Twice Again
by ysone

"Doesn't look like much," Captain Simon Banks commented as he observed the pathetic figure pacing in the interrogation room. Though not much more than a boy, there was something about the figure that spoke of too many experiences, too much seen in a too short life. It was the eyes, Simon decided. They contained a wealth of information, if one could only translate. "You sure about this, Jim?"

The detective beside him unclenched his jaw to form an abrupt answer. "Not like I have a choice."

Simon could tell Jim Ellison was no happier than he with this kid's prospects.

"Where did you find him?"

"I was downstairs when he came in last night," Simon explained, still watching the boy through the observation window. "According to the report, he's been seen hanging around a group of school kids. Someone didn't think it was right and wanted him picked up for it. The kids came to his defense, claimed he was tutoring them, but the call came from a parent of one of the kids, so they ran him in as a courtesy."

"So he's not under arrest."

Simon shook his head. "Not officially."

"And they're sure he's a guide."

"You can't..." Simon waved one hand in a vague manner, "...tell?" He'd thought Jim would know somehow.

The sentinel spared Simon a brief glance which clearly stated what he thought of that idea.

"He looks like he could use a meal or two," a new voice behind the two men observed.

Simon nodded agreement without turning. The kid was rail thin, a result of living on the streets, no doubt. "That could work to our advantage, Connor."

The woman snorted in an unladylike manner. "So you'll offer food as an incentive to accept your proposal?" The disapproval in her voice was undisguised.

"If I have to." Jim was the one that answered. He turned his head slightly in the woman's direction, but his eyes never left the boy. "I'll chain him to my desk if I have to, Megan, but he's damn well going to help me."

"He gets no choice in the matter?"

"No more than I get. He's a guide. A fallen guide maybe, but still a guide. It's what he does, what he was born to do." Jim's attention shifted back to the kid, who had stopped pacing to lean one thin shoulder against the wall opposite the mirror. The motion halted, his energy seemed to have drained completely. He sagged in on himself, his eyes closing.

"Here's the report, sir." Henri Brown joined them in the observation room, followed closely by two more detectives of their department, Rafe and Taggart.

"What is this?" Simon questioned gruffly. "A Tupperware party? Don't you people have work to do?"

"Curiosity," Rafe admitted a bit sheepishly.

"This affects them, too, Simon," Jim said, still watching the boy. "Tell me what's in the report."

Simon sighed, reaching for the file in Brown's hand and flipping it open. There was a picture attached to the front of the folder, but if Simon hadn't known it was the same young man they were currently holding in the next room, he'd have never recognized him. The subject of the photograph was smiling at the camera, his eyes bright and full of life, nothing like the dark, haunted eyes of the boy in the room beyond the mirror. Whereas this boy was nothing but a skeleton wrapped in grubby skin and ragged clothes, the young man in the snapshot was robust, clean and well dressed. This boy had shoulder length hair, wild and unruly. The one in the picture had short curls which framed a youthful, handsome face, one that spoke of intelligence and wisdom beyond his years.

Simon drew his eyes from the now still figure in the interrogation room and back to the file. He unclipped the picture and handed it to Jim. The detective took in the smiling face in the picture, his jaw clenching tight again.

"Let me see." Megan reached around Jim and took the picture. "Oh my ..."

"Yeah," Taggart agreed. "Hard to believe it's the same kid." Simon tuned out the comments behind him, turning his focus to the information in his hand. "Name's Blair Sandburg," he read aloud. "Twenty-five..." Simon glanced back at the boy briefly. "Doesn't look a day over eighteen," he commented. He went back to reading. "He was a student at Rainier until four year ago, when he transferred to the institute." He skimmed the list of credentials. "Typical academic background...followed by--" He stumbled over the next few paragraphs. "Jim...I think you need to see this."

The detective finally broke his gaze from the boy. "What is it?"

Simon looked up from the report, regret dimming his expression. "Jim..."

"Just tell me, Simon."

Forcing himself to hold Jim's gaze, Simon spoke the words. "He's marked."

"He's what?" Taggart exclaimed.

All eyes turned to the observation window, trying to get a glimpse of the mark, but the boy had his hands tucked tight around him, out of sight.

Simon sighed deeply and turned to his ranking detective. "I'm sorry, Jim," he began, "maybe we can find someone else--" He broke off as a pleased smile grew across the sentinel's face. "Jim?"

"It's perfect, Simon," Jim said, relief unmistakable in his tone.

"Jim, I don't think you understand. He's been marked as a...a..." Simon searched unsuccessfully for a diplomatic word for the boy's status.

"A W.O.L.F.," Jim supplied. "Yes, sir. I understand the significance. He's been implanted. He can't bond." His smile grew. "I'm not interested in bonding, Simon. You know that. If I was, I'd just go to the institute and put my name on the waiting list. This kid has still been through the training, right? He knows what to do?"

Simon let his eyes skim the remaining information in the file. "He spent a few years in the institute, so, yeah, I'd say he's had the training. He should know the fundamentals." He looked up at his senior detective.

"What happened?" Megan wanted to know. "Why was he marked?"

"This report doesn't say. It only says that he was bonded and his sentinel died. Sandburg was subsequently marked." Simon turned his attention once more to the still figure in the interrogation room. "I'll have to see what I can dig up--"

"He's perfect," Jim interrupted. "He can't bond, I don't want to bond."

"Jim, you can't dismiss that fact that his sentinel is dead. Whatever happened was bad enough to earn this kid a mark."

"If he had killed his sentinel, they'd have done a lot more than mark him," Jim argued.

Simon considered the words as he studied the boy. Jim had a point, but Simon wasn't entirely ready to dismiss the question. If this kid was threat, it'd be a cold day in hell before Simon would allow him in his station.

"Look, Simon, I don't care about his past. It's obvious we can offer him something he needs. In exchange, he can help me get a handle on these damned senses. That accomplished, we can go our separate ways with none of the emotional baggage of a bond to have to deal with."

Simon wasn't sure it worked that way. He had to admit, he knew very little about the mechanics of the sentinel/guide relationship, but he'd always assumed a bond was a necessary part of the equation. Maybe Jim was right. Maybe he could get what he needed from this kid, and then send him on his way. For the sentinel's sake, Simon hoped so. Still, he intended to do some digging and find out just what had led to the guide's fall and subsequent marking.

Sandburg was still leaning heavily against the wall, his eyes still closed, but now his mouth was moving. Simon strained to hear the words, but could only make out a faint murmuring.

"What's he saying, Jim?"

The sentinel frowned. "He's asking for his coat."

"His coat?" Simon glanced behind him at the detectives gathered there.

"It's on my desk," Brown offered. "Didn't figure he'd need it as warm as it is in here."

"He seems pretty upset about it," Jim observed. "Have you searched it?"

"When he was brought in. Searched him and his...apparel. Nothing but a few personal effects."

The young man opened his eyes, looking directly at the mirror. In a louder voice, he said, "Come on, man. You've got nothing on me. You can't keep me, and we both know it. Just give me back my coat and I'll be, like, so out of here."

Simon sighed deeply and snapped the file shut. "Come on, Jim. Let's get this over with."

Blair straightened as the door to the interrogation room opened. He hadn't expected his outburst to accomplish anything, and judging from the expressions on the faces of the two large men who entered, he was right. The black man he recognized from last night, when he was..."arrested" wasn't quite the right word. He didn't think he was exactly under arrest. No one had read him his rights or cuffed him or anything, but he damn sure wasn't free to go. At any rate, the black man had been there when they'd brought him in, and Blair got the impression he was the man in charge.

Blair let his eyes slide past him, his brow furrowing in confusion as they came to rest on the slightly shorter white man. Sentinel, he easily identified, but the eyes were wrong. There was none of the hunger there that Blair had come to expect from unbonded sentinels. Maybe he had seen the mark. Blair didn't think so -- he'd deliberately kept it hidden. He knew he could get into trouble for it, but he'd been afraid. Hell, he still was. Normal people were dangerous enough, but cops...

Fear was another thing that tended to set people off, so Blair quickly masked his behind a wall of belligerence. "If I'm under arrest, you've violated my rights already, so you're going to have to let me go. If I'm not under arrest, then you have no right to keep me here."

The black man lifted an eyebrow as he pulled out a chair on the far side of the table and sat down. "You're not under arrest, Mr. Sandburg."

Blair's heart kicked into overdrive, but he worked to bring it back under control. They knew who he was, which meant they knew about the mark. No wonder the sentinel hadn't made a move on him.

"You're here for questioning," the man continued. He pointed to the chair closest to Blair. "I'm Captain Banks. This is Detective Ellison. Have a seat, Mr. Sandburg. Would you like some water? Coffee?"

Blair's eyes narrowed, but he made no move toward the chair. They were offering him coffee? This didn't make sense. Curiosity overcame his fear momentarily. "If you know my name, you know I'm..." He paused, not quite willing to say the word.

"Marked," the detective supplied.

Blair's eyes were drawn back to the sentinel. He had moved into the room with the captain, but had not taken a seat. He was taking in Blair's appearance with no small amount of disgust on his face. Blair almost smiled. He was sure his smell alone was doing a number on the man's senses. Even the normal looked like he was having a hard time dealing with the stench of the streets. Tough. It wasn't like it was Blair's idea to be locked in a small, unventilated room with these guys. Let them deal with it.

"Marked," Blair conceded the label with a nod. "You obviously know my status. So why the games?"

"Games?"

With a sigh, Blair moved away from the wall and dropped wearily into the offered chair. He didn't really have the energy for belligerence anymore. Besides, they'd get what they wanted eventually, whatever it was. Best to just get it over with.

"What kind of questions?" he prodded. Out of the corner of his eye, Blair saw Ellison move to the wall beside the mirror and lean his long frame against it. Ignoring the man, Blair's eyes briefly tracked across the mirror, meeting the invisible eyes he knew were there. He had an audience. Three of them...no, four, he amended. Well, let 'em look, he mentally challenged. Get a good long look at the freak, and I hope you all burn in hell with the memory.

"Is that a 'no' on the coffee?" Banks asked, folding his hands on the table.

Now it was Blair's turn for confusion. "You'd really let me have coffee?"

In answer, Simon looked over his shoulder, nodding to one of the faceless observers beyond the mirror. Less than a moment later, the door opened again and a large black man reached in, handing Ellison a steaming foam cup before disappearing once more. The detective unfolded himself and moved to the table to set the cup before Blair.

In a calculated move, Blair pulled his right hand, the one bearing the mark, into view, using it to reach for the cup. The blood red of the tattoo across the back of his hand was impossible to miss now. Slowly, he wrapped his fingers around the warm cup and drew it to himself. His eyes darted back and forth between the men, waiting for one of them to laughingly snatch it away and tell him it was just a joke. Neither seemed so inclined, however. Their attention was focused solely on the mark.

"What's the matter?" Blair couldn't resist asking. "Never seen a mark before?"

"Actually," Banks replied, "I haven't, expect in pictures."

"Impressive, huh?"

"Very," Banks agreed, seeming to miss the sarcasm in the question.

Finally deciding that neither of the men intended to snatch the cup, Blair allowed himself a sip. He closed his eyes in contentment as the searing liquid slid smoothly over parched lips to caress a gritty throat. He resisted the urge to vocalize his pleasure. It had been over a year since he'd tasted coffee, and he'd almost forgotten how wonderful the hot, bitter flavor was.

As though privy to his thoughts, Ellison asked, "Been a while?"

Angered by the amusement in man's voice, Blair opened his eyes. "As if you don't know."

"How the hell would I know what goes on in a street rat's life?" Ellison commented, his humor still evident.

Blair snorted in disbelief. No one was as ignorant as these two were pretending. They must think him pretty stupid if they thought he was buying this innocent act of theirs.

"We have a proposition for you," Banks said, drawing Blair's attention away from the detective.

"I'm listening."

Banks cleared his throat, and Blair got the impression the man was having trouble saying what was on his mind. The realization set Blair's nerves on edge even further. He let his gaze settle briefly on the sentinel, but the man's face gave him no clue.

"Detective Ellison is a sentinel..." Banks began.

"You don't say!" Blair responded sarcastically, tossing said sentinel a look. The man's eyes hardened, and Blair got the distinct feeling it might be wise to keep his mouth closed for a change.

"He's in need of a guide," Banks stated simply.

Blair began to see where this was going. "Whoa, boss man. You might want to back up there." He lifted his right hand, turning the tattoo toward the man. "I'm marked, remember? I'm a W.O.L.F." The last word was said with more than a little bitterness. "I'm no good as a guide."

"I'm not looking to bond," the sentinel replied.

Blair's eyes narrowed. Not looking to bond? That was impossible. All sentinels were looking to bond. It was the only way they could function effectively as sentinels.

As though reading Blair's thoughts, the man explained, "I have no desire to be bound for the rest of my life to anyone."

"That's how it works," Blair argued. "Sentinels and guides, they bond. It's how they function. They need one another."

"That may be what they taught you at the institute, kid," Ellison broke in, "but I don't happen to believe it." He straightened and moved over to the table, leaning across it with his hands braced in the middle. His voice was low, his tone hard. "Look, kid, all I want is a little...instruction. You show me what you've learned about sentinel senses, help me get control over mine, and once that's accomplished, we go our separate ways. No strings, no attachments, and NO bond."

Yeah, right, Blair thought, if it was that easy, there would be no institute, no guides. He kept the thought to himself. This was not the kind of man you said "stupid idea" to. Not if you wanted to keep your head attached to your shoulders, and Blair did. "What makes you think I can do that?" he settled for instead. It got his point across, and he got to keep his head.

"You've had the training," Banks answered. "You know what to do."

"I've had the training, yeah..."

"That's all I care about," Ellison said, resuming his post by the mirror.

Blair considered the man and his ideas silently, wondering if it was even possible. Wasn't a bond necessary for control? That's what he'd been taught at the institute. It was the accepted way for sentinels and guides. Could he show Ellison some of the basics -- breathing exercises, maybe some simple tricks for keeping his senses from spiking, how to avoid a zone out? Yeah, sure...he could do that. It wouldn't be real control, but maybe Ellison wouldn't notice until Blair was long gone. He could probably pull it off, if he was careful.

"Maybe," was the answer he finally settled on.

Banks leaned forward, clasping his hands on the table. His voice deceptively casual, he asked, "Why were you marked, Mr. Sandburg?"

Blair should have been expecting the question, but it caught him off guard. Swallowing hard, he dropped his eyes, and worked to control his pulse, knowing that if the sentinel had any control at all, he would easily detect it. How much did he have to say? How much could they find out on their own? The records were sealed, but these were cops. Would they be able to get the information? He didn't think so...no, he had to believe they couldn't. He was certain the institute wouldn't be very forthcoming. They couldn't take a chance that the information might become public.

Carefully schooling his expression, he raised his eyes. "I can't bond," he answered simply, hoping they'd let it go at that.

"That much is in your records, but what it doesn't say is why?"

"Because I have an implant."

"And why is that?" Banks was nothing if not determined.

"Because I'm marked."

"Now who's playing games, Mr. Sandburg," the captain barked impatiently. "What happened to your sentinel?"

Blair swallowed hard, but resisted the urge to look away. "He died."

"And how did that lead to your status?"

"You'll have to ask the institute. They're the ones who made the decision."

Banks sighed in obvious frustration. "Believe me, Mr. Sandburg, I intend to. How did your sentinel die?"

Blair pulled his hands off of the table and into his lap, hoping their trembling hadn't been noticed. "I can't discuss it." He lifted his eyes, trying to project a determination he didn't feel. "You'll have to get your information from the institute." And they won't tell you a damned thing. I hope.

Banks leaned across the table, his dark eyes flashing angrily. "Listen to me, Mr. Sandburg. Jim Ellison is not just my best detective, he's also my friend. If you think I'm going to let you anywhere near him if there's the slightest chance you're a danger--"

Blair felt his own temper rising. He concentrated on projecting that anger, hoping it would mask his fear. Fear could be -- would be -- used against him. Speaking slowly to steady his voice, he said, "I may not be your first choice, Captain Banks, but apparently, I'm all you've got, or we wouldn't be having this conversation in the first place. I'm not the desperate one here." He prayed the lie wasn't obvious. Pushing himself to his feet, he continued. "You came to me, not the other way around. So you decide." He glanced at the sentinel, who was still leaning casually against the wall, his face betraying nothing. "You want my help? Then you take what's offered. If not, let me know now, and I'm out of here. I'm no worse off one way or another."

There was a long, tense silence. Blair held his breath, waiting, hoping he hadn't pushed them too far.

Captain Banks looked at his detective, his face hiding none of his disapproval. "This won't work, Jim. We'll find another option."

Blair's heart nearly stopped, but he quickly buried all traces of disappointment. "Fine! Just give me my damn coat, and you can forget you ever met me."

"No."

Blair turned to the sentinel. The man was staring at him. His icy blue eyes seemed to be scanning Blair's very soul. A shiver ran through Blair, and he suddenly had a feeling that keeping secrets from this man wouldn't be easy. Or wise.

"Jim, you can't work with this...person," Captain Banks stated. "There has to be another choice."

Ellison pushed himself away from the wall, straightening. "Short of going to the institute, I don't see another choice. I don't want a bond, he can't bond. It's perfect."

"There has to be a better alternative," Banks argued. "He's an unknown."

Ellison spoke again, directing a question to Blair. "Did you kill your sentinel?"

Which truth did the man want, Blair wondered. The truth in his head or the one in his heart. Would either be acceptable? Believed? He settled for a misdirection. "Don't you think I'd be in prison if I had?"

Ellison stared for a minute longer, and Blair found himself holding his breath. In spite of his bravado, he figured he was about as desperate as Ellison. He was more than just a fallen guide, he was marked. He doubted there were very many fool sentinels out there willing to offer him a small semblance of a normal life in exchange for his knowledge. This was the best offer he was going to get.

"Okay," Ellison said finally.

Banks heaved a dramatic sigh. "I don't like it, Jim, but I guess the decision is yours--"

"The way I see it, " Blair interrupted, his voice overriding the captain's, "the choice is mine."

Blair almost regretted his words when he found himself under Ellison's glare once more.

"You've got a better offer?" Ellison asked, calling his bluff.

"Look, Detective, let's face it, you need me a hell of a lot more than I need you. Like I said, I'm no worse off whichever way this goes."

Ellison simply raised an eyebrow.

"I say yes, what's in it for me?" Blair pushed.

"Food, clean clothes, and a place to stay for as long as I need your help."

"So you get permanent control, leading to a better, more comfortable life, and I get a temporary reprieve from the streets, only to get thrown back when you get through with me. No thanks!"

"What do you want, Sandburg?" the sentinel growled, clearly beginning to lose his patience.

"Help me get rid of the mark." It was a long shot, but Blair figured he had nothing to lose. At least he'd get fed in jail.

"What?!" Banks exclaimed.

"We could throw you in jail for even joking about that!" Jim added, anger venting in his tone.

"You could throw me in jail for hiding the mark or for even daring to talk to a sentinel -- if that was your intent."

Banks sighed, slouching down in his chair. Even Ellison's anger seemed to deflate a bit.

"We can't help you remove the mark," the detective said, sounding somewhat defeated.

Blair felt some of his own belligerence leach away. He hadn't expected it anyhow. These were cops, after all. What else could they give him? "Help me get a job. Nothing fancy, just something that pays in room and board."

Banks actually smiled. "No problem," he assured.

"Don't kid yourself, Captain Banks. It will be a problem. No one wants a W.O.L.F. working for them. But I'm not picky. Hell, I'll wash cars if it means a safe place to sleep and regular meals."

"Deal," Ellison said, stepping forward and extending his hand to Blair. Blair stared at the hand for a minute, then took it, shaking to seal the deal.

"First order of business," Banks said, rising, "is getting you cleaned up."

"You don't like my "street cologne"?" Blair asked, belligerence edging back into his tone in an attempt to hide his embarrassment.

"You stink," Ellison stated simply.

"Yeah, well, you sleep with the garbage and see how good you smell."

"Connor!" Banks yelled, looking over his shoulder at the mirror.

The door opened after a few seconds and a tall, dark-haired woman entered. She smiled at Blair, and he was startled to note its honesty. "You barked, Captain?"

"New assignment, Connor. I want you to take Mr. Sandburg shopping. He'll need everything, from the skin out. He can get a shower down in the gym."

"Of course," the woman readily agreed.

Blair stood. "I'll need my coat."

"We'll pick it up on the way out," Connor assured him.

"Trash that rag and get him a new one," Ellison ordered.

"No way, man!" Blair argued. "It'll clean up."

Ellison narrowed his eyes, and for a moment, Blair thought the detective was going to argue further. Instead, he shrugged. "If it doesn't clean up, trash it. Here..." He pulled out his wallet and extracted a card, handing it to the woman. "Charge whatever you need...within reason.

"And cut that damned hair!" he called after them.

Megan waited for the young man to settle himself in her car before starting the engine and pulling out of the station garage.

"First stop," she said, "is lunch, I think."

"That's okay," the young man hurried to say. "I'm not really hungry."

Megan cast a dubious look to her right. If his emaciated appearance didn't corroborate the lie, then the loud rumblings coming from his stomach did. "Well, it's past my lunch hour, and I'm rather famished myself."

"Oh. Okay. Sorry."

"I'm thinking Italian. That sound all right to you, Sandy?" She didn't miss the startled look Blair threw her way.

"Sandy?"

"You don't mind, do you? I tend to assign nicknames to people I like."

"You don't even know me."

"You seem like a decent fellow," Megan decreed, with a smile. "I have an instinct about people. I can usually tell right away if we're going to get on. You don't mind, do you? If I call you Sandy, I mean?"

Megan was pleased to see the young man actually smile. It was startling how young and handsome the gesture made him look.

"Nah, I don't mind. I kind of like it." There was a slight pause, and then, "You're Australian?"

Megan smiled. "Yes, I am. What about you? Are you from around here?"

Blair turned his head away, looking out the window at the passing scenery. "Originally, yeah. I've traveled a bit though."

"So, what's the deal with your coat?"

The young man shrugged. "Someone...special gave it to me. It's one of the few things I have left from before. I don't want to lose it."

When Blair didn't seem inclined to say more, Megan gave up trying to make small talk and let the silence continue until they arrived at the restaurant. She maneuvered the car into a too-tight parking place and shut off the engine. "I hope you have your appetite. This place has the most wonderful spaghetti you'll ever eat."

She opened her door and was about to climb out, but stopped when she realized her passenger wasn't moving. "Coming?"

The young man looked her way, allowing her to see the reluctance so prominent in his blue eyes. "I...I'm really not hungry. I could wait here for you."

Megan frowned. "Why don't you want to go in here, Sandy?"

Blair looked pointedly at the mark on his hand, then back up at Megan. "I'm a W.O.L.F., remember?"

Megan lifted her eyebrows. "And...?"

With a sigh of unveiled exasperation, the young man leaned his head back against the car seat. "You guys can't be as dense as you pretend."

"You could try simply explaining, Mr. Sandburg, instead of relying on insults and innuendo to express yourself."

Without lifting his head, the young man turned his eyes toward Megan. For a long silent moment he simply looked at her. Then, his voice low, he said, "Defense mechanism."

"Excuse me?"

He dropped his eyes and sighed again, but this time the sound was one of resignation. "I tend to lash out when I'm...uncomfortable. It's a defense mechanism."

Megan pulled her door closed with a soft snick, sensing the need for privacy. "Why are you uncomfortable?"

"You really don't know, do you? How it is for a W.O.L.F., I mean..."

"No, I don't. Like I said, I'm not from around here. I haven't had any experience with a...I mean, I've never met a..." Megan searched futilely for a diplomatic way out of the hole she was rapidly digging herself into. "Oh, bloody hell, Sandy. I'm making a mess of this."

"A W.O.L.F.," he finished for her. "I'm a W.O.L.F. You can say it without offending me."

"It's a nasty sounding word."

"It's the legal name for people like me."

"What does it stand for?"

Blair stared out the front window as he answered. "The actual words are Coptic. Rather fitting, don't you think?" He gave her a sidelong glance. "A language long since dead, abandoned, useless.... Someone's idea of a joke, I'm sure. Collectively, they basically mean 'outcast'."

"Like I said, a nasty sounding word. I'd prefer we not use it."

"It doesn't offend me. It's what I am." He turned a bit in the seat, fixing her with a hard look. "You're trying to say you really are as naïve as you seem, aren't you?" He sounded astonished by the realization. "Back at the station...I thought...I mean, nobody could be as ignorant as those two, Banks and Ellison. It had to be an act."

"I don't think so, Blair," Megan said, holding his gaze. "Ellison doesn't 'act', and Banks, well, what you see with our esteemed captain is what you get. He doesn't suffer nonsense well."

"Sheesh," Blair said, running a hand through his tangled hair. "You guys are cops! How can you not know how it is on the streets?"

"Why don't you tell me?" Megan suggested.

Blair's expression hardened. "Let's just say, I won't be welcome in there." He jerked his head toward the restaurant.

"I eat here all the time. I know these people. There won't be a problem."

"You believe that."

It wasn't a question, but Megan answered it anyway. "Yes, I do."

Blair looked into the woman's eyes, searching for the truth. He was surprised to realize she truly believed what she was saying. He revised his previous opinion. Obviously, she was naïve. Maybe it would be best to just let her see first hand. It would be embarrassing, but embarrassment was something he was used to.

"Okay, Detective, anything you say."

"Inspector," the lady corrected, with a smile, "but you can call me Megan."

Blair ignored the overture, sure she would soon be changing her mind -- just as soon as she realized exactly what she was getting into. Let her learn the hard way.

He followed Megan into the eatery, trying to look as uninteresting as possible, all the while knowing it was a lost cause. If his mark didn't draw their attention, his appearance certainly would. He knew he looked exactly like what he was, a street rat, as Ellison had put it. Even if he hadn't been marked, he wasn't sure he'd be welcomed here with 'civilized' people.

They were met just inside the door by a well-dressed young blonde with a name tag which identified her as "Lauren, Hostess." She smiled brightly at Megan, obviously recognizing her as a returning customer, but her smile slipped as her eyes moved beyond the inspector to settle on Blair.

Megan followed her gaze. "He's with me," she informed the woman. "It'll be just the two of us."

The woman's eyes left Blair, and she frowned disapprovingly at Megan. "I'm sorry, ma'am, we don't have an open table at the moment, and it's going to be a while before--"

"Nonsense," the inspector interrupted, pointedly gazing past the hostess to the partially filled dining area. She indicated an empty table near a back wall. "We'll take that one." Without waiting for a response from the woman, she hooked her arm in Blair's and ushered him toward the table.

Blair glanced back over his shoulder at the hostess. She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it, realizing she would be talking to the inspector's back. After a moment of apparent indecision, she picked up a menu and followed the pair across the room. When they were seated, the woman set the menu before Megan, deliberately ignoring Blair.

Megan slid the menu across to Blair, with a glare in Lauren's direction. Blair took the menu, trying to ignore the byplay and the dark tensions filling the immediate area. He'd known what to expect, but it still didn't make it easy. He made a show of opening the menu and perusing the choices.

"Your waiter will be with you in a moment," the hostess said, her tone decidedly nervous.

Blair waited until he was certain the woman was gone before looking up. He forced a smile as he locked eyes with the inspector. "Would this be a bad time for an 'I told you so'?"

Megan frowned. "Defense mechanism again?"

Blair chuckled. "Nah, pure embarrassment this time."

The woman's expression softened. "She's an idiot. Ignore her."

"She's reacting to predefined social stigmas."

"Are you saying she can't help herself?"

"No...that's not what I'm saying. We might be a product of our environment, but we still have freedom of choice in how we react in any given situation. I'm just saying it's what I expected, that's all."

"That doesn't make it right," Megan concluded.

The waiter arrived at that moment, the dark emotions rolling off of him telling Blair the hostess had spoken to him.

"Are you ready to order?" He addressed Megan, totally ignoring Blair.

Megan's eyes flickered with building anger as she looked up, but it was wasted on the man. His eyes were locked on his notepad as his pen tapped it impatiently. "I'll have the spaghetti platter, green salad with low fat Ranch dressing and diet cola."

The man scribbled the order, then looked back up. "And what will the W.O.L.F. have?" He said the word loud enough for other diners in the immediate area to hear.

Several heads turned in their direction, followed by a quiet murmuring. Blair stiffened, but kept his head up. He had expected this. He could deal with it.

"Why don't you ask him?" Megan suggested icily.

The waiter started to argue, but one look at Megan's face was enough to change his mind. He turned his eyes to Blair and lifted his head so that he was looking down his nose. Simply raising an eyebrow in question, he waited.

"The same," Blair said, just wanting the man to leave.

"You were right," Megan said, once they were alone again. "I'm sorry. I should have listened to you."

Blair shrugged, trying for casual indifference. Judging from the expression in the woman's eyes, he wasn't doing a very good job.

"Do you want to leave?"

Blair let his eyes sweep the immediate area. Several of the diners around them were openly staring their way. For the most part, he detected only curiosity. They think it's a freak show, he concluded. It was a reaction he was used to. He could deal with it for a half hour or so. If he left now, he would only be giving them what they wanted. Besides, the food smelled wonderful. It had been far too long since he'd had a hot, fresh meal, and one important lesson he'd learned on the streets was you eat when you could, because you never knew how long it'd be before you'd get another chance.

Blair shook his head. "No. It's no big deal."

The inspector sighed. Blair looked up in time to see her throw a pointed glare toward a man at a nearby table who was staring rudely at them. Blair was amused to see the man redden and drop his eyes. This woman had a look which clearly stated, 'don't mess with me.'

Small talk was awkward as they waited for their food. Blair was content to try to shrink into the vinyl upholstery of the chair in which he sat. A wave of relief washed over him when he saw their waiter heading toward them with their food.

The man set the plates on the table before them. A perverse smile twisted his lips as he met Blair's eyes. "Enjoy," he said, the smile broadening.

A chill worked its way up Blair's spine. He dropped his eyes quickly to Megan, but she didn't appear to notice anything out of the ordinary. Following a gut instinct, Blair reached for his plate before the waiter could withdraw his hand. Their hands briefly touched, and by the time the waiter snatched his away in disgust, Blair had what he needed.

His appetite fell through the floor. Revulsion roiled through him, but he fought to mask it. He'd had all the attention he could deal with for the moment. The last thing he wanted was to make a scene.

The waiter retreated, and Megan picked up her fork and the conversation.

"It might be helpful to fill you in on some of the people you'll be working with at the station."

Blair nodded, trying to turn his attention to the her words. It was a good idea, and it would keep his mind off his growling stomach.

"You're making a mistake."

Jim acknowledged his captain's words with an almost imperceptible nod. "Maybe."

Simon sighed dramatically. "Jim, you're not being reasonable. This kid is marked, for God's sake!"

"This 'kid' is perfect," Jim replied calmly. "He--"

Simon raised one hand, cutting off Jim's answer. "I know, I know...'he can't bond, you don't want to bond.' Perfect arrangement." He leaned over his desk to emphasis his next words. "But his sentinel died, Jim! Died...as in dead, gone, here no more! And Sandburg ended up marked as a result."

"You don't know that."

"Neither do you!" Simon shot back. "And that's exactly my point. We don't know jack about this kid, other than he's a fallen guide, and he's marked. Or don't you understand the significance of that little tidbit?"

Jim crossed his arms over his chest, his jaw hardening. "I understand, Simon. I also understand that if something doesn't give soon, it's not going to matter one way or another."

Simon's anger seemed to drain with the words. He leaned back in his chair, silent for a long moment. "It's that bad?"

"It's that bad," Jim confirmed. It had been for a long time, but Jim had done his best to hide the fact, concerned he would be put on leave or forced to go to the institute in order to keep his job.

"I'm sorry, Jim," Simon offered, followed by a loudly exhaled breath. "I guess I knew that...I was just hoping..."

"You were hoping I would see common sense and go find myself a working guide."

Simon shook his head. "You're wrong, Jim. I know better than anyone why you don't want to do that. I understand and respect your decision. I just wish there was some way around it--"

"I've found a way around it," Jim said with conviction. He understood Simon's worries, and on some level he did care why Sandburg had been marked, but only in so far as it would impact him. His greater concern was getting what he needed from the kid, then they could go their separate ways, neither of them the worse for the experience.

"I hate to sound like a broken record, but I think you're making a mistake. All I'm saying is don't rush into anything with this kid. Wait until we can check him out and discover why he was marked. What's another week or two?"

"Go ahead and check him out, but in the mean time, I'm going ahead with my plans. Hell, you saw him, Simon. I can hold my own with him."

Simon frowned. "Just tread careful, Jim, and if this backfires, know that I'll be there..."

Jim opened his mouth to thank his friend, but Simon wasn't finished.

"...to say I told you so."

She leaned forward and dropped her voice conspiratorially. "Personally, I think it's a frustrated paternal instinct." That said, she leaned back and, pushing her salad plate away, began eating the spaghetti. In between bites, she continued. "He's divorced, and I gather he doesn't get to spend as much time with his son as he would like."

From the corner of her eye, she watched Blair. He had eaten his salad quickly enough, and even devoured the bread, but he seemed to be avoiding the plate of spaghetti. She continued talking, but kept her attention on him.

"Joel Taggart is the captain of the bomb squad, but he spends a lot of time working with Major Crimes. He's a...well, a teddy bear."

Blair glanced up, his expression a question.

Megan chuckled. "I think you'll find it's an apt description. Joel is as big hearted as they come. None of the hard edges you'd expect from someone in his line of work. I've heard he has a tempter to match his size, but I've never personally seen it. I do know he's fiercely protective of people he likes. Don't cross him or any of his friends, and you'll have a friend for life."

Blair still hadn't touched his food.

"The spaghetti really is quite good," she promised.

The young man looked up, his expression veiled. "I'm...um...not really hungry."

Megan lifted an eyebrow at the obvious lie. "Is there a problem, Sandy?"

Blair's eyes flickered around the immediate area. He seemed...nervous? No, that wasn't quite right, Megan decided. Apprehensive, maybe, as though he anticipated trouble.

"Can we leave now?"

The question surprised her. "Is something wrong with your food? Not done properly? We can send it back--"

"I just would like to go. If you're not finished with yours, I could wait for you outside."

Curious and worried now, Megan pressed, "If there's a problem with your spaghetti, Sandy, we could order something different." She really didn't see how the problem could be the food, considering he hadn't even tasted it.

Blair shook his head. "No. I'm just not hungry. Can we go now...please?"

"Sandy--"

With a sigh of exasperation, Blair lifted his head and met her eyes boldly, his previous belligerence once again filling them. "Look, lady, I'll tell you after we leave, okay? I don't want to make a scene here. I've had all the attention I want for one day. Okay? Now, I'll wait for you outside." He pushed his chair back and stood, leaving before Megan could respond.

Well, she had certainly asked for that, Megan decided, pushing away from the table herself. He had tried to warn her of the reception he'd get, but she hadn't listened, and it had been more than a little embarrassing. She could hardly blame him now, could she?

She quickly paid the check and went outside. Blair was waiting beside her car. Silently, she joined him, unlocking the doors and sliding behind the wheel. She put the key in the ignition, but rather than start the engine, she turned to her passenger. "Okay. Spill. What was that all about?"

Blair didn't meet her gaze. He stared out the front window for a long moment, his fingers tapping nervously on his jean-clad thigh. Finally, he said, "The waiter spit in my food."

"What?!" Surely she heard him wrong. "No...there's no way...you're mistaken. How would you know? Did you see him?"

Turning defiant eyes toward her, Blair snapped, "Are you calling me a liar?"

Megan mentally sighed. "Of course not. I just...I..." She stopped and started over. "Maybe you should just explain."

"The waiter spit on my food. What's to explain?"

"Well, for starters, how could you know?"

"I'm a guide...or I used to be," he answered as though that should be explanation enough.

"And...?"

"Don't you have guides in Australia?" Sarcasm tinged with anger.

"Actually, no. They're sent to America to study. Most stay. This is where most of the sentinels are, after all." Megan had some experience with sarcasm herself.

"Oh." Some of the belligerence slipped out of his expression and tone. "I guess I knew that, or should have, anyhow." He sighed, and closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, he appeared much calmer. "Guides...sometimes see things..."

"You mean psychic?" Megan was intrigued.

"It depends on your definition of psychic. Let's just get out of here, okay? Just take me back to the station."

Megan studied her passenger for a minute, her temper flaring with her conviction of his sincerity. "That bastard!"

Blair look at her, startled by the unladylike oath.

"That slimy bastard!" She reached for her door handle, her intention clear. There must be a law she could use to run him in. How dare he--

A strong hand on her arm stopped her from exiting the car. "Let it go."

"Not bloody likely--"

His grip tightened. "Please, let it go."

"Sandy, this man needs to be confronted. He can't do this and get away with it."

"Yes, he can. He did. I just want to get out of here."

"There are laws..."

"The laws don't cover this."

"Because you're marked?"

"Because no one cares."

There was so much defeat in his voice that the wind left Megan's sails. She dropped her hand from the door. How could she argue with him? What did she know about his life? How he lived? Without another word, she cranked the car and pulled onto the road. She had no intention of letting it go, but some battles were better fought another day -- with the help of a couple of convenient friends in the Health Department.

Megan glanced at her watch. They'd be expected back at the station soon, and they had yet to accomplish their mission. She still had to get Blair some clothes, find him somewhere to clean up and feed him. Oh, and get his hair cut. Making a quick decision, she pulled into the parking lot of the mall, parking close to the door of the outrageously expensive anchor store. Ellison was paying, after all, she reasoned with a smug grin.

"Would you prefer to wait here?"

Relief filled Blair's eyes. The corners of his mouth turned up in gratitude. "Yeah. Thanks."

"I won't be long," she promised.

Once in the store, Megan realized she should have asked for sizes, but the mistake didn't hold her up for long. Having grown up the only girl in a house full of brothers and male cousins, she felt qualified to make educated guesses. It didn't take her long to gather the things she needed: pants, shirts, socks, sweaters. She tried to chose styles similar to what she had seen Blair wearing in the photo attached to his file.

The only problems she ran into were with shoes -- sizes there were a lot harder to guess at -- and underwear -- she couldn't decide if he was a boxers or briefs kind of guy. On the underwear, she finally settled on some of each, and on the shoes, she decided on two pairs -- insulated hiking boots for warmth and sneakers for comfort -- in two different sizes each. Ellison could return the ones that didn't fit.

Less than thirty minutes later, she had the packages loaded in the car and was on the road again. While she shopped, she had made another decision.

"Where are we?" Blair asked, as she pulled into a parking garage and cut the engine.

"My flat. I still owe you lunch." She climbed out and began gathering the packages, not giving him a chance to argue.

Blair hesitated, then opened his door and took the bags from her. She led the way into the building and up two flights of stairs to her apartment.

"You can grab a shower in there," Megan said, indicating the bathroom as she stepped through the door. "There's shampoo and conditioner in the cabinet under the sink. I hope you don't mind smelling like lavender." When there was no answer, she turned, frowning at the young man still standing in the doorway. "Sandy?"

"I'm not sure this is a good idea," he said. "I don't want to get you into any trouble."

"Trouble?"

"Because of me being here," he clarified.

"Nonsense!" Megan declared. She crossed the room and shooed him out of the doorway, closing the door behind him. "If you knew me better, you'd know I couldn't care less what anyone thinks about me. Now, go. Shower. I have plenty of hot water, so take as much time as you want." She pulled the bags from his hands and dropped them in a chair, then ushered him across the room and into the bathroom before he could argue. "I'll see to lunch while you shower. Just don't expect anything fancy. I do most of my cooking out of the kitchen, if you know what I mean."

Blair sighed in exasperation as the bathroom door clicked shut behind him. Arguing with this woman was proving to be a mental challenge for which he felt ill-equipped. He eyed the shower for less than a second before eagerly peeling off the multiple layers of grime-stiffened clothes. He hadn't had a real shower with hot water in ages, and the thought was more enticing at the moment than even the promise of food.

He wasn't quite sure what to do with his clothes. Megan's bathroom was spotlessly clean, and he hated to spoil it with his filthy things. He finally settled on rolling them up and shoving them into the corner behind the door.

Gathering up the shampoo and conditioner and climbing into the shower, Blair adjusted the water as hot as he could stand it and just stood there, letting it eat away at the perpetual chill he lived with.

He was startled from his pleasure induced near-coma by the sound of the bathroom door opening, followed by Megan's voice drifting over the shower curtain.

"It's just me," she announced, as though it was the most natural thing in the world for her to be in the bathroom with him while he showered. "I'm getting your clothes. Do you have any objections to tossing them?"

"Um...no."

"Good. Lunch is nearly ready, but take your time. I've left a razor on the sink, in case you'd like to shave, but I don't have any shaving cream, I'm sorry. You'll have to make do with soap."

Once she had left, Blair quickly washed his hair, rinsed the soap out, and then washed it again. That finished, he grabbed the bath sponge and began scrubbing away the embedded street grime. An eternity later, he decided he would pass inspection with even Ellison. He climbed from under the spray of hot water with regret. If things worked out, maybe he could get another shower later.

Megan had left several large, fluffy towels on the sink. Blair quickly dried off, rubbing most of the water from his hair, finger combing it into some semblance of order, and then quickly shaved.

He'd expected Megan to leave him some clean clothes to change into, but she hadn't. He debated for a moment, then wrapped one of the large towels around his waist. Modesty had a time and place, but the growling in his stomach in response to the smells of lunch coming from the next room told him this was neither.

Megan stirred the soup again, dropping the heat as low as it would go. When she had told Blair to take his time in the shower, she hadn't expected him to take up residence, or she would have waited to put the soup on the fire. It was going to evaporate into nothing if he took much longer.

As though on cue, she heard the water shut off. She poured the soup into two bowls and placed them on the table, next to a platter of tuna sandwiches.

"Um, where are my clothes?"

Megan looked up to see Blair standing in the open bathroom door, a towel wrapped around his hips. She'd thought him thin before, but now she could easily see how his bones jutted out at sharp angles, and she could count every rib. Latent maternal instincts blaring, she returned to the kitchen and retrieved a pack of chocolate cookies from the cupboard, determined to make him eat every one. "I thought you might like to wait until after we cut your hair to get dressed."

"Oh. Okay" Blair stood in the doorway for a few seconds, then made his way to the table. "You're going to cut my hair?" He sounded nervous.

"No worries. I've tons of experience. Considering how the day has gone so far, I thought you might prefer not to go to a barber shop, but if you'd rather--"

"No, you're right," Blair agreed, pulling out a chair and sitting down. "Here is fine." He turned his attention to the food.

She let him eat in silence, but made sure he had plenty. Each time he reached bottom, she simply refilled his bowl, placed another sandwich on his plate, or handed him more cookies. Finally, he politely refused any more. "If I eat anymore, you'll have to grease me to get me through the door. It was good. Thanks."

Megan cleared the table and returned with scissors, a towel and a comb. "Ready?"

A look akin to panic crossed Blair's face, and Megan hurried to assure him, "I really have done this before, Sandy. Many times. My mum taught me. She barbered for everyone back home, men and women."

Blair swallowed hard, then nodded.

Megan wrapped the towel around his neck, pulling his long curls over it. "You have lovely hair. It seems almost sinful to cut it--"

To her surprise, Blair jumped from the chair, whirling around with his hands up defensively. "Wait! Please...just give me a minute."

Realization dawned. "You don't want your hair cut." It wasn't a question. Megan didn't need an answer.

Blair backed up a step, wrapping his arms around his thin torso, suddenly looking very young and vulnerable. "It's just...I haven't cut my hair since...I...um...left the institute. It's become...sort of...symbolic. A weak rebellion, I know, but it's about the only thing in my life I still have control over."

Megan carefully set down the scissors. "Then we won't cut it."

"What about Ellison?"

"Ellison can't tell you what to do."

Blair snorted derisively. "Tell him that."

"You tell him that," Megan suggested.

"I value my head right where it is, thank you very much!"

"You give Jim too much credit."

"Easy for you to say!" Blair's arms tightened around himself with the accusation.

Megan raised an eyebrow. "Meaning...?"

"Meaning right now, right or wrong, Ellison gets the final say in whether or not I eat, wear clean clothes, have a place to sleep..." He stopped, a sudden blush coloring his face. "I didn't...I don't mean..." Taking a deep breath, he started over. "Look, Inspector, I'm really not as desperate as I just made myself sound." He loosened his self-hug to run a hand through his hair. "Hell, that's not true. I am desperate. Shit! I feel like I've sold my dignity for a plate of food."

Megan didn't know what to say. As she watched, he seemed to reach a decision.

He lifted his head, and met her gaze bravely. "Hell, it's only hair. I can grow it back when Ellison is through with me. Let's get this over with."

Megan stopped him before he could reclaim the chair. "Forget it, Sandy. We're not cutting your hair. Jim isn't that much of an ogre." She rethought her last statement, and smiled. "Well, he can be an ogre...at times. You just have to know how to take him." She crossed the room to the shopping bags and began unpacking them. "Jim is a loner. He keeps people at arms' length. Captain Banks is the only person he really lets close."

She set the clothes on the couch. "Choose what you'd like to wear, and I'll pack the rest back up for you."

Blair made his choices -- a boxers guy, she noted -- and she began refolding the rest of the clothing as he ducked into the bathroom to dress. She continued talking, raising her voice to be heard through the door. "Ellison seems rather sad, if you ask me. I'm sure there's something in his past, some great tragedy to explain it. A lost love, maybe. A broken heart. Captain Banks is the only one who really knows for sure, and he's not talking."

She put the clothes into an old suitcase, setting it by the door. The bathroom door opened, and she turned. "My, Sandy, you do clean up nice!" The pullover sweater and jeans hung on his too-thin frame, but the dark blue color perfectly matched his eyes.

Blair blushed attractively. "Thanks. Think I'll pass muster with Ellison?"

"If you're ready," she answered, picking up her purse, "let's go find out."

"I hate to say it," Captain Hill said, "but there's nothing. Nada. Zip. If these two murders are connected, I don't see it."

Simon tossed the file on his desk in frustration. "My instincts are screaming on this, Ed. We've got to be missing something."

"Well, if your sentinel can't find it, it's not there," Hill stated.

Jim narrowed his eyes at the man. "I'm no one's sentinel." The words were low, but their meaning was clear. "Sorry, Ellison," Hill replied contritely, "but you know what I mean. Hell, I'd give my left arm to have a sentinel in homicide, even an unbonded one." He stood and began gathering the scattered files on his side of Simon's desk. "Though from what I hear, that may be about to change."

"Just what in the hell are you hearing?"

"Ellison!"

Simon's short bark made Jim take a mental step backward. As irritating as it was to think he was being discussed around the station, he knew he was out of line yelling at a captain.

Before he could issue an apology, Hill answered Jim's question. "Cool your heels, Ellison. We're not all talking about you behind your back, but word is, a fallen guide was brought in last night. Same word says you had him up here this morning. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to put it together."

"I'd take it as a personal favor, Ed, if you'd stop any more of this kind of talk," Simon said.

"I have no intentions of bonding -- ever!" Jim added. "Feel free to pass that on."

"Never really thought you did," Hill replied. "I can't see you settling on a fallen guide anyhow. No one's that desperate."

Jim nodded silent agreement. Evidently, word wasn't out yet that this particular fallen guide was also marked, making bonding impossible. He wasn't about to explain that to Hill. He figured it'd get around soon enough on its own.

Something at the back of Jim's thoughts began to push forward, claiming his attention, and he realized his senses were straining outward. He was looking for something...or waiting for something. Puzzled, he focused on his hearing, trying to identify the source of his...anticipation. Expecting the same uncontrollable onslaught of noise he had encountered each and every time he had tried to use his hearing, he was surprised when he found a small measure of control. He heard the muffled noises and murmurings coming from the bull pen, but for once, he was easily able to keep them in check and push further. Still, he couldn't quite pinpoint whatever it was. It seemed to be just beyond--

"Jim!"

Jim shook his head, his sensitive ears still ringing from the explosion of sound. He looked up, confused at the relief on Simon's face, which was only inches from his own.

"Damn, Jim, don't do that! I'm too old for this crap." Simon straightened and moved out of Jim's personal space.

"What?"

It was Hill who answered. "You...zoned. That's the word, isn't it?"

Irritated, Jim snapped, "I don't zone."

"That's what I thought," Simon replied, "but I've been trying to get your attention for almost five full minutes."

"I wasn't zoned..." Jim started. He hadn't been, had he? He didn't think so. He'd only zoned once, when his senses had first come online. Since then, he'd been careful not to extend any of his senses much beyond normal to keep it from happening again. So far, he'd been successful. "I was...listening."

"Well, you were 'listening' so hard you couldn't hear," Captain Hill said with no small amount of sarcasm. He gathered his files and headed for the door, calling back over his shoulder, "I'll call you, Simon, when I get Dan's final autopsy report." Simon waited until Hill shut the door behind himself. "You want to explain what just happened here, Jim?"

"Nothing happened."

Simon didn't respond verbally. He simply crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back on his desk, but his message was clear.

Jim looked away, uncomfortable for some unexplainable reason.

"You don't want to talk about it?"

"There's nothing to talk about. I was just listening."

"So you said already, but to what--" Simon stopped, causing Jim to look up. "Never mind. I think I understand."

Jim followed Simon's gaze out into the bullpen. Connor was back, with Sandburg.

No! There was no way he'd accept that explanation. Bonded sentinels could follow their Guide's heartbeats, but they weren't bonded, and it wasn't Sandburg's heartbeat Jim was picking up on. Even now that the kid was only a few yards away, he couldn't hear it. Maybe if he concentrated, focused on it, but there was little chance of that, he decided resolutely.

Jim dismissed the episode with a mental shake of the head. Whatever it was, it was gone now, and that was good enough for him. He stood, letting his eyes rake over the guide. Hard to believe it was the same street rat they'd had in custody just a few hours ago. Clean and well dressed, Blair Sandburg looked as normal as the next man. He was rail thin, Jim noted, the clothes doing little to disguise the fact, but that was hardly surprising under the circumstances. What was surprising was the hollow in Jim's stomach as he made the observation. It was more than a passing compassion for someone down on their luck. For some reason, Jim was uncomfortable with the idea of this kid being hungry.

Angrily, he ignored the feeling. It was none of his business. Sandburg was homeless, not helpless, and in Jim's experience, most homeless people were right where they wanted to be. Bums, by choice, had no desire to work for a better life. The mark notwithstanding, Sandburg was no better.

Simon opened the door, and Jim followed him out into the bullpen. As they approached the pair, Jim noticed one more thing about Sandburg's appearance.

"Why the hell didn't you get his hair cut?" he growled at Connor.

"I like it long," the woman said, gracing him with an guileless smile.

Jim glowered at her, but before he could respond, Sandburg spoke up.

"It's my hair," the young man stated firmly. "It's my decision, and I'm not going to cut it, so live with it."

Jim turned his attention to the kid. Sandburg returned the glare, nothing in his outward appearance giving away the fact that his heart was racing. His voice was strong and firm, but his hands were trembling so minutely Jim was certain no one other than a sentinel could see it. He's scared of me, Jim realized. He felt a momentary shame at the knowledge, but at the same time, he noted that in spite of his fear, the young man was standing up to him with a proud defiance. Jim bit back a smile. He was pleased to see Sandburg had a backbone -- he was going to need it -- but he also had to learn who was going to be in charge in this arrangement.

"It makes you look like a pothead. The guys downstairs will arrest you every time you come in the front door. I want it cut."

"No."

Jim raised an eyebrow.

"Let it go, Jim," Simon strongly suggested. "He can deal with the hassles downstairs on his own. Let's go down the hall to work out the details of the deal."

Jim glared for a minute longer, but Sandburg didn't back down. He remained stubbornly planted, his jaw set and his eyes defiant. Finally, Jim smiled, though, by design, it was anything but reassuring. Shrugging, he deliberately turned his back on the fallen guide and led the way to an empty conference room.

At the door, Connor stopped Jim. "Wait a minute, Ellison."

Simon raised an eyebrow, but ushered Sandburg into the room, pushing the door closed behind them.

Megan handed Jim his credit card with a smile that told him whatever was coming wasn't going to be pleasant. Her smile broadening, she handed him a receipt. A long receipt. Jim scanned the total at the bottom. "Fourteen hundred dollars!"

Megan's smile grew. "He needed a lot of things."

"I could have outfitted him for a tenth of that!"

"Then you should have done it yourself."

Jim found the name of the store on the receipt, swearing as he saw it was one of the most expensive stores in Cascade. "You could have gone to Walmart," he muttered angrily. "It's probably better than anything he's used to. Hell, for that matter, the thrift store would have been good enough."

Megan's smile stayed in place, but her eyes flashed heatedly. "I assumed you'd want your guide to be well dressed since it will be a reflection on you while he's here." She glared for a moment longer, then turned her back on him, retreating down the hall toward the bullpen.

Jim stared after her, his unspent anger boiling dangerously. He had no doubt the woman had deliberately taken advantage of him. It wasn't that Jim couldn't afford it. He just hated to think of fourteen hundred dollars worth of clothes on the back of a street rat who probably couldn't care less. He shook his head, trying not to think about what they'd look like a few months down the road.

Jim entered the conference room, instantly detecting the tension in the atmosphere. He raised an eyebrow at Simon. The captain frowned and shook his head. Glancing at Sandburg, whose head was down, his long curls effectively shielding his expression, Jim instantly realized his mistake. The kid had heard his and Connor's argument. Damn!

Uncomfortable now, Jim took a seat.

Simon cleared his throat. "Let's get this done and get back to work, shall we? I guess we need to get you squared away first," he addressed Sandburg. "Do you have any work experience? Anything at all?"

Jim watched as the kid lifted his head, his eyes narrowing angrily. "Listen, boss man, let's get something straight right from the get-go here. I am not on the streets by choice. I'm not a drug head or a welfare case, nor am I too stupid or lazy to hold down a job, and I don't appreciate being treated as such. You want to look down your noses at me? Fine! I don't give a shit. I've certainly been treated worse by better. But you might want to take into consideration that you want something from me and start treating me accordingly. Yes, I have work experience, probably more than the both of you combined. If you've got about a half hour, I'll make you a list."

"Can the smart-assed attitude, Sandburg," Jim growled. "As long as we're being honest, let me get you back on the straight and narrow. I need your help, yes, but I'd say, judging from the looks of things, you're a little more desperate than you'd like us to believe. You want to be treated with respect? You might want to act a little more respectful."

"That's enough, both of you!" Simon Banks' bellow got both men's attention. "You want to have a pissing contest, do it on your own time. I've got more important things to do."

Jim glared a minute longer. The kid returned the look unflinchingly. Jim had to grudgingly give him credit for not backing down.

"Now, if that's settled...?" Simon paused, waiting for a response. Getting none, he continued. "What kind of experience do you have, Mr. Sandburg?"

"Whatever kind is necessary."

"That's not what I asked you." Simon's patience seemed to be wearing as thin as Jim's.

"Well, let's see," Sandburg said, affecting a caustic air of brightness, "starting from the beginning...there's paperboy, box boy, landscaping assistant, welding, drywall, roofing, truck driver, day laborer, store clerk, house painter, teacher's aid, teaching fellow, and tutoring. Those are the paying jobs. In addition, I've done volunteer work at local hospitals and shelters, worked on political causes and environmental issues, on archeological digs, anthropological expeditions, student government--"

"Whoa!" Simon held up a hand to stop the torrent of information. "We get the picture."

"Can't hold a job?" Jim couldn't resist the dig.

Sandburg threw him a scathing glare. "I've been working since I was old enough to push a lawnmower. I've been on my own since I was sixteen, supporting myself and paying my way through college."

"Think you can handle some routine maintenance work?"

Sandburg turned his attention to Simon. "No problem."

"I have an idea, then," Simon said, rising. "Sit tight while I check it out. Try not to kill each other while I'm gone."

The two men studied one another in silence after the captain left. Sandburg was the first to speak. "Do you hate me as much as your face says you do?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Hell, man, you look like you've stepped in something the cat left."

Jim deliberately looked away. He'd always prided himself on being unreadable. It not only helped him do his job, but it was an effective way to keep people off balance. Now this street rat was reading him like a first grade primer, and it got under Jim's skin.

"I don't hate you."

"Good imitation, man."

"Detective," Jim corrected, irritated by Sandburg's lack of respect. "You can call me Detective Ellison."

"If you don't hate me, Detective Ellison, you might want to inform your face."

Exasperated, Jim sighed. "I don't hate you...I hate...this."

"This?" Sandburg's lips curled in a way that made Jim want to reach over and physically remove the smile. "You mean the fact that there's a chink in your armor? The big, tough, independent cop has to ask a street rat for help? You hate that you need me?"

Jim leaned across the table, almost into the kid's face. "What I hate," he ground out, "is not having any choice in the matter."

Sandburg didn't seem at all intimidated by Jim's best glare -- until Jim noticed the jackhammer rhythm of his pulse. The sentinel smiled in satisfaction.

"You hate being a sentinel." It was said with none of the young man's previous animosity. It was merely a simple statement of fact.

Jim leaned back again, his fight draining with the truth Sandburg had hit upon. "It's damned inconvenient."

"It's a gift, man."

"Easy for you to say."

It was Sandburg's turn to lean forward. "No, man, I'm serious. You're special--"

"Cut the PR shit! Is that what they taught you at the institute?"

"They didn't have to," Sandburg replied, his voice somber. "I've known it all my life."

"All I want is to be a detective, and I can be a damned good one without these senses."

"You can be a better one with them."

"Well, it's not like I have a choice now, is it?"

"You're going to have to stop fighting your senses, or you'll never be able to use them. The first thing you're going to have to work on is learning to accept that you are a sentinel."

Jim snorted. "I'm not interested in all that mumbo-jumbo, spiritual crap. I just want to learn to control my senses -- use them when I need them, turn them off when I don't."

"It doesn't work that way, Detective," Blair said, shaking his head. "The spiritual and physical aspects are part and parcel. You can't have one without the other. Learning to accept the spiritual side is an important part of learning control."

"Look, kid, all I want from you are some simple hints and tricks to keep my hearing from spiking, a way to avoid zones. That's it! That's all you're signing on for. You get me a little control and you can go your way, free and clear. Just keep your spiritual shit to yourself."

His anger spent, Jim settled back in his chair. An uneasy silence stretched between them.

Where in the hell was Simon? Jim just wanted to get this settled and get back to work. Dan's report might be back, and he still wanted to go over the forensic findings again. There had to be a way to connect these murders--

"You can take them back."

Confused, Jim brought his attention back to the young man who was quietly studying him from across the table. "What? My senses?"

"No. You can take the clothes back."

Oh, hell!

"Not the ones I'm wearing, of course, but the rest of them. They've all still got the tags on them, and I didn't touch them, so you shouldn't have a problem returning them."

Uncomfortable, Jim looked away. "You need clothes."

"I don't need those clothes," Sandburg insisted quietly. "Walmart clothes are good enough. Or thrift store clothes."

Jim lifted his eyes, meeting the haunted blue ones facing him. "I'm...I didn't mean...I said that for Connor's benefit. I didn't mean for you to hear me." Jim rubbed an hand over his short hair and blew out a noisy breath. "Megan and I don't play well together. Ask anyone. We just seem to rub each other the wrong way."

"So I noticed."

"She just spent the money to irritate me." Realizing how that must have sounded, he quickly added. "It doesn't matter. I don't mind the expense, I was just using it for an excuse to argue with her. Besides, she's right. If you're going to be working with me, you'll need to look decent." He tried on a half-smile and was surprised to find it felt right.

Sandburg nodded. "I want to pay you back, though. If your boss-man comes through on the job, that is."

"Consider it part of your payment."

"No, man. I want to pay you back. It'll have to be a little at a time, though."

Recognizing the importance of letting Sandburg maintain this little bit of dignity, Jim simply nodded. Thankfully, Simon chose that moment to return.

"I think I may have just found the perfect solution." There was no missing the self-satisfaction in the man's voice. "Here's the deal. With a little persuasion, Charlie Loomis, head of maintenance here at the station has agreed to give you a try. The job will be mostly cleaning -- sweeping, mopping, moving furniture -- just routine maintenance."

Sandburg blinked at them, his face giving no clue as to his thoughts on the offer.

"It doesn't pay much, and you'll have to work nights, but it'll leave your days free to work with Jim."

"What about after? When you're through with me? Will I still have the job?"

Simon hesitated. "I'll be honest with you, Sandburg, I can't guarantee it. It'll depend on a couple of things -- how well you do at the job, and if Loomis still needs you down the road. It could work into something permanent, but if not, we'll find you something else."

Sandburg nodded. "Okay. I'll take it."

"Good," Simon said. "Now, about a place to stay. There's a rooming house not far from here. It's nothing fancy, but it's clean."

"I don't think it's going to be that easy, Captain Banks," Sandburg said, shaking his head. "No one's going to rent me a room."

"I know the woman who runs it," Simon assured him. "She owes me."

Sandburg dropped his eyes. "We'll see," he murmured quietly.

"It won't be a problem," Simon promised. "Trust me."

The kid looked up at the words, surprise evident in his expression. How long it had been since he'd been asked for his trust, Jim wondered.

"Okay."

One simple word, and the deal was sealed.

Jim felt an absurd sense of satisfaction. He knew Sandburg needed this arrangement as much as he, himself, did, and yet some small part of him had still expected the kid to turn down the offer. The job was nothing more than a glorified janitor. It was a pitiful offer, and in his place, Jim knew he would have refused it.

"You can start tonight. Jim can take you down and introduce you to Loomis later, and I'll call Mrs. Hostettler and make the arrangements for your room." Simon glanced at his watch. "You two seem ready to work together without killing one another, so I'm assuming you've reached some sort of truce."

"Yes, sir," Jim assured his boss. "I think we can tolerate each other for a few weeks."

"As long as Ellison minds his manners," the guide added. Sandburg smiled, and Jim was surprised to see how his whole face lit up with the gesture. He looked remarkably young.

"Good. I'm going to try to get some work done so this day isn't a total bust. You two," Simon waved a hand in the air between them, "get this ball rolling."

Blair watched the captain leave, then turned to the sentinel. Jim was watching him with a mixture of apprehension and relief. The apprehension, Blair understood. The man didn't want to be a sentinel after all, so he could hardly be expected to be enthusiastic about the task they were about to undertake. The relief, however, confused Blair. Maybe Ellison had thought he'd turn down the job offer. Hell, Blair was delighted with the job. It was a far cry better than he had expected.

"Where do you want to start?"

Blair was well aware of how much control Ellison was granting him with those words. It was a significant overture, and one Blair accepted in the seriousness with which it was offered.

"First, we need to establish your range. We'll start with hearing, since it's most likely your dominate sense."

They worked for twenty minutes straight before Blair silently admitted defeat. He'd tried every trick he knew to get Ellison to focus his hearing, and while the man had a modicum of success, Blair was now realizing, much to his surprise, that Ellison couldn't work the dials. He knew about them, of course, but claimed he'd never had any luck with them.

Convinced that the sentinel simply hadn't had the proper instruction, Blair spent the better part of the next hour teaching him how to manipulate the various mental dials to adjust his senses. By the end of the hour, Ellison had a tentative grasp of the concept and seemed to be making significant headway toward its practical application. Blair felt satisfied with the results. It was only a beginning, a very small beginning, but a good one. Maybe, just maybe, this arrangement wasn't the lost cause Blair had expected it to be. Of course, they had a long way yet to go, and Blair still had reservations about how much they could accomplish with the limitations they had.

Limitations, hell! Neither of them wanted a bond, but even if they had, it was a physical impossibility. Blair would never again be able to bond, not with Ellison, not with anyone. It was a choice he had made. The damage was done, and he refused to dwell on it anymore.

"I think that's enough for now--" Blair began, but was interrupted when the door opened.

"We've got another body, Jim," Captain Banks said. "Let's go."

Ellison stood, heading for the door. Blair didn't think twice. He rose, prepared to follow.

"Whoa, Sandburg." Ellison stopped Blair at the door. "Where do you think you're going?"

"With you." It seemed simple enough to Blair.

"This is a murder scene," Banks said. "It's no place for a civilian."

"Look, Captain Banks, my job is to help Ellison out--"

"Exactly. You're here to show Jim some tricks to help him get a handle on his senses. That doesn't include tagging along to crime scenes where you'll just be in the way."

Blair turned to Ellison, knowing he was the one Blair ultimately had to convince. "Do you want me to teach you to control your senses, or do you want to learn to use them? Because simple control is not all you are capable of, man. You can do so much more. You're a human crime lab! You can find evidence a normal would never find. You want to use your senses on the job, then you need me to show you your potential. Give me a chance, Detective. Let me show you what you can do."

Ellison's eyes seemed to bore right through him, but Blair forced himself to hold the gaze. Finally, the man looked away, nodding to his boss. "Let him come, Simon. I'll take responsibility for him."

It took only one look at the body for Blair to regret his words. The victim was sprawled lifelessly before them in a pool of his own blood. His throat had been cut so deeply, he was almost decapitated. His eyes vacant eyes stared up, his face forever frozen in an expression of terror and pain.

Blair quickly looked away, swallowing compulsively and stepping behind Ellison to block the view. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He could do this. He had to do this. Ellison had to see here and now how valuable Blair could be to him. He doubted the detective would give him another chance.

Opening his eyes, he pulled his hands from his coat pockets, reaching one tentatively toward Ellison's arm. He let his fingertips brush lightly over the man's jacket sleeve. It was enough to draw the sentinel's attention. With more bravado than he felt, Blair met the questioning gaze. "Are you ready?"

Ellison stared at him a moment longer, then nodded.

"First thing you need to do," Blair instructed, grasping Ellison's sleeve a little tighter, "is block out everything going on around you."

Ellison closed his eyes briefly. When they opened again, Blair could see the man didn't have a clue where to start.

"You can't do that by simply tuning them out," Blair said. "Acknowledge them, one by one. Catalogue each person's sound, smell, taste. Recognize it, catalogue it, and then file it away. Once it's filed, dismiss it, and it'll tune itself out."

He watched as the older man followed his instructions. Blair waited patiently, one part of his brain fascinated by the concentration and deliberation so evident in Ellison's bearing. Every muscle seemed to be absorbed in the process. With time, this would become second nature, but for now, it was a challenging procedure.

Blair was afraid to take his eyes from Ellison's face, not wanting to take a chance the man would push himself into a zone. He hoped Captain Banks had enough forethought to keep anyone from disturbing them.

Ellison's eyes finally opened, and Blair took it as evidence he had completed the task. "Okay, Detective Ellison," Blair said, "now you want to do the same with the inanimate objects around you, only this time, you need to pay attention to them as you catalogue them. Recognize each for what it is, and let the detective part of your brain analyze it as you file it. If anything sends up a red flag, set it aside and we'll examine it further. Start with smell..."

Ellison's nostrils flared slightly. Blair smiled to himself, pleased that the man was following his instructions so readily. "There is no one here but you, me and the body. No one else matters. Recognize and accept you and me. That leaves only the body. What do you smell?"

Ellison's head tilted, his eyes tracking down to the body as his nostrils flared wider.

Good, Blair commended silently. Ellison was already instinctively piggy-backing his senses. That would make it much easier in the long run.

"What do you smell, Jim? Start with the strongest scents."

Ellison's face crinkled in displeasure. "Human waste."

"Okay, that one's obvious, even to me," Blair commented. "Dismiss it, and move on. What else?"

"Blood..."

"Keep going."

"Fear..."

"Fear? You recognize the scent of fear?" Blair was impressed. "That's probably me," he admitted sheepishly. "Go ahead and dismiss it. What else?"

"Cologne, something woodsy."

"On the body itself, or from the air surrounding it?"

"The body."

The body...the one displayed crucifixion style at their feet, with its head cut nearly off. Blair suppressed a shudder at the memory forever burned into his mind's eye. No time for this now! "What else?"

"Deodorant, same scent...laundry soap, something flowery...toothpaste..." The list continued as each smell was identified and filed away.

And so it went. Blair lead Jim through an inspection of the body with each of his senses, cataloging the results and filing them away for later examination.

The carpet under and around the body was their next objective. Blair didn't expect a lot, too many people had come and gone in the small room. He made a mental note to discuss with Captain Banks the importance of giving Ellison first access to a crime scene in the future, before any potential evidence could be contaminated.

A thought occurred to Blair as Ellison searched the carpet, working his away out from with body. Blair had been surprised when they'd arrived, and Ellison had handed him two large rubber bands and told him to put them around his shoes. The detective had gone on the explain that forensics would use the distinctive markings to differentiate between the footprints of personnel who belonged on the scene and those that were there before they'd arrived.

"Jim--" A quick glare from Ellison stopped Blair. Sheesh, this guy was as anal as they came! "Detective Ellison," he amended, "I have an idea. Search the carpet for footprints which don't belong."

Ellison shot him a look like one might give a small child. "Forensics would have already done that, Sandburg."

"Yes, I'm sure they would have, but they don't have your abilities. I told you, Ji--Detective Ellison, you're better than a crime lab. Forensics won't find a footprint in the carpet unless our guy actually had something on his shoes," like blood, "whereas you should be able to find minute impressions in the carpet fibers themselves. Isn't it worth a try?"

"What do I do?" There was a resignation in the voice that Blair knew he would have to address. Later.

"Hmmm..." Blair glanced around to find what he wanted. "Over there, where Captain Banks and that cop are standing. Look at the impressions in the carpet around their feet. Take note of how the carpet fibers are bent. Follow their steps back, and notice how the fibers aren't as crushed further back. They're already beginning to spring back into place, but you can still make out the footsteps if you try. Do you see it?"

As Blair watched, Jim's eyes widened and the pupils dilated fully. This was a marvelous creation of God, doing the work he was intended to do, and Blair was awed to be witness to it. A sentinel at work never failed to amaze and humble him.

"See it?" he gently prodded. When Jim nodded, he said, "Good, okay, now memorize the patterns. Lock them into your mind, and start over here, by the wall. Chances are, you won't find much of use in the high traffic areas. Recognize and discard any print with the mark of the rubber bands. Those belong, and you're looking for the ones that don't belong, the ones without the mark. When you find them, let me know."

Blair let his hand rest lightly on Jim's arm while he worked, watching the sentinel's face carefully for signs of a problem. After several minutes, Jim's eyes stopped their search pattern and narrowed.

"What is it? Did you find something?"

"Maybe." The detective stepped forward, homing in on an area between the coffee table and the couch. "There are two distinctive prints here," he knelt down, waving his hand over the area in question.

"Great." Blair followed, careful to stay behind Jim. "There's no mark on either of them?"

"No...still, may be nothing..."

"Maybe," Blair conceded, knowing how many people could have come and gone in the past 24 hours. "How fresh are they?"

Jim hesitated a minute. "Older than Simon's prints...but judging by the rate the fibers are springing back, I'd guess less than...maybe ten hours."

Blair was stunned. "You can see the fibers actually moving?"

Jim ignored the question. "One is probably a running shoe. There are deep treads on the bottom. The other is smooth, no treads," he pointed to something Blair couldn't see, "but there's a nick here, along the left instep, like a split in the sole...or a gouge. It's not part of the design." He looked up, searching the people in the area until he found the one he wanted. "Sheila!"

The woman crossed the room, a camera in hand. She gave Blair a cursory glance, then addressed Jim. "You got something, Ellison?"

"There're some footprints here," he pointed out the finding. "Get me some pictures, will you?"

Shelia peered closely at the indicated area. "Here? I don't see anything."

"Trust me," Jim said. "Just get the pictures."

"You're the sentinel," Shelia said, shrugging.

Jim continued his search of the area, but came up empty. Blair was content to stay in the background, not wanting to interfere with the sentinel at work. Finally, his search complete, Jim returned to the body and knelt down to examine the man's sneakers. "One of those prints are his. Same size, same tread pattern."

"So the other one is still a possibility," Blair concluded.

"Yeah, maybe. Or maybe this guy had a friend over this morning. Either way, this is a person we'll want to talk to." Jim stood. "I'll have to check the pictures forensics got at the other two crime scenes. If we can match that nick with any footprints we found there, we may have our link. I just wish I had known this trick two weeks ago." He looked up, meeting Blair's gaze. "Good work, Sandburg."

"Oh, hey, man, you did the work. I just...supervised." Embarrassed by the unexpected compliment, Blair deflected the man's attention. "Let's get back to work, Detective. We've got three more senses to go."

Blair rolled over onto his back, staring through the shadows at the ceiling above his bed. His body was exhausted, but his mind was too busy to allow him to fall asleep. A lot had happened in the past few days, a lot had changed, but he had been so busy, he hadn't yet had a chance to process it all.

One of the best changes -- a small smile of pleasure graced Blair's lips in the darkness -- Banks had come through on the room. Blair had a real room, with a real bed, not a pallet made of newspaper-covered cardboard in the corner of an abandoned warehouse on the wrong side of town. This room was warm and dry, and best of all, it smelled clean. There was a little bathroom down the hall where he could bathe whenever he wanted to, with hot water! He had a closet where he could hang his new clothes, and a radio on the little table beside the bed. This, he could get used to.

The thought stopped him mid-stretch. That was a dangerous line of thinking. He couldn't afford to get used to this. The bed, the warmth, the comfort, the room, the job...none of it. It was temporary, he reminded himself. He was set as long as Ellison needed him, but after that...

After that he would return to the warehouse.

Blair finished his stretch, then pulled the soft comforter up to his chin. He should probably go check on the warehouse, make sure no one got any ideas about taking it over while he was away. It wasn't much, but it was home. It was his, and he was prepared to fight to keep it. It had taken too much time and work to make the space livable, and he didn't relish the idea of starting over again. Just to be safe, he'd head down that way on his first day off.

Assuming he would get a day off. He wasn't entirely sure. He'd have to remember to ask Mr. Loomis tomorrow. Blair liked his new boss well enough. The man hadn't been entirely friendly, but neither had he been unfriendly. He hadn't really said much of anything at all to Blair in the past few days, other than to show him what was expected of him on the job. Blair got the feeling that Loomis took exception to him being on his crew, but he also suspected that it had less to do with his status than with the man's resentment of being told whom to hire.

The job wasn't so bad. It was tiring, but only because Blair wasn't in the best physical shape, thanks to a year on the streets. It would get better as he got used to it and as he built up his strength by eating better. He even liked some of the people he worked with. Only one or two had seemed to have a problem working beside a W.O.L.F., and Blair was used to dealing with their kind, so he wasn't really worried.

The best part of it all, Blair decided, as he felt the tug of sleep at last, was working with Jim Ellison. Watching the cop at work was both educational and exciting, and Blair had to admit to a certain amount of pride in helping Jim find a way to connect two of the three murders by matching the footprint found at the third site with one photographed at the second. They now had a clue to work with. Not a big one, but Jim and Simon had both seemed pleased with it.

Blair rubbed absently at the offending mark that graced his right hand, the mark that forbid him to even think of accepting another sentinel, the mark that was his punishment for having the audacity to survive the un-survivable. He'd had long ago given up the hope of ever working with a sentinel again. Now, against all odds, he had been given another chance -- a temporary chance, but one he intended to make the most of while he could. As long as Jim found him useful, he was set, so he'd just have to make sure he was useful for as long as possible.

That might not be as easy as Blair had originally thought. Ellison was doing remarkably well. In just a few short days, the sentinel had mastered the dials and gained a reasonable measure of control over sensory spikes. Blair was surprised, to be truthful. He'd expected that without a bond, any control Jim gained would be erratic at best.

Blair frowned in the darkness, still rubbing the mark. He'd felt the tug of the bond a couple of times, mostly when he and Ellison were absorbed in sensory tests or training sessions. It was agony for Blair, and he could only pray Ellison hadn't felt it as well. The fact that Blair's head was still attached firmly to his shoulders told Blair that he probably hadn't. Even if the implant hadn't precluded it, a bond would have been out of the question. The thought made him a little sad. He knew he no longer had the right to choose, but if he could...if he could choose, Jim Ellison, despite his obvious aversion to Blair, would have been a good choice.

Blair rolled to his side and punched his pillow with a fist. He was going to have to work harder to suppress the pull of the bond. He wasn't going to torture himself with reminders of what he'd given up, not to mention what would happen if Ellison were to pick up on it.

Ellison was going to throw him back to the streets soon enough, and this time, Blair knew, it would be harder. He now had a vivid reminder of what he'd given up, how comfortable life could be. Maybe it was time for a change. He'd been thinking of South America for a while now, drawn not just by its warmer climate, but its possibilities. Maybe he could find an area so remote that the people might never have heard of sentinels and guides, much less a W.O.L.F. Maybe life would be better there. It couldn't be worse, that was for sure.

Blair pulled one of his pillows down to hug tightly to his chest. South America had been an impossible dream before, but now that he had a way to make some money, it wasn't so far-fetched. If he was careful, if he saved every dime, and if he could ride this train as long as possible...maybe, just maybe...

For the first time in a very long time, Blair drifted to sleep with a glimmer of hope.

Jim exited the elevator and turned right, his destination the records department. All he had to do was return the files in his hand, and he was finished for the day. It had been one of those days that seemed to never end. Sandburg had worked with him throughout the morning, repeating the same sensory exercises until Jim had been left with a hammering headache. He'd finally had to forcibly call a halt to the testing, not that it had slowed the kid down. Quite the contrary, it had only made him sneakier. Half the afternoon had passed before Jim realized that Sandburg had manipulated him into several unannounced tests. The kid had seemed much too smug at what he'd pulled. Jim was going to have to be more alert to his tricks in the future.

He was grateful to see the end of this day. All he wanted to do was head home, grab a quick supper, put his feet up and watch the game. Rounding the last corner between him and his goal, Jim ground to a sudden stop. Down the hallway, pushing a mop back and forth across the dirty floor, was Blair Sandburg. Jim wasn't quite sure what motivated him, but he ducked behind an partially opened door before the young man could see him.

The sentinel studied the guide as he worked. It was the first time Jim had actually seen Blair in the process of doing his job. The kid had come a long way from college student with a bright future ahead of him as a venerated guide to...to...this, a glorified janitor.

Hell, Jim tried to reason with himself, it was a far cry from living on the streets. Sandburg should be grateful for the job. At least he was getting fed. In the week he'd been here, he'd probably put on a good five pounds. He was still thin enough to set Jim's teeth on edge every time he looked at him, but at least he was on the right track. And if Joel and Megan had anything to do with it, Blair would be positively obese by Christmas. The two were constantly bringing him pasties, cookies, muffins, you name it. If it was sweet and fattening, it somehow found its way to Jim's desk clearly earmarked for Blair.

Plus, the kid had a decent place to sleep now. Jim had no idea where he'd slept before. Probably a shelter somewhere down on the waterfront. The rooming house Simon had found for him had to be a far sight better than that.

Sandburg had a lot for which to be grateful.

Jim stepped back behind the door as Blair lifted his head, looking down the hall toward Jim's hiding place. For a moment, he held his breath, thinking he'd been spotted. He waited until he again heard the slap of the wet mop against the floor, then leaned around the door to confirm that Sandburg had returned to his work.

If the kid was so much better off now than he'd been a week ago, why did the sight of him doing this kind of work make Jim so uncomfortable that he was hiding behind a door? Maybe because, despite what he was trying to tell himself, he knew this wasn't such a large step up from the street. Maybe because he knew it wasn't much of a bone to throw anyone.

Or maybe he was beginning to feel guilty, knowing this was only temporary, and that he fully intended to send the kid packing just as soon as he was finished with him. Maybe Jim was feeling guilty, knowing he was headed home to a good dinner and a cold beer, while the kid had a full night's work ahead of him. After all, Sandburg had put in nearly as many hours as Jim had today. Maybe Jim was simply embarrassed.

Jim turned and headed back the way he had come. Records would have to wait until morning for these files.

Blair risked lifting his eyes to follow Ellison as he disappeared around the corner. He'd been aware of Jim from the moment the detective had stepped off of the elevator. The initial feelings of exhaustion-tinged contentment emanating from the sentinel had abruptly taken on an ominous air the precise moment he'd rounded the corner and caught sight of his temporary guide mopping the floor. Blair would have to be an idiot not to understand what he was reading from the man. Jim practically reeked of shame and embarrassment.

Dropping his eyes to his work, Blair blinked back his humiliation. Even if he'd been empathically blind, he could've read the frown of distaste on the detective's face as he'd ducked out of sight. It was useless to pretend he wasn't hurt by it, and that just made him angry. He knew full damn well what Jim thought of him. The sentinel was disgusted by him and couldn't wait to be rid of him. So what Jim thought of him shouldn't matter.

Only...for some reason it did.

And if Blair was honest with himself, he could admit why. He'd made the unforgivable mistake of letting down his guard. He was starting to like Detective James Ellison, and that could only lead to more hurt and humiliation, something Blair was not prepared to put himself through.

He increased his pace, slapping the mop hard against the floor as he pushed the lemon-scented suds over the vinyl tiles. He was just going to have to work that much harder to fortify the walls. He'd have to make sure to keep his distance, not let his guard down again. He'd be damned if he'd give anyone, least of all an arrogant sonofabitch like Jim Ellison, that much power over him.

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."

"Tell me you're just as shocked as I am, Jim," Blair requested, his eyes still on the report in his hands. "Please tell me this isn't just another day to you."

He heard Jim's sigh and knew he wasn't going to like the coming answer. "I wish I could, but just because I'm not shocked, doesn't mean I'm not sickened."

Blair was quiet for a minute, considering what he had just read. "It was just a game to him, wasn't it?"

"I'm afraid so. He just wanted to prove he was better, smarter...that he wouldn't make the same mistakes as his television counterparts."

Finally looking up, Blair locked eyes with the detective. "So, just because this sicko wanted to prove he was smarter than fictional murderers on a fictional show, four real people are dead."

Jim's expression remained impassive, but the sadness rolling off of him told another story. "You can't let yourself dwell on the failures, Sandburg. You have to focus on your successes. The victory here is that there won't be a fifth victim. Seth Eldridge won't kill again. Ultimately, that's what counts."

"I know you're right, Jim...I just...I can't stop thinking that four people who should be alive are dead because of this guy's need to prove himself. I just don't understand it."

Jim smiled thinly, the expression this time revealing a bit of his inner sorrow. "I hope you never do, Chief." He pulled the report out of Blair's hands and closed it firmly. "It's over now. Let's leave it to the DA and the shrinks to sort out." He put the folder at the bottom of a stack of similar folders on the corner of his desk. "We've got another hour before quitting time, so let's try get some of this paperwork knocked out."

For the next sixty minutes, Blair concentrated on clearing Jim's desk of the backlog of reports, trying to keep his mind from the depressing thoughts of Seth Eldridge. Jim was right, it couldn't be healthy to concentrate on the four lives they had failed to protect. It was much more productive to think of the countless lives that had been preserved by getting Eldridge off the streets. Easier said than done, Blair realized. He supposed it was a good thing he wouldn't be around much longer. He would never be able to check his emotions at the door.

"That's it, Chief," Jim said, stretching the kinks out of his back. "Let's call it a day."

Blair threw him a grateful grin and tossed his pen onto the desk. "Tell me again, Jim, how did I end up in charge of your paperwork?"

Jim returned the grin. "Because you do it so well. Must be your academic background."

"Or maybe I just have sucker written all over my face." Blair enjoyed the moment of teasing camaraderie. Times like this, he could almost forget who and what he was. Times like these, he was just Blair Sandburg, guide, teacher and almost friend.

"Hey, Ellison!" Brown called loudly as he approached Jim's desk. "Whose turn is it to bring the beer?"

"NOT yours," the black detective's partner replied, right on his heels.

"You wound me, Rafe," Henri said, slapping a hand over his chest in mock pain.

"H, you drink sludge. My dog wouldn't touch that stuff."

"You don't have a dog."

"I did until you fed him that generic crap you call beer." Rafe turned to Jim. "I'll bring the beer. Tell him to bring something else."

"You heard the man, H," Jim chuckled. "Bring something else."

"Just don't blame me if we end up with pork rinds and cheese puffs," Brown grumbled under his breath.

Blair listened to the easy banter between the men with more than a little envy. What he'd give to be "one of the guys." He stood, unobtrusively reached for his coat and edged for the door, embarrassed and a little hurt at being so obviously un-included. He breathed a sigh of relief as he made the elevator without drawing attention.

It would have been nice to be invited, but he couldn't really expect it. Instead, he'd spend his night off alone. Waving to the desk sergeant on duty, he exited the building, and was dismayed to find a misty drizzle had started sometime in the afternoon. He pulled his jacket collar higher, ducked his head, and stepped into the cold December rain.

"Just perfect," he muttered under his breath, as he stepped in yet another puddle of icy water. "Why does it always rain when I'm feeling sorry for myself?"

He managed two blocks before the drizzle became a steady downpour. Shooting a pathetic look heavenward in hopes God might take pity on him, he quickened his step. At least now he knew how he would spend his evening -- a hot shower, followed by Mrs. Hostettler's hot cocoa, a warm blanket and a good book. His landlady had the most amazing collection of historical fiction, and to Blair's delight, she actually insisted he indulge himself. Yeah, sounded like a good plan. Then he could catch up on his sleep. Maybe he'd sleep in tomorrow, go in to the station late. Who would miss him?

A car horn blew, startling him from his thoughts. He looked up and was surprised to see Jim's truck pull along side him.

The detective leaned over and pushed open the passenger door. Blair hesitated only a second before climbing gratefully into the warm truck cab.

"Why'd you leave like that?" Jim asked, turning up the heater and angling the vents toward Blair.

Blair reached his cold fingers toward the nearest heat outlet. "You said we were through for the day."

Jim frowned. "We were, but I had intended to invite you to my place tonight, to join the game."

Blair blinked at Jim. Was he telling the truth? Had he really intended to invite him, or was he just trying to save face? "I thought I'd just make an early night of it."

"Blair, I really was going to invite you."

God, am I that transparent?

"The reason I didn't earlier, is because..." Jim looked away, still frowning. "I didn't want to put you on the spot. I wasn't sure if you could...if you wanted..."

"You weren't sure I couldn't afford to participate," Blair finished with sudden insight.

"You work hard for your pay, and I know you don't spend it frivolously," Jim said, throwing him an awkward half-smile. "I do want you to come. If you want to. It'll be just Rafe, Henri, Simon, and maybe Hank."

Blair thought about it for a minute. He really did want to go, be one of the guys, just for the night. "Okay."

Jim's face lit up in a brilliant smile, and if Blair had questioned his sincerity before, there was no doubt now.

"What can I do?"

"Finish drying off," Jim instructed, "then you can help me set out the snacks."

"Sure." Blair continued to rub at his damp hair with the towel. "You know, Jim, I was thinking..."

"Thanks for the warning."

"Funny." Blair decided his hair was as dry as it was going to get and ducked back into the bathroom to toss the towel at the hamper. He went back into the kitchen, reached past Jim to grab a bag of chips and opened them while he finished his thought. "This is a perfect opportunity to see what you can do. Think about it, man, if you can detect a lie, why can't you use the same process to tell when someone is bluffing?"

Jim groaned. "No way, Chief. We're here to have fun tonight. F-U-N. Fun. If you don't understand the concept, I can explain it to you. No tests."

A knock at the door interrupted Blair's planned reply. "You know, if you had let me run that test yesterday--"

Jim held up his index finger. "Ahnt! Don't start!" The grin he struggled to contain spoiled the effect.

Determined to get the last word, Blair continued under his breath, knowing Jim would hear. "Well, if we had you'd have known someone was approaching, AND..." he raised his voice, "...you'd probably know who it is."

Jim rolled his eyes and headed for the door as a second knock sounded.

Blair continued setting out the snacks as Jim opened the door. Before the detective spoke a word, Blair knew something was wrong. The air in the loft intensified, thickening with a conspicuous tension. Blair moved closer to the door, trying to see who had caused the change of atmosphere. It was an older man, distinguished, well dressed, with an air of authority. He was a stranger to Blair.

"Dad," Jim greeted with a decided lack of enthusiasm as he stepped back to allow the man entrance.

Dad? This man was Jim's father?

"Jimmy," the man returned. He threw a fleeting glance in Blair's direction, appraising him with a disinterested eye, and dismissing him just as quick. Glancing at the snack bowls sitting on the kitchen island, he asked, "Are you expecting company?"

Jim closed the door slowly, taking a few seconds before turning to face the man. "Yes." He didn't elaborate.

This is not a happy relationship, Blair decided. There was definitely a history here, and Blair was curious.

If Mr. Ellison noticed Jim's reticence he kept it to himself. "I'll get to the point then. I want you to reconsider my offer."

Blair didn't miss the nervous glance Jim threw his way.

"My mind is made up, Dad. I don't want to discuss it."

"Jimmy, be reasonable. Just hear me out, son. I've talked to some friends I have at the institute."

The reference grabbed Blair's attention.

"They tell me you're flirting with danger by denying your senses."

Jim entwined his arms over his chest and set his stance. "I'm not denying my senses, I'm denying a need for a guide. I've learned to control them and even use them."

The older man looked surprised. "Use them? That's not possible without a guide."

"I have help." He gestured toward Blair. "This is Blair Sandburg. He's been helping me with my senses. Blair, this is William Ellison. My dad." The last was added with an obvious hesitation.

Blair stepped forward, offering his hand. "It's very nice to meet you, sir."

The older Ellison ignored the greeting and the hand. "Are you a guide, Mr. Sandburg?"

Blair hesitated, not sure how Jim wanted to play this, but the detective's expression gave him no clue. "I used to be."

"Used to be?" William's eyes dropped to Blair's hand, which was still extended, the tattoo clearly visible. "Son of a bitch! He's a W.O.L.F.!"

Blair took a step back from the vehemence and disgust assailing him.

"Damn it, Jimmy, you need a REAL guide, someone who can really help you, not a defective reject like this!"

Jim stepped between Blair and his dad, his fists clenching at his side. "I'm more than content with the arrangement I have with Blair and with what we've accomplished so far. Frankly, Dad, this is none of your business, and I don't see a need to discuss it with you any further."

"Like hell! I'm still your father, which makes your welfare my business."

"Excuse me," Blair interrupted weakly. "I'm, um," he pointed over his shoulder at the bathroom. "I'll be..."

Jim nodded, not taking his eyes from his dad's face.

Blair made a hasty escape into the bathroom and shut the door. For several long minutes, he leaned against the cold wood, working to control his breathing. Between the harsh words from Jim's father and the heavy, dark atmosphere bombarding him, he felt like he was suffocating.

As his breathing slowed, he realized he could still hear the loud voices coming from the other room. He moved away from the door and turned on the water in the sink to drown out the words. If only he could hide from the emotions as easily.

Jim closed the door behind his father with a little more force than was necessary. He quickly turned his attention to the bathroom, extending his hearing as he approached and softly knocked. "Blair?"

The tap in the sink turned off abruptly.

"He's gone," Jim informed the young man.

The door opened after only a slight hesitation, and Jim quickly scanned Blair, taking note of the flushed face, too quick pulse and lowered gaze. "You okay?"

"Sure." Unfortunately the tone didn't back up the assurance.

"I'm sorry about my father. He's--"

"No, hey, man, you don't owe me an apology. It's cool." Blair pushed past Jim into the living room.

"Yes, I do." Jim followed. "There's no excuse for what he said. He just doesn't understand."

"Jim, he's your dad. He's concerned about you, and rightfully so. You're a sentinel with no guide, and he's been led to believe that's a dangerous combination. He just wants what he believes is best for you."

Jim shook his head. "That doesn't excuse what he said, or how he treated you."

Blair shrugged. "I'm a W.O.L.F., Jim. It's a fact I can't change. That's just the way it is. The way it's always going to be."

"That doesn't make it right." Jim found himself strangely angered by the young man's calm acceptance of such offensive behavior.

"Doesn't make it wrong, either. He had a valid point, Jim. I'm not going to be around to help you much longer. You need a guide. A real guide.."

Stung by the words, Jim snapped, "Damn it, Sandburg! You don't know what the hell you're talking about. Stay out of it!" He immediately regretted the outburst as he felt, more than saw, a wall fall into place behind the young man's eyes.

"Sandburg--"

A knock at the door interrupted Jim. He tried to catch Blair's gaze, but the young man turned away. With a frustrated sigh, Jim let his fellow detectives into the room.

The men around the table groaned in sympathy. Hank nearly choked on his beer trying not to laugh.

"Well, hey, man," Henri added, "he took his life in his hands when he ruined that damn pink coat. The poor fool had no idea what he was starting."

Jim shook his head and tossed his pathetic cards down. "I'm out."

"Call," Rafe said, tossing a few more chips into the pot.

Simon followed suit, and then Blair.

Jim studied the young man as the play progressed around the table. Blair seemed to have put the unfortunate incident with Jim's father behind him. He appeared to be relaxed and having a good time. It had been a bit awkward at first, but he'd loosened up as soon as it became apparent no one had a problem with his presence. Jim was pleased to hear much of the easy banter included the youngest member of the group. He was more pleased, though not at all surprised, to see Blair give as good as he got. The young man had a sharp wit and an extraordinary vocabulary.

"Damn it, Sandburg!" Simon growled tossing down his cards as the play ended. "You could let someone else win at least one hand."

Jim watched as Blair pulled the pot to him and began separating the chips into neat stacks.

Hank gathered the cards and began shuffling for another round. "What's your secret, kid?"

Blair looked up, grinning smugly. "I can't tell you, or you wouldn't let me play."

Jim's smile faltered a bit. Blair hadn't sounded entirely like he was joking.

"Well, whatever it is, quit!" Simon snapped with a mock scowl. "You're taking all the fun out of the game."

"Why do you do that, Hairboy?" Henri asked, pointing to the six uneven stacks of chips in front of Blair.

Jim laughed at the new nickname as he studied his cards. Had Hank actually shuffled? This hand looked just like the one he'd had last round. "Yeah, kid, what's up with that?" Hank questioned, throwing a chip into the center of the table.

"I'm keeping everyone's chips separate."

"Why the hell would you do that?" Simon asked, meeting the bet.

Blair waited until the play passed him before responding. "So I can give them back when we're through."

"Give them back?" Jim looked up, sure he'd misunderstood. "Why would you give them back? You won, fair and square."

Blair sucked in his bottom lip as he raised his eyes to meet Jim's. "Um, no, I didn't. Not really."

Play stopped.

"You're cheating?" Henri asked for them all.

"Not really cheating. More like...taking advantage...of a...um, of a..." He looked to Jim for help.

Sudden realization widened Jim's eyes. "Blair's a sensitive." Why hadn't he considered that before?

Five sets of eyes pinned the young man to his chair. He visibly shrank in on himself.

"No shit?" Hank was the first to break the silence. "You can tell what we've got?" He sounded more curious than angry.

"Not really," Blair answered, his tone decidedly nervous. "I don't read minds."

"Then how...?" Rafe wanted to know.

Seeing, or maybe sensing, that no one wanted to string him up, Blair sat up a little straighter and risked meeting the gazes still directed at him. "I, um, can tell when you're really excited about your cards, and when you're not."

Simon slapped his cards on the table. "Well, hell! Why didn't you tell us this before?"

Shrinking again, Blair offered, "I was going to give it all back, honest. I just...I wanted to join the game, and I didn't think you'd let me play if you knew."

"I don't mean the game," Simon clarified. "That's no different than Jim's senses as far as the game is concerned. I mean, why didn't you tell us this?"

Somewhat relieved, Blair almost smiled. "It's not something useful, like what Jim can do. I can't control it."

"Judging by the chips in front of you, I don't know if I believe that."

Blair's eyes dropped to the piles of chips on the table in front of him. "It's different with you guys. I know you, I'm comfortable around you. And your emotions are, well...intense. Probably because of the alcohol."

"Well, hell," Simon repeated, but there was no animosity in the words.

Blair set his cards down carefully. "Is it okay if I still watch?"

The men exchanged looks. Jim, feeling he had correctly read their expressions, answered for them all. "We don't care if you play, Chief."

"Now that we know, we can...I don't know, maybe be more careful," Rafe added.

Henri and Hank nodded agreement.

Blair shook his head. "No, I'll just watch, if it's okay. Honest, I'm fine with it."

Jim studied Blair carefully and, convinced he was telling the truth, smiled. "No problem, Sandburg, but if you're not playing, you've got beer duty."

There was laughing agreement from the other players, and Blair groaned exaggeratedly and headed for the refrigerator, but he couldn't hide his grin of relief.

The streets were nearly deserted, but Jim drove deliberately slow. The night had gone well. Blair seemed to have a good time, and Jim knew he, himself, had. The good feeling he was left with gave him the courage to approach the subject foremost in his mind. He chose his words carefully, knowing he couldn't afford to screw things up.

"Blair," Jim began, casting a sideways glance at his silent passenger. "Things have been going well, don't you think? With my senses, I mean. We've made a lot of progress. A month ago, I had no clue what I was capable of; now look how far I've come."

Jim turned a corner, then risked another glance to his right, looking for something in the young man's face to tell him what was going on in that brilliant, but convoluted mind. There was nothing, and Jim was certain that was deliberate. "All I was after was control," Jim continued, looking for words to fill the uneasy silence, "but you showed me how useful my senses can be. I've opened the box, thanks to you, and I've discovered I don't want to close it again."

There, I've said it! Jim was absurdly pleased with himself for finally admitting, at least to his way of thinking, that he needed the kid. He waited for Blair to respond.

This is it --'Thank you very much, and goodbye.'

Blair turned his head to hide his face, closing his eyes as he felt the life drain out of him. Damn it! It was only a few days until Christmas. Couldn't Jim have waited until after the holiday to kick him out? Couldn't he have found just a little of the spirit of the season?

The night had been so perfect, so nice, and now...adios amigo, and don't let the door knock you in the ass on the way out. Shit! Blair clenched his eyes tight against the burning that filled them. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Well, never let it be said Blair Sandburg doesn't know when to quit.

"I've been thinking of leaving town," Blair said suddenly. He kept his eyes averted, not wanting to see the relief on Jim's face as he let the sentinel off the hook. "Now that you have a handle on your senses, you don't really need me anymore. It's going to be a rough winter, so I was thinking it's a good time to head south, before the cold sets in."

A unexpected tenseness filled the atmosphere, surprising Blair, but he consciously blocked the feeling and continued. All that was important now was retaining as much dignity as he could. "I've been saving my money. I've got enough to get me to Mexico," he lied, "or maybe even Central America. Somewhere warm and sunny."

The truck took the next turn a little too fast, slamming Blair sideways toward the window. He braced himself and cast a quick glance at Jim. The man's jaw was clenched tight and the muscles in his temple were throbbing. He didn't look as pleased as Blair had expected, but that was probably because Blair had beat him to the punch, quit before he could be fired. Maybe Jim had wanted that satisfaction for himself. That little bit of vengeance should have made him feel better, but it didn't.

"I'll, um, need to let Mr. Loomis know, so would it be all right if I hung around until after Christmas? It would give us time to go over a few more things...just to be sure you'll be able to cope."

"I can cope just fine, Sandburg," Jim ground out from between still clenched jaws.

Blair flinched at the tone of the words.

"After Christmas is fine," Jim added after a minute of tense silence.

Blair nodded, biting his lip to stop himself from begging Jim for another chance. He'd had almost two months already, far more than he'd expected at the start. How could he complain?

Jim pulled the truck to the curb in front of Mrs. Hostettler's. Blair climbed out quickly, wanting to get away before his emotions made an ass out of him, further angering Jim. Just as he was about to shut the truck door, Jim called after him.

"Chief..."

Blair stopped. "Yeah?"

Jim looked like he wanted to say something. Blair waited expectantly, but Jim just shook his head, turning his eyes away. "See you tomorrow," he settled for before he put the truck in gear and pulled away with a squeal of tires.

Blair frowned. Why was Jim so angry? He'd gotten what he wanted, hadn't he? Or maybe not... Maybe Blair had misunderstood, jumped the gun. He thought back over the conversation trying to remember Jim's exact words. It had sounded like Jim was about to give him the boot, but what if he was wrong?

Blair sighed, still staring after the truck, though it had long since disappeared. He couldn't start questioning his actions now. It was a done deal, his bridges were burned, and he knew it was for the best. The sentinel needed something more than Blair could give. Jim deserved a real guide, one who could give him a solid foundation, a bond. With Blair out of the picture, it wouldn't take long for him to realize that, then he'd have no choice but to consider a more permanent arrangement.

It would work out, Blair consoled himself as he turned toward the door. He'd get to Mexico...eventually...and Jim would get a real guide. It would work out for everyone.

William waited until the W.O.L.F. was almost to the door before stepping from his car and calling to him. Sandburg turned at the sound of his name, and William was startled to see a soul deep sadness in the blue eyes before it was replaced by surprise.

"Mr. Ellison?"

"We need to talk."

"How...how did you..."

"Find you?" William snorted. Surely this boy wasn't that naïve. "What difference does it matter now?" He moved a few steps closer, until he was only a few feet away. "I have a proposition for you."

To William's surprise, the boy snorted. "That's the line that got me where I am now. You might want to try something more original."

William let the smart remark pass without comment. "This is about Jim." He could tell he had the young man's attention now. "I've been to the institute."

"So you said earlier."

"What I didn't say then was that I've already made arrangements to secure the services of a guide, the best of this year's class." He didn't miss the pained expression that passed quickly over the boy's face.

"Jim isn't interested in bonding."

"Jim doesn't know what's best for him," William responded impatiently. "But he'll come around now that it's a done deal. My problem is you, Mr. Sandburg."

"Me?"

"As long as you're around, Jim is going to use you as a crutch, an excuse to resist my offer. What I need is for you to disappear."

Fear danced briefly across the young face, and William almost felt ashamed of himself. He should have chosen his words more carefully. "Don't misunderstand me, Mr. Sandburg. All I want is for you to leave town, and I'm willing to help you out. Twenty thousand dollars. Right here, right now, if you're gone by tomorrow night."

"W-what? Twenty..."

"Twenty thousand dollars. Enough for you to set yourself up somewhere more...agreeable. All you have to do to get it is disappear."

"You're wasting your money, Mr. Ellison. If you had just waited a few more days, you could have saved yourself the time and trouble."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm leaving anyhow. Jim and I...our deal was never permanent. I was only supposed to hang around long enough to teach him a few things, help him gain a little control. I've already told him I'm leaving right after Christmas."

"After Christmas?" That wouldn't do, William decided. "I want to introduce Jim to his new guide as a Christmas present."

Sandburg shook his head sadly. "I don't think Jim is going to be exactly thrilled, Mr. Ellison, but you know your son better than I do, I'm sure."

"I'm sure. Look, Mr. Sandburg, the deal still stands. I want to give Jim his 'present' tomorrow night. I need for you to gone by then. You leave, the money's yours."

"I don't want your money, sir. I told you, I'm already planning to leave."

"Accelerate your plans, and take the money. Just be gone by tomorrow night."

Silence stretched between them. William prided himself on his ability to read people, and his instincts were telling him to let Mr. Sandburg have a moment. He would accept the deal. How could he refuse?

"All right."

"Good," William nodded smugly. "I'll get you a check--"

"No," Sandburg stopped him, a cold expression on his face. "I want cash. The banks open at nine, bring the money here at nine-thirty."

William nodded, accepting the stipulation. "Done." He started to leave, his mission accomplished, but something in the young man's bearing stopped him.

Sandburg stared at him, the sharp blue eyes seeming to look into his soul. "Jim isn't going to be so easy to convince, you know."

"That's not your problem."

With a nod, Sandburg agreed. "I have a feeling there's a reason he's so adamant about not bonding. Maybe you should try asking him about it, as a father to a son."

Who the hell did this W.O.L.F. think he was, telling him how to manage his own son? "The money will be here tomorrow morning. See to it you keep your end of the bargain." With that William turned on his heel and left. He drove away, leaving the young man standing in the shadows cast by the street lamp.

It had gone bad from word one, Jim decided. Jim's only intention had been to make a permanent offer, and now he had nothing. No, not nothing, he had as much as he had before. More actually. He had all he'd set out to gain. Sandburg had made good on his promise. Jim had control, he had use of his senses, and that was all the kid was obligated to deliver.

Blair had never given Jim any indication whatsoever that he'd be willing to make the deal a permanent one. And yet, Jim had been so certain, so very sure that it would work out. How could he have miscalculated so badly? Had Blair planned to leave town from the start? Had that been his objective from the very beginning? How could Jim have missed it?

What was he going to do now?

He parked his truck in its usual place and dragged himself up to the loft. The evidence of the night was still strewn across the room. He pointedly ignored it, mounting the stairs to his room to undress.

Why did he feel so...so...lost? He'd known Blair Sandburg for less than two months, so why did hearing that the guide was leaving town make him feel as though his heart had been ripped out? Jim couldn't understand his feelings.

He stretched across the bed, not bothering to turn down the covers. Maybe it had been a misunderstanding. Was that wishful thinking? Or had something happened, something to make Blair feel he had to leave? The fight Jim had had with his father? His dad had been incredibly rude, but somehow Jim didn't think that was enough to make Blair feel he had to leave. What else?

The night had seemed smooth enough. Blair had gotten along with the guys, had a good time...or so Jim had thought. Maybe someone had said something to him. He tried to think back over the night, but couldn't remember a time when Blair had been alone with anyone. Besides, the guys all liked Blair. None of them would have said anything.

Jim turned over and punched his pillow into submission. Ultimately, it didn't matter. The choice was Blair's. Jim couldn't make him stay if he was intent on leaving. He didn't have the right to even try.

Did he?

Blair made it through the day with his heart in his throat, certain anyone who looked his way could plainly see his distress. How could they not? But when even Jim seemed not to notice, he concluded his soul was not as visibly mutilated as it felt.

William Ellison was true to his word. The man arrived at precisely nine-thirty to deliver the money. Blair almost reneged on the deal on the spot. Instead, he'd accepted the payoff wordlessly, feeling like the traitor he was. With it, he could finally make his trip south, as far as Chili, or maybe Peru, wherever he could find the anonymity he craved. With it, he would begin a new life, one which did not include sentinels.

Jim would hate him when he discovered the betrayal, and Blair had no doubt he would discover it. The sentinel would never believe Blair had accepted the payoff for any reason other than greed. He would never understand Blair's anguish.

Determined to make the most of his last day with Jim, Blair kept a smile on his face throughout the day. Jim seemed tense, edgy, but Blair blamed it on the late night and the stress of the holiday chaos. The station was incredibly busy, for which Blair was thankful. Though it made the time pass much too quickly, it kept his mind off of the fact that this was the last time he would ever be here -- the last time he would ever see these people.

"Is something wrong, Sandy?"

Blair turned from the coffee machine he'd been contemplating to find Megan watching him, concern in her dark eyes. He forced a smile, hoping it didn't look as pathetic as it felt. "No, of course not. I'm just trying to decide if I want coffee or tea." To prove his point, he lifted the carafe and poured himself a steaming cup of coffee.

Megan seemed to accept the answer. She continued on to the vending machine and procured a chocolate bar. "Afternoon energy break," she explained with a grin.

"Megan..." Blair began. He wanted to tell her goodbye. She was the first person at the station who had been kind to him, and he would never forget her for that act of friendship. But how could he say thank you and good bye in a way that wouldn't give away his plans?

"Blair?"

"I was just thinking how lucky I am to have you for a friend."

She seemed surprised by his candor. He smiled self-consciously.

"It's mutual, Sandy, believe me," she assured him, returning his smile. "Oh, hey, how much money did you get last night?"

Blair's heart dropped into his shoes. How could she know?

"I heard you wiped the floor with the boys. Good for you."

The poker game. Blair laughed in relief. "I should have told them I was a sensitive."

"Why? Serves them right, if you ask me. So, how much did you make?"

"Nothing. I gave it all back."

She pursed her lips and shook her head. "Sandy! Why?"

"I had an unfair advantage. It wasn't fair."

"So did Jim."

"That's what they said. I just didn't feel right about it." And yet you took Mr. Ellison's money. Which is worse?

"Would have been fair if you asked me, but you didn't." She headed for the door, then stopped and turned back. "Oh, I almost forgot. I'm in charge of the refreshments for the Major Crimes Christmas party on Christmas Eve. I wanted to be sure you knew you're expected to be there. It's at five o'clock. Mr. Loomis will let you off for a couple of hours, won't he?"

I'll be long gone. The painful reminder remained unspoken, however. He settled for a lie. "I don't think it will be a problem."

"Great! Well, duty calls."

When she was gone, Blair sank into the closest chair and dropped his head into his hands.

He dried his face on a handful of paper towels, and gave his reflection a cursory glance, not willing to look too deeply into the haunted blue eyes staring back at him. Too many dark secrets exposed. He only hoped no one else knew how to read them. Shedding the dismal thoughts, he stepped out and headed for the bullpen. He wanted to absorb as much of this life as he could in his final sixty minutes.

Jim stood as Blair approached his desk and reached for his jacket. "I'm going to cut out a little early, Chief."

Blair's heart fell into his stomach. He was going to lose his last hour with Jim. He struggled to keep his panic from exposure. "Something up?" He sounded normal enough, didn't he? He must have. Jim wasn't checking him for a fever, but then, Jim seemed preoccupied. Maybe something was wrong. Maybe it was his senses. Maybe he should hang around a little longer...just to make sure Jim was okay.

"I've got to run by my dad's. Something urgent, he said, but then, everything with my dad is urgent."

Blair's heart was no longer in his stomach. It was gone. Destroyed by a few simple words. Shattered into a million tiny shards, and he knew in that moment it could never be reassembled in this lifetime.

Jim was looking at him, saying something, but the words were drowned out by the roaring in his ears. He concentrated on the movement of Jim's lips, forcing himself to clear his mind of all other thought, and the words slowly came into focus.

"...until tomorrow. I'll see you then."

He's leaving now! This is it! It was his last chance to say goodbye. He wasn't ready. He thought he was going to have another hour to figure out how to say it...without saying it. Jim was turning now, leaving. Blair wanted to call after him, stop him, beg him not to go to his father's, but he knew he couldn't. At the very least, he wanted to say goodbye in a way that the sentinel deserved. Before he could find the words, Jim was gone. Blair stood. He resisted the urge to run after Jim, ride the elevator down with him and seize a few more minutes, but he knew that would be a bad idea. Better to make a clean break. Less painful that way.

A nearly silent bark of laughter escaped. Less painful...yeah, right. Nothing was more painful than that moment, knowing Jim was on his way to meet his new guide, and he...he was on his way back to the streets. He had been right all those weeks ago, when he told himself that it would be harder now, having been reminded how life could have gone, but even knowing how painful the ending would be, he wouldn't have passed up the last two months.

It was time to go. He stood and picked up his jacket, giving the room one last look. Two days before Christmas, the bullpen was busy. Shifts would be changing in an hour. Blair let his eyes linger on each new friend, saying a silent goodbye, wishing them well, wishing...

Henri and Rafe, partners, inseparable. You thought of one, you thought of the other, but that's the way it is with partners, Blair had learned. They had accepted Blair, and had had a hand in his overall approval in the department. He owed them for that, and he only wished he could tell them so. He should have taken the time before now. Wasn't that the way it always was? You seldom said what you needed to say to people until it was too late.

Joel Taggart. A big bear of a man with an even bigger heart. He'd been the second to see Blair as more than a W.O.L.F. Joel had seen him as a real person and treated him accordingly. He'd taught Blair that not everyone would judge him by his status. And he'd been responsible for at least ten of the additional pounds Blair was carrying.

He said a silent farewell to Joel and let his eyes move on, saying goodbye to each of the men and women in the room. Megan wasn't here, he realized as he reached the end, but that was okay. He'd had his moment with her earlier.

Last of all, he let his gaze slide to Simon Banks' door. Blair felt bold enough in that instant to finally label this man as a friend. Simon's had been the hardest won acceptance. He'd held his prejudices and preconceptions like a shield, hard pressed to let them go. Blair felt most proud of this friendship, because he'd had to fight the hardest for it. He wished he could thank the man to his face, tell him how much he respected and admired him. He hoped the man would grant him one last favor. Watch out for Jim, Simon.

Before he could change his mind, Blair turned his back on the room. First stop, his locker to claim his meager belongings, then to Mr. Loomis to make his break there. Then...then back to his real home, his warehouse. He'd regroup, make his plans, and by this time next week, if all went well, he'd be somewhere a hell of a lot warmer.

Jim stood at his father's door, reminding himself of all the reasons he hated this house and the memories it held. It always took him a moment to gather his courage when he arrived, to put away his dread. Had his father not sounded so urgent on the phone, he wouldn't be here.

At last, Jim punched the bell, wanting nothing more than to get this over with and go find Blair, and hopefully straighten out whatever had gone wrong between them. The door opened, and a smile of genuine pleasure crossed Jim's face. "Sally! It's good to see you again." The Asian housekeeper who had all but raised Jim was the only bright spot in his infrequent visits to his father's house.

"Jimmy, how are you?" She pulled him into the house and into a hug. Breaking away, she added, "Your father is expecting you. He's in the study."

Jim planted a kiss on the woman's forehead and headed down the hall to his father's study. A quick knock brought an invitation to enter, and he pushed the door open. His father looked up from his seat behind the massive desk, a smile crossing his face to welcome his son, but Jim's attention was drawn to the other occupant in the room.

The stranger stood, and Jim quickly appraised him. Average height and nondescript features were an adequate description of the man, but Jim had a feeling it did not do him justice. Sharp, intelligent brown eyes surveyed Jim calmly. Something in this man's bearing, his expression sent an uneasy chill through the sentinel.

"Jimmy," his dad said, coming around the desk to greet his son, "I want you to meet Darren Scott."

Scott stepped forward with a smile, extending his hand. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Jim. Your father's told me a lot about you, and I must say, I'm impressed."

Jim stared at the man's hand for a brief second, oddly reluctant to take it, but he did. The instant his hand touched Scott's, a strange feeling washed over him. He looked up, surprised to see confusion in the brown eyes. Scott pulled his hand away sharply, breaking the contact, and took a step back, his eyes wide.

Jim rounded on his father. "What in the hell's going on?"

"Scott is a guide, Jim. I've brought the two of you together to see how'd you get along."

Thunderstruck, Jim simply stared at his father. There were no words for the swirl of emotions which flashed through him in that moment.

"Jimmy?"

"How...how could you...?" Jim closed his eyes, trying to calm his fury enough to make a coherent sentence. "You never listen, do you, Dad? Why can't you ever listen?"

William spoke to the guide, his eyes still locked with Jim's. "Darren, would you wait outside for a minute? I need to speak to my son."

Without a word, the guide left the two men, closing the door softly behind him.

"I told you I don't want a guide," Jim hissed furiously, "but you never listen. You do whatever the hell you want, regardless of anyone else's wishes. You always have, and you'll never change."

"Yes, I listened to you, Jimmy," William replied, his voice low and calm. "What I heard was a man who is confused about what is best for him. You obviously know you need help, or you wouldn't have sought out that...that W.O.L.F. Deep down, somewhere inside of you, you know you need a guide."

"I have a guide!" Jim yelled.

"That W.O.L.F. is not a guide!" William shot back. "He will never be a guide. He will never be able to bond--"

"Which is why he's perfect!" Jim stopped, took a calming breath, and lowered his tone. "If you had ever listened to me, Dad, you would know I have no interest in bonding. I - don't - want - to - bond! Not now, not ever. Whatever I have with Blair, it's enough. I've learned more about my senses and my capabilities in the past two months with Blair than I ever did when I was bonded." Horrified by his slip, Jim stopped.

"You...you were bonded? When?"

Jim sighed. It was out now, there was no way to take it back. "When I was in Peru, right after my senses first came online."

"What happened?"

"It..." Jim swallowed hard. "It didn't work out."

"A bond can't be broken," his father pointed out needlessly.

"He died." Jim's tone was resolute. He wasn't going to discuss it further.

"I didn't know, Jimmy. I'm so sorry. I know...I've heard what that does to a sentinel." He shook his head and lifted his eyes. "But you can't let that keep you from another bond, son. You have to see the necessity--"

More tired now than angry, Jim sighed. "Let it go. I'm not going to change my mind."

"Jimmy--"

"Let it go, Dad! What I have with Blair is enough. We'll make it work without a bond."

William was silent for a full minute. "No, you won't. Sandburg is gone."

Jim's head snapped up. "What? Gone...what are you talking about?"

"I paid him to leave town." William straightened, taking a step toward Jim. "Just this morning, I gave him the money to leave town. You want to know what your friendship was worth to him? Twenty thousand dollars. I'd have gladly paid twice, three times that, but it wasn't necessary. He jumped at the chance. He didn't even hesitate to betray your trust in him. Just grabbed the money and never looked back."

"You're lying," Jim accused, but even as he made the accusation, he knew different, and in that moment, he cursed Blair Sandburg for teaching him to detect a lie, and he cursed himself for being more willing to believe his father a liar than to admit Blair could betray him.

"I'm not lying, Jimmy. If you don't believe me, go look. Go see for yourself. He's probably halfway to Canada by now. And after you see, after you find out I'm telling you the truth, you come back and get to know Scott. I think the two of you are perfectly matched. You'll make a great team."

"Go to hell!" Jim spit out heatedly. "Nothing's changed. I don't want a guide." He turned for the door, but was stopped by his father's angry voice.

"I've gone to a lot of trouble and expense to arrange this, Jim. You walk out that door, you refuse this guide, and it's over. Don't bother coming back, ever! I will cut you off! Disown you! You hear me? You'll get nothing! Not one nickel!"

Jim's back stiffened, his shoulder's straightened, but he didn't turn. His voice low, he said, "So be it," and left the room.

Scott was waiting for him in the hallway. Anger washed over Jim, but he forced it down, knowing it wasn't this kid's fault. He was another innocent victim of William Ellison's manipulation. Jim approached the man slowly. "It's nothing personal, Mr. Scott."

"I know. I understand." He looked up, bravely meeting Jim's still simmering gaze. "Look, Detective Ellison, I owe you an apology. I knew the moment we shook hands that a bond between us would be impossible."

"You're a sensitive."

Scott nodded. "I never would have agreed to meet you if I'd known you already had a bond. I'm sorry. No hard feelings?" He extended his hand.

Jim hesitated only briefly, then took the hand.

"Go," Scott said. "Find him. Two bonds in one lifetime are too many for any man to lose."

It wasn't until Jim was in his truck, pulling away from the house that the guide's last statement registered. Two bonds?

The loft was silent and dark when Jim arrived. He didn't bother with the lights; thanks to Blair's teachings, he didn't need them. He headed straight to the refrigerator and got himself a beer, then went to the balcony doors. As he opened the bottle, he let his gaze sweep the scenery. Brightly colored Christmas lights twinkled from a few nearby windows, cars hurried by on the street below, and out on the water, an occasional boat swept by in the darkness. Jim tried to concentrate on these sights, tried to keep his mind from finding the raw memories and nudging them back to life.

It was a hopeless battle.

Blair was gone. No note, no messages, no goodbyes. Just gone.

Jim turned the bottle up and drained it in one long swig, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He thought about another beer, but decided against it. He'd love nothing better than to get rip-roaring drunk, but he had to work tomorrow, and it was already late. He climbed the stairs to his bedroom, undressed in the dark and got into bed.

But he didn't fall asleep. An hour later, his mind was still refusing the give up the fight. Relentlessly, he relived the horror at his dad's, at the station, and then at the rooming house when he realized Blair really was gone. His emotions confused him. He was angry and hurt. Betrayed. Yet, at the same time, he was worried. The anger was understandable, but the concern...Why? Why did he care?

He tried to tell himself that he was glad Blair was gone. God knew he was better off without the added stress of having to deal with the young man. He told himself he could function perfectly well without a guide, bonded or not. It had been his original plan, after all. He would manage. That's what he told himself.

He was still working on believing it.

And then there were the cryptic words Darren Scott had left him with. Two bonds? That couldn't be. The guide was confused. Somehow, he had sensed Jim's previous bond, though it was long dead and gone, and mistaken it for something more. Or maybe he sensed the bond that had tried in vain to manifest between Jim and Blair. That was probably it, Jim decided. Blair had said that the talents of a sensitive were unpredictable, impracticable. Scott had just gotten confused.

The years Jim had spent avoiding guides, avoiding even the mention of a bond, actively fighting to see that it could never again happen, it all came back to haunt him now. It hadn't been the bond which had caused the pain after all, he realized, noting the irony, because the pain now was every bit as deep as it had been all those years ago in Peru.

Christmas Eve. A holiday marked by good cheer, happiness, festivities and rejoicing. Simon shook his head, bemused, as he looked across the bullpen. You'd never know it looking at the gloomy faces out there. You'd think the kid died, rather than left. And he'd only been gone less than twenty-four hours.

Simon let his eyes drift to the gloomiest face in the room, Ellison's. He'd started the day snapping at anyone who made the mistake of getting within ten feet of his desk, but now...now he'd reached the opposite end of the scale. He'd become morose, glum. He'd been staring at the same computer screen for twenty minutes, acknowledging no one. If Simon hadn't seen him move occasionally, he'd have thought him zoned.

So, what was Simon going to do about it? His instincts were to let it ride, hope that time would even things out once more, but Jim was his friend, and he knew his friend was hurting. The man had described the scene at his father's, and Simon had no trouble reading the betrayal in his every move. Yet, he'd also seen something else, something he wasn't sure even Jim himself was aware of. He'd seen a deeper pain, something that went way, way beyond hurt feelings, or even betrayal. This was a pain of loss. A loss so great you couldn't even put a name to it.

All because of a W.O.L.F. A marked guide found living on the streets. He'd come into the department wrecking havoc on them all, yet burrowing under their skin with a tenacity Simon had to admire. Sandburg had made them like him, and he'd done something even worse to Jim Ellison. He'd made the man depend on him. For that, Simon cursed him.

"Simon?"

Snapped from his thoughts, Simon looked up to see Jim at his door. "Jim, come on in."

The detective entered slowly, almost reluctantly, and took a seat.

He looks lost, Simon realized with a start, and he wondered again what there was about Blair Sandburg that could have done damage like this to a man like Jim Ellison.

"Go find him, Jim," Simon said, before Jim could speak whatever was on his mind.

"Excuse me?"

"Sandburg. Go find him."

Jim looked away. "I wish it was that simple, Simon."

"Why isn't it? You miss him, that would be obvious to a blind man. Why don't you simply go find him?"

Jim's expression tightened, the muscles rippling as he clenched and unclenched his jaw. "You know why. I can't...I can't get past the fact he betrayed me. I don't know that I could ever trust him again."

"Jim," Simon sat up and leaned forward, "why is his taking your father's money any more a betrayal than what you were going to do?"

Jim blinked at Simon. "What? How did I betray him?"

"I didn't say you did, but he might have felt that way. Look, Jim, we both made it abundantly clear to the kid from the start that this deal was temporary, that we intended to use him until he'd served his purpose, then throw him back to the streets. Sandburg had no reason to believe anything different, so why shouldn't he have taken the money? Ultimately, he had to look out for himself."

"I did want the deal to change," Jim admitted softly.

"What?"

"I wanted it to change. I planned to ask him to stay, make it permanent. I know we couldn't have a bond, but I didn't see any reason why we couldn't continue on as we were. I didn't..." He stopped, closed his eyes, and Simon could feel the emotion in his next words. "I didn't want him back on the streets."

"But you didn't tell him that?"

Jim shook his head. "I didn't get the chance."

"Ah, damn, Ellison. You certainly make things hard on me, you know it?" Simon stood, moved to the door and stuck his head out into the bullpen. "Connor, Brown, Rafe...my office, now!"

Turning back to Jim, he smiled. "Nice to have friends with investigative skills, isn't it?"

Blair pulled the blankets tighter, fighting a useless battle against the chill. The candle had burned out hours ago -- yesterday maybe? -- but he didn't have the energy to dig out another one. Dark or light, what difference did it make? Actually, the darkness fit his mood better. He could pretend in the darkness. Pretend he was somewhere else, anywhere else. Not Mrs. Hostettler's, though, that was too dangerous. He couldn't let his thoughts return there. Maybe...maybe Mexico...nah, it was too cold. He couldn't pretend that well.

Maybe Paris. He'd been there once, in the winter, so it wasn't that hard to pretend. He closed his eyes, laughing at himself as he did. It was pitch dark, what did it matter? He closed them anyway and tried to conjure up the feelings, sights and sounds of Paris in winter.

What he saw was not Paris though, but rather a crowded, busy room, one well remembered. He tried to chase away the unwanted images, but they remained, determined to torture him with their memories.

Why? Blair cried out, cursing a talent which would torment his soul with such an unwelcome vision. Why this, why now?

Distraught, Blair scanned the image, his eyes going to a familiar and memorable desk, distressed to find it empty. He searched the rest of the room, looking for the one face he most wanted and most dreaded to see. He finally found it, behind the closed blinds of the inner office. He wasn't alone, but Blair ignored the others, his once-but-no-more friends, concentrating on the one he missed most.

The face looked haggard, fatigued, but as Blair watched, it became animated with an anger so strong, it drove Blair back through the link. He snapped his eyes open and sat up with a cry of pure desolation.

No longer comforted by the darkness, his shaking hands dug out a candle and fumbled for a match, striking a light to the waxy stub. For long moments, he sat still in the flickering light, trying to regulate his breathing.

Jim was angry...with him. Blair closed his eyes, fighting tears of anguish. He must know about the money. Somehow Jim knew. The idea devastated Blair. He was disgusted with himself, sickened to know how effortlessly he had betrayed the sentinel.

Twenty thousand dollars. The going price for a soul.

Blair scrambled to his knees, and began digging frantically in his backpack to find the tainted money. He found the envelope and pulled it out -- the evidence of his betrayal, the source of his pain -- and he knew what he had do.

What time was it? He wasn't even sure what day it was. Christmas eve, he thought, but morning or night? He had no idea how long he had laid in the darkness, letting the outside world slide by unnoticed, uncaring.

Blair stuffed the envelop into his jacket pocket, blew out the candle, and left his hideaway.

"That's all I've got, Jim, sorry." Megan Connor sounded as disappointed as Jim felt.

Blair Sandburg had simply disappeared from the face of the planet. The detectives had split into teams and canvassed the area where Blair had originally been picked up. Every resident, every business owner had been interview, interrogated, and they'd turned up nothing. Rafe and Brown were the only team still out, Jim's last hope.

What if they were too late? Blair certainly had the money to leave town, if that was his intention, and Jim had no reason to believe otherwise. But something, some inexplicable sense, told Jim he hadn't. Not yet. There was still time to find him, but Jim knew, by that same enigmatic sense, that it was fast running out.

"Here come Rafe and Brown," Simon said. "Maybe they have good news."

Jim was on his feet in an instant, meeting the two detectives at the door.

"We may have something, but it's not much," Henri said apologetically, as he pull his notebook from his pocket. "We talked to several people who saw him a couple of weeks ago, but nothing recent. Except..." He paused, glancing up from his notes.

"Except what?" Jim demanded.

"A couple of the people we talked to directed us to a blind deli owner on Hamilton Avenue. They said Blair used to do odd jobs for him on occasion. Mr. Coleman, the owner, admitted to knowing Blair and had some really nice things to say about him. Said Blair was around a week or so ago, but that he hasn't seen him since."

"But...?" Simon prodded.

"It was more his attitude than his words," Henri answered. "Once he found out we were cops, he started acting sort of..." He shrugged in his partner's direction.

"Peculiar," Rafe picked up the story. "Like he had a secret he was dying to tell. I don't know, Captain, it's just a sense, but I think he knows more than he's letting on."

"Name?" Jim asked already headed for the door.

"Coleman's Deli, Ron Coleman, 215 Hamilton Avenue," Henri called after him.

William heard the doorbell, but ignored it, knowing Sally would take care of it. A few minutes later, there was a soft knock on his study door. "Come," he called, looking up. To his surprise, the door opened to reveal Blair Sandburg. "You're supposed to be long gone," he accused, standing.

"I'm leaving, but there's something I had to do first." The young man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thick envelope. "I've changed my mind about the money."

"You can't back out of the deal now," William began.

"No." Sandburg closed his eyes for a few seconds and drew in an audible breath. "No, I'm not backing out. I'm still leaving. I just...I don't want your money." He held out the envelope.

William looked at it, but made no move to take it. "What's your game, Mr. Sandburg? It's obvious you need it, and you say you're going to keep your end of the bargain, so why not take it?"

Blair lifted his eyes to meet William's, and the older man was stunned by the intensity of emotion he saw there. "I don't think you would understand, Mr. Ellison. Let's just say, I've found that I do have some principles, after all." With that, he dropped the envelope on the desk and left.

William stood staring after the young man. He'd obviously misjudged the W.O.L.F., but he was at a loss to understand how.

A bell chimed softly over the door as Jim stepped into the deli. A warm waft of scent-laden air welcomed him, reminding him how long it had been since he'd eaten. He ignored his unhappy stomach; that wasn't why he was here. An elderly man behind the counter turned vacant eyes in Jim's direction, a broad smile lighting the deeply lined face.

"Good afternoon. Can I help you?"

Jim moved forward. "Mr. Coleman?"

The man's smile faltered a bit. "You're a cop."

Jim was momentarily taken aback. "Detective Jim Ellison. How did you know?"

"Your voice, Detective. There's something very authoritative about it. I took a guess. How can I help you, Detective Ellison? The vegetable soup is outstanding today, if I do say so myself." He let his hand drop to the counter before him, sliding it down until it rested beside the crock of vegetable soup.

"No...thank you. I'm here for information."

This time the smile faded completely. "If this is about Blair Sandburg, I've already told your colleagues I don't know where he is. I haven't seen him in at least two weeks."

"I know, I just thought..." Jim hesitated.

"You thought what, Detective?"

"I thought maybe you had remembered something else. Something you didn't tell the other detectives. I really need to find him, Mr. Coleman."

The blind man blinked his sightless eyes. "You're him, aren't you? The sentinel. Blair's new sentinel."

"You hear that in my voice, too?" Jim asked only half sarcastically.

"No, but you're telling me just the same," the man replied cryptically.

"I have reason to believe Blair is going to leave town." Jim hesitated, afraid to speak the truth, but more afraid to deny it. "I want him to stay."

"Why would a guide leave his sentinel, especially when he was so happy to have found him?"

"There was a...misunderstanding. I want to fix it, but I can't unless I can find him."

Mr. Coleman moved around the counter to stand before Jim. For several long minutes, the unseeing eyes stared through Jim, seeming to weigh his very soul. "Blair may already be gone," he said finally.

"He's not. I don't know how I know it, but I do."

The old man nodded sagely, as though it was the answer he'd wanted. "I don't know where he lives, I don't think anyone does, but I would imagine that's where you will find him."

Despair filled Jim. "I don't know where to look."

"If you want to find him," Mr. Coleman's voice took on a new tone, sounding both very young and infinitely old at the same time, "all you have to do is follow the bond."

"What?" Jim shook his head, then remembered the old man couldn't see it. "No, you don't understand. We're not bonded. Blair can't...surely you know...he's..."

"Marked? Yes, of course I know."

"Then you know there's no bond."

Coleman smiled the smile of a man who had a secret no one else was privy to. "Follow it, Detective Ellison. You'll see." He turned away, slowly making his way behind the counter again.

Jim stared after him, stunned by the words. Bonded? To Blair? How could that be? And then, all of a sudden, Jim understood! "Son of a..." All this time he had been worried about not bonding with Blair, not being able to bond with Blair, and it was already there! Son of a bitch! It was true! There was a bond! A strong, solid, concrete, forever kind of bond! It explained so much!

"You going to stand there grinning like a fool all day," the old man said, "or are you going to go find your guide?"

Jim looked up, still grinning. "Mr. Coleman, I think maybe you see better than I do."

"Coming from a sentinel, I'll take that as a compliment. Now, go, find your guide, and when you do, you tell him not to forget who makes the best darn tomato soup on the waterfront!"

Jim stood on the sidewalk before Coleman's Deli, trying to figure out his next step. According to Mr. Coleman, all he had to do was follow the bond. If only it were that easy! Jim hadn't even acknowledged the bond until the old man had all but shoved his face in it. How was he supposed to suddenly know how to use it?

Closing his eyes, Jim spent a minute forcibly silencing the voice in his head which called him a fool for finally buying into the mumbo jumbo crap. Once it was quieted, he easily found the still, small voice that had convinced him Blair had not yet left town. He concentrated on that voice, letting it fill his senses. Blair would be proud of his self-discipline, he thought with a small smile.

Satisfied that he was as receptive as he could be, Jim opened his eyes, and turned to his right, knowing without a doubt it was the way to Blair.

Blair leaned his head back against the cold vinyl bus seat and closed his eyes. He felt completely drained. He'd thought now that his decisions were made, he'd be energized, ready to act, but all he wanted was to go home, sleep for a week and wake up to find the past few years had been a nightmare.

Ain't gonna happen.

Releasing a noisy breath that contained all the sadness and misery he felt, Blair turned his head to look out the window. It would be dark soon. Christmas Eve. The streets were packed with last minute shoppers, but soon the crowds would begin to dwindle as the shops closed. The people would soon be hurrying home to be with family, share a hot meal, maybe go to a church service. It was a holy night. A night of peace and meditation, celebration and solemnity. A time for family and friends.

For everyone else.

The holiday and its trappings, its festivities, did not include one Blair Sandburg. He'd given up his right to family and friends.

Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow he would leave Cascade. Tonight, he was tired, and it was Christmas Eve. Tonight he would sleep. Tomorrow was soon enough.

What Jim found sent an almost crippling surge of terror through him. My God! Blair had been living here for...how long? A year? Longer? One day was twenty-four hours too long!

With clenched jaw and fists, Jim surveyed the makeshift home his guide had constructed for himself. Cardboard, Styrofoam and old newspapers lined the walls and floors. A couple of old, threadbare blankets, a box of books, the clothes Jim had bought him not so very long ago... Jim dialed down his hearing, trying to ignore the skittering of bugs, rodents, God knows what else from all around him. The room was not fit for a human to live in, and yet Blair had been living here.

But the one thing Jim had expected, hoped to find, was missing. His guide. Sandburg's things were here, and Jim was confident he had not left town yet, so where was he? Jim was certain Blair would return, eventually. All he could do was wait, so wait he would.

An overwhelming weariness beset Blair's spirit and slowed his steps as he approached the warehouse's hidden entrance. He was beginning to realize the consequences of his actions. His pride had demanded it be done, and for that, he had no regrets, but now...what was he going to do? He had nothing. Or close to it. He had the money he'd been saving from his job, but it didn't amount to much. Certainly not enough get him to Mexico.

Blair moved aside the loose panel, squeezed his way into the darkness of his home, and stopped to think. He knew what he had to do. He'd never make Mexico with the money he had, but he could make it south...maybe to Dallas. He used to have family there -- maybe still did -- but he knew he couldn't approach them so long as he was marked. Oh, they'd probably help him, but it wouldn't be fair to ask. There would be too many repercussions if the word got out. He couldn't do that to family. That left one option. He had to get rid of the mark.

Once the mark was removed, he'd have to leave quickly, before someone found out and reported him. Too many people here knew his status. He ruled out finding someone to remove it, not likely with what little he could pay. Besides, he needed his money to get to Texas.

There was another option, one he'd considered and rejected before. He could burn it off. The idea sickened Blair, but he knew it was the only viable alternative. It was something he could do himself, then lay up here in the warehouse until it healed. He'd have to hide the scar it would surely leave until he was safely away, but once in Texas, he could fabricate a believable story to explain it.

The more he thought about it, the better the plan sounded. He could make it work, he was sure of it. Besides, what choice did he have?

With a definite plan in mind, Blair felt more energized than he had in days. Finally, he was taking charge of his life, acting instead of reacting. He'd do it now, while the adrenaline was running high, before he could change his mind.

Blair made it as far as the door to his storage-room-turned-home before he realized someone was there. He cursed himself for his lapse of caution. How could he be so stupid? He stopped and closed his eyes briefly, searching for the source of the emotions he felt. His room...Shit! My money! Everything he owned in the world was in that room!

Panicked and afraid, but too desperate to give up his only chance at a new life, he approached the door. To his surprise, he felt no danger, no threat emanating from the room. What he did feel surprised him. A deep, almost unbearable sadness, tempered by a growing anticipation... and...fear?

Curious, and not willing to abandon all of his worldly goods to this interloper, he opened the door, cursing himself for his stupidity even as he did.

There, sitting against the back wall with his arms casually draped over his raised knees, looking for all the world like the cat that ate the proverbial canary, was one Detective James Ellison!

Jim forced himself not to move, though it was evident Blair was seriously contemplating turning tail and running. Jim knew that if he moved so much as one muscle, he stood a good chance of spooking him into it. Had the situation not been so desperate, he might have found the young man's dilemma amusing.

Knowing he had one chance, and he had to make it count, Jim began to talk, pitching his voice low in an attempt to calm the frantic creature before him. "You're not an easy person to find."

Blair started at the sound of Jim's voice. "Wh-why would you want to?"

"I've done some thinking, Chief, and I've made some decisions." He waited until Blair looked at him, his eyes locking with Jim's, before continuing. "How would you feel about a permanent job?"

To his surprise a look of panic crossed the troubled face. "I can't...I can't go back to the station, Jim. I'm...leaving...right away, tomorrow. I'm going to Mexico."

"You taught me well, Blair. Did you think it wouldn't work with you?"

"What?"

"Detecting a lie."

"I'm not...I'm not lying," he insisted, not quite meeting Jim's gaze as he said it. "I am going to Mexico...eventually...and then hopefully, on to South America. I'm just not...I can't go right now."

"Why not?" Jim pushed. "If that's what you want, why not go now?"

Blair looked away. "I can't...afford it."

"What about the money my father gave you?"

Blair's head jerked up, his face paling. "How did you find out?" His voice trembled slightly with the question.

"He told me." Jim struggled to keep his tone even, give no hint as to his feelings. He needed to know, from Blair's own mouth, why he took the money.

"So what?" Blair's head lifted, his eyes flashed a challenge. "Why shouldn't I have taken the money? I needed it, and I was leaving anyhow, so I figured I might as well get paid for it."

Jim let his head rest against the wall behind him and chewed his lip for a minute. "You didn't answer my question. Why not use the money to leave, if that's what you want to do."

Blair dropped his eyes, his spirit suddenly seeming to flag. "I gave it back."

Jim had to lean forward to hear the softly spoken admission. He hoped to God he knew the answer to his next question, but he had to ask it anyway. "Why?"

Releasing a weary sigh, Blair slumped to the floor across from Jim. He pulled his knees up, crossed his arms on them and dropped his head down. Jim waited a moment, then moved to sit beside him.

"Why, Blair?" he repeated the question. "Why did you give the money back?'

Without lifting his head, he said, "I couldn't take it. It wasn't right."

"You earned it. You did what my dad wanted." There was no accusation in the words, no anger, only a simple need to understand.

"I didn't do anything I wasn't going to do anyhow. I didn't want his thirty pieces of silver. I couldn't live with myself if I took it."

"You're no Judas, Blair," Jim said, recognizing the biblical reference.

"Aren't I?" Blair lifted his head, looking Jim in the eye. "Why are you here, Jim? You know what I did, but you don't sound angry. So why are you here? Why did you track me down?"

"I told you, I wanted to offer you a permanent job." Careful, Jim warned himself. This was it, his one chance, do or die. There was no room for mistakes or misunderstandings. "As my guide."

"Wh-what...what about the other..." Blair stuttered.

"The other guide?"

Blair nodded. "The real one." Was that bitterness in his voice? Remorse? Or something entirely different?

"He wasn't what I was looking for."

Blair's gaze grew concerned. "Jim, you need a guide. I know you don't see it, but you need a bond. You deserve a real guide who can bond, who can help you use your senses as they were meant to be used."

Jim waited until he was finished, then shook his head gently. "No, Blair, that's not possible. You see, I can't bond with a so-called real guide...because there's already a bond, and I have no desire to break it."

For long minutes, Blair stared at him in confusion. Jim saw the exact moment that the truth sank in.

"No," Blair began shaking his head vehemently. "No, no, Jim, that's not...that can't be...no..."

"Look inside, Blair. Search yourself."

He did, and understanding filled the anxious eyes. "Oh, my God! It's true..." Blair continued shaking his head. "I don't understand. I have an implant...it's not supposed to happen. It can't happen!"

"Obviously, it can, because it has," Jim pointed out.

"But...how?"

"What difference does it make how, so long as it is?" Jim caught the troubled expression and felt his heart skip a beat. "Are you angry about it?"

Blair raised his eyes. For long seconds, he simply stared into Jim's. Jim remained still, waiting for the guide to find what he was looking for. Finally, Blair said, "It's not important how I feel, Jim. You were straight with me from the beginning about how you felt about bonding. You've been so adamant..." A look of horror filled the blue eyes. "I didn't...God, Jim, believe me, I didn't do it on purpose. I had no idea! If I had known it was possible, I would have left a long time ago to keep you from getting stuck with me."

Jim couldn't stand the fear and self-loathing he felt rolling off of his guide. He moved his leg, resting his knee against Blair's, drawing comfort and hoping the connection would relay it in return. It was time to set the record straight. With no qualms or misgivings, Jim began his story.

"I was bonded once. A long time ago. When I was in the military, my unit crashed in Peru. I was the only survivor. To make a long story short, I was taken in by one of the local tribes. My senses began to come online. I was in deep shit. I had absolutely no control at all. I felt like I was losing my mind. If it hadn't been for Incacha, I don't think I would have survived."

"He was your guide?"

Jim nodded. "We bonded immediately. There was no choice. He helped me, taught me, saved my life and my sanity."

"What happened?"

Jim was silent for a long time, remembering more than he wanted to. "He died."

"Oh, God, Jim! I'm so sorry." Blair laid his hand on Jim's arm, and the sentinel felt a surge of comfort run through him.

"When he died, I almost died with him. Losing the bond was the worst pain I've ever known..." He turned to look directly at Blair, wanting him to understand his next words. "...until I thought you'd gone."

Jim paused and took a breath before continuing. "I swore to myself that I'd never bond again, that I'd never give anyone that much power over me. After I was rescued and came back to the States, my senses just...went away. I was ecstatic."

"But they came back."

"Yeah, a few months before I met you. I thought I could suppress them again, but it wasn't working. My father insisted he was going to 'get me a guide.' I was just as insistent that I could manage without one. I thought I could remember enough of what Incacha had taught me to get by, but my control got worse and worse. That's when Simon found you. I decided I could get what I needed from you and be done with it."

Blair snorted derisively, but didn't reply.

"I just want you to understand why I fought the bond so hard, Blair. I want you to know it was nothing personal. I didn't want any guide."

"But now you have one."

"I'm not sorry," Jim assured him. "I wouldn't change it even if I could."

Blair was silent for a minute. "I want the long story one day. I want to know all about Incacha and your time with him."

"I don't remember it all," Jim admitted. "Large parts of that time are still missing."

"You've repressed it because the memory's too painful." He dropped his head, shielding his face with his hair. When he spoke again, his voice was a whisper. "Lucky you."

"Blair?"

"You trusted me with your story."

"Because you have a right to know what you've gotten into," Jim explained.

Blair looked up. "Just as you have a right to know mine."

"No, Blair," Jim said, easily reading the reluctance in his guide. "Not until you're ready. It won't make a difference."

"I'm not ready," Blair said, misery coloring his expression. "I don't think I ever will be, but you have a right to know...because..." He stopped and swallowed hard, his eyes dropping momentarily before he forced them back up to meet Jim's. "Because it's going to change everything. When you hear my story, when you find out who, what I am, you're not going to want me." This time, when his gaze broke away, it didn't return.

"It won't make a difference," Jim repeated adamantly.

Blair stood, pacing as far away as the confined space allowed. "Trust me, Jim, when I say it will."

Jim held his tongue. They could argue all day over whether Blair's secrets would change anything or not, but Jim knew that ultimately the stubborn young man had to make his own decisions.

When Blair finally turned back to face Jim, he could see the guide had made a decision.

"I...I can't, Jim."

Jim stood, but was careful not to move too close. He didn't want Blair to feel trapped in the small room. "It's okay. You don't have to say anything until you're ready."

"I may never be ready," Blair warned.

"That's all right, too."

Confusion narrowed the young man's eyes. "You don't care that I have this...this dark, evil secret, and I'm not going to tell you?"

"Is this a test?" Jim asked. "Do you want me to push you for the story?"

Blair didn't answer, but he held Jim's gaze.

"I'm not going to, Chief. I meant it when I said it doesn't matter."

"And it's perfectly all right with you to know that I can't trust you with my secrets?"

Jim wasn't sure what Blair wanted him to say, but he knew his answer was critical. He hesitated only a moment, before deciding to simply tell the truth. "No, Blair. No, it's not all right with me at all. I wish you felt comfortable enough to tell me. I wish you could trust me. I wish you knew me well enough to know how much I mean it when I say there's nothing, nothing you could say right now that would make a difference. But I can't expect you to give me that much trust. Yet. Be warned, though, Blair, I fully intend to earn your trust, and when I do, I hope you'll reconsider and share your story with me."

Blair stared at him for a full minute before responding. "It doesn't really matter, though, does it? I mean... short of breaking the bond, you're stuck with me."

"Lucky me," Jim smiled, putting as much sincerity into the two words as he could manage.

A short, humorless bark of laughter exploded into the small room. "You might want to reserve judgment on that."

Jim ignored the comment, but held his smile. "You ready to get outta here, Chief?"

Instead of answering, Blair said, "I quit my job at the station."

"Good. No guide of mine is going to scrub toilets."

"I can't afford my room without the job," Blair protested.

"We'll work something else out," Jim promised.

Blair shook his head. "No, you don't understand. I don't have anywhere else to go. I gave up my job and the room. I'll stay here until--"

"Over my dead body!" Jim thundered.

Blair's eyes widened almost comically. "Jim, I've been living here for almost a year."

"It's a rat hole."

"It's my home," Blair said, his tone almost indignant.

"Was," Jim corrected. "It was your home. If there's anything here you can't live without, I suggest you get it now."

Blair stared at him as though he didn't understand the statement.

"Pack," Jim simplified.

"Where am I going?"

"Tonight, my place. After that," Jim shrugged, "we'll figure something out."

"Are you sure you know what you're getting into, Jim?"

"Probably not, although I'm quite sure I've bitten off way more than I can chew. But you know what?" Jim smiled. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

Darkness hung over the loft like a shroud, soft and gentle in its dark intensity, but the inky blackness of the night was no obstacle to the sentinel. He relaxed into the cushions of the couch and let his senses sweep first over his territory, and then out the balcony windows to the stillness of the night beyond. Satisfied that all was as it should be, Jim centered his focus on the small room under the stairs where his guide lay, not yet asleep.

Despite the peculiarity of it, it felt right, having Blair in his territory, knowing he was safe and protected. Jim refused to dwell too deeply on the feeling, content simply to acknowledge it.

Judging by the restless tossing coming from the room, sleep was not coming easily to the guide, so it was no surprise to the sentinel when the young man stumbled from the room out into the darkness of the loft.

"Jim?"

"Over here," Jim called.

Blair made his way hesitantly through the unfamiliar maze of furnishings, using his hands to guide himself through the darkness. Jim waited until he found the chair and slid into it before speaking. "Trouble sleeping?"

"I have a lot on my mind."

"It's been an eventful day."

"Yeah. Can't seem to slow my thoughts down. You, too?"

Jim shook his head, knowing as he did that Blair couldn't see it. "No, not really. Just enjoying the moment."

"The moment?" Blair pulled his bare legs into the chair and wrapped his arms around them. Clad only in boxers and a tee-shirt, he shivered slightly in the coolness of the night air.

"The quiet. The comfort. Head's up," he warned, tossing the afghan from the back of the couch to his guide. It landed neatly in his lap.

"Thanks." Blair spread the coverlet over his legs. "Am I disturbing you?"

"No, there's plenty of peace and quiet to go around." He caught a slight twitching of the younger man's lips and smiled in return, though he knew Blair couldn't see the gesture.

"What time is it?" Blair inquired after a few moments.

"Close to midnight."

"Almost Christmas."

"Yeah."

"Jim..."

Jim waited a few moments, but when Blair didn't continue, he prodded, "Something on your mind, Chief?"

"Yeah." Blair unwound one hand from the afghan to push his hair from his face. "I...um..." He looked up, in the general direction of Jim's face. "I am comfortable with you, Jim."

Jim's eyebrows rose slightly as he tried to decipher the meaning of the incongruent statement.

"What I mean is, I do trust you."

Another smile. "I'm glad to hear that."

Blair closed his eyes for a brief second. When he opened them again, a bright determination lit them. "Jim, I'm going to tell you what happened...w-with my first sentinel."

"Blair, you don't have to--"

"No, Jim, I think I do. I can't say I want to, but I think I need to. I feel I owe you that much."

He stopped again, and this time, Jim let the silence stretch on until Blair was ready to break it.

"I...I don't know where to begin," the young man finally said.

"Simon tried to find out," Jim informed him, hoping to help Blair get started, "but he kept running into brick walls."

Blair nodded knowingly. "They didn't want it known that a guide could break the bond and survive. Can you imagine if that kind of knowledge got out?" Blair stopped, dropping his head to his chest. He didn't speak again for a long time. "I'm sorry. I don't know why this is so hard."

"I know your sentinel died." The pain that crossed his guide's face made Jim regret the words.

"Paul," Blair said. "His name was Paul Dornan. He was my second sentinel, actually. The first...the first one didn't work out. The bonding, I mean. I...refused the bond. There was something about her, something...broken, I think. I knew I couldn't help her. I wasn't her destiny...she wasn't mine. Then came Paul. My Holy Grail...or so I thought." He closed his eyes, his voice dropping to a whisper. "God, how wrong can a man be? How stupid..."

Jim remained silent, allowing Blair to set his own pace.

Finally, the young man opened his eyes and lifted his head. "Paul was a stockbroker. I was disappointed at first. I mean, I'd always thought of sentinels as heroes, larger than life." He grinned shyly in the darkness. "You know, cops, firemen, soldiers -- the warriors of today's society. But a stockbroker?" He laughed. "But I liked Paul, and I figured there was a lot to be said for safety and security, so I allowed the bond. It went well for about three months, and then..."

He dropped his head. "Paul wasn't what he seemed. He wasn't what a sentinel is supposed to be. He wasn't good or honorable or any of the things the sentinels in my dreams had been. He was corrupt. I didn't know at first, and when I found out, I denied it for a long time. By the time I finally had the guts to admit it, it was too late. The bond had already solidified. I resigned myself to the life, trying to stay as ignorant as I could, but the damage was done. There was no trust, no respect between us, and it affected the bond. Over time, Paul became more and more hostile. I think it was the breaking down of the bond that pushed him over the edge."

Jim ground his teeth, his jaw clenching painfully. "He turned that anger on you."

Blair shook his head. "God, how I wish he had!" He stopped, taking several deep breaths, visibly calming, before continuing in a detached monotone. "My mom came for a visit. Paul wanted to meet her, so he invited us to his place for dinner. I had a bad feeling about it, but I told myself that I was overreacting. Paul was crooked, but he was harmless. Besides, I didn't want to have to explain to my mom why I didn't want her to meet my sentinel. I should have listened to my instincts."

With a hard swallow, he went on. "Paul was so amiable at first. My mom liked him. She told me he was a good man." His voice finally broke. "God, Jim! I don't know what happened, but Paul...snapped, he got increasingly antagonistic and argumentative as the night went on. I just wanted to get her away from him, try to salvage something of the night. We were out the door, leaving, but Paul just couldn't let it alone, he had it in his head that I wasn't coming back, that I was walking away from him for good. I wasn't, Jim, I swear I wasn't. I wasn't happy, but I'd made my choice, and I was bound to it. Paul wouldn't listen to reason. He got angry, and he started to push me, nothing overtly abusive, just a, a shove, but...but it wasn't me; somehow it was my mom. I don't know if she got in the way or tried to stop him or what, but the next thing I knew, she was laying at the bottom of the steps and she...there was blood on her head and she wasn't moving..."

"Ah, damn...Blair..." Jim's heart ached for the anguish radiating from his guide. He started to stand, his intention to go to Blair, but the young man pulled back, pushing himself into the chair cushions.

"No, Jim, you don't know...you..." He sucked in a shuddering breath. "There's more. Please, hear me out. I don't remember a lot from the rest of that night. I remember being at the hospital, and being told Naomi was dead. She had died instantly, broken neck, no suffering. That was supposed to make me feel better? I was supposed to find comfort in that?" He sighed. "The cops were there at some point, asking how it happened. Paul told them it was an accident, that she stepped back and fell. They asked me if that was true, and I must have given them some reason to believe it was, because they left.

"It wasn't until the next morning, that I...came back to myself...I guess...I was at Paul's. I don't know how I got there, but the idea made me sick. I knew then that it was over. I couldn't be bonded to Paul anymore. I couldn't, Jim. I'd tried, honest to God I had, but I couldn't do it anymore. I knew the consequences of breaking the bond. At least, I thought I did. I thought...I thought I wouldn't survive it. That's what we'd been told at the institute. That's what I believed, and that was okay. I was okay with it. I wanted it." He closed his eyes, his lashes pushing the brimming tears over the edge. "I had no idea...I didn't know. I didn't..."

"Paul killed himself, didn't he?" Jim knew the answer. He knew what it had felt like when his own bond had been broken, how badly he'd wanted it all to stop. He knew what it would do to him to lose his new bond, his new-found connection with Blair. He had no trouble understanding how Paul Dornan had died.

Blair nodded, not opening his eyes. "It was my fault. I didn't know, but it was still my fault." He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. "I killed my sentinel, and they marked me because of it. Still, I can't find it in me to regret what I did."

"There's no reason why you should," Jim absolved him. "No one is responsible for the choices another makes. Dornan made his choices; he was more to blame than anyone."

"No, Jim, you don't understand. That's not why I told you this. I don't need you to tell me who to blame or not to blame. I have to make you see what kind of person I am, what I'm capable of. You can't be bonded with me. Oh, God, but you don't have a choice anymore, do you? God, Jim, you can't be stuck with me. We have to find a way to fix it--"

Jim did move then. He crossed the short distance, knelt before his guide and grabbed him by his shoulders, forcefully stopping the self-damning words and the impending panic attack. "No, Blair, listen to me! We don't have to fix it, because there's nothing to fix! Nothing's broken, and nothing's going to get broken. Blair, look at me." The young man slowly lifted his eyes to meet Jim's. "We will NOT break this bond, do you understand me?"

Slowly, he nodded, but Jim was not convinced. "Listen to me, Blair. Listen!" When he was sure Blair was complying, he said, "I had already decided I wanted you to stay before I found out about the bond. I had already decided I wanted to make our deal permanent. I had planned to ask you the night of the poker game, when I was taking you home. That's what I was working up to, but I think you misunderstood, didn't you? You thought I was going to ask you to leave, so you beat me to the punch." He saw understanding dawn in his guide's blue eyes. "That's what happened, wasn't it? Jesus, Blair! How could you think that? Don't you know me better than that by now?"

A slow smile taunted the corners of Blair's mouth. "You're not lying to me, Jim? You really did want me to stay? Before the bond?"

Jim smiled back and let go of Blair, sitting back on his heels. "No, not before the bond, because I think it's been there for a long, long time. Hell, maybe almost from the beginning, I don't know. But before I knew about the bond, yes, I really did plan to ask you to stay."

Blair's smile faltered. "It won't be easy, Jim. No one will believe we have a bond...because of the implant. They won't understand."

"Screw 'em! Look, Blair, I'd take that damned mark off in a heartbeat if I could find a way." He raised a hand when Blair opened his mouth, knowing what was coming, "Legally, Chief, so you won't have to live in fear. God knows, I'm not going to give up. If it can be done, we'll find a way."

Blair smiled again, and this time it reached his eyes, lighting up the dark, wet blue, making them seem to almost glow. "I believe you, Jim."

"Good," Jim grinned. "Because I damn well mean it." A soft, distant sound caught Jim's attention, and he cocked his head to listen for a moment.

"What is it?" Blair asked.

"Church bells. It's Christmas, Chief."

"Merry Christmas, Jim."

"Merry Christmas, Blair." Jim stood, brushing off the seat of his pants, then reached a hand down to his guide. Blair hesitated, then took it, letting Jim pull him to his feet. Jim didn't let go of the hand for a long few moments. They stood like that, sentinel and guide, connected in every way that mattered. Finally, Jim said, "Think you can sleep now?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Good." Jim broke the contact and stepped back to allow Blair room to pass. "Tomorrow's going to be a big day."

"Yeah," Blair agreed. "Lots of decisions to make."

"Well, yeah, but that's not what I meant."

Blair looked up, meeting Jim's gaze curiously.

"I was thinking of inviting a few of friends over tomorrow night."

"For a holiday celebration?"

"To introduce them to my new guide."

Blair took a step toward Jim. Slowly, tentatively he lifted his hand and laid it over Jim's heart. "If I'd dared to dream, Jim, if I'd believed even for one minute a bond was possible…" He held Jim's gaze for a moment before finishing. "…you would have been my choice."

Smiling at the soft-spoken confession, the sentinel gave in to his instincts and wrapped his arms around his guide's shoulders, drawing him close. Jim was practical enough to acknowledge that the way wasn't going to be smooth, but together he knew they could accomplish anything.

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