Part 2...

Megan Connor's smile faded as she entered the bullpen. It didn't take a sentinel to hear the argument coming from the direction of Ellison's desk. No, 'argument' wasn't the right description. An argument involved at least two parties. This was more of a diatribe. Ellison looked like he wanted nothing more than to destroy something -- or someone -- with his bare hands. The person on the receiving end of the tirade was sitting calmly, staring at a pencil he was twirling between his fingers. Sandburg's indifference only seemed to fuel Ellison's rage.

The rest of the bullpen studiously avoided even looking in their direction. Discomfort was apparent on many of the faces, almost bringing back Megan's smile. Blair had shifted the view of many of the rigid detectives of Major Crimes. She wasn't the only one willing to call the young man friend. As she watched, Joel Taggart rose from his chair, his destination and intention clear as he rounded his desk toward the still ranting Ellison.

Luckily for one of them -- she wasn't sure which -- Simon Banks chose that moment to stick his head out of his office and call Ellison into his office. Megan breathed a sigh of relief and continued on her original mission.

"Hey, Sandy," she called as she approached where he sat, still twirling the pencil.

The young man looked up, smiling as he caught sight of the white bag in her hand. "Hey, Megan. Wha'dja bring me?"

"What makes you think this is for you?"

"Megan Connor, you've brought me some artery-clogging, calorie-oozing, confectionery treat every morning for the past week. Why would I think today is any different?"

Megan returned the smile. "You're still too thin," she admonished.

Blair took the offered bag, unrolling the top to peak in. "Between you and Joel, I'm going to be big as a house by the time I'm done here."

"Oh, yeah? What did Joel bring you?"

"Muffins -- banana nut."

"Well, you could do with another twenty pounds or so."

Blair's grimace told her what he thought of that idea, but rather than say anything, he pulled a cookie from the bag and took a large bite, rolling his eyes in delight. "Mmm...'s wonderful," he exclaimed around a mouthful. "What is it?"

"An old family recipe," Megan said, winking conspiratorially.

Blair raised an eyebrow, then dropped his eyes pointedly to the name of the bakery prominently printed on the side of the bag.

"I didn't say it was my family's recipe. I told you, I do my cooking outside of the kitchen."

Blair laughed, and Megan was pleased to see the humor reached his eyes this time. "Why do you put up with Ellison, Sandy?" she risked asking.

Blair stopped chewing for a moment, his lashes lowering to shield his eyes. "What difference does it make? I don't care what he thinks."

An obvious lie. "I think you do."

He lifted his gaze, briefly meeting hers before dropping it again. "You're wrong! All I want to do is finish my job here and move on. I'm counting the days."

"Is that why you're getting so defensive?"

When he lifted his eyes this time, Megan was driven back a step by the unmasked anger in their blue depths. "I'm not defensive," he hissed. "You think this job is that important to me? James Ellison is nothing more than a means to an end. All I see in him is a chance to get my ass off the streets for a few weeks and to put a few bucks in my pocket. I don't give a rat's ass what Ellison or anyone else around here thinks of me."

Megan was silent for a long, tense moment. "That include me, Sandy?"

Blair dropped the half eaten cookie back into the bag with a sigh, his temper visibly dissolving. "No. It doesn't. I'm sorry, Megan. You're one of the few people around here who treats me like a real person." He gave her a shy, half-smile. "I shouldn't have lost my temper. I'm sorry."

"You really don't have to take this crap off of Jim, you know?"

Blair suddenly found a piece of string stuck to his sleeve very interesting. "I know," he finally admitted. "It's just easier this way."

"What's easier?"

He pulled the string loose and rolled it between his thumb and index finger, watching it spin with exaggerated interest. "Keeping our distance. Remembering my place."

"And what place is that?"

"I'm the hired help," Blair said, lifting his head to meet her eyes. There was no animosity in the disclosure. "Temporary help. Another few weeks, and I'll be gone, and Jim will probably celebrate."

There was such a lost and vulnerable quality in this tone that Megan's chest tightened in sympathy. "I think you're selling yourself short, Sandy. I've seen for myself how far Jim has come with his senses. It's amazing what you've been able to accomplish with no..." She broke off as she realized what she was about to say.

"With no bond," Blair finished sadly. "Exactly -- I can't bond, and even if I could, Ellison has made it abundantly clear how he feels on that subject. He's barely tolerating me, Megan, and I think everyone knows it." He stopped and visibly straightened, lifting his shoulders in a transparent attempt to regain his indifference. "Like I said, the feeling is mutual. I'm counting the days until I'm finished and out of here."

"I don't believe that," Megan stated, "and if you do, you're lying to yourself. I think you do care what Jim thinks of you. Very much. The question you need to ask yourself is why? Why do you care, and why do you let him hurt you like that?"

The inspector walked away before Blair could respond to her question. Without an outlet, his anger swelled unchecked. Who the hell did she think she was, seeing through his lies like that?

Blair rolled the top down on the bag of cookies and tossed them on the desk, knowing even as he did that Jim would use it as another reason to rail at him. Big deal. If it wasn't that, it would be something else.

Leaning back in this chair, he let his eyes find the sentinel through the open blinds of Banks' office window. Jim really did hate him. Blair didn't even question why. It was obvious. He saw in Blair everything a man like him must despise: failure, disappointment, worthlessness...and to make matters worse, he was forced to ask for help from such a pathetic failure. How it must gall the man!

As he studied Ellison's profile, Blair considered Megan's question. Why did he care what Jim thought of him? Was it because, for the first time since...since it had happened, Blair was having regrets? His choices had been made with his eyes wide open. He'd known the probable consequences...not that he'd expected to survive. He'd honestly thought he would be the one dead, not Paul. It was a fate he had carefully considered and had been willing to accept. He had never looked back, never questioned his decision. He would have made the same choices again, even knowing the eventual outcome. Even knowing Paul would die and he, himself, would end up as good as dead. He had never had a regret.

Until now.

For the first time, Blair felt a slender thread of remorse. For the first time, he allowed himself to imagine what life would have been like if he'd met Jim Ellison before the...well, just before. If he could have bonded with this sentinel, a man of honor, how much different would his life have been?

Blair shook his head, driving away the dangerously depressing thoughts. It wouldn't have mattered if he had met Jim first. Jim didn't want to bond. Jim detested him and everything he represented. Jim was ashamed, disgusted by him. Which was just the way Blair wanted it anyhow. As long as Jim kept his distance, there was little chance he'd find out who and what Blair really was, and Blair would never have to see the revulsion and loathing on Jim's face that his exposed secrets would surely bring.

Jim knew it was coming, could probably have predicted the exact words if he'd tried, so he waited patiently for their delivery, and wasn't disappointed.

"You want to explain yourself, Detective?"

If he'd been a betting man, he'd have just cleaned up. "Excuse me, sir?" Knowing what was coming had helped him plan a defense. Ignorance usually worked.

"Don't play dumb with me, Jim." Usually, but not this time.

Jim sighed, going for long suffering. He knew it wouldn't work with Simon. The man knew him too well. Jim just didn't want to get into this right now. Or ever. "I'm having a bad day."

"Really? I couldn't tell." Simon did sarcasm well, Jim decided. "And would your bad day have anything to do with your temporary guide?"

"Maybe," Jim hedged, hoping Simon would accept the answer.

Simon simply raised an eyebrow, silently questioning the vagueness of the response.

A patient man himself, Jim returned the look. Unfortunately, Simon had had more practice with it. Jim eventually gave in. He looked away, uncomfortable with his next words. "I'm just tired of the constant tests. Everything is an experiment with him, a way to gauge my range or fine tune my hearing or practice one of my other senses. I'm just ready to be done with him, so I can send him on his way."

"Isn't that why he's here? Are you sure there's not more to your mood?" When Jim didn't answer, Simon pushed. "Jim, I'm not just being nosy here. If something's going on with you two, I need to know. If the kid's done something--"

"No." Jim took a deep breath, letting it go noisily. "No, Simon, he hasn't done anything he's not supposed to be doing."

"Then what's going on? Why do you look like you want to snap his neck most of the time?"

Jim rubbed the back of his neck, not realizing what a telling gesture it was to those knew him. It was a sure sign of frustration and annoyance. "It's...I've felt..." He sighed, giving up on trying to put it delicately. "I've been feeling the pull of the bond."

"What?" Banks' forehead creased in confusion. "I thought that was impossible with the implant."

Jim shrugged. So had he, but he'd felt it nonetheless.

"How... I mean, what...oh, hell...Jim, are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. I can't explain it, but I'm sure."

"Could Sandburg be so desperate to bond that he's...I don't know...overriding the implant somehow?"

It was a question Jim had already asked himself. "I don't know. I didn't think it worked that way, but...God, Simon, this is new territory for me. There's just not that much public information available about the implant. It isn't that common."

Simon's eyes drifted out to the bullpen to the man in question. "That little bastard!"

Jim followed his gaze. Sandburg was still sitting where Jim had left him, talking quietly to Megan. He resisted the urge to listen in, but felt a momentary pride in knowing he could if he wanted to. His control had improved considerably in the past week, thanks to the young man out there; yet, Jim couldn't quite bring himself to give him the credit due. That would be too much like admitting he needed him, and that would be too much like dependence. It was a step Jim wasn't willing to make.

Still, he couldn't let Simon put all the blame on Sandburg, not without knowing if his suspicions were true. "I could be wrong, Simon. Maybe he isn't even aware of it. It's possible the implant is keeping him from feeling it."

Simon spared him a skeptical glance. He looked like he wanted to argue further, but instead changed the subject. "I've hit a dead end at the institute, Jim. I'm called in every favor I can, and pulled every string I have available, and I still can't get anything out of them. No one will even admit they have a marked guide, much less explain the circumstances behind it."

"So they're covering it up. Why?"

"I don't know, but I don't like it. Something's not right here, and I don't want to see it blow up in our faces. How soon before you're finished with the kid and we can cut him loose?"

The question rankled Jim, but he couldn't put his finger on just why. He considered his answer carefully. "I'm making progress. I'm gaining control over the spikes."

"That's great, Jim!" Simon sounded genuinely pleased by the news. "So, you won't need him much longer."

Jim ran a hand over his face. "I wish it was that simple, Simon."

"I don't want to hear this, do I?"

"I'm learning to control my senses, yes, but Sandburg tells me that's no better than putting them in a box and closing the lid. He says I have to learn to take them out of the box and use them, and I have to admit, I think he may have a point. If it wasn't for my senses, I wouldn't have found that footprint, and we'd still be trying to connect the murders."

"I'll admit that impressed me, Jim, but do you need Sandburg to do that? Now that you know how it works, can't you do it by yourself?"

Jim shook his head. "I don't think so. At least, not yet. Sandburg says I'm risking a zone every time I use my senses."

"You haven't zoned yet," Simon pointed out.

"He says that's because I haven't been using my senses, I've been trying to suppress them."

"Jim," Simon sighed deeply, "are you sure Sandburg's not playing you, trying to milk as much out of this deal as he can? He has to know this arrangement will only last so long, and when it goes, he goes."

"You promised him a job when this was over," Jim reminded his friend.

"I know, and I'll try, but we both know it's not going to be easy."

Jim hadn't really thought a lot about it, he'd just assumed Blair would either continue on in maintenance, or Simon would find him something else; but, now Simon was saying it might not happen. Thinking about the kid's situation, Jim realized he'd probably known it all along. Hell, Sandburg probably knew it, as well. So, was Blair snowing Jim into believing he needed his help just to prolong the deal? Jim could hardly blame him if he was. He was going to have to stay on his toes, not let his thinking become clouded by fast words.

"Jim, if you really believe you'd be better off actually using your senses..."

"Don't say it, Simon," Jim warned. He knew where the man was headed.

"I know, I know," Simon held up a staying hand. "No one knows better than I do why you don't want to bond; but, Jim, are you one hundred percent certain you can make it work like this? Can't you just think about getting a real guide through proper channels?"

"You sound like my father," Jim muttered in disgust.

"Your father?"

Jim sighed deeply. He hadn't intended to bring this up. "My father wants to get me a guide. He's been pushing the issue for a while."

"I take it you haven't told him about Sandburg."

"Are you kidding?"

"I didn't think so."

"He has the political pull to get me moved to the top of the waiting list, and he's not a man who accepts no for an answer. I don't know how to convince him I'm serious about not bonding."

"Short of explaining why--"

"No!" Jim took a calming breath and tried again. "No. He doesn't know, and that's the way I want to keep it. He wouldn't understand."

"Well, I don't know where all this is leading us, Jim, but I do know you can't work with Sandburg indefinitely. I hope to God you're right about controlling and even using your senses without permanent help. I honestly do. But if you're wrong, you're going to have to make some hard choices."

Hard choices. Jim had been making hard choices since the day he had first learned what he was. There was only one decision of which he was dead certain -- he would not bond. Ever!

"Just do what you have to do to finish with Sandburg," Simon counseled. "Finish up, and let's be rid of him."

Simon Banks signed the report and slid it into the stack of completed work on the corner of his desk. It was the final one for the day. He was finished at last. He grabbed his coat and umbrella and quickly walked through the nearly empty bullpen, hoping he could make his escape before someone found something else requiring his attention. He had one stop to make on his way out, and he wanted to get it over and done with so he could head home.

He rode the elevator down to the second floor and exited. A quick search through several empty offices finally lead him to the man he was looking for in an empty conference room.

Sandburg glanced up as Simon stopped a few feet away. Surprise flitted quickly across the young man's face, then disappeared behind a well crafted mask of indifference. He finished emptying a garbage can as he acknowledged Simon. "Hello, Captain Banks."

"Sandburg." Simon glanced around the area.

"I'm alone, if that's what you're looking for."

"We need to talk."

"I'm listening." The young man continued around the room, wiping down surfaces and emptying several more trash cans. He spared a couple of curious glances in Simon's direction.

Simon cleared his throat. "It's about Jim."

Sandburg stopped and faced Simon. "Did something happen? Is he all right?"

Simon raised a staying hand. "Jim's fine. I just want to get a few things straight, Sandburg."

Blair crossed his arms over his chest. Simon suspected it was meant to convey an attitude, but he could only see it as a self-protective move.

"I'm listening," Blair repeated.

"Jim is my friend."

"So you've said before."

"I won't tolerate anyone taking advantage of him."

"And you think that's what I'm doing." There was a pause. "In what way?"

"My intention is to see to it that this deal works to Jim's benefit. I'm going to make sure he gets what he needs from you."

"I have no doubt of that. You've made it clear from day one that you don't give a damn about me, only getting what you want out of me. Well, there's something you need to understand, boss-man, I'm in this for me. I'm looking out for me."

"That doesn't surprise me."

"It shouldn't. If I don't look out for myself, no one will. I'll do what I can for your detective. I gave my word, and if you knew me, you'd know I don't do that arbitrarily. I'm doing my best for Jim, but you have to understand that I have certain...limitations."

"Because of the implant."

"Because we're trying to accomplish control without a bond."

"As long as you understand that there'll be no bond..."

Sandburg laughed, the sound decidedly humorless. "As if I could forget that fact!"

"See to it that you don't." Simon turned to leave, his mission accomplished.

"Wait up, boss-man!"

Simon turned back to face the kid.

"I know what you think of me, and I know what Ellison thinks of me. Why would you think I'd be trying to force a bond even if I could? Why would you think I'd want to be tied to a man who so obviously hates me? I'm not that desperate. I'll help the man, but remember, ultimately I'm in it for what I can get out of it."

"And you'll ride this gravy train for as long as you can, won't you?"

"Gravy train?" He laughed again. "Look around you, man! Does this look like a gravy train to you? I scrub toilets, mop floors and empty garbage cans. What a cushy life I have! Why, some days I can hardly contain my enthusiasm. I should bow at your feet and kiss the ground you walk on for the gift of this lofty position."

Angered by the sarcasm, Simon stepped forward, growling, "It's a damn sight better than you had this time last month, and a damn sight better than you'll have this time next month. So, yes, you should thank me for this job, and you should try acting a little more grateful." Simon took a deep breath. This wasn't why he was here. "Just take this warning to the bank, Sandburg. You hurt Jim Ellison, and you'll answer to me."

Simon Banks hated him. Not that Blair had really doubted it following the captain's loosely veiled threats a week ago, but today had cinched it. Banks had deliberately and specifically let Blair know he was not only not invited to the meeting in his office, but unwelcomed as well.

Blair didn't care. Really. He didn't.

Tossing the pen in his hand across the desk, Blair let out a noisy breath. Hell, he couldn't even convince himself. Truth was, he did care. What did it take to become acceptable to these men? Dedication? He'd worked as hard as any of them the past two weeks, sat with Jim for endless hours going over file after file, walked each and every crime scene for countless more hours, trying to focus the sentinel, instructing and directing him through the use of his senses, conducting scores of tests and trials to hone said senses, working on not just this case, but a half dozen more, and all of this in addition to a full time job. These men clocked out at night and headed home. Blair headed to his other job.

He knew he'd never be one of them, yet all the same, it hurt to be deliberately excluded. He wanted to be a part of things, even if only on the periphery. He supposed even that was too much to ask.

Blair absently spun the chair from side to side, his eyes fixed on the office. The blinds had been drawn, so he couldn't actually see the people inside, but if he concentrated hard enough, he could visualize the whole thing. Shame his talents didn't include audio.

Blinking to dispel the useless images, Blair let his mind wander to the case he knew they were discussing. The first body he'd seen, which was actually the third victim, had been a shock. He'd been unprepared for the gruesomeness of it, and it had left him with nightmares. His stomach still roiled if he allowed himself to think about it. The fourth victim, found just that morning, had been less gruesome, but just as disturbing. A forty-three year old social worker, drowned in a vat of tomato sauce at a local canned food factory. How gross is that? He shuddered at the memory. Bruises consistent with a struggle had ruled out an accident, and matching footprints had connected it to two of the three previous murders. They had finally been forced to admit they had a serial killer on their hands.

Four murders, four different MOs. No connection, other than the very distinctive tracks Jim had found. It was a shame Jim hadn't had use of his senses at the first two crime scenes. Maybe he could have found something useful. Any clue would beat what they had now, which was nothing. Well, nothing except a size twelve Bass Leavitt loafer with a crack in the sole of the left instep, which was getting them nowhere.

Blair mentally reviewed what he knew about the first two murders. The first one was a fifty-one year old doctor, his heart removed and found on the scene. The second one, a twenty-seven year old illegal immigrant, beat to death and suspended from the roof of a six story apartment building. All four murders were by different methods, so what connected them? Why these particular people, and why such outrageous methods of killing them? There had to be a reason.

Something kept drawing Blair's thought's back to the third killing. It was the most vivid in his mind, probably because it was the first one he'd seen. Michael Robinson, a thirty-three year old man. Married, no children. He'd had his throat slit, dying almost instantly. It was gruesome enough to guarantee nightmares for a long time to come, and yet Blair's mind wouldn't let it go. There was something about the method of murder, the way his throat had been cut deep enough to almost decapitate the man -- definitely overkill -- and the way his body had been laid out in a crucifix pattern that tugged at Blair's memory. Why did it all seem so familiar? He had certainly never seen a dead body before. Well, unless you counted two thousand year old mummies, and television, of course...

Television...

A sudden memory exploded with so much force it sat Blair straight up in his chair. Could it really be so simple? He knew how to find out. The clock on the wall over Megan's desk showed four hours before he had to report to work downstairs. Plenty of time to find out if he was imagining things.

He was halfway to the elevator when he remembered that Ellison would be expecting him to be waiting when he returned from the meeting. Blair's pace slowed.

So what, he decided, picking up his step again. What did he care what Jim expected? Was he supposed to sit out in the bullpen like an obedient little puppy dog until Jim found a use for him? The sentinel didn't own him.

Besides, if his idea panned out, Jim couldn't be mad, could he?

Blair left the library feeling dejected. He'd thought the search would be easy, but he'd been wrong. The library's computers blocked out so many Internet pages that he hadn't been able to access the sites he'd needed most. What little he had found, however, had jogged his memory enough to convince him he was on the right track.

As he began the long walk back to the station, he considered his options. He could go to Jim with his theory and let the detective research it, but that idea didn't appeal to him at all. What if he was wrong? Jim would be even further disgusted with him for wasting his valuable time.

No, what he needed to do was gather the facts first, and if they showed what he thought he remembered, then he could take it to Jim. What he really needed was access to another computer. Where could he find a computer with unlimited Internet access?

"It's not as complicated as you're making it, Jim." Blair let out an exasperated breath. "At least not in theory."

Jim threw a skeptical look at the young man seated cross-legged atop the picnic table. "Easy for you to say, all you have to do is tell me what to do."

"Hell, Detective, you think that's the easy part? Teaching you a new trick? I've come to the conclusion that you're the one with the cushy side of this deal.

Jim stopped his pacing long enough to frown at the young man. It was then he noticed the smile Blair was working to control. Jim shook his head, suppressing a grin of his own and resumed his pacing. "Okay, maybe you've got a point. It's just...I'm..."

"...a stubborn jackass?" Blair supplied.

Jim chuckled. "And you're Mother Teresa, holy ewer of patience and virtue."

Blair unfolded his legs and stretched them in front of him. "Well, I don't know about virtue, Jim, but I'm working on my sainthood for patience."

Jim saw Blair look up at him in anticipation, and realized the kid was waiting for him to correct him once again on the use of his first name. Suddenly, it didn't seem as important as it had a week ago, or even yesterday. He let it go, not missing the surprised pleasure on Blair's face. "Okay, kid. We'll try again. Explain the process one more time, and I'll try to listen better."

Blair leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Let's take a different tact here, okay? Just forget everything I've already said--"

"That won't be a problem."

"That sainthood is getting closer and closer, Jim," Blair warned. "Okay, get serious for a minute. You know, the ancient Babylonians had a saying, 'When a man lies, he looks down at the ground and moves his big toe in circles.' Now, I doubt you're going to run across a suspect who will actually make circles with his big toe, but when someone is lying, one of the first things they'll do is break eye contact."

Jim sat down on the bench below Blair and glared up at him from the corner of his eyes. "You think I got to be detective through a lottery, Sandburg?"

Blair slapped absently at Jim's shoulder. "Humor me, Jim. I'm trying to start with the basics so even an Neanderthal like you can grasp it."

Jim closed his eyes and shook his head. "Go ahead."

"All right, so we've got lack of eye contact, but that alone won't cut it, because it's a response that can be controlled. If a person has been practicing or rehearsing a lie, they won't necessarily give you a conspicuous accessing cue. There are some unconscious physiological responses, however, which only a true pathological liar could get away with. Chinese lore maintains that a liar who holds rice grains in his mouth will spit them out dry, while an honest man will spit them out wet."

"Nice mental image."

"But true. One of the physiological responses to lying is for the saliva glands to dry up. Simply put, nervous people get cotton mouth. Now, one of the easiest ways to detect that--"

"We won't be using rice?"

"--is to watch for excessive swallowing, in an effort to get their saliva flowing again, and licking of the lips to wet them."

Jim nodded. It made sense.

"Another response is an increase in blood pressure. You can detect this through a slight blushing effect, especially in the cheeks, increased pulse rate, dilated pupils, and an increase in sweat. All of these are signs of increased stress levels."

"So, I'm looking for excessive swallowing, licking the lips, blushing, dilated pupils, sweat, and a fast pulse," Jim recapped.

"Those are the most obvious signs, yes."

"Okay," Jim nodded. "What else?"

"Like I said, those are the most obvious signs, so we need to concentrate on recognizing those first, but a practiced liar or a psychopath could control some of those signs to a degree, so you'll want to practice some other methods."

"For instance?"

"For instance, muscle tension, voice tone changes, pore size, breathing changes--"

"I get the picture," Jim interrupted. "You expect me to learn all of that?"

"Not all at once, but yeah, you will. It'll be second nature before you know it." Blair paused briefly, pursing his lips in thought. "What we need is a control group to practice on. Once you get it down, you can take it in the field, and you'll see the practical applications. Can you arrange to get us into some interrogations at the station?"

"I don't see why not." Jim stood, stretching the kinks out of his back. "How long before you have to be at work?"

"What time is it?"

Jim checked his watch. "Almost four."

"A couple of hours."

"I'm starving. We'll pick up something to eat on the way back to the station." He waited for Sandburg to climb down from his perch on the table, then headed for the truck. "You like Wonderburger?"

There was a long pause. "I'm not hungry, but you go ahead."

"Not hungry? I haven't seen you eat anything all day. We're picking up dinner, so decide what you want." Jim's tone brooked no argument, but that didn't stop the kid.

"I told you, I don't want anything, Detective!"

Jim stopped, looking at Blair in surprise. Weren't they getting along fine just moments ago? Hell, they'd made half an afternoon of sensory work without one substantial argument. So why the sudden anger over dinner plans?

Before Jim could question him, Blair sighed. "Sorry, man. I guess that was uncalled for. I...um, sheesh, I don't have any money on me, okay? I'll get something later."

"You haven't drawn a paycheck yet?" Blair had been working for just over two weeks now, Jim was certain he'd have gotten paid by now.

"Yeah, of course I have...I just..."

"Just what?" Jim pushed, conscious of Blair's growing nervousness.

Blair's gaze wandered around the park, not really lighting on anything. First sign, Jim recited mentally, not making eye contact.

Finally, Blair sighed and looked at Jim. "I couldn't find anyone who'd cash it for me. Without proper ID, the bank wouldn't even talk to me."

"Shit, Sandburg, why didn't you say something?" Jim headed for the truck. "Come on."

"Where are we going?" Blair asked, climbing into the truck.

"To the bank."

"Jim--"

"Don't, Sandburg," Jim warned, sensing the coming protest. "You have to have a way to cash your checks."

Jim was silent for the drive to his bank. He couldn't believe Blair hadn't said something sooner. This was a problem easily solved. Jim would just deposit the check into his own account and draw back out enough cash to cover it.

And that's exactly what he did. Jim gallantly resisted the urge to make a scene in deference to Blair's obvious embarrassment, but he did make it a point to let the teller know that Blair would be cashing his checks off of Jim's account for the next several weeks.

Back in the truck, Jim watched as the young man counted his money for the third time. Jim had been appalled at the pitiful amount of the paycheck. Two weeks work, for barely more than minimum wage, and yet anyone would have thought the kid had won the lottery.

Blair divided the money into two stacks and handed one to Jim. "Towards the clothes," he explained in response to Jim's questioning look.

Jim tried to give the money back. "Come on, Sandburg, what did I tell you about that?"

"No, man. I'm going to pay for them, or you're going to have to take them back. This is nonnegotiable, Jim."

Jim sighed. "You've barely drawing enough to live on as it is. You can't afford--" He realized his mistake the moment the words were out of his mouth.

"Goddammit, Ellison! I'm not gonna get into a pissing contest with you again. Just take the damn money, man!"

Resigned, Jim accepted the payment, knowing full well it was more than half the paycheck. After the kid paid for his room and board, he would be virtually broke until his next check. Shit, Jim felt like a heel for taking the money.

Apparently back in good humor now that he'd thoroughly spoiled Jim's mood, Blair grinned at Jim. "Now, let's eat, man, and in honor of the occasion, I won't even give you my lecture on artery clogging, fatty foods."

"I've got to admit, Chief, you were right."

The unexpected admission drew a startled smile from Blair. "I hate to say I told you so, but..."

"Yeah, I know," Ellison chuckled as he maneuvered his truck through a road construction induced snarl in the traffic, "you told me so."

An unfamiliar flush of pride washed over Blair, and he had a hard time suppressing the growing grin which threatened to split his face. "So what now?"

"Now," Jim said, pausing to negotiate a turn, "we take what we learned this morning and see what we can piece together. Thanks to your coaching, we now know for certain Robinson's assistant was lying about their relationship."

"They were having an affair."

Jim nodded. "That'd be my guess."

"What does that tell you?"

"I'm not sure. Yet." Jim pulled his truck into a parking lot and cut the engine.

"I thought we were finished. Who lives here?"

"I do," Jim replied nonchalantly. "I figured we'd get some lunch before we head back to the station."

Blair was stunned. The sentinel was allowing him into his territory?

"You coming?"

Blair realized he was still sitting motionless. He scrambled out of the truck and hurried to follow Jim before the man could change his mind. Inside, they took an elevator to the third floor. Jim led the way to a door at the far end of the hallway and pulled out his key.

"Sandwiches okay?" Jim asked entering the apartment. He didn't wait for a reply, but headed for the refrigerator and began setting out lunch meat and condiments.

Blair stopped just inside the door and studied the place. It was exactly as he would have imagined, if he'd allowed himself to think about it. Very clean and neat, very Spartan, almost colorless, but somehow very comfortable. It was a nice place.

A familiar twist of regret once more worked its way through Blair.

Jim threw together a plate full of sandwiches, watching Sandburg from the corner of his eye as he worked. The kid probably had no idea his mouth was hanging open as his alert gaze took in every nuance of the room. Not for the first time, Jim found himself wondering about this enigmatic man. Once or twice, Blair's guard had dropped, and Jim had caught a glimpse of a bright, energetic young man hiding behind a self-protective wall of hostility, smart-mouthed remarks and bad attitude. Was that the true Blair Sandburg, the person he'd been before he'd found himself marked and outcast?

Jim's insides twisted uncomfortably at the reminder of who this man really was and where he was from. Unpleasant questions begged answers -- Where did he make his home? A shelter? Or some dark alleyway? Where did he go with the temperatures dropped below freezing? What did he eat? How did he survive? -- but Jim couldn't bring himself to ask them.

Irritated with himself for even caring, Jim slapped the last of the sandwiches together and set them on the table. "Root beer?" he asked, pulling a couple of cans from the refrigerator.

"Yeah, fine." Sandburg hesitantly moved into the room and seated himself.

"Help yourself." Jim set the cold drink and a plate in front of him and took his own seat. He waited until the kid followed his advice, then grabbed a sandwich for himself.

"What's the deal here, man?" Sandburg asked around a bite of smoked turkey and lettuce.

"What deal?"

Swallowing, he said, "Sentinels are notoriously territorial, and yet you've allowed me, an unbonded -- unbondable -- guide, into your home for lunch? Doesn't make a lot of sense."

"We had to eat. My place was close."

Blair snorted in disbelief, but didn't dispute the claim.

"So..." When Sandburg looked up expectantly, Jim said the first thing that came to mind. "You were in college? What did you study?"

Blair nodded and took a bite of his sandwich. Swallowing quickly, he said, "I've got a masters degree in anthropology and was working on my doctorate when I transferred to the institute." He paused, his eyes suddenly finding the sandwich in his hand interesting. "I was hoping to go back one day and finish."

"I'm impressed," Jim confessed. "What were you planning to do with your degree?"

Blair shrugged and took a swig of his root beer. "I wanted to work with sentinels. At the time, I didn't know I could be a guide. I thought maybe I could work at the institute, teach classes or something." He lifted his gaze, his eyes bright as he confessed, "I've always wanted to work with sentinels, since I was a little kid."

"That's what you meant when you said you'd known all your life that sentinels are special."

Blair nodded. "My mom bought me a book on sentinels when I was about four. I loved that book. Read it so many times I memorized it. Sentinels have always seemed like...like heroes, supermen...larger than life. I used to imagine that I would grow up to be a sentinel," he admitted with a shy grin. "I couldn't imagine anything more honorable."

"Reality has a way of shattering childhood dreams," Jim replied cynically.

"I don't know about that. I might not have grown up to be a sentinel, but I still believe there's no calling more laudable."

Jim had his doubts, but he kept them to himself. "So instead of a sentinel, you grew up to be a guide. How did you end up at the institute?"

"Bad luck," Blair answered, reaching for a second sandwich. "Or bad choices."

Realizing that Blair wasn't going to elaborate, Jim rephrased the question. "What made you decide to be tested?"

Sandburg set down his half-eaten seconds and pushed his chair back. "I've had enough."

Jim wasn't sure if he meant the food or the questions. "Is there some reason you don't want to talk about it?"

"That the cop in you?" The sarcasm was back.

"It's the human in me. I'm curious."

Blair stared at him for a long minute. "I started seeing things."

He stopped and seemed to be gauging Jim's reaction. Jim made an effort to keep his face neutral, despite the jump on his skepticism radar. He waited patiently for the kid to find what he was looking for and continue.

"Sometimes, when I touch people, I get flashes of stuff. It started when I was about fourteen. It took me a long time to figure out I was seeing stuff no one else could see."

"You're psychic?" He couldn't quite keep the cynicism from his voice.

"I'm a sensitive," Blair corrected. "Many guides are."

This was news to Jim, but then he knew little about guides -- by design. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

Blair shrugged. "There was no reason to tell you. It's not something useful, like your senses. It's more of a handicap, if you ask me, so I avoid it as much as I can."

Thinking about it, Jim realized he'd never actually seen Blair voluntarily touch anyone, except him, and then only when they were working on one of his senses, when Blair would let his hand rest lightly on Jim's arm or shoulder. The thought made Jim a little uneasy. He'd assumed Blair was using the touch to help him focus, but had the kid been...reading...him all along?

"No."

Startled, Jim looked up, meeting the intense blue eyes focused on him. "What?"

"You were wondering if I've been doing it with you, weren't you? No, I haven't, and no, I'm not doing it now. It was written all over your face. It doesn't really work well with sentinels. I get a vague sense of your emotions, but only when they're really strong. Other than that, no."

"What do you, uh...'see'?"

"Most of the time nothing."

"But when you do..." Jim prodded.

"Flashes of emotion, mostly, and then only when it's intense." A darkness entered Blair's expression briefly, but was gone too quickly for Jim to decipher it. "Sometimes, on rare occasions, I catch glimpses of moments, but only when it's something...passionate, something powerful in their thoughts or memories."

Jim looked away as he absorbed what he'd just been told. If it was true...hell, now he was actually considering it! There was no way. He'd have heard about it. He'd know if something like this actually existed in guides. Wouldn't he? But then, why would he? He'd actively avoided anything to do with guides since his return from Peru. Where would he have heard of it?

Had Incacha been able to "see" things? Was he a...what had Blair called it? A sensitive? Jim concentrated, but he simply couldn't remember large chunks of his time with the older guide. He had purposely blocked out most of those memories.

"Anyway," Blair was continuing, "once I realized that I had this...talent -- and I use the term loosely -- I decided to get tested."

"At the institute," Jim clarified, trying to get his mind back on the conversation.

"Yeah. I hadn't realized until then that I might have any guide tendencies. It's not in my family...at least not on my mom's side. Maybe on my father's..." His gaze turned inward as his words trailed off.

"You don't know?"

"I don't even know who he is," Sandburg admitted. "Maybe he is, or was, a guide. I don't know. Doesn't really matter, I guess. It's not like he'd be thrilled to see how I turned out."

There was a sadness in the young man's voice that made Jim frown.

Sandburg took a deep breath. "At any rate, I was thrilled when I tested high and was accepted into the institute. It looked like I was going to realize my dream after all. I was going to get to work with sentinels."

When nothing more was forthcoming, Jim asked, "You eventually bonded?"

"Yes."

Jim frowned. It didn't take a sentinel to read the closed off body language. "What happened?"

The expression darkened again. This time, Jim had no trouble deciphering the look. It was not a pleasant subject, and Blair wasn't going to talk about it.

"Let's just say it didn't work out, and leave it at that."

The two men stared at one another for a long minute of tense silence. Finally, Jim shrugged with feigned indifference. "Whatever you say, Chief."

"That's the second time you've called me that," Blair said.

"Don't take it personal. It's just something I say."

"Oh."

The kid sounded so disappointed that Jim felt ashamed of the barb, but he couldn't bring himself to apologize. Instead, he said, "We should get back to the station, if you're finished..." He stood and began cleaning the mess.

Blair opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He'd never considered himself timid, and he'd certainly never had a problem saying what was on his mind. Normally. Today, however, every time he thought about telling Jim about his hunch and what he'd found, he froze. Why couldn't he just tell the detective what he suspected? Worse case scenario, Jim would find all the holes in his theory and shoot him down, loudly and embarrassingly. Blair glanced around the bullpen. Maybe he should wait until they were somewhere less crowded.

It's only an idea, Blair argued with himself. Probably nothing to it. Not worth mentioning. Nope, better to keep your mouth shut and save what little dignity you might have left.

They had been getting along a lot better lately, for which Blair was increasingly grateful. Belligerence took a lot of energy, and the less capricious atmosphere was much easier on his nerves. Ever since the day Jim had allowed him into his loft, the older man had been much more civil to Blair, and in return, Blair had dropped a lot of his attitude. Not all, Blair admitted to himself. He still rankled when he was reminded how temporary this gig was. Jim was gaining more and more control everyday. Soon, the sentinel would realize he had gone as far as he could without a real guide, and then Blair's ass would be back out on the streets.

Depressed now, Blair tried to turn his attention back to the report he was supposed to be proofreading for Jim. Unfortunately, his mind wouldn't cooperate, and he found himself thinking of what he'd found once more. He wished he'd been able to print the information out, but that hadn't been possible, considering he wasn't even supposed to have touched the computers downstairs. He'd probably get into a hell of a lot of trouble if they found out he'd been hacking into the system at night when he was supposed to be cleaning the empty offices.

He did have the web address, though. Jim could look it up for himself. If Blair found the courage to tell him about it, and if Jim didn't think he was a total moron for thinking of it in the first place.

Which led him back to square one, telling Jim his theory.

Jim watched from the corner of his eye as Sandburg opened his mouth to speak, and once more closed it. This was about the fifth time the young man had done so in the last twenty minutes. It was obvious he had something to say, and it was equally obvious that it was something he was having difficulty vocalizing.

The two of them had reached a sort of unspoken truce in the past week or so. Much to Jim's amazement, since he'd stopped fighting the kid at every juncture, he'd found himself actually enjoying Blair's company. He'd discovered a wealth of intelligence and enthusiasm lurking in the young man's head, ready and waiting for someone to come along and encourage it into the light of day. Jim found pride in pulling that part of the kid to the forefront. He took pleasure in knowing that Blair was becoming comfortable enough around him to trust him with that hidden part of his true self.

So, when the young man sighed deeply once again, Jim decided to help him out. "Something on your mind, Chief?"

Blair looked up, startled. "Um, no. Well...maybe."

Jim lifted an eyebrow in amusement.

"Okay, yes," Blair said, sighing once more. "It may be nothing, in fact it probably is, but if I don't at least tell you about it, and then it turns out it's something after all, I'll never be able to live with myself, and that's not a pleasant thought either, so when I tell you this, Jim, you've got to listen with an open mind, and if it's stupid, just feel free to say so, and I'll shut up. Okay?"

"Okay," Jim answered cautiously, hoping he had translated the stream of quickly spoken words correctly.

Abruptly, Blair seemed to slow, sputtering nearly to a full stop. "I, um, I have a theory...about the...um...murders." He swallowed hard, and lifted his eyes to meet Jim's. "If this sounds stupid, you can just tell me to shut up, but hear me out first, okay?" As he talked, his words regained their previous momentum. "Something about Robinson's murder keeps nagging at me. I mean, not just because it's the first murdered body I've ever seen, though that's enough to give a person nightmares, if you know what I mean. But something about the way he was killed, and the way the body was laid out, it just kept nudging at the back of my mind. So I had this really wacky idea, and I tried to look it up on the internet at the library, but they have these controls on those computers to keep kids from going to potentially offensive web sites, so I couldn't access the information I needed to either prove or dispel my theory, so I...uh...I..."

"You what, Sandburg?"

"I...um...found another computer I could use."

Jim got the feeling from the nervously spoken sentence that he needed to pursue the question, but he let it go for the moment, more interested in hearing Sandburg's theory. "And...?"

"And I did. Prove it, that is. At least, I think I did. Like I said, it could be nothing. A huge coincidence maybe, but nothing more. I couldn't print it out, but I did write down the URL so you could double check for yourself." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a carefully folded scrap of paper.

Jim took the offered paper and unfolded it, but the neatly printed web address told him nothing. He looked back up, waiting for Sandburg to explain.

"It's a fan site dedicated to a television show," Blair said, speaking slowly and carefully now. "High Crime. It ran in the early eighties, but it still has a pretty large following, judging by what I saw on the web. One of the cable stations shows the reruns on Wednesday nights. This," he pointed to the paper in Jim's hand, "is a page of episode guides for the show."

"I'm not following you, Chief." And he was getting vertigo trying to.

"Okay," Blair took a deep breath and slowed down even more. "We didn't have a television set when I was a kid -- we won't even get into my mom's thinking on that -- so I took advantage of every chance I had to watch when and where I could. I remember one show about this eccentric detective that was really popular when I was about twelve, and this one episode in particular...about a man who was murdered...his throat cut so deeply his head was almost cut off." He swallowed hard, then continued. "It was the kind of thing that stays with you, man. Gave me nightmares for weeks."

"Whoa, wait a minute, Sandburg," Jim stopped him. "I think I see where you're going with this, but a similar murder doesn't mean anything. It's just a coincidence."

"No...I know that." Blair stopped and frowned, and Jim imagined he could actually see some of the kid's self-confidence draining away. "I just remembered that show and, um, I thought maybe it was worth looking at. So I did, and..."

"Go ahead," Jim encouraged, wishing he'd kept his cynicism to himself. "What did you find?"

Blair pointed to the scrap of paper again. "The episode guide...um...I went through it and found the exact episode I remembered -- it was called, "Indiscreet" -- and then I took the other cases, the other murders, and I...um...I found...they were...there, too."

"There?"

"In the episode guide," Blair clarified. "The illegal immigrant, beat to death, that was "Just Cause." The doctor, heart removed and left on the scene, "Her Alibi." The social worker, drowned at a canning factory, "Mean Streak." It has to be more than coincidence, Jim. One, yeah, maybe even two, but four? I don't think so."

Jim dropped his eyes to the paper in his hand, and considered what he'd just heard. It was far-fetched, unbelievable...or was it? It beat the theory they had now, which was nothing. Four murders so far, all seeming unrelated, and certainly unconnected, until Jim had found the matching footprints at each scene telling them they had a serial murderer on their hands. But even with that information, they still had no link, no pattern to the choice of victims.

"I think I can prove my theory, Jim."

Jim looked up at the softly spoken, yet confident words.

"The doctor...Dr. Richards...had he been sued for malpractice?"

Jim stared blankly at the young man.

"Carlos Allente, I know he was in the country illegally, but was he wanted in his own country for smuggling? We already know Robinson was having an affair with his office assistant, but what about Ms. Peterson? Had she been investigated for child neglect? Because that's the scenarios they presented on High Crime, so if I'm right, we'll be able to make the connection."

Jim ran the information through his mind, twisting and turning it to examine all angles. He'd have to make some calls to check out this part of the kid's theory. It seemed so far fetched...and yet, he couldn't deny the mounting coincidences.

"Just take it for what it's worth, man," Blair interrupted Jim's thoughts, "which may be nothing." He stood up. "I gotta get to work. See you tomorrow."

Blair was through the doors before Jim could acknowledge the words. Belatedly, Jim realized he should have at least thanked him for his efforts. Hell, this was the strongest lead they'd had so far. If the last part of Sandburg's theory held up...

There was one way to find out. Jim grabbed the phone and started making calls.

Simon looked up as his door opened. "Don't you ever knock?"

Ellison threw him a half smile as he reached over and knocked loudly on the now open door.

"Do come in, Detective," Simon answered with exaggerated civility. "Make yourself at home. Anything I can get you?" "A meeting of the taskforce," Jim replied.

Simon sobered quickly. "You've got something?"

"Yes, sir. New information, and maybe, if we're lucky, a way to predict the killer's next move."

Simon reached for his phone. "Hell, Jim," he said as he dialed homicide, "you don't share well, do you? Why didn't you say something?"

"It's only just now come to my attention, sir," he explained. "Any one more thing, I want Blair Sandburg to sit in on the meeting."

Blair had been concerned when Mr. Loomis told him that Captain Banks wanted to see him immediately. His only thought was that they had discovered his unauthorized use of the computers downstairs. Hell, they were going to fire him!

Or maybe it was Jim. Maybe Jim was having trouble with his senses or had zoned. Shit! Blair picked up his pace, almost running from the elevator into the bullpen. Jim was nowhere to be seen, heightening Blair's fears. The blinds in Banks' office were drawn, giving no hint as to what was going on inside. Blair approached with trepidation, his heart pounding nearly out of his chest.

Rhonda looked up with a smile, but it did little to reassure him. "They're expecting you, Blair. Go on in."

It must be worse than he thought. He'd never been allowed into Banks' office. Blair swallowed nervously and tentatively opened the door. To his surprise, six men looked up as he stepped into the room.

"We've been waiting for you, Chief," Jim said, directing him to a chair at the conference table.

Blair sat cautiously, relieved only slightly when Jim slid into a chair next to him.

"Now can we get started?" Simon asked pointedly. Addressing the assembled group, he said, "Ellison has new information for us. Jim?"

"Actually, sir," Jim said. "It's not my theory. It's Sandburg's." He turned to face Blair. "Explain what you found, Blair."

Blair swallowed audibly, his heart dropping into his shoes. "I don't think...um...maybe you'd better do it, Jim."

"It's your theory, your work, Sandburg. Go ahead."

Blair glanced nervously at the six pairs of eyes pinning him to his chair. It was one thing to explain his offbeat ideas to Jim, but these men were going to eat him alive. No way they'd sit still for his rambling nonsense. How could Jim put him on the spot like this?

"Would one of you just get to the point?" Simon Banks growled. "Sandburg?"

Blair glanced at Jim. The smile of encouragement on the detective's face gave him the nudge he needed, and he slowly began to repeat what he'd told Jim earlier. When he finally squeaked to an end, a deafening silence filled the room. All six cops continued to stare at him, making him feel like a bug under a microscope.

Captain Hill was the first to speak. "That's, um...an interesting theory."

"Off the wall, you mean," Hank Masterson, one Hill's men scoffed.

Blair dropped his eyes self-consciously.

"I don't know," Brown interrupted, "it kind of makes sense to me."

Bless you, Henri! Blair lifted his eyes long enough to send the man a grateful smile.

"I've certainly seen loonier reasons to whack someone. Remember the guy in Seattle who was offing people who reminded him of the kids who razzed him in high school?"

"H has a point," Rafe agreed.

"There's more," Jim said, drawing the focus away from Blair with his words. "After Blair shared his theory, I did some digging on my own." He turned to face Blair. "Doctor Richards had been sued for malpractice, four years ago. Allente served time in Guatemala for arms smuggling, and Ms. Peterson had been accused of child endangerment in connection with a toddler placed in her care...just like you said, Chief. You called it right on the nose."

Blair felt a warm glow at Jim's praise.

"So, maybe we're looking at a vigilante," Hill suggested. "Seen it before."

"Maybe," Jim conceded the possibility, though his tone said otherwise. He pulled a stack of papers out of the folder on the table in front of him and passed them to his right. Brown took one and passed them on. "This is a copy of an episode guide I downloaded from the web. The relevant episodes are highlighted."

Jim ran his finger down his own copy to the first highlighted passage. "'Her Alibi', first aired on January 22, 1981. I called the cable station that's running the reruns and found out that it re-aired most recently on November 6...less than a week before Richards' body was found. Look at the synopsis of the episode." He paused to let the men read it for themselves.

"Damn..." Masterson muttered under his breath. Lifting his head, he asked, "Coincidence?"

"If it is, it's a hell of a one," Hill answered. "Read further down."

The room grew quiet as the men followed the advice. Blair found himself holding his breath until Masterson looked up, straight at Blair. "Damn, kid. Looks like you nailed it. Good job."

Blair grinned shyly, absurdly pleased with himself at the words.

"But why?" Hill questioned. "Why emulate an old television show?"

Jim shook his head. "I don't know. Could be any of a thousand reasons, but we probably won't know until we catch him."

"How does this help us predict the killer's next move?"

It was the first time Simon Banks had spoken since right after Blair had entered the room. Blair glanced up at him through his lashes, but dropped his eyes when he saw the man frowning unhappily at him. What have I done wrong now? Blair questioned.

"You said you could predict his next move," Banks said, addressing Jim. "The killings aren't taking place in the order in which they aired."

"Not originally," Jim conceded. "But USN is not showing them in the original order." He pulled more papers from his folder and passed them around. "This is their schedule for the past month into the middle of next month. That's when they are planning on replacing the series with something else."

Hill let out a whistle of amazement as he read over the listings. "Would you look at that!"

"Each of the bodies was found within a few days of the corresponding episode airing," Rafe pointed out.

"I haven't double checked the times of death, yet," Jim said, "but I'm willing to bet a month's salary not one of them were killed before the episode aired."

"So, if this plays out...the next victim should be..." Masterson scanned the page for the episode scheduled to air next, "...a city council member suspected of taking bribes." He looked up, a frown on his face. "Well, that leaves it wide open now, doesn't it?"

"We'll have to put surveillance on all of them," Hill said. "Unless we can narrow it down before Wednesday. That gives us two days. Hank, you work on that. See if you can't dig up any allegations, no matter how insignificant, against any of them."

"Just the females," Blair ventured. When all eyes turned to him, he added, "I remember that episode. It was a female council member. She was burned to death in her car."

"You remember it?" Simon asked skeptically.

"I have a very good memory."

"Call USN, Hank," Hill ordered. "Get a tape of that episode."

"And the ones scheduled for the next several weeks," Simon added. "He turned his attention to Blair. "Sandburg, how long have you been working on this theory on your own?"

Jim watched as Blair seemed to shrink under the captain's harsh tone and dark glare.

"A week...I had some trouble accessing the web sites I needed to support the idea," Blair explained.

"A week!" Simon repeated with a scowl. "You've known about this for a week, and you didn't see a need to share? We could have researched it a hell of a lot quicker ourselves, Sandburg."

"I...I wasn't sure there was anything to it," Blair said, his shoulders visibly slumping. "I wanted to check it out first--"

"So, to save yourself some potential embarrassment, you sat on information vital to this case for a week? Hell, we could have been days ahead in our investigation!"

"Simon," Jim interrupted, his voice low, "I think you can admit that if it wasn't for Sandburg, we'd still be twiddling our thumbs right now. He's given us our first solid lead since we connected these murders, which I might add was also a direct result of his work."

Simon remained silent. Jim opened his mouth to push the issue, but Blair spoke first.

"I've got to get back to work." He stood, and without a glance at any of them, left the room.

Jim kept his mouth shut as the meeting resumed. Plans were made, assignments given and a meeting set for the next morning. As the other detectives made their way from the office, Jim kept his seat.

"You have something to add, Detective?" Simon asked, a challenge in his tone.

"I don't understand why you felt the need to attack Sandburg like that."

Simon's eyes flashed hotly. "I didn't say anything to him I wouldn't have said to any member of this team who willfully withheld information vital to the case."

"That's my point, sir." Jim's tone was deliberately measured, even. "Sandburg isn't a member of this team, and he was under no obligation to tell us anything. All he had was a bizarre hunch, and he was right not to bring it to us until he felt it he had something significant. How would you feel if I came to you with unsubstantiated information based on an off-the-wall theory? Blair hasn't been consulted before, and he hasn't been given any indication by any of us, least of all you, that his opinion would be even listened to, much less taken seriously."

He paused briefly, then tried a new tact. "Simon, I think you -- we -- are vastly underestimating and underutilizing this kid. There's far more to him than we originally thought. Did you know he was a doctoral candidate?"

The anger in Simon's eyes was tempered by moderated surprise. Jim struggled briefly between his obligation to keep the things Blair had told him in confidence and a need to make his boss and friend accept the man acting as his temporary guide. Making a hesitant decision, he continued. "He started college at sixteen, Simon. Had his masters before he was twenty, and was going for his doctorate when he transferred to the institute. He's got more education than the both of us combined. Hell, I would think you'd be grateful for whatever help he's willing to offer."

There was a long, tense silence as Simon stared at Jim, absorbing his words. His face was unreadable. Finally, his expression relaxed. "It was a good idea."

"Yes, sir, it was."

"I wish he'd brought it to us to begin with," Simon maintained. "But I suppose I may not have been...approachable."

"None of us have."

"Okay, I'll admit it, the kid did good."

"Yes, he did."

Simon sighed, rolling his eyes heavenward. "I have to tell him that, don't I?"

"It would be nice."

"When did you become Jiminy Cricket?"

Jim smiled. "Just wanted you to see what you already knew, sir."

"Damn. I hate the taste of crow."

Blair pulled his coat tighter around his neck, trying to stop the cold wind which seemed determined to work its way down his back. It seemed the lower the temperatures, the longer the walk from the station to the rooming house he was calling home.

The reminder of the promised warmth and comfort of his room quickened his step and put a smile on his face. Life seemed pretty damn good at the moment. So good, in fact, that Blair wasn't even depressed when he reminded himself it was temporary. Okay, maybe a little bit. Still, he could enjoy what he had, while he had it, and he certainly wasn't above counting his blessings.

Starting and ending with Jim. God, it felt great to be working with a sentinel again! Jim had finally started seeing him as a real person, and not just as a means to an end. Today had proved it. Jim had believed in him. He had not only listened to Blair's wacky theory, but he'd taken it seriously, and now they had a viable lead in the case.

Blair smiled happily, a warm glow of pride washing over him again. It had been a long time since he'd felt useful, and it felt damned good. He wished the moment could last.

This had been a very good day, Blair decided as he unlocked Mrs. Hostettler's door and entered his temporary home. He climbed the stairs quietly, and slipped into his room, locking the door behind him. He tiredly peeled off his grimy, tan uniform and tossed it over the foot of his bed. He could use a hot shower to loosen his stiff back muscles. Glancing at the clock on the table by the bed, he dismissed the idea. At three a.m. the noise of the shower down the hall would certainly wake the whole house. He'd have to wait until morning.

The chill of the room sent a shiver through him. He longed for some warm sweats to sleep in, settling instead for climbing under the thick comforter. It took only a moment for his body heat to warm the bed. Blair sighed happily, savoring the moment.

As tired as he was, his mind continued to replay the day's events. The capper had come late tonight -- last night, he corrected -- when Simon Banks had sought him out to thank him for his input at the meeting. Simon had thanked him. Blair grinned goofily at the memory. Damn, that had felt nice!

Maybe, just maybe he'd turned a corner with the captain. It sure would be nice. Jim and Simon were such good friends, after all. It would make life a lot easier for Jim if Blair and Simon could at least tolerate one another.

Blair turned over, cracking an eye to check the alarm clock. Three eighteen. He debated setting the alarm to wake him early. He was off tomorrow...today...but he had plans. He'd told Jim not to expect him. He stared at the glowing digital numbers as they clicked over. Three twenty-one. He really did need to get an early start. He should set the clock. His eyelid slid down, blocking out the numbers before they could change again, and all thoughts of rising early slipped from his mind as sleep claimed him.

Jim turned over, cracking an eye to check the alarm clock. Three eighteen. Hell of a time to be laying awake when you had to get up in just a few hours. His mind wouldn't let him relax, though. It insisted on taking advantage of the quiet darkness to torture him with thoughts and suppositions.

He rolled to his back and folded his hands beneath his head, staring up through the skylights above him. He let his gaze follow the fast moving clouds while his mind wandered over familiar territory. Blair Sandburg. Jim couldn't stop thinking about the young guide. Today...Jim sighed...today had reminded Jim of what he would never have.

What he had chosen to never have, he reminded himself.

It had been his choice, but an inescapable choice. He couldn't survive another bond, and so he refused one. Still, he couldn't stop his mind from wandering...and wondering...

He had to admit, if only to himself, the kid wasn't so bad. Oh, he had an attitude to rival a pissed-off gorilla, and a smart mouth any preteen would envy, but Jim knew it was a front. Sandburg had carefully constructed several layers of masks to hide his soul, to protect himself. It wasn't that much different from what he, himself, had done after Peru, Jim admitted. He had built a wall to keep the world at bay. Sometimes it was crucial. Sometimes it was the only way to survive.

Only, there was a chink in Jim's hard won armor. A crack started by a certain street rat whose only goal was to survive in a world which wanted nothing more than to forget his existence. Not for the first time, Jim allowed himself to truly wonder what Blair could possibly have done to earn such a harsh punishment. The guide Jim had come to know was intelligent, gentle, and too compassionate for his own good. How could he have committed an act so vile that the powers that be had seen fit to strip him of his life, his future and his dignity? What deed could possibly exact so severe a punishment?

Not that it mattered, Jim decided. Blair couldn't bond now. That choice had been removed from the both of them. The pang of regret Jim felt at the reminder surprised the hell out of him. He'd never wanted to bond again. Swore it would never happen. And yet...here he lay, actually regretting the fact that it was out of the question. Jim realized with a start that he wanted to bond. With Blair. Good God! When had that happened?

It was out of the question. Blair couldn't bond...and Jim dare not. Not after what had happened in Peru.

But could he manage without one? Jim had convinced himself he could. Now, he wasn't so sure. Or maybe it wasn't a bond he longed for, but a guide, and not just any guide, but Blair Sandburg.

They had made tremendous progress with Jim's senses in the past month, but was it enough? Did Jim have the control he'd so desperately sought? When Blair was around, Jim found himself believing he could accomplish anything. He used his senses in ways he had never imagined possible...even with...even before. Could he do it alone? Did he want the dependence a guide would bring? God, he hated the very idea of being dependent on anyone! He also hated the idea of losing himself to his senses. Which was the lesser of the two evils?

Maybe...maybe he didn't have to settle for either. Maybe there was another alternative. Why couldn't he continue to work with Blair? They had managed fine without a bond until now, accomplishing a hell of a lot. Probably more than the brains at the institute would believe. If it ever got around that a sentinel and guide could function without a bond, they'd be out of a job. Which was probably why they preached that crap in the first place.

Could they continue to function as sentinel and guide without a bond? Jim believed they could. The question was, did he want to? No, Jim decided, that wasn't the question at all. He knew what he wanted, and that was to keep the kid around.

The real question was, would Blair want to stay?

"Good God!" Rafe exclaimed as the television screen went dark. "Please, someone tell me no one really wore those clothes in the eighties."

"Hey, I resemble that remark!" Henri said, affecting an air of wounded pride. "I owned that same shirt the detective was wearing in the finale."

"I think you wore it last week, didn't you, H?" Hank Masterson asked, drawing a laugh from the other men seated around the table.

"Okay, ladies," Simon interrupted loudly, regaining order. "Now that we've seen the episode in question, let's try to figure out this moron's next move, shall we?"

Captain Hill opened a file in front of him. "According to the autopsy report, each of the four previous murders were committed within forty-eight hours of the relevant episode airing. That doesn't give us a lot of time."

"How much of the show can we expect him to stick to?"

"Not all of it, that's for sure," Henri said. "In the episode, the husband was the murderer."

Jim sat forward leaning his elbows on the table. "Judging from the previous cases, I'd guess all we can bank on is the victim and the method of death."

"Well, thank God Cascade only has two sitting councilwomen," Hill commented. "At least we won't be spread too thin trying to watch them all. What did you find in their records, Jim?"

"Councilwoman Joyce Donahey came up clean, plus she's widowed, which doesn't fit with the profile from the show. Lauchen Rivas was implicated in a construction kickback scandal fourteen years ago, but no evidence was ever brought forward to prove the case, and she was exonerated. She's married, two grown children."

"I'd put my money on Rivas," Masterson said.

"We can't take any chances," Hill frowned. "We'll have to cover the both of them."

"Right," Simon agreed. "That doesn't give us a lot of time. I want everything in place an hour before the episode airs tomorrow night. We'll move both councilwomen to a safe house, and put decoys in their houses. Ed, you work up a surveillance schedule, but I don't want too many men on it. We can't take a chance on spooking him. This is the best chance we have to catch him. Let's not screw it up, people."

"Anyone have anything else to add?" Hill waited, but no one spoke up. "Okay, men, you heard Captain Banks. Let's get this clown."

"You think he'll make his move tonight?"

"I'm counting on it."

Blair nodded. "Yeah, makes sense. It would have taken him longer to dig up the info on Rivas than it did you, so last night was a little soon."

"Right," Jim agreed. "And if he sticks to his time table, it has to be tonight."

Blair focused on the Rivas house a half block away from where Jim's truck was parked. From this distance, he could make out little more than the top of the upper story. Thankfully, the sentinel was not so limited.

"Let's go 'round again," Jim suggested.

Blair sat up, ready to guide Jim through their quarter-hourly check. He reached across the truck seat, letting his hand rest lightly on the sentinel's shoulder. "Okay, you know the drill by now. Wrap a sensory net around the house, and start at the front door. What do you hear?"

They ran through each of Jim's senses, one at a time, assuring that the house was secure. Satisfied, they sat back to wait for the next check. Blair took advantage of the wait to run Jim through a variety of exercises designed to sharpen his senses. By the time the eastern sky was hinting at dawn, Blair had finally run out of steam and was dozing lightly.

"Sandburg!"

Blair blinked awake and glanced at Jim. The sentinel was sitting rigid in the seat, his attention focused solely on the house down the street. "You got something?"

"I'm not sure...maybe."

Blair sat up straighter, all vestiges of sleep gone in a quick burst of adrenaline. "Okay, I've got you, go ahead and check." He ghosted his hand across Jim's forearm, grounding the sentinel as he stretched out his senses.

A bare instant later, Jim reached for his car door. "Call Simon, tell him we've got an intruder at the back door. I'm going in. You," Jim looked Blair in the eye, "stay put!"

Blair made the call to the other surveillance team quickly, and then, without a second thought, scrambled out of the truck and raced after Jim. He caught up to the sentinel at the hedges which separated the Rivas house from its neighbor.

"What in the hell do you think you're doing?" Jim hissed in an angry whisper.

"Backing you up." Blair had thought that much was evident.

For a long second, Jim stared at him. "I don't have time to argue now, but we will discuss this later. Stay behind me."

"No problem, man."

Blair followed Jim around the house, slowly approaching the back door.

"He's already in," Jim informed him. "Come on."

Jim ducked quietly into the house through the open door. Blair hesitated a split second, just long enough to quiet the voice in his head telling him what a fool he was. He stepped through the door and into almost total darkness. Bad idea, he realized belatedly. His split second hesitation allowed Jim to get ahead of him. Now Blair had no idea where the sentinel was, though he knew Jim was under no such handicap.

Damn it! How was he supposed to back Jim up if he couldn't even find him?

A soft noise sounded from Blair's left, and he took a step in that direction, hoping it was Jim and not the intruder. At any rate, he had a feeling he should move out of the doorway in case someone decided to make a quick exit.

Totally lost and disoriented by the darkness, Blair made the decision to stay put. He couldn't risk bumbling around in the dark and alerting the intruder, and he couldn't risk calling out to Jim and possibly distracting him. Best to stay out of the way.

The silence was deafening. Where in the hell were Simon and Captain Hill? They'd only been a block away. Shouldn't they be here by now? Where was back up? And where in the hell were the decoy cops? Surely Simon would have alerted them, so shouldn't they be helping Jim?

Too much darkness, too much silence, and way, way too much time to think about all the possible things that could go wrong, Blair decided. He couldn't advance, and he couldn't retreat and take a chance one of the approaching cops -- please God, let there be approaching cops -- would mistake him for the murderer. Once again, he cursed his hesitation.

Suddenly, three things happened at once. Simon and Hill came in the still open back door, sounds of a violent struggle broke out from somewhere deeper in the house, and Blair nearly died from the double shock.

Blair stood his ground as lights came on and the house filled with cops. That quick it was over. Still, Blair saw no signs of Jim. He tried to advance into the room beyond the kitchen he found himself in, but one bark from Simon was enough to root him to the spot.

Anxious minutes passed while Blair waited for Jim to come back through the door. He could tell from the bits of conversation that floated to him that the situation was resolved. Okay...so where was Jim? Maybe he'd been hurt! Blair was just about to defy Simon's unspoken command when he finally heard the sentinel's voice.

Relief poured through him. He'd have never forgiven himself if something had happened to Jim...a sensory spike or, God forbid, a zone! Shit! Why had he hesitated? He should have been at Jim's back! He should have--

"Blair?"

Blair blinked away the images of Jim zoned and at the killer's mercy to see the sentinel's concerned face before him.

"Your heart's racing," Jim said, grasping Blair's shoulders. "What's wrong?"

"Jim!" Thank God! Jim was okay! Then Blair noticed the blood dripping down the side of the detective's face. "What happened? You're bleeding! Are you all right?"

Jim gingerly touched the injured area. "It's nothing. Smacked it on the banister. Doesn't even hurt. What happened to you? I turned, and you were gone."

Blair dropped his eyes, ashamed. "I hesitated and lost you in the dark. Jim, I'm so sorry, man."

"Whoa, Sandburg, you're not a sentinel, you couldn't be expected to follow me in the dark."

"No, man, you don't understand. If I hadn't hesitated, I'd have been able to stay with you. I was supposed to be backing you up, but I was useless!"

"It's all right, Sandburg, I didn't need you. I did just fine."

I didn't need you... He hadn't, Blair suddenly realized. Jim hadn't needed him. His senses hadn't spiked, he hadn't zoned. He hadn't needed backup from a broken guide. Jim didn't need him.

Blair took a deep breath, calming himself. "Did you get him?"

Jim nodded, grinning proudly. "We got him."

"Thank God! His shoes...?"

"A perfect match, right down to the cracked sole."

"You need to get that head looked at," Blair commented.

"Nah, it's nothing." Jim wiped at the blood trail with his sleeve, succeeding only in smearing it into his hair.

"It's not nothing, Jim. You could have a concussion or something." Blair might not be good for much, but he could at least take care of this one thing. "You have to get it checked out, man."

"Sandburg," Jim said, amusement clear in his voice, "it's nothing. I've done worse than this shaving."

"What's so damn funny, Ellison?" Blair could see absolutely nothing amusing at the moment.

"You are, Chief," Jim replied, without apology. "I had no idea you were such a mother hen."

"Go ahead and laugh, you big Neanderthal! Stand there and bleed to death while you laugh at the stupid W.O.L.F.! See if I give a damn!" With that, he turned and went out the door, heading for Jim's truck to wait.

Jim caught up with him before he stepped off the patio. "Whoa, wait up, Sandburg! Why are you so angry? If it's that important to you, I'll have one of the EMTs look at it."

Blair closed his eyes, feeling his anger seep away, leaving him drained. He nodded. "I think you should."

"Okay." Jim hesitated. "You sure you're all right, Blair? You look a little pale."

"I'm fine," Blair lied. "Just tired."

"Yeah, long night," Jim agreed. "Look, I've got to wrap things up here, then I'll get an EMT to look at this cut. Why don't you rest in the truck while you wait?"

Blair nodded. "Yeah, I think I will."

Jim turned to the house.

"Jim?"

The sentinel stopped just short of the door, looking back over his shoulder.

"Congratulations, man."

"Couldn't have done it without you, Chief." He turned and entered the house.

Yeah, Jim, you could, and you did.

Blair double-checked over his shoulder, making sure he hadn't been followed. Most everyone on the streets gave him a wide berth. Knowing he was marked was enough to scare sane people away. Though the average man knew nothing about the whys and wherefores of a mark, they knew it meant something bad, and that was good enough to buy Blair solitude. Still, there were some who saw it as a challenge, or a free pass for a good time at someone else's expense. He had learned long ago that it paid to stay on his toes.

Convinced no one had taken notice of his return, Blair hurried along the street, turning at the corner and quickly ducking through a small hole hidden behind a loose sheet of tin. It was dark inside the building, and eerily silent. If he strained, he could hear the slap of the water against the back of the structure, the call of the gulls and the occasional scampering of a rat through the debris strewn haphazardly around the large, open room. These sounds had lulled him to sleep many a night -- and kept him awake on many more. They were the sounds of home. His home -- if no one had claimed it during his absence.

Using what little light that managed to make its way through the dingy, overhead windows, Blair maneuvered through the familiar debris to the area of the abandoned warehouse which had once housed offices. He continued through them to a large, storage closet in the back. It was nearly pitch black this far into the building. No windows brought light here. Blair moved cautiously. He didn't hear anything, but couldn't take any chances. At the door of the closet, he stopped and took a step up onto a strategically placed beam. Reaching high above the door, he found the stub of candle he'd hidden under a loose board there, along with a half-used book of matches.

He stepped down, careful to make no noise, and pulled off a glove long enough to strike a match to the wick. A soft light instantly illuminated the immediate area. Blair took a deep, bracing breath, and opened the closet door.

A rat scurried between his feet, making its escape and nearly sending Blair into cardiac arrest. He let out a startled yelp and jumped back. With a hard swallow to move his heart back into his chest where it belonged, he moved forward again to survey his home. His empty home. Thank God! Just as he had left it.

Large scraps of packing foam and cardboard lined the walls and the low ceiling, with thick layers of newspaper tacked and taped over that. It was nothing Christopher Lowell would recommend, but it kept out the wind and held in the heat...or would have if there had been any heat to keep in. Blair entered the room -- his room in his home -- and opened the closest box, rummaging through the dog-eared books and discarded clothing to the stash of candles at the bottom. He pulled out a short fat candle and lit it from the stub in his hand. The extra light did an admirable job of brightening the small room.

Tiredly, he dropped to the pallet of blankets on his makeshift bed. It wasn't much more than a pile of cardboard, topped with a thick layer of newspapers and blankets, but it beat sleeping on the cold, hard cement floor.

Blair pulled a blanket around him and tucked his hands inside, then leaned back into the corner, surveying his home. It wasn't nearly as nice as the room at Mrs. Hostettler, but he'd worked hard to make it as warm and livable as possible, and it was his.

Hell, what a crock! This place had been his home for months, and he'd gotten used to it, but now that he'd had a real bed, warm and comfortable, he could see this place for the dump it was. He sighed despondently. Maybe taking the room at Mrs. Hostettler's had been a mistake. It was going to make returning, once they were finished with him, that much harder. Maybe he should give the room up now and move back here. It was a long way from the station and his job, but he could ride the bus.

No, buses were out. He had to hold on to every dime of his meager paycheck if he intended to get out of Cascade. He doubted he'd save enough to get him to South America, but maybe he had enough to make it to Mexico or even somewhere in Central America. He could survive there, if he could make the jungles. He knew he could. He'd lived in jungles before, on expeditions and once with his mom. The cities there were so isolated, maybe no one would have ever heard of sentinels and guides, or at least not a W.O.L.F. He could probably find work of some kind. He'd make a new life for himself--

Blair sighed deeply, and closed his eyes, laying his head against the wall behind him. Who was he kidding? He'd never be able to make a new life for himself anywhere. Too many memories were waiting to bite him in the ass. Too much water under the bridge. How could he ever be happy again?

South America had held an appeal for him for a long time. It was the one thought, the one promise which had helped him make it through the many long, cold, lonely nights since...since...hell, why couldn't he say it? What was the harm in admitting it to himself?

Since he'd broken his bond with Paul. Since the sentinel had committed suicide as a result. Since Blair had been branded with a permanent reminder of his failures and betrayals.

Shit! Blair ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to drive away the panic that seized his heart with the memories. He wasn't going there, he couldn't do this again. It's over! It's over...

Think of something else...

Jim...Think of Jim. Jim...yeah...the man who had shown him how honorable and...and...good a sentinel could be...who had renewed Blair's beliefs that sentinels could be, should be heroes. Think of now...let the past go.

Blair felt his heart slow its breakneck pace. Moving away from the wall, he curled up on the pallet of cardboard and pulled the blankets tight around him, trying in vain to warm the frozen depths of his soul. Why couldn't he let it go after all this time? Why couldn't he shake loose these demons' hold?

Why couldn't he have met Jim first, before Paul?

Blair awoke to total darkness, and for a brief moment, he couldn't remember where he was. The warehouse...oh, yeah...candles must have burned out.

He sat up, feeling for the matches, but rather than relight the candles, he returned them to their hiding place before making his way out of the warehouse to the street. He hadn't planned to fall asleep. He had no idea how late it was, but he had a couple of things to do before making the long walk back to the station and work.

Once out of the abandoned building, he surveyed the overcast sky, pleased to find it was only about mid-afternoon. He still had plenty of time. He turned toward the nearby waterfront market and began walking.

The bell over the door rang loudly at his entrance, and a voice from the back room called, "Be right with you."

Blair smiled to himself, imagining the look on Mr. Rossovich's face when he realized it was Blair. He wandered along one wall of the bookstore, examining the titles on the shelf. He'd never been allowed into the front of the store. He was amazed at the number of books crammed into such a small shop. He shouldn't be, he'd unpacked most of them, after all, but that had been over a period of months, and always in the back of the store, so he'd never really made the mental image of what the store looked like.

"Yes, sir, can I help--"

Blair turned slowly, biting back a smile of victory as the elderly man sputtered to a stop in recognition. Once a tall man, Rossovich now bowed low to the passing years. Rusty brown hair had long ago given way to a nearly bald plate, surrounded by a ragged fringe of yellowy-white frizz. A displeased frown creased paper-thin, mottled skin on his forehead, as Rossovich snapped, "What are you doing here? Where in the hell have you been? You haven't bothered to show up for the past four weeks, and now you have the audacity to waltz in the front door, where anyone could see you? I hope to hell you don't think I still have a use for your lazy ass! Get out of here!"

Blair sucked in a slow, calming breath. "I'm not here to unload your boxes, Mr. Rossovich. I've found a new job." One that actually pays money, he thought, but didn't add. He couldn't bring himself to complain about the arrangement he had with Mr. Rossovich, despite his dislike for the man. Once a week, Blair showed up at the back door, worked most of the day unloading new shipments of books and in exchange, he could choose one, sometimes two selections from the discard pile of unsellable books. It wasn't much of a deal, but it was one Blair had willingly entered into, desperate for access to the books. It was a part of his previous life he had been unwilling, unable to give up.

"A job?" Mr. Rossovich scoffed. "What you had here was not a job!"

Ignoring the taunt, Blair turned his back on the man, walking down the aisle of bookshelves. He had a specific objective in mind, and he wasn't going to be distracted by a verbal sparring match with a halfwit like Mr. Rossovich.

"What are you doing?" the man called after him. "I want you out of here!"

Blair found what he was looking for, pulling out a thick hardback from a shelf of academic tomes. He headed for the checkout counter and set the book down. "I want to buy this."

"Buy?" Mr. Rossovich exclaimed. "With what?"

"I have money."

The shopkeeper moved cautiously behind the counter. "Where would the likes of you get money?"

"I told you I have a job."

"Who in their right mind would hire a W.O.L.F.?"

"Do you want my money or not?" Blair challenged, knowing the man was so money hungry he wouldn't refuse the sale.

"You steal this money?"

"What do you care?"

"Maybe I should call the police..."

Blair raised an eyebrow. He tried to keep the challenge out of his tone as he replied, "Help yourself."

Rossovich paused for a long moment, staring at Blair. Finally, he moved to the register and rang up the sale. Being careful not to touch Blair, he accepted the payment.

Blair took his book, not waiting for a bag to put it in, and left the store. One more bridge burned, but he couldn't find it in himself to regret it. If all went well, he'd be out of this town soon enough, and would never need people like Mr. Rossovich again.

Blair sighed into the brisk wind. One more stop, and then he had to get to work.

"Mr. Coleman?"

"Blair?" called a voice from behind the counter. "Is that you?"

Blair smiled as the man made his way slowly into the front of the deli, moving effortlessly around a maze of boxes. Every bit as old as Rossovich, Mr. Coleman wore his age with a dignity and grace of bearing the bookstore owner had never possessed. Thick, white hair framed a face marked with deep lines of character, one which could just as easily scold, counsel or laugh with the same expression. His sightless blue eyes turned unerringly toward Blair.

"I was beginning to wonder about you, Blair. You haven't been around in a while."

"Yes, sir," Blair agreed. "I've been...busy."

"You found a job." It wasn't a question.

Blair's mouth fell open in surprise. "How did you know?"

"I'm blind, not stupid, young man." A smile belied the admonishing tone.

"I never thought you were stupid," Blair assured the elderly man. "I'd even go so far as to say you are one of the most insightful people I've met."

"Well, knowing your penchant for traveling and meeting new people, I'm flattered. So," the man moved to the counter, "you're doing real work now, huh? Want to tell an old man about it?"

Blair watched as the man ran his hand down the counter to the meat cooler, sliding open the door and going straight to the salsa flavored turkey breast, Blair's favorite. "It's only temporary, but I like it well enough. I'm doing some cleaning at the police station downtown."

"Well, you've certainly gotten enough experience cleaning around here." Mr. Coleman began putting together a sub sandwich.

Blair was constantly amazed watching the man work. Even blind, he found each and every ingredient without trouble. Blair observed the man's nostrils flare and wondered once again if a heightened sense of smell was the man's secret.

"You're a good boy, Blair. I'm so pleased to know things are going well for you."

"Thank you, Mr. Coleman. I just wanted to let you know, in case you were, you know..."

"Worried about you?" the man smiled. "Of course I was, young man, but now that I know you've found yourself a job, I can sleep nights again, huh?" He finished constructing the culinary masterpiece and moved around the counter to place it on one of the tables by the window. "Come sit down," he invited. "I'm sure you can eat."

As Blair sat down, the old man went back to the work area behind the counter, coming back shortly with a steaming mug of herbal tea. "Something to take the chill off, if you know what I mean."

Blair grinned, knowing Mr. Coleman was referring to his "extra" ingredient. That little shot of something extra had gotten Blair through many a cold night. He'd been working for Mr. Coleman almost from the beginning, cleaning, working in the storeroom, doing all the things the sightless man found difficult. In exchange, Mr. Coleman fed him.

Blair took a sip from the mug, smiling as he confirmed his suspicions. "Thank you."

Mr. Coleman sat down. "So, how is this new job going to affect your plans?"

"They won't," Blair said around a bite. "Well, except to hopefully make it easier."

"You're still going?"

"Yes, sir." Blair hesitated. "I have to."

Mr. Coleman nodded sagely. "So you've said before."

"Nothing's changed."

The man crooked his head to the side. "Is that right? I guess I'm mistaken then."

"Mistaken?" Blair was confused.

"I thought I was picking up something different about you. I must be wrong."

"I think it's the smell," Blair said, attempting to keep his tone light. "I've been bathing regularly lately."

Mr. Coleman chuckled. "Ah, I've noticed, but no, that's not it. It's more...esoteric. I can't quite put my finger on it. Not yet, but give me time."

Uneasy with the man's insight, Blair changed the subject. "How's Barbara?"

"Mean as ever," the man answered, his sightless eyes twinkling with mischief. "I swear if my niece doesn't -- what's the phrase, chill out? -- then she's going to end up a lonely old maid. No man wants a woman as opinionated as that one."

Blair laughed aloud at the man's judicious observation. Barbara was one of the most vocal, dogmatic women Blair had ever met. And she hated him. Well, probably not him specifically, but more likely what he was. She certainly had no trouble informing him that she felt he was taking advantage of her uncle's "compassion for strays."

"Bet she's glad I haven't been around."

"I think she misses you, Blair," Coleman said. "Who else is she going to argue with? At least you understand all her high-dollar words and university-bred ideas. I have no clue what she's ranting about most of the time."

"I don't think that's true, sir," Blair laughed. "You're playing ignorant to shut her up."

"Shhh," the old man admonished. "You'll give away my secret."

"I only wish I had thought about it myself."

Mr. Coleman laughed heartily. "Ahh, Blair, I've missed your company. But I am glad for your good fortune. Temporary, you say?"

Blair took another bite of the sub, waiting until he had swallowed before answering. "Yes, sir. I'm just...helping someone out."

"Oh?" Eyebrows rose over vacant eyes, as understanding registered in his expression. "That's what's different about you. You've found a sentinel."

Blair stopped in mid bite. He slowly set the sandwich down. "I don't...I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, pish, young man. You think I didn't know you were a guide? I'm blind not--"

"Not stupid," Blair finished the familiar phrase. "I didn't...I mean, how...? Barbara?"

"No, Barbara kept your secret, surprisingly."

"Then how?"

"You're a sensitive," he said, emphasizing each word pointedly.

"You mean you...?" Stunned, Blair simply stared at his friend.

Coleman shrugged. "Why not?"

"I thought you were closer to a sentinel than..."

Coleman threw his head back and laughed. "Me? A sentinel? What in the world gave you that idea?"

"You have a heightened sense of smell...don't you? I mean, you know where all the meats are, the condiments. You can tell the soups apart. I thought..."

"No, Blair, I don't have a heightened sense of smell. I've been blind for more than fifty years. I've learned some tricks in all that time."

Blair shook his head, wondering how he could have gotten it so wrong. "Are you a guide?"

The old man lifted his shoulders. "No. Could I have been? Don't know. Maybe. I was never tested."

"But you're a sensitive."

"Somewhat. Enough to know a guide when I 'see' one."

"Why weren't you tested? Didn't you want to be a guide?" Blair couldn't imagine anyone not wanting to be a guide, not wanting more than anything in the world to work with sentinels.

"I was considering it. God knows they certainly offer enough incentives to sway a man's thinking. But there was this young lady who had a few incentives of her own to offer. Before I could really make up my mind, I lost my sight, and I lost them both."

"I'm so sorr--"

"No!" the man interrupted harshly. "Don't you dare say you're sorry, young man. I have no regrets. My path is just as it should have been...as is yours."

Blair frowned, surprised by the words. "How can you say that, knowing I'm..."

"Marked. You can say it, son. It's not exactly a secret anymore, is it? What I don't understand is why you would deny your path because of it."

"My path?" Blair laughed humorlessly. "My so-called path has led me to an abandoned warehouse on the wrong side of town, fighting tooth and nail just to survive another day."

"You path has led you to a new job with the police department...and a new sentinel."

"You don't understand," Blair insisted. "The job is temporary. The sentinel is...he's not...we're not...Shit!" He gave up trying to express himself.

"Watch your language, young man," Coleman admonished sternly. "You're much too intelligent to resort to vulgarities."

Blair took a deep breath and tried again. "We can't bond. I can't be a guide anymore."

"Why not?"

"You know I'm marked," he reminded the man bitterly, "so you must know about the implant."

"Then why are you working with the sentinel?"

"I'm...helping him...with his senses."

"You're guiding him."

"No! I can't guide anymore." Blair ran a hand through his hair. The conversation was becoming more convoluted by the moment.

"But you are," Coleman insisted. "Don't you want to be a guide?"

"Doesn't matter what I want. The implant--"

"I know, 'the implant's purpose is to prevent a bond'."

"Even if it wasn't for the implant," Blair said, despair coloring his words, "Jim doesn't want a guide. If he did, he certainly wouldn't be working with me. He'd go to the institute and get himself a real guide."

Coleman sighed, sounding much like a professor Blair had once had when he couldn't seem to make the class grasp his point. "But he didn't, Blair. He chose you."

"He chose me because I couldn't bond. I was no threat to him."

A satisfied smile curved the man's lips. "Exactly!"

"I don't understand."

"You will, when the time is right. Now," Mr. Coleman stood, "finish your sandwich while I refill your tea, and then we can find a more comfortable topic to talk about...like how disappointed Barbara is going to be when she finds out she missed your visit."

on to part 3