Disclaimer: Alas, not mine! They belong to Pet Fly
     and a bunch of suits over at Paramount who don't
     love them nearly as much as I do. Isn't that
     always the way of things?
     
     Notes: There are so many people I need to thank:
     Subrosa and Maigret, my long suffering and
     wonderful friends who somehow found the time and
     the energy to hold my hands and nurse me through
     the writing process, and *never* flinched when it
     came to beating me into shape beta wise.  The
     always generous, kind and helpful Tealin who
     volunteered to do the .txt conversion. The
     Snarketeers -- you know who you are -- the most
     wonderful cheering section/support group ever. And
     last but not least: Rac, who was wonderfully
     patient, kind and encouraging and who taught me
     more about writing and the difference between
     passive and active voice, than any of th college
     professors who got all my money! Rac, you are the
     very best publisher/editor a girl could hope to
     find!
     
      
     Waste Places 
     by Virginia 'Virg' Vaughn 
     virgule@dangerous-minds.com
     
          I am the lion in his lair, 
          I am the fear that frightens me, 
          I am the desert of despair, 
          And the nights of agony. 
          Night or day, whate'er befall, 
          I must walk that desert land, 
          Until I can dare to call 
          The lion out to lick my hand. 
     
     'The Waste Places,' by James Stephens
     
     *****
     
     The loft was empty. It wasn't silent; nothing was
     ever silent to him. The small noises of
     refrigerator, clocks and other appliances bounced
     off the walls and echoed back at him, repeated
     over and over until they faded away completely.
     But the *missing* sounds. . . .
     
     Jim closed his eyes and dropped his head back on
     the couch, rolling it from side to side to ease
     the tension in his neck. Without volition, his
     hands moved across the flat planes of his stomach,
     circling and caressing until they dipped down to
     his crotch. His fingers ghosted a feather-light
     caress down the length of his semi-hard cock.
     
     Undoing the button on his trousers, he unzipped
     and released his erection. Licking the thumb of
     his free hand, he gently stroked the moist pad
     over and around the swollen head in a lingering
     caress. With his sense of touch dialed up, the
     feeling was almost too intense. He slowed his
     strokes down the hard length to an unhurried
     rhythm, squeezing and fondling his balls, rolling
     the sensitive testicles back and forth under the
     velvet skin of their sack.
     
     Ruthlessly, he pushed away thoughts of how much he
     wanted this caress to come from someone else's
     hand, refusing to give himself the comfort of
     fantasizing, fighting an internal battle to focus
     only on the physical sensations. It was hard
     enough sublimating his desire without fueling the
     fire.
     
     The coil of arousal tightened unbearably until,
     finally, he came with a low growl. For long
     moments he sat there panting, mind carefully
     blanked.
     
     God, he hated jerking off anymore. It only left
     him feeling more empty and alone. Methodically
     cleaning himself up, he wryly noted how maudlin he
     was becoming.
     
     The quiet hum of the loft echoed in his head. He
     stuffed down the urge to search for the familiar
     sounds of his partner and went to the fridge to
     get a beer. The last few days had stretched out
     endlessly without the sometimes annoying presence
     of Blair "I'm so charming" Sandburg. Wondering
     when his life had become so empty without the
     younger man at his side, Jim slowly shook his
     head. 'Not gonna go there tonight.'
     
     The insistent ring of the phone jerked him away
     from his dark thoughts. Grateful for the
     interruption, he snatched up the phone. "Ellison."
     
     Simon's urgent growl wrenched him to attention,
     "Jim, we've got a bad situation developing. I need
     you here right away."
     
     Jim squelched his frustration. At least he hadn't
     taken more than a couple swigs of beer. Sometimes,
     he wondered if Simon ever thought of calling
     anybody else in on the tough cases. "Sure, Simon,
     I can be there in fifteen. What's up?"
     
     "It looks like a botched kidnapping. The boy's
     hurt pretty bad."
     
     Jim flinched at the news. Under Simon's gruff
     tone, he heard a reflection of his own loathing of
     juvenile cases.
     
     "And Ellison, make that twenty minutes. It's
     raining and you don't need to set any speed
     records." 
     
     *****
     
     The mood in the bullpen was grim.
     
     Jim perched on the edge of the conference table as
     his captain paced back and forth. Simon's
     expression was tense as he went over the evidence
     they had so far. "The victim was discovered in a
     driveway over on the west side. Just before he
     passed out, the kid was able to tell us he'd been
     working the streets in Seattle. Given the
     condition he was in, we don't know how he managed
     to escape from his kidnapper."
     
     Jim nodded. Simon was right, this one was bad.
     "How's he doing?"
     
     "He's still unconscious, and it's a toss up
     whether he'll live. We don't have an ID on him
     yet. He was carrying a fake license with the name
     Jerry Smith, age twenty-one, but the doctors think
     he's around fifteen."
     
     "Do we have any witnesses?"
     
     Simon shrugged. "Rafe and Brown are canvassing the
     area now. I want you to get out there and see what
     you can pick up with your senses. This rain is a
     bitch, but we've got so little to go on, anything
     will help. I notified the FBI," Simon frowned
     heavily, "it looks like they're waiting to see
     what we've got."
     
     "And with a rent boy as the victim, they're not in
     any hurry, are they?" Jim's lips twisted with
     disgust.
     
     Simon huffed a wordless agreement.
     
     *****
     
     Cold rain trickled down his collar as he went over
     the site where the boy was discovered. Determined
     to do his best, Jim paced up and down the street
     in the icy deluge, struggling to stay in control,
     wishing he had his guide there to ground him.
     Hours later, the gray light of predawn confirmed
     what he already knew, there just wasn't anything
     for him to find.
     
     When he got back to the station, Simon snorted at
     his appearance, "You look like a drowned rat,
     Ellison. Go home, dry out and come back in the
     afternoon."
     
     The command rankled; Jim wasn't ready to give up.
     With every hour, the case would grow colder, and
     he couldn't let it go.
     
     Cold, tired and hungry, Jim went home to dry off
     and change clothes. He paced the loft restlessly,
     unable to get his mind off the investigation.
     Juvenile cases were always the worst. Especially
     when the victims were 'throwaway' kids that nobody
     seemed to care about. Deciding to check on the
     victim at Cascade General, he slammed out the
     door. Hell, maybe he'd get lucky and get a
     statement.
     
     At the hospital, it became clear that he wasn't
     going to get any leads from the victim. The ICU
     doctor advised him the boy's condition was
     guarded, and he was still comatose.
     
     Looking over his reading glasses at Jim, the
     gray-haired man read off the injuries listed on
     the patient's chart. "The young man has a severe
     skull fracture, several broken ribs, a broken
     clavicle, and major soft tissue damage. How long
     he'll be unconscious is anybody's guess. We're
     monitoring him closely for pressure on the brain;
     if necessary, we'll have to operate to relieve
     it."
     
     Jim listened with professional objectivity as the
     careworn doctor described soft tissue damage due
     to traumatic anal penetration, with evidence of
     'object' rape. With a soft rustle of papers, the
     doctor continued, "His left nipple is lacerated,
     possibly from having a nipple piercing torn out."
     
     An image of Blair's chest sprang into Jim's mind,
     lightly dusted with soft, fine hair, one dusky
     nipple pierced by a gleaming, silver ring.
     Suddenly nauseous, he shuddered, his objectivity
     shattered. "Thanks for the info, Doc," he
     muttered, breathing heavily.
     
     "Are you all right, Detective?"
     
     "Yeah, I'll be fine -- even better when we catch
     the bastard that did this. I just hope the kid
     makes it."
     
     The doctor rested a comforting hand his arm.
     "There's every chance the young man will pull
     through. We're doing everything we can."
     
     Leaning back in the elevator coming down from ICU,
     Jim thumped his head against the wall in
     frustration. If the kid died, they would have very
     little evidence to work with. Without witnesses or
     leads, the case would fizzle out, leaving another
     unsolved homicide on the books. They might not
     even be able to positively identify the victim. He
     was out of choices: it was either get some sleep,
     or go back to where the boy was found and try
     again. The headache beginning to throb at his
     temples told him he needed the sleep.
     
     Jim peeled out of the parking lot, venting some of
     his irritation. Halfway back to the loft, he swore
     softly to himself. There was no way he could go
     home. He'd never be able to get any sleep. Making
     a screaming and highly illegal U-turn, he headed
     back to where the victim had been found.
     
     It was a quiet little subdivision, well past its
     prime, with matching tract homes mirroring each
     other up and down about five square blocks. The
     residents were mostly older couples who had moved
     in when they were young and stayed on after their
     children had grown up and left home.
     
     Brown and Rafe were working their way door-to-door
     up opposite sides of the street. Grateful that the
     rain had finally stopped, Jim joined Rafe on his
     way to interview another homeowner.
     
     "Jim! What are you doing back here? I thought you
     went home hours ago." Rafe paused, waiting for the
     older detective to catch up.
     
     He shrugged. "I wasn't able to get any sleep. You
     know how it is."
     
     "Yeah, I know," Rafe smiled diffidently. "I'm glad
     you're back. A little of that old Ellison charm
     ought to help with these interviews."
     
     Jim chuckled at the playful dig and followed Rafe
     up the sidewalk to the next home. Suddenly, he
     caught the barest scent of something that made the
     hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
     Striving to remain calm, he let Rafe knock and
     stood back to see who answered.
     
     The door opened, and the smell of decay nearly
     overpowered him. A large, white-haired man stood
     there. Heart pounding, Jim struggled to catch his
     breath. Christ, Jim thought, the guy looked like
     Santa Claus -- if jolly old Saint Nick were a few
     years younger and in better shape. Rafe looked at
     him with a worried frown. Avoiding the question in
     Rafe's eyes, Jim hissed, "Do your thing and let's
     get out of here."
     
     While Rafe went through his routine questions, Jim
     scrutinized the man standing in the doorway. There
     was no nervousness reflected in his easy manner,
     no quickening of his heartbeat. If it weren't for
     the smell making his guts knot, he'd never have
     known that he was looking at evil personified.
     
     With a courteous thanks, Rafe completed the
     interview. Jim waited until the door shut before
     taking the younger detective's elbow and
     practically frog-marching him down the sidewalk.
     
     "Jim-what the hell do you think you're doing?"
     
     "Rafe, trust me. We've found the guy, and this is
     going to be very, very messy."
     
     "What do you mean? And how the hell do you figure
     this is the guy?" Jim pushed Rafe out the gate. "I
     just know. He's the perp. Now all we've got to do
     is get inside that house."
     
     "And you 'knowing' is going to give us probable
     cause?" Rafe rolled his eyes, his expression
     dubious.
     
     "Hell, no!" Ellison snarled. He took a deep breath
     trying to calm the tension that pulled at him,
     making his joints ache. "We're going to find
     something that will justify asking for a warrant
     and then we're gonna put that bastard away for a
     million years." His anger radiated outward like a
     mushroom cloud.
     
     Rafe took a cautious step backward. "Okay, okay.
     That's what we'll do. Any suggestions on where to
     start?"
     
     Jim was already ignoring the younger detective. He
     was on the scent like a bloodhound. Eyes that saw
     impossibly small details scanned the driveway and
     sidewalk they'd just traversed; there was nothing
     there that didn't belong.
     
     Jim inhaled deeply, but the only thing out of
     place was the smell of death. God, what he
     wouldn't do to have Sandburg here right now. He
     closed his eyes and concentrated on each
     individual scent. Running through his mind was a
     steady stream of Blairchatter. If Sandburg knew
     how often he used this memory 'tape', he'd be
     fascinated and probably make him recount every
     word. No way would Jim ever divulge that this was
     how he gained control when he didn't have his
     guide with him.
     
     'Breathe, Jim. Just relax and center. You know
     what smells belong -- all you have to do is pick
     out what isn't right.' Backing up the stream of
     words was the memory of a warm, square palm at the
     small of his back, tracing slow circles of calm
     and contentment over his skin and up and down his
     spine.
     
     Wet grass, moss and clover-he took another breath
     -- a fresh patch of motor oil, the dogs in the
     yard across the street. Jim struggled to ignore
     the pressure across his forehead that warned he
     was reaching too far. With a jerk, he opened his
     eyes to see Rafe watching him in confusion.
     
     "You okay, Jim? You're looking pretty beat. Maybe
     you should go home and catch a little shut eye?"
     
     His eyes narrowed at the concern in Rafe's tone.
     Since when did he fall apart after a sleepless
     night? Jim smiled thinly. "I'm fine. And you're
     looking a little whipped yourself."
     
     Warm color rushed into Rafe's cheeks, and he
     nodded without meeting Jim's eyes.
     
     Closing his eyes, Jim began cataloging scents
     again. There! Something different . . . the
     metallic tang of blood. Extremely faint, it
     hovered on the edge of the rank odor of garbage.
     He followed the scent to the trashcans at the end
     of the driveway, scanning the area for evidence.
     Something on the ground between the two cans
     caught the light.
     
     "Rafe, hand me an evidence bag." Jim pulled on a
     latex glove and retrieved the object. His enhanced
     vision revealed tiny bits of tissue and blood
     adhering to the small, beaded nipple ring. Holding
     the ring out, he showed it to Rafe before sliding
     it into the bag.
     
     "This will do it. Now we just need to get it back
     to forensics and wait for the results."
     
     "What has that ring got to do with this case,
     Jim?" Rafe looked more puzzled than ever.
     Thankfully, he didn't suffer from the Sandburg
     curse of running off at the mouth to the point
     where Jim could never get a word in, even to
     answer rapid-fire questions.
     
     "I went over the victim's injuries at the
     hospital. The kid had a pierced nipple. *Had*
     being the key word. The bastard ripped it out, and
     I'm sure this is it."
     
     Rafe winced at the brutal description. "It's
     *amazing* that you saw it there. I never noticed a
     thing. How did you know what to look for?"
     
     Jim shrugged, avoiding Rafe's incredulous gaze.
     
     "Just got lucky." Glancing down at his watch, he
     continued, "We've really got to get moving on
     this. Serena should be on duty in twenty minutes.
     I'm gonna take this down to the station. Why don't
     you go find Brown and both of you catch a little
     shut eye?"
     
     "Hold on, Jim. You've been on this as long as we
     have. Longer. You were called back in last night
     after working day shift. Don't you think it would
     be better for me and H to take that in while *you*
     get some sleep?"
     
     "I'm not so ancient that a little lost sleep will
     do me in. I need to talk to Simon, so I might as
     well take the evidence in, too." He headed back to
     his truck.
     
     "Jim. . . .  Hey, Ellison, wait up." Rafe jogged
     to catch up with Jim's ground-eating stride. "Are
     you ditching me?"
     
     "Hell, Rafe, if you feel you have to come along,
     do it. I'm not ditching you, but I'm not turning
     this over to you, either. Simon put me in charge
     of this case. Don't make me pull rank on you."
     
     Jim ignored the offended look Rafe gave him. There
     was no time for niceties; the case was about to
     blow wide open. He needed to get to Simon and get
     a plan in place, one that would protect the
     younger detectives. Once they uncovered what was
     waiting for them in that house, things were going
     to turn ugly. Jim breathed silent thanks that
     Blair was still buried in his work at the U.
     
     *****
     
     "Serena ought to have the test results back to us
     any time now, Simon." Jim was hunched in a chair
     across the desk from his Captain. "We can't get a
     DNA match for at least a couple of weeks, but a
     match on the blood type ought to be enough to
     justify a warrant."
     
     Simon passed Jim a cup of coffee. "I don't doubt
     for a minute that you're right. Now tell me the
     rest of the story."
     
     "It's not good, Simon. I caught a whiff of it just
     outside the house. When this McNamara guy opened
     his door, I damned near passed out from the
     smell."
     
     Simon leaned against his desk, long legs stretched
     out in front of him, frustration and fatigue
     written on his scowling features. "Caught a whiff
     of what?"
     
     "Death. Decay. Rot." Jim shook his head. "There're
     bodies somewhere in that house."
     
     "Dear Lord! Are you sure? How many? Could you tell
     where they were?"
     
     "No, Simon. He didn't invite us in. But I've
     smelled that odor often enough to know there's no
     mistaking it." Jim slumped even lower in the
     chair.
     
     Simon clenched his jaw. "I know that smell a
     little too well myself. Did Rafe pick up on it?"
     
     "He didn't seem to notice. Maybe it was faint
     enough he couldn't tell," Jim shrugged. The odor
     was overwhelming to him. It seemed unbelievable
     that anyone could miss it.
     
     "Once again, this Sentinel thing has been a
     blessing. If you hadn't been with Rafe, we never
     would have known."
     
     Jim shifted uncomfortably. Right at the moment he
     wouldn't call it a blessing, but he was too damn
     tired to argue the point.
     
     "I want this arrest to go by the numbers, Captain.
     No foul-ups, nothing some hotshot lawyer can use
     to throw the case out of court. If I'm right,
     McNamara has been at this for quite a while.
     There'll be a stash of bodies there that will
     start the press on a feeding frenzy."
     
     Jim paused, hopeful Simon would agree to his next
     recommendation. "I think you ought to keep the
     younger guys off the rest of the investigation.
     There's no need to have them spending time on a
     therapist's couch over what we're going to find."
     Jim tipped his head toward the bullpen where Brown
     and Rafe were waiting, casting curious glances at
     Simon's office.
     
     "You know I can't do that. Brown and Rafe have put
     in as much time on this case as you have, and
     Connor's spent hours slogging through missing
     persons files, trying to ID the victim."
     
     "Simon, you *know* what this will involve. Why do
     that to them?" Jim's hands clenched into fists on
     his lap. He didn't want to beg for this, but he
     would.
     
     "I understand, Jim," Simon's reply was
     uncharacteristically gentle. His face reflected a
     wealth of sadness. Straightening up, he cleared
     his throat, command voice back in full force.
     "You, Taggart and I will serve the warrant. *But*,
     " he held Jim's gaze, "the junior detectives have
     as much right to be part of this investigation as
     we do. I can't take them off of the case. We'll do
     what we can to keep them clear of the really rough
     stuff, though."
     
     Jim knew with a sinking feeling any further
     argument would be wasted.
     
     "Simon." He rose and placed a hand on his friend's
     shoulder. "We both know that the other victims
     probably fit the same MO as the kid down at
     Cascade General. . . . He's not much younger than
     Daryl." Jim's jaw tensed as he searched for words.
     
     The Captain's level gaze never wavered as he
     waited for Jim to continue.
     
     "You might be needed here, if we find what we're
     looking for-if it's what I think it is. . . ."
     
     Simon's aggressive stance relaxed a little. "It's
     okay, Jim. Thanks for wanting to protect me, to
     protect us all." He chuckled a little ruefully.
     "You're not just Blair's 'Blessed Protector', are
     you?"
     
     Jim shrugged. "I guess it goes with the territory.
     Besides, this is every cop's worst nightmare, the
     thing we pray we never have to deal with. I've
     dealt with it before and I know just what it can
     take away from you."
     
     "Military?"
     
     "I can't answer that," Jim softened the flat
     refusal with a half smile. "Let's just say it was
     a long time ago, but the memories have managed to
     stick with me."
     
     Simon patted Jim's back. "Let's get this warrant
     and get things moving. What have you got on the
     suspect?"
     
     Jim picked up the printout he'd brought into
     Simon's office. "Leonard McNamara, age 57,
     occupation: warehouse manager for North Pacific
     Rim Shipping, Inc. Married to Myrtle Claremont in
     1972, divorced eight years later. No children. No
     prior arrests or convictions."
     
     "Clean as a whistle, huh?"
     
     "Let's just say he hasn't been caught. From what I
     smelled, he makes your common, ordinary murderer
     look like a jaywalker."
     
     The phone on Simon's desk rang. He answered and
     listened intently for a minute. "That's good work,
     Chang. Get the paperwork to me as soon as you
     can."
     
     Hanging up, he looked over at Jim. "Did you get
     that?" The muscle in Jim's jaw flexed as he
     nodded.
     
     "I'll get the warrant request to the judge and
     have everything wrapped up in about forty-five
     minutes. You go get Taggart and round up whatever
     uniforms we'll need."
     
     Selecting uniformed backup was hard. He picked
     three seasoned veterans, all of them older,
     experienced and tough as nails. Two of them had
     military backgrounds and none of them had children
     still living at home. It was an ugly reminder of
     what he'd hated most about his time in the army,
     choosing the men to do the dirty work, to take the
     risks . . . to die.
     
     He dreaded giving Joel a rundown on what he
     expected to find in McNamara's house. Those velvet
     brown eyes were impossible to meet while he was
     painting the ugly description. Surprisingly, Joel
     threw an arm across Jim's shoulders. "Don't worry,
     Jim . . . no matter how bad it gets, you know
     you'll have me and Simon right there beside you."
     
     Jim shook his head in bewilderment. How the hell
     did the older man figure that *he* was the one
     needing a pep talk? Much as he liked the former
     bomb squad captain, he'd given up on making sense
     of Taggart. Joel and Blair were kindred souls in
     their ability to come up with responses that
     confused the hell out of him.
     
     After a briefing with Simon, they headed out.
     Following his captain through the garage, the
     ground suddenly shifted beneath Jim's feet and a
     grating scream cut through his head. He stumbled,
     grabbing the cold concrete wall to keep from
     falling.
     
     Simon was beside him. "Jim . . . Jim!"
     
     He straightened quickly, looking around. No one
     else seemed to have heard anything, and the floor
     seemed steady again. Simon put a supporting hand
     on his back. "Jim, are you okay?"
     
     "Yeah, yeah. Sure thing, Captain. Just . . .
     stumbled. I'm fine -- 100 percent." He shook his
     head, fighting to appear calm. What the *hell* was
     that?
     
     Simon was unconvinced. It showed in the narrowing
     of his eyes and the even grimmer lines of his
     face. "I know all about your 100 percent, Ellison.
     What happened?"
     
     "Like I said, Captain, I stumbled. I was
     concentrating too hard or something. . . ."
     
     "If you're having zone-outs, maybe you should stay
     here until Sandburg can come in."
     
     "No! Simon, we agreed," Jim gritted out. "He can't
     be part of this. I'll be fine. I just need to get
     this over with and get some shut eye."
     
     Simon muttered an agreement. "We're all running
     short on sleep. Why don't you ride with me?"
     
     Jim rolled his shoulders trying to release the
     tension in them. It was a losing battle. "Yeah,
     think I'll take you up on that one."
     
     The ride was silent; both men focused on what was
     ahead of them. Jim caught himself wondering what
     Sandburg was doing. With a little luck, by
     tomorrow his overtaxed guide should be free from
     his commitments at the university for a few weeks.
     It would be good to have him around again.
     
     All too soon, they were pulling up in front of 633
     Northwind. McNamara was home, his aging, dusty
     station wagon parked in front of the garage. Simon
     and Jim went to the door after the others were
     stationed around the house in case the suspect
     tried to flee.
     
     McNamara betrayed some surprise at seeing them,
     but was serenely pleasant as he invited them in to
     serve the warrant. "Come on in, gentlemen. I don't
     often get visitors, or a chance to give people a
     tour of my home."
     
     Jim glanced at Simon. Their eyes met for a moment,
     and he raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly.
     "Thank you for the offer, Mr. McNamara, but we'd
     prefer to look around on our own."
     
     While Jim followed McNamara into the tidy little
     kitchen, Simon stepped out to call in the other
     detectives.
     
     "Can I get you a cup of coffee, Detective?"
     
     Keeping the revulsion off his face was difficult.
     "No, thank you." He was saved from having to
     continue by Simon's return.
     
     "Mr. McNamara, this is Inspector Connors. She will
     be staying with you while we conduct our search."
     
     The old man beamed at Megan. "How nice to meet
     you, Inspector." His manners were impeccable. "I
     was just asking Detective Ellison if he'd like
     some coffee. Can I get you a cup?"
     
     Megan eyed McNamara as she answered, clearly
     surprised by his manner. She cast a doubtful look
     at Jim and Simon. Behind McNamara's back, Jim
     shrugged and motioned for Simon to follow him into
     the living room.
     
     Joel, Henri and Rafe searched the upstairs, while
     Jim walked slowly through the ground level, his
     face twisted by the stench.
     
     "Can you tell where it's coming from, Jim?" Simon
     dogged his steps, keeping a wary eye on his
     reactions. Circling the postage-stamp-sized living
     room, Simon pointed toward the ceiling.
     
     Jim shook his head. "The smell is definitely
     coming from below, from a cellar or basement."
     
     He went back into the kitchen. Connor and McNamara
     were sitting comfortably at the table, drinking
     coffee and talking.
     
     Pausing in front of a closed door, he interrupted,
     "Where does this door lead, Mr. McNamara?"
     
     "Just to the basement. There's not much down
     there. I always meant to finish it off and make it
     into a shop or something. Never quite got around
     to it." He smiled warmly at Jim, looking every
     inch like a kindly uncle. His beard was long, but
     neatly trimmed and his bushy, white eyebrows
     wriggled when he talked. The effect was so
     surreal, Jim was almost convinced his senses had
     somehow deceived him.
     
     His doubts vanished as he opened the door. The
     blast of foul air swept away his breath. It took
     everything he had not to stagger backwards.
     
     "Jim, are you okay? What have you got?" Only
     Simon's hand on his shoulder kept him grounded.
     
     "It's okay, Simon." He flipped a switch just
     inside the door, and the stairs were bathed in
     harsh fluorescent light. "You don't need to come
     with me."
     
     "I'm right behind you, Ellison."
     
     Jim looked back, muttering, "You'd be better off
     staying up here."
     
     Simon didn't answer, just kept his hand on Jim's
     shoulder as he followed. With every step down the
     narrow wooden stairwell, the odor of death became
     thicker. Grimly, he continued, ignoring the voice
     in his head screaming at him to get away.
     
     The basement was tiny, hardly a quarter of the
     square footage of the house. There were a couple
     battered chairs and a dartboard, with shelves and
     cardboard boxes lining the back wall. Simon took
     in the area with a quick sweep, noting the cement
     floor and turned a nonplussed look to Jim.
     
     "There's nothing here, Jim. What did you expect to
     find?"
     
     "Can't you smell that, Simon?" He could feel
     himself shaking as a trickle of sweat slid down
     his temple.
     
     Simon inhaled deeply, his mouth twisting in
     disgust. "It smells damp and musty. A lot like an
     old basement." He inhaled again. "There might be
     something . . . dead here, but it could be mice."
     
     Ignoring the doubt in his captain's tone, Jim made
     his way slowly around the room. The still, damp
     air made it simple to follow the scent to its
     source. Moving the empty boxes, Jim looked at the
     seams in the paneling of the wall.
     
     "Do you see something there?"
     
     "I'm not sure, Captain. This is where the smell
     seems to be coming from."
     
     There was a slightly wider crease between two of
     the panels. He visually traced the seam from floor
     to ceiling. Stepping forward, he pushed along the
     edge. The section of wall gave, pivoting on a
     hidden axis.
     
     The strength of the fetid stench drove him to his
     knees. Eyes watering, he scrambled to his feet,
     stumbling back into Simon. Flickering light from
     the fluorescent fixture overhead filtered into the
     opening, revealing the interior of the hidden room
     to his enhanced vision.
     
     "What do you see, Jim?"
     
     He couldn't answer, couldn't stop himself from
     staring through the shadowed entrance into the
     hell beyond.
     
     The walls were gray concrete, unadorned by paint
     or paneling or anything other than the shackles
     attached to thick eyebolts secured at shoulder
     height. A heavy, wooden table stood not far from
     the wall, fetters attached to each of the legs. A
     smaller table held a collection of surgical
     instruments along with other less identifiable
     items. The metal of the instruments laid out on
     the table gleamed as if polished. There was no
     sign of blood; McNamara kept his playroom
     immaculate.
     
     "Jim, what do you see?" Simon repeated. "Oh,
     Christ, I can smell it now too."
     
     Jim's eyes flickered to the rough mounds of dirt
     beyond the tables. The bodies. "Captain, you
     better get on the horn and get forensics here
     fast."
     
     Simon nodded, his gaze riveted on the opening, his
     dusky skin taking on a grayish tone. He took a
     step, as if he couldn't help himself; whatever
     horror lay behind the door drew him forward. Jim
     responded instantly, grabbing the larger man by
     the biceps and anchoring him in place.
     
     "Don't go in there yet. Call forensics. Call the
     FBI. Go upstairs and have Connor read McNamara his
     rights. Anything. Just don't go in there. Not
     right now." Jim's voice was urgent, but gentle. He
     needed time to assimilate the situation before
     trying to cope with the reactions of his friends.
     
     "Jim, you know we'll have to check it out and bag
     the evidence. We're all going to be needed, you
     can't protect us from this. There's no help for
     it."
     
     "I know, Captain. Just . . . let me handle this
     for now. We can't touch anything until forensics
     gets here, anyway. Let me take a look around and
     check it out. You go make those calls."
     
     Simon looked at him doubtfully. "I'll send down
     Taggart and the others. Wait for them."
     
     Jim shrugged and waved Simon back toward the
     stairs. The voice in his head was still screaming,
     but now there was a new addition: the heavy
     pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. Between the
     two, his head ached so badly, it felt like his
     skull was imploding. He hadn't prayed in nearly
     twenty years, yet now he was mumbling to himself,
     to his creator, to whatever entity that would
     listen. "Please, please, let this be over quickly.
     . . ."
     
     Squaring his shoulders, Jim took one slow step
     after the other until he was through the swinging
     panel. 
     
     *****
     
     The bodies were surprisingly neat. One of the
     perks of working for a shipping company seemed to
     be access to quantities of plastic shrink-wrap.
     McNamara was an orderly man. After he finished
     with his victims, he'd meticulously wrapped the
     bodies into bundles before burying them in careful
     stacks.
     
     Simon took one look at the pale and visibly shaken
     Connor and Rafe and sent them to the station with
     McNamara for booking. Brown was assigned to
     mollifying the growing crowd of curious neighbors.
     
     "Captain, we've got reporters showing up." Henri
     stood at the front door, looking reluctant to set
     foot back in the house.
     
     "Call in some more uniforms and set up
     barricades." Simon was talking with the Mayor's
     office on his cell and barking out directions to
     the coroner and forensic teams.
     
     "I've already got that covered. They're asking how
     soon before they can get a statement."
     
     Simon snarled, "When I'm damned good and ready."
     
     Brown flinched, cautiously backing away.
     
     "I'll give you a hand with that, H." Joel stepped
     in, placing himself between Simon and Brown.
     "Between the two of us, we ought to be able to
     keep them out of the Captain's hair."
     
     Jim stayed in the basement, coordinating the
     exhumation as layer after layer of corpses were
     revealed. The ones at the bottom had been buried
     for quite a while. It was a toss-up which was
     worse: the more recent bodies revealing every bit
     of the grotesque tortures and dismemberment they'd
     endured, or the badly decomposed ones with
     disintegrating plastic falling apart as they were
     handled.
     
     "Ellison! You still down there?" Simon's voice
     reverberated down the stairwell.
     
     Taking the steps two at a time, he answered,
     "Yeah, just waiting for forensics to finish taking
     pictures."
     
     Simon held out a small bottle. "Here, the guys
     gave me this. Just dab a little under your nose."
     
     Jim sniffed at the bottle. "Peppermint oil?" A
     tingling burn started as soon as he rubbed a small
     amount on his fingertips.
     
     "Yeah. Nobody had any Vick's; they said this would
     work just as well. It's what they use."
     
     "I don't think I can, Simon."
     
     Simon's voice dropped, "The Sentinel thing?"
     
     "Yeah." He shrugged, not bothering to mention he'd
     had his sense of smell dialed down to zero for the
     past two hours.
     
     "The coroner's team ran out of body bags again.
     There's gonna be a delay before we can remove the
     rest of the bodies."
     
     "No problem, Captain. I'll do what I can to help
     forensics. I don't know how much longer Serena's
     going to be able to hold out." He resisted the
     urge to shudder as he went back down to the
     basement.
     
     Serena surprised him, lasting twice as long as he
     thought she would. Finally, overwhelmed by the
     carnage, she stumbled out of the basement. She
     protested weakly, mortified by her inability to
     continue, while Jim helped her to her car.
     
     Taggart . . . now there was an enigma. Jim assumed
     the man would fall apart once they started
     uncovering the bodies. But Joel stayed. Quiet and
     strong, sometimes weeping silent tears for the
     lost, he'd stayed until Simon ordered him home.
     
     Simon was exhausted, almost swaying on his feet by
     the time last body was removed. He held his ground
     when the Feds finally showed up, determined to
     somehow take credit for the bust themselves. Same
     old song and dance, but Jim's captain was too
     damned smart and too damned angry for them to get
     very far with it. After a bit of posturing, they
     backed off, betraying a grudging respect.
     
     Only training and the hard-earned ability to blank
     his mind and focus on what he had to do kept Jim
     going. The intense throbbing behind his eyes made
     him long to draw his piece and put a bullet
     through his brain. For the umpteenth time, he
     wished for a clean, peaceful place, where he could
     wrap himself up in his guide and sleep for a week.
     
     *****
     
     Shoulders slumped with fatigue, Blair struggled
     through the door of the darkened apartment. Damn,
     Jim wasn't home yet. He tossed his keys in the
     general direction of the basket, not caring where
     they landed. The loft held the chill of
     abandonment, as if the place had been deserted for
     weeks. Shivering slightly at the feeling, he
     dragged his coat off his shoulders.
     
     The past few days had been hell. He'd somehow
     managed to slog through the extra work that
     exploded during finals week, but it had meant
     working days that began before five and ended
     after midnight. The past two nights, he'd slept in
     his office, deciding that the drive home cut into
     valuable time he just didn't have.
     
     As he headed to the kitchen for something to eat,
     Blair punched the button on the answering machine.
     He paused when he heard the deep resonance of his
     partner's voice.
     
     "Hey, Chief, things are kind of crazy here. I'll
     probably be back late, don't worry about coming to
     the station. Well, uh . . . guess I'll see you
     later."
     
     Blair frowned. Something was wrong, really wrong.
     Something about that tone. . . . Jim sounded
     beyond tired, almost -- lost. The rest of the
     messages were nothing important. After them came a
     series of hang-ups. It was crazy, but he *knew*
     they were from Jim. He had been feeling a vague
     sense of foreboding the past few hours that he
     hadn't been able to shake. Figuring it was just
     pressure from end-of-term craziness and too little
     sleep getting him down, he'd done his best to
     ignore it.
     
     With the hollow echo of Jim's words repeating in
     his head, he called the station. Rafe picked up
     after the fourth ring.
     
     "Hi, Rafe, what's happening, man? Where's Jim?"
     Blair shifted from foot to foot impatiently.
     
     "He's not here." There was long a pause. "Do you
     want me to give him a message?"
     
     Frowning, Blair felt his stomach start to tighten.
     It didn't take a rocket scientist to tell that
     Rafe was distracted by something. "That's okay,
     I'll just give him a call on the cell."
     
     "No, don't do that!" Rafe cleared his throat
     nervously. "He's . . . he's just not available for
     calls right now. If you want, I can get him a
     message."
     
     "What is it you're not telling me? Did something
     happen to Jim? Has he been hurt? I can be down
     there in twenty minutes."
     
     "No, don't! Blair, listen. It's just a case and
     uh, don't take this the wrong way, but Simon's
     given instructions there's to be *no* civilian
     involvement. You really can't be here right now."
     Rafe's voice was fraught with tension.
     
     Feeling like he had been slapped, Blair went
     completely still. 'Civilian involvement?'
     Considering he was the only civilian regularly
     involved with Major Crimes, it was clear that
     Simon meant that *he* wasn't to be involved. "So,
     what is it you're not telling me, Rafe? What kind
     of case is it-why can't I be there?" Something
     about this stank to high heaven.
     
     "Come on, Blair. It wasn't my decision. I'll have
     Jim give you a call as soon as he checks in,
     okay?" Rafe tried to placate Blair, but it only
     set his teeth on edge.
     
     Blair exhaled the breath he'd been holding,
     abruptly giving up. "Fine, just tell Jim I called.
     He can get back to me whenever he has the time."
     It took an effort not to slam the phone into the
     cradle.
     
     What kind of case would make Simon bar him from
     the station? Thoughts of crazed terrorists and
     escaped psychopaths whirled round in his head.
     
     Brow furrowed, Blair thought about the brief phone
     conversation with his partner the night before.
     Jim had been distant, but from a guy who never had
     much to say in the first place, it wasn't unusual.
     Looking back, Jim had seemed almost relieved that
     Blair wasn't coming home, but at the time it
     hadn't registered; he had been too damned tired to
     notice.
     
     Losing all interest in eating, Blair wandered over
     to the couch and picked up the remote as he flung
     himself down. He surfed until he came up with a
     local station just beginning their late news. All
     thought froze as he gaped at the horrific story
     unfolding on the screen.
     
     The calm drone of the reporter's voice gave a
     chilling quality to the story about the discovery
     of a suspected serial killer. Behind the reporter,
     a modest, whitewashed home was lit with powerful
     klieg lights. The camera panned the front lawn,
     revealing the dark shapes of multiple body bags
     laid out in orderly rows. Two men wearing
     coroner's uniforms came through the front door,
     dragging another body bag between them. Two more
     men followed, both tall and powerfully built.
     
     Sucking in his breath, he realized it was Jim and
     Simon. Jim held out one hand to shield his eyes,
     flinching at the bright light. Blair leaned
     forward, ignoring the newscaster's continuing
     prattle as he focused on his partner.
     
     "Shit, shit, shit. . . ." Blair clicked off the
     TV. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out
     the picture in his mind. How many body bags had
     there been? Guilt washed over him as he realized
     how grateful he was to be home, safe in the loft
     and far away from the crime scene.
     
     What the hell was he doing here? His place was
     beside his Sentinel, and he had been too wrapped
     up with his own concerns to even realize that Jim
     needed him. Fuck that! Swallowing convulsively,
     Blair sprang up from the couch and grabbed his
     jacket.
     
     The phone began ringing before he finished pulling
     it on. He spun on his heel, seizing it partway
     through the second ring.
     
     "Sandburg? I was wondering if you'd made it home
     yet." Jim's voice came through the connection
     sounding distant and weary.
     
     "Jim! Hey man, I just saw the news and was heading
     out to find you."
     
     "No . . . don't do that. You stay put. There's no
     need for you to be here right now. . . ." Jim's
     voice trailed off and he took a deep breath. "No
     civilians on this case, Chief. It's too high
     profile."
     
     Blair was unconvinced. The Sentinel sounded
     exhausted, and he knew that fatigue and stress
     played havoc with Jim's senses. "What if you zone
     out, Jim? It looks like you've got a lot of media
     attention right now."
     
     "Everything's fine, I don't want you to worry.
     We're wrapping it up. The Feds are taking over now
     that the dirty work is done."
     
     "I don't like it, Jim. You know you could use my
     help." Why couldn't the stubborn Sentinel ever
     admit that he needed him?
     
     "I said don't *worry* about it, Sandburg. You're
     not needed here right now!"
     
     "Fine. We'll talk about it when you get home." The
     hostility he'd been trying to hold back came
     through loud and clear. *Damn it!* If Jim thought
     Blair was going to let himself be shut out this
     time, he was sadly mistaken. *Not* this time.
     
     His voice heavy and weary, Jim answered, "No,
     Chief, there's nothing to discuss. I'll see you at
     home."
     
     Shaking with anger, Blair gave vent to his
     frustration by slamming down the phone. Fine, just
     fine. Jim didn't need him; Simon vetoed his mere
     *presence*. So what now? Was he going to sit here
     and feel sorry for himself? Shit! Why should he
     stand for being treated like an interloper?
     
     Flinging himself back down on the couch, Blair
     stared out the window, wearily rubbing his face
     with both hands. He didn't have the reserves left
     to fight about it further tonight.
     
     In the small hours of the morning, tossing and
     turning in bed, Blair wondered how much longer he
     could tolerate the situation. It was useless; no
     matter what he did or didn't do, nothing seemed to
     get past the steel-clad armor Jim Ellison wrapped
     around himself. Even after almost three years,
     every time Blair thought he'd found a chink in
     that armor, a place where the Sentinel might
     finally let him in, he discovered another door
     slamming in his face.
     
     *****
     
     After over forty hours on the job, James Ellison
     was nearing the end of his rope. His chest felt
     like it had been hollowed out with a dull spoon;
     all of his reserves were spent. Odd, internal
     tremors told him he should be shaking like a leaf,
     but his hands were steady and his breathing
     regular.
     
     He huffed a sigh of relief when he found the
     locker room deserted. Collapsing on the bench next
     to the showers, he knew he had to keep moving or
     he'd shut down right there. He pulled off the
     stinking remains of what had been a favorite pair
     of slacks and shirt, swiftly skinning off his
     shorts and socks. All of the clothes went into the
     closest trash bin. After a slight hesitation, Jim
     picked up his shoes and threw them in, too.
     
     Making his way to the showers, he twisted on the
     faucets and stepped under the stinging spray.
     Leaning one arm against the tiled wall, he turned
     his face into the force of the steaming water.
     God, he *had* to wash away the stench that seemed
     embedded in his skin. It still hung so heavily in
     his nostrils, he could taste it. Decay: the putrid
     smell of death. How could he think he was used to
     it, immune to the way it knotted his belly,
     pushing beyond simple nausea and sickening him to
     his soul?
     
     Rigidly forcing down all thought -- hell, he could
     do that, he'd had years of practice -- Jim began
     to systematically soap his body. Keeping the water
     hot enough to almost scald, he scrubbed until his
     skin felt raw. Still, he could smell the taint of
     death clinging to him. As he began to lather up
     once again, the tremors he'd been battling on and
     off for hours finally hit. Hands shaking so hard
     he could no longer hold on to the soap, he watched
     it skitter away as his legs gave out. Collapsing
     onto the hard tile floor, he rested his forehead
     on his knees and let the hot water spray over him.
     
     The punishing heat couldn't wash away the odor in
     his nostrils, which brought back memories that
     threatened to push him over the edge. Nothing
     would remove the scent that took him to a time and
     a place he had struggled to forget for almost
     twenty years. The ghosts he thought were safely
     locked away rose up all around him. Shudders
     rocked through him as he relived the memories he
     had buried for so long.
     
     //The first massacre his team stumbled upon was
     probably the worst. The tiny village lay in
     smoldering ruins. Why the villagers were
     slaughtered by the so -- called 'freedom
     fighters', he never knew. A few of the corpses
     were incinerated by the fire. But the majority
     escaped the flames, drawing a variety of insects
     and scavengers out of the warm, moist heat of the
     jungle to begin nature's clean up.
     
     He didn't know how he managed to keep down the
     remains of his breakfast. The tiniest bodies were
     the worst. His disgust at handling their rotting
     remains was overwhelmed by an almost crippling
     grief for these most helpless of victims.//
     
     Distant voices finally brought Jim back to groggy
     awareness. How long had he sat here on the shower
     floor? It didn't feel like any kind of zone-out
     he'd had before. Struggling, he rose to his feet,
     firmly placing a blank mask over his features.
     
     The door of the locker room burst open as the
     first of the morning shift entered. Nodding a
     greeting, they moved to their lockers to change
     for the day's work.
     
     Jim turned his back on the men as he went to his
     locker, grabbing the sweats he kept stashed there.
     During his rookie days, he'd discovered that one
     of the ugly realities of police work was the
     disgusting frequency of being puked on, pissed on
     or worse. Thank God, he was still in the habit of
     keeping a complete change of clothes on hand.
     
     Functioning on autopilot, Jim finished dressing
     and made his way to his truck. The drive home took
     on a nightmare quality, as if he were moving down
     a long, dark tunnel. It would have been smarter to
     grab a ride home with a black and white, but his
     higher reasoning had shut down hours before. It
     was a relief to finally pull the truck into its
     parking space. By concentrating hard on placing
     one foot in front of the other, he managed get up
     to the loft.
     
     *****
     
     Blair glanced up from his laptop as he heard Jim
     come in the door. He held back the words that
     threatened to choke him, knowing he could never
     reveal the depth of his hurt.
     
     But all of his angry thoughts fled as he looked at
     his partner. The older man sagged against the
     door, skin pale with fatigue, his features drawn
     and harsh, revealing lines that wouldn't be
     apparent for another decade. The normally bright
     blue eyes were a muddy gray, and they met his
     stare with a chilling emptiness.
     
     "Jim, man, you look bad. Are you okay? Can I get
     you anything? What happened on the case? Why
     didn't you want me there?"
     
     Waving an arm to fend off the rapid-fire
     questions, Jim slowly walked past him, moving to
     the bottom of the stairs to his loft. Shaking his
     head, he slowly responded. "Not now, Chief, just 
     . . . tired, gonna go to bed."
     
     Blair's eyes widened as Jim missed the second
     step, falling to his hands and knees. Leaping over
     the back of the couch, he grabbed the broad
     shoulders and hauled backward. Jim staggered for a
     moment, then pulled himself rigidly upright.
     Wrapping his arms around the stiff body, Blair
     kept a tight grip around the larger man's waist.
     
     "It's okay. I'm okay . . . you can let go now."
     
     "No way man, you'll never make it by yourself. Let
     me help you up." Pondering the suggestion for long
     moments, Jim finally nodded his head and allowed
     Blair to brace him as he staggered up the steps.
     
     Pausing next to the bed, Blair let go of the
     exhausted man to draw back the covers. Blair
     placed his hand against the muscular chest, gently
     pushing the automaton to the mattress. Jim lay
     still, his eyes closed, clenching and unclenching
     his square jaw.
     
     Making short work of the running shoes, Blair
     noted absently that he hadn't seen Jim wear this
     particular pair before. What was the big guy doing
     in a set of CPD sweats? Blair was embarrassingly
     conversant with Jim's wardrobe, achingly familiar
     with every crisp, new shirt, every fleecy pair of
     sweats. With a shrug, he grabbed the waistband of
     the pants in order to strip them down. Abruptly
     aware that Jim wasn't wearing any underwear, he
     snatched his hands away as if he had been burned.
     
     A furious blush spreading across his cheeks, Blair
     glanced up to see if Jim had seen his reaction.
     No, his eyes were still shut. With a sigh of
     relief, he paused to consider what to do next.
     Shrugging, he decided pulling Jim's clothes off
     while he was in this condition wasn't worth the
     effort. He grabbed powerful calves and lifted
     Jim's legs onto the mattress with a grunt.
     
     Standing back, Blair studied the older man
     intently. Jim's breathing was slow and regular,
     and if he wasn't asleep, at least he was
     pretending to be. Blair pulled a light comforter
     over him and turned to go back downstairs.
     
     "Thanks, Chief."
     
     Blair looked back at the bed in surprise. Jim lay
     there with his eyes still closed, giving no sign
     he'd spoken.
     
     "Hey, no problem. You get some sleep."
     
     A real thank you. Smiling to himself, Blair went
     downstairs. He made a cup of coffee and settled on
     the couch. At first he tried to read, finally
     giving it up when he realized he was nodding off.
     It wouldn't hurt to catch a nap. Last night had
     been an agony of sleeplessness, and the long week
     was catching up with him.
     
     Blair started out of an uneasy doze with a jerk.
     What the hell was that? There it was again.
     Something between a moan and a sob. Jim? Rolling
     off the couch, he came to his feet and rushed up
     to the loft.
     
     "Jim, you okay?"
     
     Only a low moan answered his query. He was
     staggered; his partner was in the throes of a
     nightmare unlike anything he'd ever seen.
     
     Jim moved restlessly, his hands alternately
     clenching into white-knuckled fists or clawing at
     unseen demons. His sweatshirt was soaked along the
     neckline, the damp trailing toward his chest.
     
     A master at keeping his emotions to himself, Jim
     normally maintained a stone face far better than
     any Easter Island statue. Blair had never seen his
     features like this, twisted into lines of pure
     agony, mouth open and gasping, sobbing for breath.
     Tears trailed down Jim's cheeks, melting into the
     sweat and the pain. A guttural snarl emerged, "No,
     no, no! Get back, get back, get back. . . ."
     
     Blair had to wake his partner, but . . . he
     hesitated. Early on, Jim had warned Blair to never
     touch him while he was sleeping. His training made
     him react as if threatened, striking out at
     whatever startled him out of sleep. Blair really
     didn't feel like nursing bruises or a broken jaw.
     
     "Jim! Come on, Jim. Wake up. You're having a
     nightmare." He did his best to stay calm, pitching
     his voice in urgent, but non-alarming tones, which
     didn't seem to have much effect.
     
     "Jim, hey, guy. You need to wake up now. Come on,
     I know you're in there. Let's get with the
     program. Wakey, wakey." Shit, no dice. If
     anything, Jim seemed even more distressed, his
     breathing a steady grinding moan.
     
     "Damn it, Jim! Wake up right now!" Blair clapped a
     hand over his mouth. He hadn't meant to sound
     quite so strident. But it accomplished what the
     softer tones hadn't; Jim's eyelashes fluttered as
     his breathing evened out. Slow recognition finally
     appeared on his face, warming the cold knot of
     dread that tightened in Blair's gut. He reached
     out to place a hand on Jim's chest. "You awake
     now? You were having one hell of a nightmare."
     
     Jim swallowed hard, his throat moving reflexively.
     "Yeah." The low rasp sent a shiver through Blair.
     
     "Are you okay? Want me to get you some water?" At
     Jim's nod, he went to get a bottle from the
     fridge. After a moment's thought, he took out a
     dishtowel and dampened it. When he returned, Jim
     was sitting up and struggling to get out of his
     sweatshirt. He was strangely uncoordinated, his
     pupils dilated to a disconcerting degree.
     
     "Let me give you a hand." Blair grabbed the bottom
     of the shirt, stripping it off over his head.
     Seeing how unsteady Jim's hands were, Blair opened
     the water bottle and helped lift it to his lips.
     After several long swallows, Jim pulled back and
     rubbed a hand across his chest, wrinkling his nose
     at the sweat that pooled there.
     
     Setting the water aside, Blair picked up the
     dishtowel. He wiped the sweat away from his
     partner's face with long slow strokes, moving
     gently down over his throat and chest.
     
     Blair began a low, crooning chatter to fill the
     silence. "There you go, tough guy. That's a lot
     better, isn't it? You're feeling a lot better now.
     It was only a bad dream. I'm right here and you're
     safe at home. . . ."
     
     Jim's eyes closed, contentment finally smoothing
     out the tension in his face, softening the harsh
     slash of his mouth. Soon he was breathing
     rhythmically, almost asleep.
     
     Blair rose to put the towel and water bottle away
     and was startled when Jim's hand shot out and
     gripped his forearm. "Don't go, Chief." It was a
     question and a plea. There was no way Blair could
     resist that hoarse request. Setting his burdens
     down on the table, he perched on the edge of the
     bed.
     
     "I'm here, Jim. I'm right here."
     
     "Stay with me?" It was the faintest of whispers;
     he wouldn't have understood the words if he hadn't
     been watching Jim's lips move.
     
     "I'm staying. Wild horses couldn't drag me away."
     This brought a small lift to Jim's lips and an
     answering smile to his. He'd never felt this
     needed by Jim before, even in the early days when
     the Sentinel's senses had him walking the razor's
     edge of insanity.
     
     "Good." Almost an exhalation of breath rather than
     a word.
     
     With a boldness that he wouldn't have had mere
     hours before, Blair reached out and took Jim's
     hand in his. The answering squeeze confirmed his
     instincts. He sat patiently and
     uncharacteristically still, watching over Jim
     while he slept.
     
     It felt good doing this, guarding his Sentinel
     against whatever demons were haunting his sleep.
     The fear that had dogged him the night before was
     discarded. Jim needed this, needed him.
     
     Making up his mind, Blair decided that he wouldn't
     let the stubborn man push him away. Every Sentinel
     had someone to watch their backs, and for this
     Sentinel, it was Blair Sandburg. He was Jim's
     Guide, his shaman, and he wasn't going to let him
     forget it. Yawning, Blair gingerly lay down next
     to the sleeping man.
     
     He closed his eyes, mumbling as he drifted off,
     "You're so damned bullheaded, but I'm not going to
     let you get away with it again. Look at what it
     does to you."
     
     The insistent ringing of the phone pulled Blair up
     out of the depths of a heavy slumber. He opened
     his eyes, fighting off waves of disorientation
     when he realized where he was and who he was
     wrapped around. This interrupted sleep thing was
     becoming a real pain in the ass.
     
     Pulling himself up with an effort, Blair staggered
     downstairs to answer the call. It worried him that
     Jim was sleeping through the ringing. 'Super Cop'
     always managed to get to calls by the third ring,
     no matter the time of day or night.
     
     "Hello."
     
     "Sandburg. Where's Jim?" It was Simon, sounding
     typically . . . Simon, just a little more harsh
     and nasal than normal.
     
     "He's asleep, Simon. What do you need? Can I take
     a message or something?"
     
     "Well, wake him up, he needs to get in here."
     
     "Damn. Listen, he had a really bad night, um, day.
     He only got home, " Blair checked the clock, "five
     hours ago. Can't this wait?"
     
     "No, this can't wait. He needs to get in here and
     lead the interrogation. We've got to get a
     statement and get ready for the arraignment."
     
     Blair was silent, weighing his options. Simon was
     twenty minutes away, so if he refused, he'd have a
     head start anyway. The thought of being on the
     lam, racing out of town with Jim in tow and an
     angry Simon on his heels almost made him laugh, a
     real belly laugh, but things were too damn grim.
     
     A firm hand settling on Blair's shoulder made him
     jump and yelp in surprise.
     
     "Christ almighty, Sandburg! You just about broke
     my ear drum."
     
     Damn Jim and his cat's feet! He whirled around, a
     heated exclamation on the tip of his tongue, only
     to have the phone lifted out of his hand. Blair
     shot Jim the finger before he went to the kitchen
     to fix coffee. He knew Jim would be ready for it
     as soon as he got off the phone.
     
     "I'm here, Simon. What's up?" Jim grimaced,
     listening intently. "Yeah, I thought he might. A
     full confession? . . ."
     
     With a promise to be there shortly, Jim hung up
     the phone and wandered into the kitchen. "How soon
     before I can get a cup of that?"
     
     "If you swear not to make faces at me, I'll snag a
     cup now while it's brewing."
     
     "Yeah, well, just make sure you don't make a mess,
     and I'll take you up on that."
     
     "So are we heading down to the station?"
     
     Jim flushed and looked away. "I'm going in. I've
     got to take a statement. It shouldn't take more
     than a few hours."
     
     "And I'm going with you." Blair was prepared for
     the mulish expression and the sullen way Jim
     crossed his arms. Right. Just like always. Except
     that this time when the Sentinel started to argue,
     Blair jumped in before he could begin.
     
     "Don't look at me like that. I'm going. This isn't
     up for discussion, Jim."
     
     "Since when do you start issuing me orders about
     police work?" Jim arched an angry, cynical brow at
     him.
     
     "Since you came home this morning so messed up you
     could hardly walk. What were you thinking? I saw
     the news, Jim. I know what happened. Do you think
     you can get through shit like that without me?"
     
     "I was tired, Sandburg. I'd been on duty for two
     days and two nights in a row. Except for a couple
     of catnaps, I hadn't slept at all. I got through
     it just fine without you." He scowled in classic
     Ellison fashion.
     
     "You can frown at me all you want. You can argue
     all you want. I *am* going with you. This isn't up
     for discussion, *Ellison*." He did a bit of
     scowling himself. This time Blair Sandburg was
     going to hold his ground.
     
     The half snarl on Jim's face faltered. As the
     anger drained away, he looked almost as tired as
     he had when he'd arrived home. "Damn it, Chief!
     This case is so fucking ugly. I want you to take a
     pass on it."
     
     "I can't, Jim." Blair moved closer and put his
     hands on Jim's shoulders, forcing his partner to
     look him squarely in the eye. He continued, "You
     didn't see yourself when you stumbled in here. Or
     when you were having that nightmare."
     
     Jim winced at the reminder. "I don't want you to
     do this."
     
     It was almost a plea. Blair steeled himself
     against it. "I know you want to protect me. But
     it's not working. Admit it, you need me."
     
     Jim closed his eyes and sighed. "You're not going
     to let me win this one, are you, Chief?"
     
     Blair grinned. "No. So give it up already." He
     turned back to the coffee maker and filled a mug.
     Handing it over, he smiled again. "It's gonna be
     okay, really it is. I can handle it."
     
     Jim still looked doubtful. "Just promise me you'll
     get the hell out if it gets to be too much?"
     
     "I can only promise you that I'll be right next to
     you as long as you need me."
     
     This time Jim gave him a grudging smile. "Okay,
     Chief. You're the guide."
     
     *****
     
     Simon must have been watching for them. The moment
     they arrived, he bellowed, "Ellison! In my office,
     now!"
     
     Looking at Blair, Jim shrugged as they headed into
     lion's den.
     
     "Jim, this is Special Agent Harrington and Special
     Agent Morgan from the FBI," Simon gestured to the
     two men standing by his desk.
     
     Jim shook their hands and kept his face blank.
     Where did they get these guys? The two FBI clones
     managed to look both subdued and self-important at
     the same time. Same height, same build, they had
     identical haircuts and wore perfectly pressed
     Brooks Brothers suits in similar shades of somber,
     federal gray.
     
     They looked surprised to discover that Blair was
     half of Simon's 'best' team. Jim smiled broadly at
     the agents, trying to hide a smirk at their
     slightly scandalized expressions.
     
     "Jim, after some discussion," Simon cast a
     jaundiced eye at the agents, "we've decided that
     you'll be leading the interview, since you were
     the detective in charge at the scene. Due to the
     sensitive nature of the case, I'll be with you.
     Harrington and Morgan will be observing in the
     next room."
     
     Blair stopped short of heaving a relieved sigh.
     When he'd seen the agents ensconced in Simon's
     office, he worried there would be one hell of a
     blowup. Jim was mistrustful of the Feds, to say
     the least, and for damned good reason. With a
     little luck, they might get through this without
     his partner being brought up on federal charges.
     
     "Here's the reports from forensics. Sandburg, it
     might be best. . . ." The captain hesitated. "You
     should probably let Ellison do the review."
     
     Blair tried not to wince when the agents hid
     smirks of their own.
     
     Jim picked up files. "Okay, Captain. Let me have a
     little time to go over these reports and then we
     can have McNamara brought up."
     
     "Twenty minutes is the most I can give you. His
     public defender has been waiting for half an
     hour."
     
     "Sorry, sir. I should have been in earlier." Blair
     felt outraged at the contrition in his partner's
     voice. When was Jim supposed to have gotten any
     rest? He made up his mind that when this case was
     over, he'd have a few choice words with Simon. Jim
     was a Sentinel, not a robot; he needed down time
     just like anyone else.
     
     Blair had the grace to acknowledge that Simon
     hardly ever drove Jim harder than he drove
     himself. But it was different for Simon. For one
     thing, he was seldom in the line of fire the way
     Jim was. Without any real depth of understanding
     of what Jim's senses brought into the equation, he
     had no idea how much it took out of his detective.
     
     Simon tended to see what everyone else did: the
     hard-assed cop, the covert ops soldier who could
     survive anything. Only Blair knew how tremendously
     fragile Jim's heightened senses could make him and
     what a fine line his partner walked.
     
     Blair followed Jim out the door with a sigh. It
     was going to be a very long day, regardless of the
     assurances Jim had given him earlier.
     
     He tried hard not to look at the photos that
     accompanied the forensic reports. But watching
     Jim's response was almost as hard. After the third
     shudder, Blair moved his chair around the desk and
     put his hand on the older man's back. The muscles
     under his hand were knotted with tension.
     
     "You doing okay here, Jim?"
     
     "Yeah, Chief. I'm fine." Jim closed the folder and
     ran his hands over his face. "You just gotta
     wonder why someone like this exists." Picking up
     the folder again, Jim glared at it. "I just can't
     stand the idea that he was at this for so long. He
     was torturing and killing these kids, right here,
     under my nose for years."
     
     There was a quaver in Jim's voice, one that spoke
     of too little sleep and too much guilt. Blair
     searched him mind for the right words. Words were
     what he did best, right? "Come on, Jim. There's no
     way you could have known. You may be the 'Sentinel
     of the Great City', but you're not psychic."
     
     "No, damn it! But there are so many. Twenty-seven
     bodies and God knows when or *if* we'll get an ID
     on them. Do you have *any* idea how many kids just
     disappear? Do you know how few people actually
     give a shit about some of them?" Jim's voice rose
     as his agitation increased.
     
     "Okay, so there's nothing you can do about these
     kids. But you caught McNamara, and he's gonna go
     down. *You* did that. And it's money in the bank
     that nobody else could have. So you can't beat
     yourself up over this, man. You *can't*."
     
     Blair frowned as his partner shook his head. It
     was obvious he wasn't getting through to Jim. Just
     as he was getting ready to try a different tactic,
     Simon came out of his office. "Time's up. You
     ready to rumble?"
     
     "Yeah, Captain. I'm as ready as I'll ever be." Jim
     gathered the folders and stood up.
     
     "Interrogation room three. After you, gentlemen."
     Simon waved them forward. The three of them made
     their way to the elevator with the two suited
     clones on their heels.
     
     *****
     
     Jim's stomach was tied up in knots, and a spot at
     the base of his neck was so tight, he thought it
     might snap if he turned his head too quickly.
     Every question brought an answer more macabre than
     the last. What kind of monster sat across from
     him?
     
     McNamara had entered the interrogation room with a
     smile and a calm air of assurance that was beyond
     belief. His public defender was a mousy woman who
     seemed to shrink as the interview went on. She had
     tried to stop him, pointing out that there was no
     need for him to incriminate himself. But McNamara
     only grinned at her and kindly patted her hand,
     which was enough to shut her up completely. When
     her client turned back to answer another of Jim's
     questions, she surreptitiously wiped the back of
     her hand on her skirt.
     
     The stories flowed from McNamara like water
     bubbling up from a hidden spring; from his first
     victim, a young prostitute he'd taken off a street
     corner in Portland in late1994, to the poor kid
     still hovering between life and death in ICU. The
     body of his first kill wasn't among those found in
     his basement. She was buried somewhere in Mount
     Rainier National Park. The old man couldn't
     remember the exact spot, but he cheerfully
     volunteered to look at a map and see if anything
     appeared familiar.
     
     As the interview wore on, McNamara warmed to his
     tale, his bushy, white eyebrows arching and
     descending to punctuate his words. He paused
     occasionally, stroking his thick white beard,
     trying to remember a detail. Sometimes, he found
     reasons to laugh. Those moments made Jim's stomach
     churn.
     
     Catching a look at Blair's face only made things
     worse. His partner was pale as milk, with one hand
     clenched, forefinger rubbing across his thumbnail
     in restless motion. It was an unconscious habit
     that only emerged in times of great stress.
     
     'You and me both, Chief. You and me both.'
     
     After three hours, he was wrung out, his shirt
     sticking damply to the cold sweat covering his
     back. But they had what they needed -- a list of
     approximate dates and pickup points and details
     about how each victim died. Maybe not enough to
     identify every one of the multitude of dead, but
     more than they'd hoped for. Leonard McNamara had
     been very helpful. He was, after all, a methodical
     man.
     
     "You don't like me much, do you, Detective?"
     McNamara asked gently.
     
     "I don't think it matters one way or the other how
     I feel about you, Mr. McNamara. The important
     thing is that I've done my job and now you won't
     be able to hurt any more children."
     
     "Don't tell me you're feeling sorry for the
     flotsam and jetsam that I've cleansed from the
     streets? I'm surprised. I would think that someone
     like you could appreciate my hobby more than most.
     You are one of the ones that has to deal with
     them, day after day."
     
     "That's my job, McNamara," Jim's growl held a hint
     of warning.
     
     McNamara continued as if he hadn't heard, "They
     rob, they steal, they deal drugs and spread
     disease. They are a public nuisance!"
     
     "That gave you no right to kill them. They were
     children." Jim's muscles tightened and bunched
     with anger.
     
     "They make the streets a living sewer. What kind
     of life is that? And how many of them manage to
     survive for more than a few years, anyway?"
     
     McNamara leaned forward across the table, his pale
     gray eyes glittering, revealing for the first time
     the madness that governed his actions. Jim held
     his ground, controlling the urge to shrink back,
     to look away from the insanity he saw there.
     
     "They are like stray dogs and cats. Our society
     has an answer to that problem-the excess, the
     unwanted are taken away and put out of their
     misery. They're not allowed to run rampant. I look
     at myself as a public servant, really." McNamara
     smiled at this, as if pleased with the comparison.
     "I take unwanted garbage and dispose of it. Why
     shouldn't I be allowed the pleasure I take in my
     job?"
     
     Pushed beyond the ability to hold back his rage,
     Jim snarled, "You weren't doing any sort of
     service, McNamara. You were simply fulfilling your
     own sick need to torture and kill."
     
     He felt Simon's hand settle on his shoulder with
     considerable force. He sat back and glared at the
     suspect.
     
     "Sick?" The smile was smug now. "Oh, I assure you,
     I'm anything but sick. The difference between us,
     Detective, is that I'm not afraid to take action"
     
     The words flayed him as the pale, silvery eyes
     pinned him in his seat. Suddenly, McNamara seemed
     hardly human.
     
     "You know how ugly these young dregs of society
     are. I made them beautiful. It's an art. I
     stripped them of everything but their true
     essence. Under my hands, their screams of pain
     were exquisite, their suffering a genuine delight.
     There's something amazing about even the lowest
     form of life when it gasps its last breath. *I*
     gave them that, those moments of glory."
     
     Jim was out of his chair and reaching across the
     table before McNamara had finished his last
     sentence. Red light bathed his vision as he hauled
     the older man out of his seat by his lapels. Simon
     was only a split second behind him, grasping his
     wrists, desperately trying to loosen his grip.
     Blair was shouting something, but he couldn't make
     sense of it. He could only focus on the need to
     destroy this ghastly predator that took such
     pleasure in death.
     
     The federal agents raced into the room, right
     behind Brown and Connor who had been waiting
     outside the door. Between the six of them, they
     managed to drag Jim from the interrogation room
     and down the hall.
     
     "What the hell was that, Ellison!" Simon was in
     his face, enraged by Jim's loss of control. "You
     blow this, Detective, and I'll have your shield so
     fast you won't know what hit you."
     
     "Damn you, Simon! Let me stop him. I have to take
     him down." Jim writhed in the grip of the
     detectives holding him. Time shifted, tilting and
     tumbling, and the ground was shaking and the
     explosions inside his head weren't just internal
     anymore. "Down, get down!"
     
     He fought to drag his companions to the floor.
     Mines were exploding and his people were screaming
     and he couldn't stop them, couldn't make them
     understand. "For the love of God, stay back, get
     back!" The screams kept getting louder and the
     pain in his head was enough to make him retch.
     Then Blair was there, holding him and talking to
     him, and silence descended.
     
     *****
     
     "So what are we going to do now, Sandburg?" Simon
     ran a hand over the cropped hair at his temple as
     he paced. Blair watched him do his best to appear
     calm, but his dark eyes reflected a world of
     worry.
     
     "I don't know, Captain. I've been wondering for a
     long time when this would happen. I just never
     expected it to come down in such a spectacular
     way." He looked through the window at Jim, slumped
     at his desk, Taggart sitting beside him with a
     hand on his arm. The older detective was talking
     to him, getting occasional nods in response.
     
     "You were expecting Jim to have some sort of
     breakdown?" Simon stopped in front of Blair,
     incredulity freezing him in place.
     
     "It's PTSD, Simon, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
     And yes, I've been expecting something like this
     from him for a very long time."
     
     Simon turned to his desk to retrieve a cigar. "I
     know what PTSD is, Blair. It's pretty common among
     cops, as you're well aware." He waved toward
     Taggart with the cigar. "The reason why Joel
     decided to leave bomb squad hasn't been lost on
     me. But Jim has never shown any sort of reaction
     like this before. It's always amazed me that he
     can do what he does and still be so cool and calm
     in the aftermath."
     
     "Too cool and calm, Simon. You were right to
     wonder. It's not normal, it's downright unnatural.
     Look at it this way: one of the reasons that
     flashbacks often occur is due to 'sense' memory,
     things that prompt the unconscious mind to recall
     something particularly traumatic. Certain sights,
     sounds and smells will trigger the brain to
     recreate a traumatic event with hyper-clarity."
     
     Blair stood up and began pacing as Simon sat on
     the edge of his desk, head tilted, listening.
     
     "Think about it. Jim has heightened senses, which
     allow him to perceive things to a depth you and I
     can only imagine. Even during the years when he
     suppressed his abilities, he still had them.
     Elevate the amount of sensory information that you
     and I would receive during the stress of combat or
     crises twenty, thirty, maybe even one hundred
     fold, and you've got what Jim experiences."
     
     He realized his voice had risen, and he took a
     couple of deep breaths before continuing. "And he
     never acts like he's under any kind of stress
     afterward. It's downright spooky. No depression,
     no anxiety. Hell, after Lash, I had nightmares for
     weeks."
     
     "It sounds like you've given this a lot of
     thought."
     
     "I have. And I've come to some conclusions about
     it, too. I'm not sure if I'm right, but it's all
     we've got for now."
     
     "What is it you think you've come up with?
     Frankly, after this little episode, I'm not sure
     what to do about him. I'd order him to spend some
     time with the department psychiatrist, but Jim's
     not going to like it, and in the past he's driven
     Dr. Humbolt to distraction."
     
     "Exactly, Simon. He doesn't respond the way
     everyone else does. What I think is that somehow
     he's hardwired *not* to. Tribal Sentinels didn't
     have the luxury of taking time off to visit their
     shrink when they got stressed out."
     
     "So your theory has a tie-in with his Sentinel
     abilities? Why am I not surprised?"
     
     Blair looked out at Taggart and Jim. "Do you need
     us here anymore? If not, I think I'll take him
     home and see what I can do."
     
     "Sure, go on home. The statement we've got is
     good; Jim's episode didn't do any real damage. Why
     don't you take tomorrow off. We're all a little
     strung out."
     
     Blair took a moment to really look at Simon. In
     his concern for his partner, he'd missed the signs
     of the fatigue that was pulling down their
     captain. "Simon, you better get some rest too. You
     look like you need it."
     
     "Thanks. Just what I like to hear." Simon shook
     his head ruefully, "I'm going to take off early.
     The Department PR people have what they need for
     the press, and the confession is in the hands of
     the DA."
     
     Simon pushed him toward the door. "Go on home and
     see to getting Jim straightened out. If you
     can't-and there's no shame in that, Sandburg --
     let me know. I'll make arrangements for him to see
     Humbolt. Right after *my* appointment."
     
     The last snapped Blair's head around. Confirmation
     was written on Simon's face. With an internal
     shudder, he wondered how long it would be before
     any of them got over this case. "Will do, Simon."
     
     Jim looked up as he stepped out of Simon's office.
     Blair wondered if he looked as pale and desolate
     as the Sentinel did at that moment. The shadows
     under Jim's eyes were darkened, bruised looking.
     If he couldn't help Jim, at least he could see to
     it that he got some sleep. Sleep without
     nightmares would help them both a lot. So how the
     hell was he going to deliver it?
     
     It didn't take any convincing to get Jim to let
     him drive the truck. That alone was a sign how far
     off-kilter things were. He was too quiet, too
     docile. It was unnerving to have Jim give in
     without some sort of argument. As far as Blair was
     concerned, they couldn't get home soon enough.
     
     "Were you listening to what Simon and I talked
     about?" He had to keep himself from clenching the
     steering wheel in a white knuckled grip.
     
     "Yeah. Didn't mean to, but it was kind of hard to
     tune out." Jim slumped back in the seat, eyes
     closed, arms folded across his chest.
     
     "So you know what I think is going on?"
     
     Jim's reply was terse, "Sure, Chief. I know about
     PTSD. I just never thought about it happening to
     me."
     
     "Have you ever had this kind of flashback before?"
     Stopping at a light, Blair risked glancing over at
     Jim. It didn't tell him anything. The older man
     was just as motionless as when they'd left the
     station.
     
     "No, can't say as I have. And I've seen some
     pretty weird shit since this Sentinel thing came
     along. I've never fallen apart like that before."
     A rustle told Blair that Jim was moving to sit
     upright.
     
     "Nobody's blaming you for what happened, Jim. It
     *was* a flashback right? So where were you, and
     what did you see?"
     
     Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Jim
     rubbing at his forehead. "Christ, Chief, can't you
     just leave this alone? You don't want to hear
     about this. I don't even want to think about it,
     much less talk about it."
     
     "I'm sorry. I really am. Do you think it would be
     easier to talk to someone else? Dr. Humbolt
     maybe?" He could feel the increased tension
     radiating off of Jim at his mention of the doctor.
     
     "I hate talking to shrinks." Jim's mouth pulled
     down into a grimace. "It's always, 'So how did
     that make you feel?' If I knew what I was feeling,
     why the hell would I be spending time with them?
     I'm fine now, why worry about it? Give me eight
     hours sleep, and I'll be back on track."
     
     "Don't think so, Jim. This time it's something
     different. You know it and I know it, so stop
     trying to brush me off."
     
     "I *don't* want to talk about it!"
     
     "You don't have the luxury of a choice here, man!"
     He was going to get Jim to talk if he had to pry
     the words out of his stubborn, damn mouth.
     
     "It was a long time ago, Sandburg. And it was
     classified. There's a lot of things from that time
     I can't discuss with anyone."
     
     Blair guided the truck around a corner while he
     considered how to deal with this last stalling
     tactic. "So tell me the things that you can. You
     don't need to give me any of the classified
     details. Just tell me what was happening at that
     moment in your flashback. You were trying to push
     us to the floor, screaming at us to get back, to
     get down. What the *hell* were you seeing?"
     
     "Can't it wait until we get back to the loft?"
     Jim's tone was plaintive.
     
     Yeah, it probably should wait until they got home.
     If Jim was going to talk, it needed to be
     somewhere that he could relax and feel safe.
     "Sure, Jim. It'll wait."
     
     First thing on the agenda when they arrived home
     was getting some food into Jim. Blair mentally
     kicked himself. He knew that when Jim was under
     pressure, he stopped eating. It was a wonder his
     partner didn't have a bleeding ulcer with the way
     he treated his stomach.
     
     Rummaging through the cupboards and fridge, he
     called out, "What do you think about soup and
     sandwiches?"
     
     When he didn't get an answer he wasn't surprised.
     Jim had wandered over to the glassed-off balcony
     as soon as he'd taken off his coat. Still leaning
     against the door casement, he stared out at the
     water glittering in the late afternoon sun. Jim
     spending time working out his thoughts at the
     windows wasn't uncommon, but him not coming into
     the kitchen to help or at least to find out what
     Blair was making, *was*. Like an overgrown house
     cat, whenever Blair went to the refrigerator, Jim
     was usually right on his heels. Sometimes he
     almost expected the big detective to wind himself
     around his legs and meow. The mental picture
     brought a smile to his face.
     
     After setting the food on the table, he went over
     to his partner, taking his arm and turning him
     gently around. "You ready to eat something?"
     
     The opaque quality in the normally crystalline
     gaze troubled him. Jim was hiding his emotions
     behind a well-worn, but cracking facade. Blair
     tugged at his sleeve trying to draw him to the
     table.
     
     "Come on, Jim. You've got to be hungry. Let's eat
     something, and then I promise I'll let you sleep.
     No more questions for a while, okay?"
     
     Jim gave him the slow smile that always made him
     feel as if the sun were breaking through storm
     clouds. "I'll give it a try, Chief. Don't be
     disappointed if I don't do it justice." As he
     spoke, he responded to the pull on his arm,
     following Blair docilely.
     
     Blair sat him down and put a sandwich in front of
     him. "You'll like this, trust me."
     
     Jim's head snapped up and he gave Blair his first
     real grin of the day, "You know, coming from you
     --"
     
     "Those are the two most frightening words in the
     English language." Blair rolled his eyes. "That
     was so funny, I didn't even laugh the first time
     you said it."
     
     There was the chuckle that had been missing from
     his life for days. He used to think of Jim as
     taciturn and humorless. It was such an unfair
     judgement. His partner had a quirky sense of
     humor, oddly sparked by the most bizarre things,
     but it was rich and fun and gentle. Blair hadn't
     realized how much he'd missed the sound of Jim's
     laughter until he heard it again.
     
     The laughter seemed to restore Jim, and though
     he'd picked and played with his food at first,
     once he tasted it, he fell on it like a starving
     man. Which, Blair thought, he probably was.
     
     "How long has it been since you've had something
     to eat?" Blair grinned, silently pointing out how
     Jim was practically licking the breadcrumbs off
     his plate.
     
     Jim flushed to the roots of his hair. "Um, I don't
     remember. Maybe yesterday?"
     
     "And I'll lay odds it was something like a nice
     greasy donut with coffee?"
     
     This time Jim didn't bother answering, but his
     flush took on a darker hue and his ears turned
     pink. Blair couldn't hold back his chuckle. Jim
     accepted the laughter with a reluctant smile.
     
     "Go ahead and laugh, Chief. Not all of us can
     survive on the rabbit food you love so much. And
     you know about cops and donuts."
     
     It was good to be laughing with each other again.
     The tight bands of worry wrapped around Blair's
     chest started to ease. Especially after he saw
     Jim's tension begin to diminish, too.
     
     Jim insisted on doing the clean up since Blair had
     cooked, however nominally. While he was puttering
     in the kitchen, Blair made a whirlwind clean-up of
     his room, stripping the sheets off the bed and
     remaking it.
     
     "I've made up my bed for you."
     
     His partner froze, slowly placing a dish in the
     rack. Jim turned and pinioned him with a steely
     look. "Why do you think I'll be using your bed?"
     
     "I thought it would be best. I can sleep on the
     couch and be close by if there's a problem."
     
     Wiping his hands on a dishtowel, Jim moved
     purposefully across the room until he was standing
     in front of Blair. "There aren't going to *be* any
     problems, Chief. I'm not a little kid who's afraid
     of the dark." He crossed his arms, closing himself
     off.
     
     "I'm not treating you like a child, Jim. That
     would be ridiculous. But given the nightmare you
     had and your flashback, I really don't think
     sleeping up in your loft is a good idea."
     
     "Afraid I'll walk in my sleep?" The words came out
     in a cynical snarl. Blair bit his lip in
     frustration. 'Damn all hard-headed Sentinels
     everywhere.'
     
     "Exactly. I'm afraid you'll go headfirst off the
     top. It's not weak to admit you have a problem,
     Jim." He forced himself not to punctuate his words
     with a forefinger to Jim's chest.
     
     For a moment, Jim looked like he was about to
     explode. Then he paled, his face shuttered with a
     curiously blank expression. "Okay, Chief. Whatever
     you say." Blair ached to hug the defeat and
     dejection from him as he turned and shuffled off
     to the bathroom.
     
     Not knowing what else to do, Blair fiddled around
     his room in an attempt to make sure there wasn't
     anything too horribly untidy to disturb the
     sensibilities of his partner. Blair wasn't a slob,
     but he did create a certain amount of clutter. His
     books, artifacts and mementos were all part and
     parcel of who he was, and they filled his small
     room in an aesthetically pleasing manner. The
     problem was that Jim preferred something Blair
     called 'Early American barracks'.
     
     After he'd done the little he could, tidying up
     stacks of files, stirring up some dust and
     knocking down a few cobwebs, Blair turned down the
     bed and wandered out into the living room. The
     long, spring day was fading away, and sunset cast
     the loft in a soft, rosy glow. He reluctantly
     switched on the light and sat down with his latest
     anthropology journal. Not able to concentrate on
     any of the articles, Blair sat there contemplating
     Jim's flashbacks and what, if anything, he could
     do to help.
     
     "Chief." Jim's soft call from the hallway brought
     him out of a reverie.
     
     "Yeah, Jim?"
     
     "I'm gonna get some shut eye now." Jim was still
     damp from the shower, a clean white towel wrapped
     snugly around his hips.
     
     "Okay, Jim. I'm going to read a while and then
     crash here on the couch."
     
     Nodding, Jim started to go into Blair's room, then
     hesitated and looked back. "I really hate to put
     you out like this."
     
     "It's not a problem. I'll be fine. Truly. You know
     how many nights I end up working here until I fall
     asleep on the couch, anyway."
     
     "Whatever you say, Chief. 'Night."
     
     "'Night." He watched as Jim began to close the
     doors. Before Blair could ask him to leave them
     open so he could listen for problems, Jim paused
     and swung them open again with a self-conscious
     look in Blair's direction.
     
     Blair gave him a gentle smile. "It's going to be
     okay, Jim," whispered Sentinel soft. Then he
     settled back on the couch and picked up the unread
     journal.
     
     Hours later, he was yawning hard enough he could
     swear his jaw was cracking. Jim was sleeping
     peacefully, so he felt safe setting aside his
     laptop and the books that held none of the answers
     he wanted. Blair snuggled into the cushions,
     wrapping himself in the afghan from the back of
     the couch.
     
     A crash and thud woke him abruptly from his doze.
     He bolted upright, this time wide-awake and
     mentally prepared for what he found in the
     bedroom. Jim was lying on the floor, struggling to
     free his long legs from the sheet wrapped around
     them. The hoarse sounds coming from his partner
     were barely human. His chest was working
     frantically while he groaned and whimpered and
     struggled to get free.
     
     "Ah, Jim. It's okay, man. I'll get you loose."
     Blair dropped to his knees next to Jim.
     
     Pale blue eyes met his with no semblance of
     recognition. "They're dead, they're all dead."
     
     The pain cracking the deep voice pierced his heart
     like a blade. Blair wrapped Jim in his arms.
     "Shhh, Jim. It's gonna be okay, I promise."
     
     Jim moaned and burrowed his face into Blair's
     chest. "I couldn't save them. Oh God, I couldn't
     save them."
     
     "Shhh, it's okay. Nobody could have, Jim. You did
     the best you could." He began to rock Jim back and
     forth gently.
     
     "Why wouldn't they listen? They had to stay back,
     why wouldn't they stay back?" The entreaty came
     out on a shuddering whisper.
     
     Blair felt a sudden shift in paradigm -- this
     wasn't the McNamara case Jim was reliving.
     
     "Who wouldn't listen, Jim? What were they supposed
     to stay away from?"
     
     "The minefield, we were mapping and clearing the
     minefield." Jim's face became even more tortured.
     "We told the villagers to stay out. We did, we
     marked the area for them to stay away from." His
     shoulders shook in a silent sob. "I hate goats. I
     fucking *hate* them."
     
     Blair puzzled at the apparent non sequitur. What
     did he say now? "Want me to help you get up?"
     
     He felt Jim's nod against his chest. Blair shifted
     the sheet, allowing the older man to heave himself
     to his feet. Hastening to take a bit of the
     staggering weight on his shoulder, Blair rolled
     Jim onto the bed. "Good, just sit tight a minute."
     Jim sat still and silent, watching Blair tidy up
     the mess he'd made of the bed.
     
     With a soft hush of air, Blair settled next to
     him. "Do you want to talk about it? I think you
     need to. This isn't about the case. This is
     something deeper, something older?" A flicker of
     motion out of the corner of his eye told him that
     Jim was nodding, silently acknowledging his
     questions. "Don't you think I deserve to know
     what's haunting you? Whatever it is, I think
     you're going to keep seeing it until we find a way
     to make it stop."
     
     Jim rubbed his eyes tiredly. He pursed his lips as
     if to begin talking, then paused, a long
     shuddering sigh coming out instead. In a voice so
     low Blair could hardly make it out, Jim finally
     answered, "I don't think I can talk about it."
     
     Once again Blair took the initiative, reaching out
     to take Jim's hand in his. "Yes, you can. Just
     start at the beginning. This is me you're talking
     to, whatever you say will be okay."
     
     "We were working on the outskirts of a native
     village. It was a . . . tense job, disarming a
     minefield. We'd put up signs to keep the villagers
     out. They couldn't read, but we put their taboo
     mark on them and we explained it all to the
     elders."
     
     Jim paused for a long time and finally Blair
     squeezed his hand and prompted him, "Go on, I'm
     listening."
     
     "I was with a buddy, hanging out on our off duty
     hours, relaxing." Jim turned his head and looked
     directly at Blair. "Adrian was my best friend, he
     was . . . he was someone special."
     
     Blair wanted to flinch away from that look, from
     the face that was suddenly revealing too much-a
     wealth of sorrow and guilt and pain, more than he
     could bear. Suddenly, there were tears burning his
     eyes, blurring his vision.
     
     "More than a friend, Jim?" He hadn't meant to ask
     that, but it was too late to call back the words.
     
     With a half sob, Jim whispered, "Yes."
     
     He shifted closer and squeezed Jim's hand again.
     
     Jim nodded and shook himself slightly, breaking
     eye contact. "These two little kids were herding
     their family's goats down the trail past the area.
     A tiny kid, maybe four or five, and his older
     sister. One of the fucking goats got a wild hair
     and took off across the minefield."
     
     Jim paused, staring off into space. Blair was
     almost ready to prompt him again when he
     continued.
     
     "I stood there watching, too far away to stop them
     as the boy went after the goat. I-I remember
     screaming at him, just screaming for him to get
     back. The little girl . . . I must have panicked
     her when I yelled. She went in after him. Then the
     boy hit a mine and, and oh God --
     ohgodohgodohgod."
     
     Snapping into action, Blair took the shaking man
     into his arms and pulled him hard to his chest.
     "Shhh, Jim. You're here with me, now. Okay, man?
     We're right here and that was a long time ago." He
     began a rocking motion again, petting the back of
     Jim's neck, smoothing the soft, sweat-damp hair.
     
     "Adrian went after them, I didn't see him in time.
     He just took off running before I could stop him.
     I followed him right up to the edge." Jim's breath
     escaped in another silent sob. "*Fuck.* It was
     like nothing you've ever seen. Two of our guys
     went in after Adrian, villagers started following
     them in, one after the other. I tried so hard to
     stop them, I tried . . . I did. And the mines kept
     exploding and everyone was screaming and screaming
     and screaming." Jim finally lapsed into silence,
     staring off into space.
     
     Afraid that the Sentinel was zoning on the ragged
     edge of his emotions, Blair gave him a small
     shake. "You staying with me, Jim?"
     
     "Yeah, Chief." Jim's voice was so husky it was
     unrecognizable. "When it was over, everybody that
     went in was dead, except for Adrian, and he was
     dying. The mine nearly cut him in half. I held him
     and listened to him struggle to breathe, struggle
     to live -- there just wasn't enough left of him to
     save."
     
     Jim lifted his head away from Blair's shoulder and
     groaned out, "They were all dead, *all* of them,
     except for that fucking goat. That stupid, fucking
     goat." He dropped head again and began to sob in
     earnest, shaking so hard that Blair could hardly
     hold on to him. With grim determination he hung
     on, trying to grip Jim tight enough to keep him
     from shaking apart. 
     
     *****
     
     Jim stared at the ceiling, listening to the
     curiously comforting sound of Blair puttering in
     the kitchen. He was so tired, he wondered if he'd
     ever get up off the bed again. He'd never cried
     like that in his life. It left him feeling
     curiously empty, almost as if every emotion he'd
     ever felt was completely purged. Except that he
     knew better. The feelings, the memories, the
     ghosts were all still there, hovering in the
     shadows like the dark specters they were.
     
     A noise at the door drew his gaze to Blair, once
     again carrying a damp washcloth and a bottle of
     cold water. "This is getting to be a habit, Chief.
     One I'm sure you'd like to kick." The choked sound
     of his voice was almost unrecognizable to his own
     ears.
     
     Blair smiled at him. Damn, even now, Blair's smile
     held the power to warm him. He could live on that
     smile and be happy; it nourished him like food and
     drink.
     
     "It's not like you haven't been through this a few
     times with me." Blair gave him a quelling look.
     "I'm glad to take a turn at swapping roles for
     once."
     
     "I -- well, I'm sorry about that, Blair. About
     going off on you." Jim tried not to flush, feeling
     embarrassed now that the crisis had passed.
     
     The bottle of water and washcloth landed on the
     bedside table with a thump. "Okay -- enough of the
     self-recrimination here, Jim. You have had some
     seriously bad shit go down over the past couple of
     days. It's stirred up a lot of memories and trauma
     from your past. You know, it's not like you're the
     only person who's ever had more than they can
     handle. You're not fucking Superman."
     
     Jim winced, the reference bringing to mind another
     set of memories he would be happy to forget. He
     let Blair help raise him up to drink the water and
     luxuriated in the gentle touch of the damp cloth
     smoothing over his skin. Unable to resist, he
     opened his senses and breathed in the scent and
     the warmth of the body crouched over his. It was a
     feast of sensory delights. Blair's body heat alone
     was enough to give him pleasure.
     
     "Jim, if you want, I'll let you get back to sleep
     now. But I'd rather talk about this a little
     more." Concern shone from Blair's smoky blue eyes.
     "I know you're tired, but I think I might have
     some clues about how to help you. First, I need
     you to answer a couple more questions."
     
     Jim tried not to roll his eyes at that. Just a
     couple more questions. Like a dog with a bone,
     Sandburg was going to worry this to death -- and
     he was going to agree. When had he stopped being
     able to tell his partner no and mean it? Exerting
     what felt like a tremendous amount of effort, Jim
     levered himself upright.
     
     "You heard what I said to Simon this afternoon.
     I've been wondering about this, about your
     reactions, for a long time." Blair looked at him
     from beneath his eyelashes as he settled himself
     onto the bed next to Jim, scooting across it until
     his back rested against the wall.
     
     "Not only do you *not* react the way most people
     would to traumatic stress, there are a few things
     that you seem to be almost . . . at peace with.
     Like when you went down in Peru. That was
     something that most people would need a lot of
     time to get over. Just the shock and the grief of
     what happened, losing everybody like that." Blair
     fidgeted with the water bottle in his hand.
     
     Jim started to reply, but Blair held up a hand. "I
     know it wasn't easy for you, I'm not trying to
     make light of it. I was just thinking that maybe
     something else happened. Something with Incacha."
     
     "He was a shaman, Blair. He acted as my guide. You
     know that."
     
     "Yeah, I know. I have this theory about what
     happened. Tribal Sentinels don't have a handy
     department shrink to see them through the stress
     of their job. When you consider just how much
     depended on the Sentinel being able to weather
     whatever disasters struck the tribe, there has to
     be *something* -- something about how they handle
     stress, how *you* handle stress that's part of it.
     Maybe that's why you can compartmentalize your
     life so easily, why you've suppressed memories so
     efficiently. But eventually that sort of coping
     mechanism has to max out."
     
     Blair turned, looking at him intently. "You've
     gone through so much, Jim. Things that would be
     nearly impossible for most people to recover from.
     Yet, you're only now having trouble dealing with
     them."
     
     Jim grunted and looked away. "I don't think about
     those things mostly, but they're still there. It's
     not like I'm not affected." Blair nodded at him
     and he could tell that his Guide understood he'd
     paid the price for his stoicism. "Incacha knew
     that. He did something to help me after the crash.
     I'm not really clear how he did it. But he, he --
     cleansed me."
     
     "Yes! That's it." Blair was visibly excited. "I
     knew it had to be something like that. A shaman
     doesn't care for only the physical health of his
     tribe; he's responsible for the spiritual and
     emotional well-being of the tribe, too."
     
     "So where do we go from here, Chief?" He tried not
     to sound doubtful, but . . . Incacha was dead. Did
     Blair really think that he could do what Incacha
     had?
     
     "He passed on the way of the shaman to me, Jim."
     Blair was almost vibrating. "I've always wondered
     about that. He wasn't entrusting the city of
     Cascade to my care; he was handing over his
     responsibility for you."
     
     Jim shook his head. "Somehow I don't think this is
     something you can just wake up and decide to do
     one day. You're good, Blair.You've been
     responsible for getting me on track and teaching
     me how to deal with my senses. But Incacha studied
     to be a shaman all his life."
     
     "I'm your Guide and he knew it! Don't you think
     I've been studying and working toward this *my*
     whole life? He knew that I had the ability to
     guide you and help you with whatever you need.
     Incacha trusted me -- why can't you?"
     
     If he hadn't been so exhausted, he would have
     gotten up and begun pacing. Did he trust Blair?
     Only with his life and the lives of a hell of a
     lot of other people at one time or the other. Was
     Blair serious about acting as Incacha had, easing
     his spirit and healing his soul? He turned to look
     at his guide again. Blair met his gaze
     unflinchingly.
     
     "Yeah, I trust you, Blair. I do."
     
     "Good. Because I'm all you've got." The hint of an
     impish smile played along Blair's lips. He slid
     off the bed and urged Jim to lie down again. "I'm
     going to take you through some guided imagery. I
     want to get you into a deep, meditative state,
     where we can do some damage control."
     
     Jim closed his eyes and willed himself to
     stillness as Blair's soothing voice led him
     through familiar relaxation techniques. He didn't
     have the heart to tell the younger man that it
     wasn't going to work. He was so tired, all it was
     doing was drawing him closer and closer to sleep.
     . . .
     
     Blue light bathed the jungle that existed only in
     his dreams. He knew this place; he carried it with
     him always. This was where his spirit walked with
     the panther that embodied his Sentinel soul. The
     jungle seemed different somehow, too still.
     Nothing moved; not a breeze, not an insect, and
     there was no sign of the panther. From a distance,
     he heard a mournful scream. A sound of mortal
     agony.
     
     He leaped after the sound, crashing through the
     undergrowth, vaulting over fallen debris. With
     every step, he drew closer, and the sound of the
     screams grew louder. Behind the screams, a
     rumbling seemed to vibrate the ground. Suddenly,
     he broke through the tangle of leaves and
     branches, stumbling into a clearing.
     
     He was at the headwaters of a mighty waterfall,
     the promontory bathed in the mist from the
     crashing, falling water. At the edge of the
     precipice, the panther rolled on the ground in
     torment, crying out again and again as it
     inflicted bloody wounds upon itself. It was
     literally tearing itself apart as he watched, its
     cries growing steadily weaker. Jim couldn't bear
     to see his spirit guide in such pain-he had to
     stop it before it was too late.
     
     He moved forward, his arms outstretched in
     supplication. The panther finally noticed him,
     raising its battered head and looking steadily at
     the Sentinel. With a scream of challenge, the
     panther turned and leaped off the edge,
     disappearing into the mist. Jim never hesitated as
     he followed, hurtling himself into space.
     
     Tumbling and spinning, he was tossed endlessly
     through the roiling water. But it wasn't only
     water, it was the purest, brightest light he'd
     ever experienced. It was healing and purification
     not simply passing over him, it was soaking
     through him, bathing him, washing through the
     essence of what he was. Nothing dark, nothing ugly
     could stand in that light; it passed through the
     waste places in his soul, illuminating every
     shadowy echo of pain, burning away his grief.
     
     After an eternity, Jim finally came to rest. He
     was floating in a shallow pool, resting against
     something pliant and warm. Slowly he opened his
     eyes to see what was supporting him. Blair was
     crouched over him, but not the Blair he knew. This
     was a shaman wearing the braids and paint of the
     Chopec.
     
     //How do you feel now, my Sentinel? Has the water
     done its healing, has it cleansed your soul?//
     
     Blair was speaking to him in Chopec, his words
     similar to the ones that Incacha had spoken to him
     long ago. Without conscious thought, he answered
     Blair's questions in the same language. //Yes, my
     shaman. I am healed. You have healed me.//
     
     //It is done. You are free now to be what you
     must.//
     
     //What is that?//
     
     Blair smiled at him, a smile so full of love and
     affection Jim thought his heart would burst in
     response. It was all he'd ever wanted, to have
     Blair look at him like that, to love him.
     
     //To be yourself. To follow your destiny as
     Sentinel. To be my Sentinel.//
     
     //Am I? Am I-your Sentinel?//
     
     //Of course, Enqueri, you have always been my
     Sentinel. Incacha only stood in my place when you
     were in need and I could not be with you. My
     spirit has always been with you; we are one. You
     are mine as I have always been yours.//
     
     Jim smiled in return and closed his eyes. These
     were the words he'd waited all his life to hear.
     This was the final step he had been waiting to
     take, the grail he'd been seeking.
     
     When he opened his eyes, Blair was still cradling
     him, but he no longer wore the face paint of a
     Chopec shaman. For the briefest of instants, a
     small, painful sliver of doubt cut though him.
     Until he realized that Blair was smiling at him.
     Everything Jim had seen on the spirit plane shone
     from his deep blue eyes.
     
     This was his Blair, real and warm and loved beyond
     all reason, not a pale, blue-tinged apparition.
     Almost afraid to ask the question that had been
     answered by the shaman of his dream, Jim
     whispered, "Am I your Sentinel?"
     
     "You are mine, as I have always been yours." Joy
     shivered though him as he heard the words again,
     the sound vibrating through him like no illusion
     ever could.
     
     Blair lowered his head to place a gentle kiss on
     Jim's lips, and in the sealing of their lips,
     their destiny was reborn.
     
     -=The End=-