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 ever