he came. Ulysses waved back, going forward to meet him. They met at the same time he and Jim reached the admiral, who gave no sign of knowing Jim, merely nodding at them cordially. "Gentlemen."
"Sir," Jim said formally, offering his hand.
Taking it, Calavicci smiled with what could only be called satisfaction. He turned his attention to Blair, the smile growing wider. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you." The words could have been directed at both of them; Blair knew that they were meant for him, personally, and he responded to both the shake and smile with his own.
Overhead the 'clop!' of a chopper could be heard, presumably answering the mugger call, and Jim looked up in its general direction. "Trouble heading our way, sir. Maybe we could find a better place to talk?"
Calavicci didn't have a chance to reply. Looking past him, Jim shouted, "McNab! Down!"
Half turning as it happened, Jim pulling him and the admiral down into a crouch, Blair saw a man running across the green of the park, two motorcycle police behind him. The runner had a gun, not pointed at his pursuers, but at father and son. Blair felt Jim bring his own gun up to fire at the runner as Calavicci drew one himself. There was only time for one shot before the chopper overhead abruptly dropped, shining its searchlights on the fountain area, putting the party into sharp relief against the cement walkway, a spray of bullets tracking with the light.
At Jim's stifled shout of pain, Blair, seeing from the corner of his eye one of the McNabs fall, hunched under Jim's kevlar-protected back and shouted at the admiral. "Shoot the lights out! Shoot them! Panther, fire in the hole, man!"
Bracing his gun on Jim's shoulder, the admiral did as he was told. Though the runner was down, the motorcyclists were firing, too, and their target was the McNabs. A flash, then darkness told him the chopper was hit, and a crash said the same for a cyclist. Both McNabs began to shoot at the remaining bike, freeing Jim as he recovered from his sensory shock to add his firepower to Calavicci's at the chopper. A few more shots, and the chopper arrowed straight up and out of sight. More lights appeared, this time from a huge land yacht of a station wagon crossing the grass from the road. Before they had time to assess its role in the gunfight, it had sideswiped the other motorcycle, tumbling it and the driver. Racing toward the fountain, it put itself between the oncoming patrol cars and Blair's small group.
Jim shouted at the McNabs, "The water. Hit the water!" and drew a bead on the car.
Suddenly he stood, bringing Blair and Al with him, as the wagon skidded to a stop, shielding them from fire from the cruisers. Without hesitation Jim yanked open the rear door as Calavicci opened the front. The three of them dove in, the car already in motion again. The interior was padded with kevlar vests stapled to the doors and seats, and there was no glass in the windows to shatter and cut.
"Get to them, there, by the water!" Blair ordered the driver, squirming under the protective weight of his partner to point in the general direction of the McNabs.
Sam Beckett shook his head, gunned the engine, and spun out, heading for the road.
"Man, what are you doing? We have to go back!" Blair shouted over gunshots. "We've got two men down there! We have to go back!"
Adeptly, Sam squealed through halting traffic, losing one of the cruisers to a crash into a guardrail. Only when he had gained full control of the big vehicle, did he reply. "Ulysses was winged, only a graze; Emerson took a slug in the shin at the thickest point just below the knee. But they'll make the boat you two hid behind the boathouse. Right now, they're safer than we are. How many bogies, Al?"
Beside Sam, Al yanked his troubled eyes away from his friend, looked back, counting squad cars. "Two behind us, Sam, but one looks like it's got problems."
"Jim!" Blair yelled, pushing at the man on him, "Come on, move! I can't breathe, here!" There was no answer, and for the first time Blair realized the body holding him down wasn’t moving. Quickly he squirmed up so that he could see into Jim's face, hands skimming frantically over the sentinel to search for wounds. "Jim, JIM!" Wetness smacked his attention, and in the strobing light of passing vehicles, he raised his hand to see it bright red with blood. "He's bleeding! God, he's bleeding!"
"Al! Take the wheel!" As if rehearsed, Calavicci raised up, scooted over as Sam slid under and past him, their hands smoothly transferring control of the car. With a momentary dip in acceleration, they traded feet, then Sam was climbing over the seat to assess Jim's condition. "Where? Show me."
Cold wrapping itself around his heart, his mind edged in black, Blair didn't answer him, but held Jim's face between his hands. "No, Jim; hang on, man; you got to hang on...please," he murmured, eyes closed, willing his partner to hear him.
"Chief!" Sam shook him, once, then ripped his hands away from Jim, gripping them tightly in his own. "Where's he bleeding from? I can't tell!"
"Brace yourselves," Calavicci warned loudly. Doing the best he could, Sam steadied them as Al whipped the car around a corner sharply. From the clash of metal and glass, it sounded as if one of the cruisers didn't make it. "That leaves the one limping," Al confirmed. With a surge of power the wagon leaped forward, and Al whooped. "What have you got under the hood of this thing, Sam?"
"Don't ask now, Al! Chief! Look at me!" Painfully he pulled on Blair's braid until his head was all the way back. "Where's he hurt? I can't help him if you don't help me!"
Learning it as he said it, Blair answered, "Neck, below his left ear."
Letting go of him immediately, Sam looked at the passing streets once, taking a doctor's bag from under the front passenger seat as he did. "Al. Three streets up, just after the turn, between a bus stop and three garbage cans piled in a pyramid, there's an alley; kill the lights; should be nothing to block you. Coast for the end of it; don't use the brakes."
Hands working as he gave the directions, Sam found a deep gouge that was too near Jim's carotid artery for Blair's peace. "Not too bad, deep, but nothing's severed. Chief, is he out or in a zone?"
Blair blinked, trying to make sense of the surreal scene: Sam bending over them, framed by the kaleidoscopic movement past the windows, shadows and lights rippling over him, making him first a demon, then an angel, then a human with blood on his hands and compassion in his eyes. Eyes that Blair could see all the way into, down to the soul.
"Chief," Sam tried again, more reassuringly. "It's bleeding badly, but he'll be okay if you can tell me whether he's unconscious or if his senses are overloaded."
A jerk, a clank, and then silence except for air whooshing past the vacant windows - Blair absorbed that, along with Beckett's words and Sam himself. In the distance he could hear a single siren wail closer, then past. "Why?" he asked.
"Because I may have to cauterize it to stop the bleeding. He won't be able to deal with the pain if he's already overwhelmed."
"He's out," Blair said calmly, the last remnants of his panic fading as he acknowledged the feel of Jim within himself. "Now, do it now."
Then from the front, Al added his two cents. "We have to ditch this car, Sam, which means moving him."
"Let's get this done, first, then. Blair, apply pressure..." He reached for Blair's hand but, without Sam's help and without looking, Blair put it into proper position onto a wad of sterile gauze. Closing his mouth and shaking off his surprise, Sam leaned forward to instruct Al. "Know the parking garage on Virginia? Third level."
"Sam, that's four blocks from here!"
"Then you better hurry; try not to attract attention."
"Gee, thanks for reminding me."
Resting his forehead on the seat in front of him, Beckett said slowly, "I...I think every one who was available for the chase, has either given up or is headed in the wrong direction." Al spared a glance over his shoulder to check out his friend, and Blair could understand why. Sam's words were heavy, exhausted, and Al noticed for the first time how pale the doctor was. "But try to maintain that low profile, Al, just in case I'm wrong. You O.K.?"
"Oh, a few scratches from taking a header into this thing, nothing serious, though."
"Chief?"
Startled, Blair gave a second's thought to his body. "Well, if you discount being shot at, and thrown beneath this human mountain, I'm fine."
There were two soft laughs, but Sam covered Blair's hand where it rested on Jim's bandages. "We need to see how much damage there is under his vest. There's at least four holes back here."
With an effort, Blair did not shudder. "Wouldn't it be better if I got out from under him?"
"He might have broken ribs from the bullets' impact. If we don't want a lung punctured or worse, it's better to leave both of you where you are. I'll be as fast as I can." Already probing, Sam spoke kindly, if absentmindedly.
Arriving at the parking garage a few minutes later, they pulled up beside a red Wagoneer at Sam's direction, and transferred quickly to it. Groaning, not quite conscious yet, Jim helped Blair and Sam move him as much as he could. After wiping down the outside handles of the wagon, Al got behind the steering wheel of their new car and looked at Sam expectantly. Finishing wrapping gauze around Jim's throat, he said evenly, "Tourista Suites, two exits from the main airport road." Getting out of the back to sit beside Al in the front, he took an envelope from the glove compartment of the Wagoneer. "I made reservations."
Without a word, Al pulled away from the wagon, but Blair was looking behind them when they left, arranging Jim's head on his lap as they did. He was the only one who saw it burst into flames, though Calavicci had to have seen the flash in his mirrors. "No physical evidence," he said.
"No physical evidence," Sam agreed. "This isn't the way to the airport, Al."
"Got to get to the girls, first," Al told him grimly. "They…."
"Are on their way to Tom's," Sam interrupted, smiling wanly. "You know I wouldn't have left them to Weisman's mercy, or lack thereof."
"And the McNabs?" Al signaled and turned around in the intersection.
"The detective that made Emerson got greedy; he, and any physical evidence linking McNab to a meeting with Panther, is gone. They're going to hide behind the cover arranged by the captain who gave them up. He planned to use it to conceal their deaths; they'll use it to stay alive. As far as anyone can prove, they were having a leisurely walk before a meal at a nearby restaurant; then just happened to get caught in a bust gone bad. Their distance from us when all hell broke loose, and the fact they could honestly have been said to be shooting at the runner will keep IA happy."
"It's a sure bet Weisman knows."
"A week from now it won't matter what Weisman knows," Sam said remotely. With each word, his eyes and expression had grown more and more distant.
Seeing that, Blair asked unexpectedly, "Dr. Beckett, are *you* hurt?"
That brought him back from wherever he had been traveling, and Sam smiled in gratitude at Blair. "Just tired. And it's 'Sam,' please."
"Only if you'll call me 'Blair.'"
Cocking his head to one side, as if listening to a faraway sound, Sam asked, "Are you sure you want me to?" Indicating the man stretched on the seat with a nod, he added, "You've both been very careful about hiding all traces of who you were, even your names. It's not safe for you to get out of the habit; not yet, anyway."
"The names we use on the street," Blair said firmly, "isn't who we are. Call me 'Chief' if you think it's wiser, but the person making your acquaintance is Blair Sandburg. That's who I want you to know. That *is* who I am."
The otherworldly look was back in Sam’s eyes, and he replied with a charmingly crooked smile. "Is it really?"
Calavicci, who had been listening and shooting odd looks at his companion, was about to speak up when the sound of a siren pulled everyone's attention away from the conversation. When it had passed, leaving palpable relief in the car, Sam began explaining as best he could how Weisman had found out about their meet. What he didn't have answers for, Al - and Jim when his mind cleared enough to speak coherently - tried to fill in with speculation, keeping a strained conversation going until they reached the hotel.
Complaining of a nosebleed, both to hide his face with a handkerchief and to give an excuse for any blood traces they might leave in the room, Sam checked in with Blair as father and son. When they were given their room keys, they immediately went upstairs, Blair silently confirming with a look that Jim and Al were stealthily following them. Dropping his bag on the couch, thinking vaguely that he hoped there were really clothes in it for him, he watched as Sam opened the door for their friends. Then backed away from it slowly, hands up slightly, not watching the guns they held, but the men themselves.
"Prove you;re Sam Beckett," Jim ordered shortly.
Oddly, Sam turned to Blair. "Is there any question in your mind?"
"No," Blair answered surely, but with no good reason to give.
Moving cautiously, Sam met Jim's doubtful glare and came close enough to slowly lean in as if to brush his lips over Jim's cheek. Instinctively, the sentinel gave a small sniff - and relaxed, reaching out to give Sam a quick hug. That left only Calavicci to convince, and his mix of hope, fear, joy, confusion, love, and elation, all hidden behind a neutral mask, made Blair's stomach hurt.
Never wavering from the admiral's steady regard, but wearing a small smile, Sam said five names, all women's. They meant absolutely nothing to Blair, but must have had major significance to Al. The gun drooped before the third, a huge grin blossomed at the fourth, and by the fifth he was opening his arms to the taller man. "I couldn't remember all my wives' names in the original history while I was living it. Trust you to be able to, even after it's changed!" he half laughed, half cried.
Sam moved into his friend's embrace, arms going around Al tightly. "Al!" he murmured joyfully, pressing his face into the admiral's shoulder, then collapsing slowly, as if all the life in him were leaking out.
End Part Two
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