He sought the familiarity of the jungle scene, stilling his mind into a receptive calm as he left the loft's living room behind. Breathe in... breathe out... in... out... But the environment that wrapped around his consciousness wasn't the Mesoamerican jungle he'd come to expect. Flickering flames sliced the darkness, intermittently illuminating the movements before the cave wall. Hands moved along the wall, scrawling on the rock with marker, clay, ashes... Palaeolithic drawings, graffiti, initials... They dissolved one into the other back and forth across time. Where am I? No one responded. There was no Incacha here to guide him, no wolf. No half-naked version of himself to question him. The cave was cold, and Blair instinctively turned around to face the warmth of the fire. There he saw a man sitting by the flames. The man was Native American, dressed in deerskins and beating rhythmically on an ancient drum with what looked like a knife made of bone. It seemed oddly familiar, but for the moment, the reason escaped him. The clothing and markings on the drum pointed to a North Eastern tribe, but beyond that, Blair couldn't say. The man's eyes were closed as he banged the drum, fully oblivious to Blair's presence. Incacha would've said something by now. Blair took a step closer, but before he could say anything, the vision was shattered by a sudden wave of sound. "Ellison," Blair heard his partner say shortly after the phone rang. Taking a deep breath, he brought himself out of his meditative state, opening his eyes again onto the otherwise quiet loft. He could guess what the phone call was about, even though Jim was only listening at this point. It had been a busy week, and it wasn't over yet. "Yeah," Jim said. "We'll be right there... Linc's got another one, Chief," he added after hanging up. Blair nodded, rising from the floor. Another one. The third body in little more than a week. He remembered getting a call from Michael Lincoln two days ago. The Homicide detective had been adamant. "You need to see this, Sandburg," he'd said, because according to him, Blair was "good at this esoteric shit." He hadn't explained on the phone. Blair had spent the whole drive over to the crime scene trying to guess, while Jim drove, quietly, letting his partner go on and on. And on. But then Blair had finally run out of ideas and had begun to repeat himself, which was just as well since the drive wasn't long and it had been a late night by then. Now it was the middle of the day and there was a lot more in the way of traffic. "This is really pissing me off," Blair said. "Two victims and the only thing we have to link them together is that damned necklace. But still, something tells me it's not a coincidence. And now there's a third? Is he wearing the exact same necklace, too?" Jim shook his head. "Linc didn't say." "Well, it wouldn't be "another one" without the necklace, would it? That's the reason Lincoln called me in the first place." "Here I thought it was because of your magnetic personality," Jim joked. Blair couldn't help but crack a smile. "It might as well be. I'm stumped. Lots of theories, not a single one that stands out." A look from Jim prompted him to continue. "If the necklace was the reason, then why didn't the killer take it?" "Maybe the necklace wasn't the victim's," Jim suggested. Blair nodded. "Maybe the killer left it there, in which case I understand why Linc called me, but none of it is ringing any bells, man. The victims were shot and I don't recall any shamanic rituals--real or imagined--that involve guns." He frowned, wishing, not for the first time, that he knew more. He had the feeling he was getting in over his head once more and that more people would die before he found the answer. "Maybe it's not that complicated." Blair knew what Jim was getting at. Their last case had left Blair painfully aware of his own inexperience in the role Incacha had given him. Maybe he was seeing more than there was, overcompensating. "Maybe," he said. "Linc's just covering all the bases," Jim said. "You have to admit, it would be quite a coincidence, but he's got to check it out." Detective Lincoln was waiting for them in an alley behind the Denny's downtown. Even though Blair and Jim hadn't been at the first crime scene, Blair knew from Lincoln's reports that it had been nearby. If it was indeed the same killer, he hadn't gone far. The detective most of the department called 'Linc' was a tall man in his mid-30's, lanky, with a wide grin and a wild shock of black hair that conspired to make him look twenty-seven. But he wasn't grinning today. "Ellison, Sandburg," he said by way of greeting, leading them through the loose gathering of uniforms and past the yellow tape. "Serena's already here, but I wanted your opinion as well before they move the body. You two have always been good with crime scenes, everyone says so." "People like to talk," Jim said, staying close to Blair, but letting him take the lead. "I'm actually surprised you didn't make it official sooner," Linc was telling Blair. "You two had the best arrest record in the department and you weren't even a cop!" He was exhibiting another classic Linc attribute: the ability to stretch small talk beyond the boundaries of necessity. "Okay, here we are." The body lay behind an iron dumpster, carelessly sprawled atop the overflow of black plastic bags. Like the other two, it was a young man, no older than 25. The front of his shiny purple shirt had two distinct bullet holes, haloed in blood. The color and style of the shirt caught Blair's attention because it reminded him of the first victim. The second victim had been wearing jeans and a t-shirt, nothing eyecatching, except for the small bone pendant hanging from a black leather thong around his neck. Linc had pointed it out, explaining how the first victim had worn an identical pendant. "They're actually made of deer antler and the markings look Indian to me, but I'm no anthropologist," he had told Blair. Now, Linc knelt by the body and pulled back the collar of the shiny shirt with a gloved hand. With his pinky finger, he lifted the black leather thong, exposing the small antler disc. He lifted his head and gave Jim and Blair a meaningful look. There was little doubt now that the innocuous-seeming piece of jewellery and the murders were somehow connected. Blair stared at the pendant, and for a second he was lost back in his vision, the one he'd pragmatically chosen to ignore on the ride from the loft. The bone knife--maybe antler, he thought now--that the Native man had been using to beat on the drum, had borne similar, though not identical, carvings on it. So close they could've been from the same tribe. Now he understood the sense of vague familiarity he'd felt when he'd seen the knife. Jim eyed the shirt and tight black trousers. "This looks like a night-at-the-club outfit, doesn't it?" he asked. Blair knew why he asked. Linc had confessed certain concerns he'd had about the first body. Concerns that he'd been relieved had, apparently, been disproved by the second one. Linc stood, looking down at the body with a tight expression. "We may have ourselves a hate crime situation here after all," he said grimly. Johnny Smith's leg hurt. It was still healing after that spill he'd taken in the woods. The wound itself, coupled with the burn from having to self-cauterize before he’d finally been rescued, was making him lean heavily on his cane as he hobbled out of Bruce's car and into his house. Bruce Lewis, as faithful as ever, was even seeing Johnny inside to make sure he didn’t fall over on the stoop. Johnny smiled, holding back a chuckle. After all these months, the notion was even funnier than it had been at the beginning. How do you become best friends with your physical therapist without becoming slightly uncomfortable with the therapy itself? It was one thing to be bossed around by--and ignore--an emotionally detached doctor, but a friend? One usually had to listen to friends; friends usually actually cared. A part of Johnny found the concern reassuring, which made the mild discomfort unsettling in an altogether different way. "You want a soda, while you're here?" he offered. Bruce grinned. "Sure, man." He spoke again as Johnny began to hobble towards the kitchen. "Yo, man, just sit down, I'll get it." Bruce was already comfortable enough in Johnny's house to help himself, which was fine by Johnny. His leg was getting better; well enough for him to have been released from the hospital that afternoon, but it was still sore and Johnny wanted to get off it. Aside from the blood loss, hypothermia had been the biggest problem. That he'd survived that night in a frigid cave had been a miracle. In truth, he didn't much care about his injuries. The events surrounding that particular accident were much more fascinating than the injury itself. The new wound would scar, but it would only be one more in an already vast collection. It had been a quiet day so far, blissfully drama-free. He hadn’t seen any of the usual suspects all day, and while he appreciated them all in different ways, they often managed to become sources of stress for Johnny. He wanted the day to end as well as it had begun. He sat down on the couch and put his cane aside. His eyes were immediately drawn to the coffee table, where a small shard of antler lay unassumingly. "Oh, right," he said as he remembered how it had gotten there. He'd brought it with him from the cave almost by accident, clutching it like a lifeline in what he'd thought were his final moments. Bruce must've put it there when he brought in his clothes and got him a new change for the ride home from the hospital. Johnny believed there was nothing more to see in the artifact, no more visions; the shaman's spirit had moved on, so to speak. He carefully leaned over and picked up the eroded antler knife. The vision hit him like a freight train. It felt as if he was slammed into the couch. He didn’t feel the pain in his leg, for in the vision he was lying on a soft bed, staring up into a pair of blue eyes and a face shaped by intense carnal pleasure. Strong arms wrapped around Johnny’s torso, holding him in place. He felt fingers running through his hair and heard whispered sounds of love and sex. And Johnny himself felt the pleasure and pain of arousal, the hard warmth of a strange man within him. But his mind was reeling and the man was moving, caressing him, kissing him, fucking him for Christ’s sake! "Love you so much," the man said, so heartfelt, so fucking intimate. "Love you too," Johnny found himself replying, his hands sliding over the chiseled muscles of a strong, broad back. His lips and tongue tasted skin salty with sweat. "Johnny!" This voice was familiar, but it didn’t pierce the veil right away. When Johnny was finally able to shake it off, he found himself looking at Bruce’s face, a face with an unreadable expression that suddenly cracked a smile. "Man, if I could bottle that and sell it, I’d be a millionaire," Bruce said, though his usual good-natured humor seemed a little forced this time. It took Johnny a second to realize he was no longer holding the knife. It had fallen to the floor and Johnny made no move to retrieve it. The next second, Johnny realized that his reactions to the vision had gone beyond the psychological. There was a very physical, very visible reaction within Johnny’s pants. Johnny chuckled nervously. "Visions don’t come with a warning label," he said, though his voice sounded hoarse, even to himself. Bruce chuckled, putting Johnny at ease enough to set himself to rights as best he could. "As long as it isn’t somebody’s long lost girlfriend again," Bruce teased, handing Johnny a can of soda. "No, it’s not,” Johnny said, shaking his head and trying not to dwell too much on that particular misadventure. It had ended well for everyone involved, except for Johnny Smith. But such is life. "Aha,” Bruce said, nodding thoughtfully. "Well, I was gonna stay and chat, but do you want me to leave you two alone so you can finish?” Johnny had to laugh, which he suspected was Bruce’s intent all along. "Get out of here,” he told Bruce, holding the soda can up in a threatening gesture, as if ready to throw it right at Bruce’s dreadlocked head. Bruce laughed, stepping back, hands up. "Hey man, take it easy, I’m going. Just stay off the leg for the rest of the day, all right?” he said, taking his soda with him as he walked to the door. Johnny was content to do just that. The clock on the wall read 4:13. Johnny told himself that this was perfectly late enough to dress down and sprawl somewhere with a good book. It wasn’t every day that ‘Cleaves Mills’ Very Own Psychic Detective’ got to take the afternoon off, and Johnny was going to take advantage of it. Unfortunately, his body had other ideas. His gaze kept straying to the antler knife. "I need to get out more,” Johnny said, echoing what he imagined Bruce was thinking. But not tonight. Determined to recapture his plans for the evening, he stood up from the couch, carefully stepping over the dropped knife. It took him a few minutes to make it up the stairs, during which time the memory of his vision crept back into his consciousness despite all efforts to prevent it. The very unlikelihood of the events he’d seen confounded him, though he knew that visions were seldom what they seemed at first. He groaned when he realized his mind was already off on another mystery. "I’m on vacation, damn it,” he growled, entering his room and carefully changing into a comfortable pair of sweat pants and an old, faded t-shirt. He lay down and stretched out on his back, staring at the ceiling and trying to clear his head. Ignoring the vision would not make the issue at hand go away, he realized. His boner wouldn’t just go away either, from the looks of it. This was obviously troubling. Johnny’s love life had been complicated enough since waking from his coma and discovering his powers; he didn’t need to bring phantom male lovers into the mix. He’d never thought of himself as a homosexual, not even bisexual. Even though he’d had his share of experiences with the opposite sex, he’d only really loved one person. And while the practical, proper thing to do was to get over Sarah as best as he could and let her have her life, this wasn’t the way to go about it. This wasn’t the way to go about it at all. The very last thing he needed was to be ‘Cleaves Mills’ Very Own Gay Psychic’. He chuckled. He was blowing this whole thing way out of proportion. "It was only a vision, let it go,” he told himself. Right after he did something about that boner, anyway. "One of the waitresses at Denny's called it in," Jim explained back in Captain Banks' office. After a quick stop in forensics, he and Blair had gone up to report on what had happened. It was still officially a Homicide case, but Jim didn't think it would be that way for long. At the very least, it was time for some of that inter-unit cooperation. "But nobody saw anything, nobody heard anything." "You'd think at a restaurant that's open around the clock somebody would've heard two shots," Blair interjected. "So we know the body was actually dumped there. There wasn't enough blood at the scene." Simon had been holding onto his coffee mug for a couple of minutes now without actually taking a drink. It was the flavored kind, hazelnut with vanilla. "So Lincoln called you on Monday because of these Indian necklaces. Now you think this is racially motivated?" Blair shook his head, but Jim beat him to the answer. "Not racially, sir. The victims weren't Native American." "We know the first one was gay and we suspect the others may be," Blair added. "At least the third one." Jim could hear the quiet anger simmering below his partner's voice, a near-subsonic rumble that would explode if not properly released. Jim couldn't blame him for it. He wasn't happy with this new development either. "Why's that?" Simon asked. "The first victim, a--" Blair paused to rifle through the papers on the table, "--Jacob Lennox, age 21, was dressed like he'd spent the night out partying at a club. When Dan examined him with the UV lamp he found one of those stamps they put on your hand with the name of the club, called 'Eros', a popular gay spot. Now I'm willing to bet today's vic will have a stamp too." Simon studied them both calmly, then sighed. "Will you two be able to handle this? You know why I ask." "Simon, you know us better than that," Blair replied. "That's exactly why I ask. The last time you two squared off against an anti-gay group, you forgot your gun, Jim, and you ended up streetfighting with a bunch of college kids!" "Would you've rather he'd shot them?" "That's not what I mean, Sandburg. Can we get on with this? Jim?" Jim nodded. He'd been flipping through Linc's papers as well. "The second victim, Colin Kingsley, 19, sophomore at Rainier. He was found at the park, sitting in his car. He was shot point-blank. With a nine mil, just like Lennox. He probably wasn't at the club because he was too young. Linc talked to his family, but since sexual orientation wasn't apparently an issue back then, he didn't go there." "All right," Simon said. "Work with Lincoln on this one, since he called you. It's still his case. Catching this creep is the number one priority." Jim nodded. "Let's go," he said to Blair, leading him out of the office. When Linc had first called Blair, Jim had let his partner lead, telling himself he shouldn't take over Lincoln's case. Now, though, the case had taken on a more personal dimension and he knew Blair was taking it as personally as he was, if not more. Jim was sure he would hear about it later, once they were alone. Linc was expecting them when they got down to Homicide. "Since we're going to be working together on this, the three of us, I really should fill you in on the details, shouldn't I?" he explained, as he led them to the conference room. Apparently his captain had given him a speech on cooperation as well. "That would work," Jim said, eyeing the blackboard, where a few photographs were taped up. Lines in white chalk connected photographs by links Jim didn't understand yet. Shorthand notes were scattered here and there. Seemed he and Blair would be getting the encore presentation of the briefing. "Coffee? Doughnuts?" Linc offered as the two detectives from Major Crime sat down. He paused at Blair's dubious expression. "Really," he said, pointing at a white box at the far end of the table. "Bavarian crème and chocolate, fresh from this morning. No? Okay." He turned to the chalkboard, letting out a long sigh. "Okay, so, eight days ago we found the body of Jacob Lennox in a parking lot near the Eros club." He tapped the old headshot of a young man with long blond hair; he looked so pretty he was almost feminine as he smiled from beyond the grave. The next few stills were crime scene photographs. One showed the wounds on the young man's chest, framing the antler necklace around his neck, another showed the position of the body next to a parked truck. "Since we found the club connection pretty much right away, I went in to interview the staff. All they could tell me was that they saw him in there every weekend and he didn't seem to have a steady boyfriend because he was always with someone new. One of the bouncers saw him leave at closing time. That's when he fell off the radar and then popped up again when one Mr. Felix Vorhees went to get his truck at around seven that morning. From the splatter on the pavement and the truck, we know he was killed there. It was late enough that a gunshot in that area probably wouldn't have attracted much attention." "But how did he end up there?" Blair asked. "Was he getting his car?" Linc shook his head. "He didn't have a car. The parking lot--" he tapped at another illustration, a map of the area with the club in the center, "--was right on the way between the club and his apartment, so he was probably used to cutting through there." "So the killer either followed him, or knew he would be there," Jim said. "Exactly. There were no signs of a struggle at the Lennox scene. Whoever it was either knew him or Jacob never saw him." He looked uncomfortable for a moment, then cleared his throat. "You know how the press loves to speculate on things it knows nothing about. Even though Lennox was as 'out' as they came, I never wanted to let on that this was a hate crime. I didn't want to be the one to stir up that hornet's nest. So when Kingsley was found I guess I jumped on the fact that he wasn't at the club and that there was no indication that he was gay at all." "Can't blame you, man," Blair said, smiling a bit; there was anger there, but it wasn't directed at Lincoln, it was aimed at the unknown killer and at the world that would spawn such a monster. He turned his attention to the chalkboard, frowning. "We need to figure out where those necklaces came from." Linc shook his head. "Handmade, no serial numbers, no tags. That's why I called you, remember?" He smiled. "Lennox didn't have family in Cascade. I tracked down an aunt in Phoenix, but she said she didn't know anything about anything and sounded almost happy that he was dead." He frowned. "Kept muttering about Satan, at which point I gave up." "That's nice," Blair muttered. Jim shot him a reassuring glance, then Blair turned his attention to the chalkboard. Jim followed his gaze to the enlarged color photographs of the three pendants. He could now see that the carvings on them were similar, but not identical, as if hand-carved by the same artist. "What's that supposed to be?" he asked. Blair stood up and walked over to the photographs, taking a closer look. "Looks like some sort of three-legged creature." "All right, so what do we know?" Jim asked. "About Lennox? Not much," Linc admitted. "No family other than the crazy aunt, no boyfriend, at least no one that stood out from the hordes. He worked at the Hot Topic at the mall and supplemented his income with the odd modeling gig. Kingsley, on the other hand, is just your regular college kid." He pointed at another photograph. Colin Kingsley was young, handsome, but where Lennox was femme, Kingsley was masculine and about as well-groomed as your regular 19-year-old. "Played hockey, B-average student, had lots of friends, standard family of four. He was on his way home from a friend's house, didn't show up at home, mom got worried. Friend's parents say he left their house, in his car, at around ten on Sunday night. No girlfriend, but no mention of a boyfriend either. I didn't come right out and ask, but when I asked if he was seeing anyone, I didn't get any sort of subtext." Jim had been at the second crime scene with Blair. Kingsley's body had been sitting at the wheel, where he'd obviously been shot, in the head, point blank, from somewhere on the passenger side of the car. Kingsley had picked up a passenger at some point between his friend's house and his own. "So we still can't be sure this has anything to do with homophobia," Blair said. "After Lennox, I understand why you'd think so, but Colin wasn't anywhere near the club, and if he was gay he wasn't advertising." "So who's Number Three?" Jim asked. Blair was still by the board, so he took a step back and pointed at the third headshot. Under it, the name was neatly printed in chalk. Ray Manchester. "We're still getting the info on him. But the first thing I asked Dan to check was the hands and he had the Eros stamp, so we can place him at the club sometime last night." "Lennox and Kingsley weren't moved," Jim observed. Linc nodded. "But for some reason, Manchester was." "Maybe the killer's getting nervous. Realized he left too much evidence the first two times, even though he was careful enough not to leave any obvious prints in Kingsley's car," Blair said. "It's possible he wasn't even inside the car. He could've leaned in through the window, pressed the gun against Kingsley's head, bang, before the kid could do anything about it." Linc arched a brow, folding his arms. "That would have to have been pretty quick. Kingsley was an athlete; he had to have good reflexes." "But if he wasn't expecting it, he wouldn't have had time for much more than shock. Especially if he knew the killer or had somehow come to trust him." "Hmm." Linc nodded, thoughtfully. "It's a theory. These guys had to have something more in common." He opened a cardboard filer that had been sitting on one of the chairs and handed Blair a pair of small zipper bags. They contained the first two necklaces. "We really need to find out what these mean and where they came from. We can't rule them out yet. I gotta follow the Manchester trail, reconstruct his last few hours. We'll keep in contact?" He held up his cellphone before stuffing it in his pocket. Blair was still studying the bag in his hand as Jim ushered him out of the room. "So what's going on inside that head of yours?" Jim asked. "I've seen something like this before," Blair said, not looking up from his study of the necklaces even when stepping inside the elevator and punching the button for the parking lot. "I'm just not sure exactly where." "You had this vision after you saw the second crime scene," Jim said, as if for confirmation. Blair had broken through the Sentinel's brief initial reticence to delve into supernatural territory quickly enough; it was not quite routine yet, but the dimension of the strange had gained an unshakable foothold into their lives. Blair nodded. "At first I didn't think it was connected, but when I saw Ray Manchester's necklace, I flashed back to the vision. I remembered why the knife had looked familiar. These necklaces have to be the real thing." He continued to flip through his address book, pressing it down onto the dinner table as it struggled to jump closed. Where was that name? He could've sworn he'd written it down. Flap, flap, flap, page after page with snapping, frustrated movements. "I think seeing the necklace in Kingsley's car triggered something, a connection, but without knowing where it came from..." He trailed off into an incoherent growl as he reached the last page and the address book closed itself triumphantly, lying at a 40 degree angle on the table. He stood up abruptly, pacing away from the table. "I can't believe that people are dying and I'm stuck on a puzzle I can't figure out." Strong hands stopped him, holding onto his upper arms, pulling him close. Blair wrapped his arms around Jim's waist and clung tightly, letting out a shaky sigh. "We'll figure it out," Jim said, stroking Blair's back. "We usually do." We. That sense of partnership inflected in the reassuring statement prompted Blair to tilt his head up and capture his lover's lips in a deep kiss. They would figure it out because together they were better than the sum of their parts. "The necklaces have to be the key, I need them to be. We can't let this be about sexuality," he insisted. "There's enough prejudice in the world already." Jim silenced him with another intense kiss that burned all the way down to his toes. Blair wrapped an arm around Jim's neck, returning the kiss with abandon, fueling it with all the anger and fear the day had left him with. The emotions burned white-hot, consuming themselves within Jim's embrace and leaving him with nothing but a driving need. They stumbled up the stairs, silently agreeing that Linc could fend for himself for an evening. Silently agreeing to not give a damn. They made love quickly, defiantly, as if daring the world to make something of it. Whispered nothings had a cutting edge to them, cries of passion turned to feral growls. Jim's name tumbled from Blair's mouth like a prayer, releasing with it the last of his pent-up anger. He caught his breath against Jim's chest, his mind finally stilled. Long after Jim had dozed off, Blair continued to stare at the ceiling, entranced by the shadows. The light that filtered in from the street seemed to flicker against the dark, painting ghosts of visions Blair had only momentarily shaken off. He closed his eyes but it was no use. He had to do something. The vision was meant to lead him somewhere, and it had something to do with the case. He slipped quietly from the bed and retrieved the two plastic baggies. It wasn't going to let him sleep anyway. He sat on the couch and took the first necklace out, holding it up to the lamplight. It was roughly disc-shaped, a bit more oval on one side. The carvings on it were stained in black, done by a hand purposely unsteady. The design was meant to look rustic. As he stared at it, he could almost hear the beating of a drum. He slid down to the floor and folded his legs, still holding the pendant in his hand. The vision was just beyond his closed eyelids, just a heartbeat away. He wasn't seeking it, the vision was seeking him, pulling him in once he let it. But his heart was so beating fast, he was sure Jim would hear it if he awoke. He concentrated on his breath, slowing it, pacing himself. In... out... in... out... He was in the cave again, the insistent drumming still droning in his ears. It seemed to slow to match his heartbeat and Blair focused on it, stepping closer to the fire and the man sitting by it. Startled, the man stopped beating his drum and stared at Blair. Blair blinked. "Uh... hi." The man stood up, holding onto his antler knife defensively. Seen clearly now by the firelight, Blair could tell it was made from the same sort of material the necklaces were. "Awanigia?" came the question, accompanied by a strange sort of echo, like the voice of a translator dubbed over the existing soundtrack. "Who are you?" "I'm Blair," he said, holding his palms up and hoping the man got the message. "Chi bai?" "No, not a ghost." For a spirit guide, this man almost seemed to fear Blair. It was strange. Hoping not to spook the man further, but desperate for answers, Blair held up the antler pendant he somehow still clutched in his right hand. It caught the man's attention and he moved closer, cautiously peering at the carvings. Then the man gasped, staring at a spot somewhere over Blair's shoulder. He pointed. "Medawlinno!" He looked from Blair to where he was pointing and back, the message implicit in the gestures. Blair turned, not knowing what he would find, then seeing what he never would've expected. A white man stood in the mouth of the cave, wearing a black peacoat and holding onto a silver-headed cane. "Who are you?" Blair asked, but the man simply turned and left the cave. As Blair watched, confused, a grey wolf crossed the cave entrance from left to right, following the blond man. "Wait!" Blair called, taking off at a run, climbing over rocks and dirt, reaching the woods outside. He turned right and tried to catch up to the stranger, but he could see no trace of man or wolf. They'd both disappeared into the forest. The pain in Johnny's leg woke him up as well as any strong cup of coffee. He rolled over towards the nightstand and swallowed two painkillers and the rest of the water in his glass. He rolled again onto his back and sighed, rubbing at his eyes. He'd had strange dreams, even stranger than usual. They fleetingly reminded him of his disastrous date with Dana, which visions of all his friends and family kept interrupting in more than slightly embarrassing ways. He was dealing with his power, but he was still not comfortable with it, or with the attention it got him. He didn't feel like he was in control most of the time. Most of the time all he could do was try to keep one step behind the visions, since it was impossible to be one step ahead. He couldn't outthink his dead zone. Once convinced that he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, he got out of bed and hobbled on through his morning routine. He was pretty certain Sarah would drop by today just to see how he was doing and that Bruce would at least call. He should at least be presentable. Once clean and dressed, he made his way towards the kitchen. He felt like something good for breakfast, pancakes or a big mess of scrambled eggs. He pondered downing a can of Coke and calling Bruce to suggest breakfast at the IHOP. But then he saw it, lying on the living room rug. The antler shard of the shaman's ancient knife. He'd pondered donating it to a museum or something, but it was so decayed that it was barely recognizable as what it was. But he knew he had to do something about it, put it away, hopefully forget all about it for a while. But to do that, he had to get it off the floor. He sat on the couch, careful of his leg, and reached down for the shard. He probably should've had better foresight, but it was too early in the morning for such things and his mind too fuddled with pain medicine and remnants of strange dreams swirling about to give himself pause. His fingers closed around the piece of antler and he was gone again, ripped out of his surrounding reality by another vision. He was kneeling on the floor, his legs no longer in pain. It was loud and dark where he was. At first he was unable to identify the place. All he could really see was the man lying on the floor, the man he was hunched over. The blue-eyed man. The blood on his chest looked black in the gloom, and it was spreading, pooling on the dusty floor. "No!" Johnny cried, gripping at the man's shirt as if trying to pull him back from the hands of death. He could tell now that the noises around him were the screaming of a crowd, but the voices blended together into an unintelligible screeching, like metal grinding on metal. Only one voice stood out from the cacophony, trying to make itself heard above the chaos and even then it faded in and out, letting Johnny only hear a few words. "... ambulance... Cascade Police... officer down, damn it!" Johnny looked back down at the blue-eyed man, choked a sob at the man's still form. "Don't leave me," he begged, his voice raw with agony. Johnny returned to his living room couch, surprised to find a tear slipping from his eye. He wiped at his face and put the antler shard on the end table. This had gone beyond a random tryst seen through the fragile veil of time. This was a warning. Cascade Police... he thought. Cascade. That was in Washington, wasn't it? Not far from Seattle. How does an artifact belonging to a shaman who lived in Maine hundreds of years ago carry visions of a cop in Washington? Johnny knew there was only one way to find out. He also knew that Bruce would never let him go to Cascade, not so soon after being released from the hospital. "What Bruce doesn't know won't hurt me," he muttered as he reached for the phone. Jim woke up to the clackity-clack of a computer keyboard. Groggily, he rolled over and palmed the empty space beside him. Yep, he wasn't imagining the typing. The bed was cold. Blair had been up for hours. Next step was to glance at the clock. It was almost six. "Sandburg, what the hell are you doing?" he called down, sitting up on the edge of the bed. "Sorry, Jim," he heard Blair reply softly, distractedly. "I figured it out." "Figured what out?" Jim asked, starting down the stairs. Might as well get up a few minutes earlier and take a longer shower. He needed it. But first, to find out what Blair was on about. "The necklaces. I know what they are. Well, almost." Jim stopped by the office door and folded his arms, watching Blair. He was typing and scrolling and alt-tabbing furiously, his eyes lit up by something other than the glare of the monitor. It was a vast improvement from the angry, frustrated Blair of the previous evening. "I had another vision," Blair said excitedly, his eyes never leaving the screen. "The Native American man spoke to me this time. At first I didn't know what the words meant but then I did and I remembered them. He didn't say much but I was able to input those words as search terms to see if they matched any known language archived electronically. They did." Jim held up a hand. "Whoa, whoa, hold on there a sec, Bounces-With-Wolves. Breathe. How much coffee have you had?" "Huh? What? Oh, I left you some, it's in the kitchen. You might have to nuke it, though. Better yet, why don't you make us a fresh pot? Thank you." Jim arched a brow, then chuckled faintly to himself. He pondered the wisdom of giving Blair even more caffeine, but decided he really needed some himself. He set the coffee machine up for a fresh pot, then let it brew as he showered. He wanted to know what Blair had found out, but he knew he would rather wait until his partner could provide the explanation in a calm manner. He'd tear him away from the computer and sit him down for breakfast. Eggs and sausage should be enough of a lure. By the time Jim was done puttering about the kitchen, the smells of breakfast had permeated the loft and he could hear Blair's computer-related activities slowing down. Finally, his wayward lover peeked his head out of the office. "Scrambled?" he asked. "Won't know until you come out here and see for yourself," Jim said, turning off the stove and reaching for the coffee pot to pour them each a cup. "We're going to eat and you're going to tell me what that was all about, okay?" Blair nodded. From the look of him, he was beginning to wind down from his rush. Breakfast would help, but it wouldn't go a very long way. Today would be a long day, Jim decided. "Remember how I told you I saw this man in a vision?" Blair began, spooning generous amounts of eggs onto his plate. "The shaman." Jim nodded from where he sat across the table from Blair. He was still taking small sips of his coffee, working his way up to solids. "He's definitely connected to the necklaces, directly or indirectly. They were made by his tribe," Blair announced as if it were the answer to life, the universe, and everything. "And now I know which tribe it is. When he spoke to me I remembered the words. They're from a people called the Abenaki. They're not even recognized as a tribe in the United States anymore. Most of the ones that remained in western Maine and didn't migrate to Canada intermarried, learned to hide in plain sight." "And the necklaces?" "They're not old, so they had to have been made by a current Abenaki artisan. I'm running a search now, see if there are any in or around Cascade. I think we're really onto something here, Jim. There was something else in the vision." Jim leaned his elbows on the table and arched a brow. "I think the man was trying to warn me. A second man appeared, a white man, dressed in modern clothes. The shaman seemed to fear him. The word he called him, if I spelled it right, it translates as both magic, and shaman." Jim sighed. "Another evil shaman?" "I hope not." Blair sobered, picking at his eggs. He shook his head. "But then I saw the Wolf following him." "The shaman?" "Uh, the white guy with the cane." "So they're both shamans?" Blair rubbed at his forehead. "I don't know. Maybe. Maybe it's a good versus evil situation. Maybe it's related to the case somehow." He grumbled and rubbed at a bloodshot eye. "I wish my brain could spit out Polaroids of these visions." "That would help. We would know who to look for. That is, if they exist at all." "At least we have the tribe. It's all a matter of finding them." Jim mulled it over, and nodded. "I'm going to call Linc, tell him to look for any kind of reference to western Maine. Maybe somebody has family there, or has been there recently. Maybe somebody just came from there. There could be something." Blair nodded, standing and beginning to clear the table. "I need a shower. Big time. Oh, and tell Linc we could actually be looking for a Canadian Abenaki, not just Maine." "That ought to narrow it down," Jim said flatly, picking up the phone. "Whaddaya got for me?" Linc asked, as Jim and Blair entered the Homicide conference room a few hours later. Even Blair, in his state of gross sleep-deprivation, thought Detective Lincoln looked every bit his age. Apparently Blair hadn't been the only one not sleeping. All adrenaline had long ago faded from his body and now his bloodstream seemed to be running on nothing but caffeine and sugar, sizzling and popping like an exposed electric wire. Before being offered, Blair opened the doughnut box and took one. Jim dropped a handful of printouts on the table while Blair nibbled on the doughnut. "Not much since we talked on the phone. We've spoken to a few of the Native artists in the area, but none of them work with deer antler and none of them--to their knowledge--have any Abenaki ancestry. Nor did they recognize the design." Linc glanced at Blair. "Are you sure about this Abenaki thing? It sounds a little random, especially since yesterday you had no idea where the necklaces could've come from." Blair cleared his throat. "I had an epiphany." He wasn't about to explain he'd heard the Abenaki language in a vision; the least Linc might do would be laugh at him. "That's some epiphany. If it pans out." Linc smiled tiredly and picked up the printouts, hazel eyes scanning over the list of names and addresses. Some were checked with blue ink. "Okay, let's stick with the facts here." He began to tick them off with his fingers. "Number one: some psycho's going around killing guys who're all wearing these necklaces. That's three for three, that's a definite pattern. Number two: two of the victims were at Eros anything from minutes to hours before they died." He seemed to pause, about to lift a third finger, but he closed his mouth and put the pages down. "Only one of these facts can be coincidental to the murders, and I don't think we can rule either one out yet. But we can't really get anywhere until we do." "It's still possible Kingsley was gay," Jim conceded. Blair frowned. "But it doesn't fit the pattern. If this guy was randomly picking out guys leaving the nightclub, how did he even know Kingsley was gay? If he was." "Maybe Kingsley had been at the club before. Maybe the killer saw him some other night and couldn't get to him then," Jim said. "Now we're grasping at straws," Blair argued, opening himself up for an easy straws vs. visions argument that he knew Jim couldn't take advantage of in front of Lincoln. "So how gay do I look?" The question immediately ended the nascent argument between Jim and Blair. They both turned their heads in unison to see Linc, who'd stripped his torso down to his white undershirt and had put on one of the necklaces. "What?" Blair asked. "Do I look gay?" It was hard to tell which answer Linc was hoping for. Furthermore, it was a ridiculous question. "How does one look gay anyway?" Blair responded. "Lennox looked gay. I mean, he really looked gay," Linc answered. Blair saw Jim roll his eyes. "You want to go to the club and see if he takes the bait," Jim said. "Only way to rule anything out at this point," Linc said. "So, does it work?" He gestured at himself. "The wifebeater look might be a little much," Blair said. "The shirt collar would obscure the pendant," Linc explained. "I have something better at home." "Well, the hair needs work," Jim quipped. Blair smirked. "Nah, I think it's one of those 'it looks disheveled, but it's been structurally engineered that way' haircuts." "One of those metrosexual things?" Jim asked with a laugh. "With all those spiky bits, I think it could double as a defensive weapon," Blair continued. "Guys!" Linc whined as Blair and Jim high-fived each other. "I'm going to need you two there." The Major Crime detectives stopped laughing. "Come on, you two work great together. I'm sure you'd have no problem pretending you're on a date." Blair bit back a chuckle. If only Linc knew they were already well past the dating stage. They'd sort of skipped over it altogether. "None of the other Homicide guys would play ball." Blair frowned, wondering just how unwilling to 'play ball' the other detectives had been. He couldn't let his personal feelings interfere with the case, but he was close enough to it to have to remind himself. "There's a crazy guy in Sex Crimes they say is willing to do anything for a case, but we don't need to bring anyone else in, do we?" "Fine, fine," Jim finally said. "We'll do it." "Thank you, you've been a great help," Blair said into the phone. He hung up and collected the faxed pages from the tray. Leafing through them, he returned to his desk. "Anything good?" Jim asked after a few minutes. Blair paused in his reading, setting the page on the top of the narrow stack. His anthropological connections had paid off, putting him in contact with a professor in New Hampshire who'd studied the Abenaki history. Still, the information Blair had received was anything but conclusive thus far. "According to Dr. Hayes, the symbol is indigenous to the western Maine populations and dates to pre-Columbian times. It's not too common today outside of that area. There you see it in some stone carvings, cave paintings, even the occasional regional post card." He flipped a couple of pages and passed one to Jim; it contained a photocopy of said postcard. The symbol was unmistakable. "Creature with three legs," Jim said. "Old Abenaki myth?" Blair nodded. "Dr. Hayes doesn't have all the details, but the gist of it is that this represents a spirit guide that saved the tribe from a great cataclysm." "Seems pretty obscure," said Jim, giving Blair back the faxed page. "How do three kids end up with an Abenaki spirit guide around their necks all the way in Cascade?" Blair raised a finger. He'd been idly scanning the last few pages as he spoke. "Ah! But that's where this comes in. Hayes says most current Abenaki artisans work with metal. Only a very few work with antler, which narrows the field down considerably, but puts most of it in Maine and Canada." "But none of the victims traveled to either place." "Maybe they didn't have to," Blair said, holding up one of the faxed pages for a moment, then putting it down in favor of the computer. He pulled up a web browser and typed furiously. "You know, it's so typical," Blair was saying, waiting beside Jim before the door of Colin Kingsley's house. "Murder can't just be a simple murder. Theft can never be just simple theft. Is it just me, or is Cascade's criminal element the most creative in America?" Jim gave Blair a knowing nod just as the door finally opened. "Mrs. Kingsley?" he asked, holding out his badge. "I'm Detective Ellison, this is Detective Sandburg. We're with Cascade PD, Major Crime division. May we talk to you for a moment?" Mrs. Kingsley was a short, round woman, who on first impression looked nothing like her athletic son. The dark circles under her eyes were in sharp contrast with her blanched features. She nodded meekly. "Yes, of course. Come in." She wasn't outwardly crying anymore, but Jim could tell she'd done a lot of it, and recently. "Sit down, please." "We'll be quick," Jim said, not wanting to put her through any more undue suffering. "We've been helping Detective Lincoln from Homicide in the investigation of your son's murder," Blair said, taking a seat on the offered couch. "And we believe there may be evidence we can find in his computer, if he had one?" Mrs. Kingsley nodded. "We share one." She moved to the hallway entrance and called into it, "Kaylee, are you using the computer? The detectives here need to see it." "All right, mom," said the unseen Kaylee. Mrs. Kingsley gestured for Jim and Blair. "You can go right ahead, it's the first door here." Blair looked at Jim, who nodded pointedly. Blair knew what to look for, so Jim stayed in the living room with Mrs. Kingsley. "Mrs. Kingsley," he said. "What can you tell me about the friend Colin was visiting that night?" Where she wasn't crying before, now Mrs. Kingsley's eyes were damp, and she sniffled before speaking. "Like I told the other detective that came here. Bobby's a good kid. He and Colin have been best friends since they were little boys. His family's been as devastated as ours." She sighed and dabbed at her eyes with the back of a finger. "I'm sorry, I haven't offered you anything. Would you like some coffee?" Jim shook his head. "Thank you, I'm fine." "Your partner?" "He's had way too much caffeine today already," he joked gently. She almost smiled, but the expression was fleeting. "Bobby's a good boy. The whole family's good, except for that cousin of his that hangs around." She frowned. "Colin used to say 'oh Mom, he's a little off, but he's not too bad. We let him use the Playstation and he's fine.' Well, I don't know." Jim frowned. "What was wrong with him?" She shook her head, wringing her hands together on her lap. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to go off like that. It's really not important. He liked to annoy the other boys. There's one in every clique." Jim was about to ask another question when Blair reappeared in the living room. "We have to talk to Linc," he said quietly, almost Sentinel-soft. "Thank you, Mrs. Kingsley, you've been a great help." Jim stood up, echoing Blair's sentiments with a 'Thank you' and a soft handshake. "We'll let you know if we discover anything," he assured her. He waited until they were already climbing back into the truck before asking Blair what he'd found in the computer. "Colin was either very anal retentive or very lazy. His inbox was still full of old e-mail. I found the receipt for one of the vendors on Dr. Hayes' list. Guess what? It's in Maine." He continued talking as Jim pulled the truck away from the Kingsley house and back towards the station. "So Colin didn't go to Maine, but he ordered the necklace from Maine. He also had a bunch of bookmarks to Native American sites, so I guess he had a bit of an anthropology hobby on the side." "So he wasn't just a jock," Jim said. "How does this fit into the case?" Blair shook his head, frowning faintly. "I called the number on the website, but they wouldn't give me any information over the phone. The receipt in the computer was for only one amulet. It doesn't account for the other two and they wouldn't tell me if they've sold any others in Cascade recently." "So we get them to give us those records," Jim said. "What did Mrs. Kingsley say while I was with the computer?" "Not much. Something about an annoying cousin of Colin's friend." "An annoying cousin? Is that relevant?" "Might be. I'd like to check up on it anyhow. First, we have to tell Simon and Linc about this website." "Here we are, sir. Cascade Police Department," the cabbie said, startling Johnny out of scattered thoughts. "Thank you." He was in the process of paying for the ride when his cellphone rang. He cursed under his breath, knowing who it must be on the line. It would have to wait until he'd pulled himself out of the taxi and was firm on his feet. "Hello?" he finally said into the open mouthpiece as the taxi sped away. "Johnny, where the hell did you go?" It was, of course, Bruce. "Just taking care of a quick errand, Bruce," Johnny said. Well, as quick as a cross-country flight both ways plus the 'errand' itself could be. "I'll be back before you know it." "A quick errand? I told you to stay off the leg!" Johnny was making his way to the entrance, but stopped when something caught his eye at the corner beyond the building. "It's because of that vision, isn't it. You've gone play matchmaker again," Bruce was saying, but Johnny was barely listening. The driver of the truck was the blue-eyed man. "Don't tell me you're in New York again." "No, not New York..." There was another taxi turning the corner and he waved like mad, hoping it wouldn't pass him by. "Bruce, I'm roaming here. Talk to you later," he said, and pocketed the phone. The cab stopped beside him and Johnny got in, pointing at the blue truck. "I have to catch up with them," he told the driver. His only answer was the click of the meter and the sound of a foot hitting the gas. Blair thought that it would be a fluke if Linc's little operation worked. While his gut told him the necklaces were involved, his brain wasn't quite so convinced. Even with the identity of the artist uncovered, they still didn't have a 'smoking gun' so to speak. They'd hoped to have more to show Lincoln before they went into the club. It was not to be; they were left with no option but to go along with the plan. "I'm too old for this," Jim said after paying the entrance fee and getting their hands stamped. They were to go in first, blend in, look for a good vantage point of the bar and settle. The loud music and close quarters made radio communication impractical. They'd have to rely on visual. Blair smiled. "You look good, though." He'd made sure Jim wore that blue shirt that brought out his eyes and made him look five years younger. "I feel like I should be wearing a toga," Jim commented, looking around. Inside and out, Eros lived up to its name. Doric columns flanked the entrance and the name glowed neon above the door in Greek-style font. Inside, more columns, and murals depicting ancient pastoral scenes peopled entirely by well-built naked men. And the music was loud. Blair felt Jim's arm tense slightly in his own and he reached up to stroke it soothingly. "Dial it down," he said. Truth was, he wished he could dial it down as well. The techno was the kind of artless bass thrumming that looped in on itself without any sort of melodic structure. A vague, generic excuse to get up and dance. It made Blair think of stone-age tribal ceremonies held by computer programmers. The bar stood to the left of the entrance, lined in purple and blue neon lights. Beyond it was the dance floor, already packed with writhing bodies that didn't seem to care that the music was dull. The darkness was occasionally pierced by colored lights that reflected off the smoke and mist hanging in the air. Blair winced and looked up at Jim. "You okay?" Jim blinked and looked at Blair. "Uh, yeah." "You said this wasn't going to be a problem," Blair reminded him. But in reality, they hadn't really discussed it in anything other than a quick, offhand manner. They had hoped to be able to avoid this completely. "I'm fine," Jim insisted, leaning close to Blair's ear. "But I'm not going to dance." Blair laughed, leading Jim by the arm to a standing counter that ran along the length of one wall, shielded from the spotlights by a second level overhang. The DJ booth stood directly above them, but there was no place inside the club where they could go to diminish the noise level. Blair was adjusting, Jim would too. "So how do we pretend to be straight men pretending to be gay men?" Jim asked. Blair grinned, sliding an arm around Jim's waist. "Pretend you're trying not to vomit when I do this." He leaned forward and nipped at Jim's earlobe. He felt more than heard Jim chuckle. "We are going to need to focus here, you know." Blair turned and gazed at the entrance. Still no sign of Linc. The Homicide detective was still outside, waiting. Watching. Blair had been a bit worried when he saw the crowd that was gathered in front of Eros. It seemed mingling outside was as popular as congregating on the inside. He knew there were officers in plainclothes posted outside near the exits and backup was nearby, so if anything went wrong they would know. But he couldn't help but think that while on the inside, he and Jim were completely cut off. He hadn't forgotten why they were there. While waiting for Linc, he scanned the crowd as best he could, looking for a face that stood out. But what does hate look like? How calculating was this killer; would he pretend to be the very thing he hates in order to destroy it? Blair glanced at the entrance again and caught Linc's arrival. He'd certainly figured out how to dress the part, with painted-on black jeans and a matching muscle shirt. Linc was lean, but had enough solid mass to pull it off. As he approached the bar, the Abenaki pendant stood out from the black fabric. As to the hair, Blair was convinced there wasn't any taming it. Bobbing his head to the beat as if he truly enjoyed it--and at this point, Blair wouldn't be surprised if he did--Linc reached the bar and sat on a vacant stool. He immediately ordered something. Blair turned away for a moment. Even in the gloom, staring wouldn't be a good idea. The beat, as annoying as it was, kept making him need to tap his foot on the floor. Or maybe it was just nerves. He propped his elbows back up on the narrow counter, and turned to Jim. "How are you doing?" "Fine," Jim said, staring intently in the direction of the bar. "He's chitchatting with the man next to him, but that's it." Blair smiled. "Are you hearing that, or are you just watching?" The bar was the only well-lit area of the club and Linc was clearly outlined in the pale blue and purple glow. "Once I pushed the noise to the background, I was able to focus on Linc." Linc had turned his back to the counter, beer in hand. Nobody would be able to miss the pendant then, but as Linc watched the dancing and bobbed his head in time, the gesture didn't seem contrived. Good job. "I'm going to get us some drinks, let him know we've seen him," Blair said to Jim, then made his way across the relatively empty space between the wall and the bar, dodging a column and a few patrons who'd gathered to chat in the vicinity of the bar. He squeezed himself up to the bar close to Lincoln and ordered two beers. He glanced casually at the other detective and received a quick wink in response. Okay, everything's going well. It's all in place, he told himself as he returned to Jim with the two beers, which would remain nearly untouched all night. Detective Michael Lincoln had never been to a gay club before, but after an hour or so on the inside he concluded it really wasn't all that different from a straight club, except for the decidedly askew male to female ratio. Aside from the small issue of incompatible plumbing--or rather, the preferences thereof--he was having no trouble getting people to talk to him. Which, in itself, posed a problem. He had no way of knowing which men approached him because of the necklace, and which because of his appearance or simply the fact that he was alone, and which because they hated everything he pretended to be and wanted to kill him. Maybe he should have dressed differently. "You're new," someone beside him said, someone who'd suddenly leaned in very close. When Linc looked, it wasn't the same guy he'd been chatting with a moment ago. This guy was younger, dressed more casually than most. "Yeah," Linc said, smirking and nodding, avoiding looking the stranger in the eye just yet. "I might just leave, though." He turned the smirk into a bit of a pout. "Been stood up." The stranger frowned, a glint of something dark in his brown eyes. "Idiot, whoever he is." The words seemed to ring hollow, though Linc was no psychic and he wouldn't pretend to know what this kid was thinking. "Thanks," he said, idly scanning the crowd, relaxing some when he saw Sandburg and Ellison standing within sight, talking to each other and looking very much like just another couple out for a fun night. They're good at that. "I think he's lured our fish," Jim told Blair, keeping one eye on the bar. Linc retained a relaxed posture, stiffening almost imperceptibly when the stranger reached up to touch the pendant with obvious interest. "This is pretty," the young man was saying, leaning very close to Linc, who was trying his best not to look uncomfortable. "Boyfriend give it to you?" The best Linc could do was nod and give a faint "M-hm." "He's losing it out there," Jim said, frowning. There was a lump under the young man's t-shirt, something vaguely disc-shaped. It wouldn't be... Just then, a sonic explosion cut through Jim's careful control over his hearing and shocked him out of the conversation, disorienting him. His hands flew reflexively to his ears. Only Blair's hand on his back kept him grounded, but then that was also inexplicably gone. The music died, leaving only the fire alarm and the startled shouts of the crowd. Panic rippled through the crowd like a wave, carried by the rising voices and crashing into the exit as everyone tried to leave at once. Jim quelled a momentary surge of panic as he pictured Blair caught in the torrent of humanity, and moved forward, pushing his way through the throng, approaching the bar where he still saw Lincoln, now standing, and looking about as unhappy as Jim felt. "What the hell just happened?" Linc asked when he saw Jim. "Did you see Sandburg?" "I thought he was with you. Damn it, I lost my suspect!" Jim didn't mention that Linc had been about to lose his nerve--and his suspect--in a few moments anyway. The ambient lights quit, plunging the club into total darkness, frightening the already nervous patrons even more before the emergency lights kicked in. Jim was going to have to talk to somebody about that little problem. Right after he caught the joker who tripped the alarm. "Jim!" he heard Blair call from somewhere beyond the crowd. Fortunately, the exits were clear and movement had resumed after the initial startled pause. Jim knew there was no fire, but it was best to let everyone follow proper procedure, get the civilians out of the way and try to find out what the hell was going on. Finally he had a clear view of his partner, who had apparently been way ahead of him. He'd detained a man and was holding him away from the crowds, waiting for the club to empty. It wasn't the young man who'd been coming onto Linc. This man was older, blond, and he was staring straight at Jim with wide blue eyes. Jim could hear the man's frightened heartbeat as it picked up the pace. "Sandburg?" Jim asked as he stepped closer, fully in stern mode. That's when he noticed that in his free hand, Blair was holding a silver-headed cane. "This is the same man you saw?" Jim asked, even though that was just what Blair had said. "I know I can't prove it, Jim, but yes, it's him. And I know we can't connect him to the murders without hard evidence and I'm not asking us to." He watched the detainee through the one-way glass. Linc had just stepped into the interrogation room and was moving purposefully towards the table. "He pulled that alarm for a reason." "Okay, John Smith, if that is indeed your real name," Linc said, pulling up a chair and sitting across the table, off a bit to the side, giving the detectives in the observation room a clear view of the suspect. "Why'd you do it?" "Why did I do what?" Smith asked. He was resting his elbows on the table and was leaning forward on them slightly, looking Lincoln in the eye. "Smooth," Jim commented. Blair folded his arms and watched, the dream vision of Smith running like a continuous loop at the back of his mind. The wolf had followed Smith. But to where? Why? "Detective Sandburg saw you hobbling away from the alarm as soon as it went off," Linc supplied. "There was nobody else around." Blair saw Smith sigh. "One of your detectives was going to get shot. I had to get you out of there." "Get shot, you say?" Linc asked, voice thick with skepticism. "Who would that be?" "It doesn't matter," Smith said. "I'm sorry I ruined your stakeout, but would you have believed me if I'd just walked up to you and told you to leave?" Blair frowned. "Linc was going to get shot?" The plan had been to draw out the killer, but they were supposed to be able to catch the guy before anyone got hurt. That's why Linc was the decoy and why he was supposed to draw the suspect away from the club. "No," Jim said. "It's not Linc. I'm pretty sure it was supposed to be me." "You?" "He reacted strongly when he saw me at the club. I didn't think anything of it then..." "But how would he know that?" "How did you know he was involved?" Jim had him there. Blair turned away and watched the interrogation instead. "So if, as you say, you were just being a good Samaritan, how did you know somebody was going to get shot?" Linc asked, leaning back on the chair as if bored. "Look, call the Cleaves Mills Sheriff's Office. That's in Bangor, Maine. Talk to Sheriff Walt Bannerman. He'll vouch for me." "Did he say Maine?" Blair asked, eyes wide. "I'm sure he will," Linc said to Smith. Jim turned on the intercom, speaking remotely to Linc's earpiece. "Let me take a crack at him." "In fact, I will do that right now," Linc said to Smith and looked at his watch. "It'll be about five in the morning over there, right? I'm sure your Sheriff will appreciate the wake-up call." "All yours," Linc said, entering the observation room. Jim waited a couple of minutes, watching Smith through the glass. The man seemed nervous, but controlled, just waiting. Finally Jim decided to put him out of his misery and walk in. Smith seemed more startled by his entrance than he'd been by Linc's. He swallowed thickly and stared at Jim, his heart rate once again picking up speed for a moment before being consciously forced to slow. Jim sat on Linc's vacant chair and folded his hands on the table. He smiled at Smith, which only seemed to make the man nervous all over again. "How did you know? How did you even know where we were?" Smith paused to take a deep breath. He was avoiding eye contact. "I'm actually not exactly sure," he said, seeming to surprise himself by the statement. "I know that I see things that will happen unless I do something to change it. As for knowing where you were... I was going to approach through the PD, but I saw you leaving. I had my cab follow you. I was working up the nerve to go knocking on your door when you and your partner came back out, dressed like you were in my vision. So I followed you to the club. It took me forever to get in." You're getting that, Chief? Jim thought, arching a brow at Smith and nodding noncommittally. "So he's either psychic or psycho," he could hear Linc commenting, hidden behind the mirror. "Or he's a prankster trying to build up an insanity defense now that he's been caught." "And you saw me get shot," Jim said. Smith nodded. "And activating the fire alarm in a club full of people was the best way to prevent this vision from happening." "We've dealt with psychics before," Blair told Linc. "This guy could be for real." Jim knew Blair was already biased in favor of John Smith, or at least believed in the man's abilities. Jim just knew the man was hiding something. Johnny could handle the skepticism. He was used to it by now. What he wasn't handling too well was being there in the presence of the man he'd found himself unwillingly fantasizing about for the past two days. "It may not have been the best, but it's all I could come up with at the time," he replied, not about to admit that he'd hoped to avoid meeting the detective altogether. But now they had him and God only knew how long they'd hold him. He seemed to have stumbled into some sort of investigation and he was probably a suspect now. Walt will clear this up, he hoped. "So you 'see' things," Ellison said. "How exactly does this happen?" He could tell the man was humoring him, getting him to talk to see if he gave away anything. Well, the only thing Johnny had to give was the truth. "Six years ago I was in an accident. I was in a coma," he began. "I came out of it only a few months ago and that's when the visions started. The doctors said that during my coma, a section of the brain usually dormant became active, in order to work around the damage. But it also lets me have these visions." "And the gloves are part of your schtick?" "No, no. There's no schtick. No gimmick. Look, we all have this dead zone. But mine isn't dead. If your partner talks to Sheriff Bannerman he'll know all this. I wear the gloves because touch initiates the visions." He felt naked without them now, but he resisted the urge to pull them back on. He also resisted the perverse urge to reach across the table and touch Detective Ellison's arm. "Touch?" Ellison asked. "So if you were to touch me, you would see my future?" "Or your past. I can't control it. Sometimes I don't see anything." "But I've never seen you before in my life. You didn't touch me to have this vision about me." Johnny had decided on honesty, and while he would not admit to his first vision, he could be honest enough to explain how he'd come across it. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the antler shard, placing it on the table. "It happened when I touched that." Blair stepped closer to the glass when he saw the shard. While it was much eroded, he knew it was the same knife. What else could the connection be if not that? He left the observation room and opened the door on the interrogation. "Jim, Linc wants to talk to you," he said, mentally willing Jim to take the bait. Jim did, though he arched a brow at Blair questioningly. "I'll take over here," Blair said helpfully, stepping into the room and letting Jim through the door. Johnny Smith sat quietly, watching the exchange with unveiled interest. Blair moved cautiously to the table, aware of Smith's eyes following his progress. The antler shard was still on the table, reflecting the light as if to draw attention to itself. That's silly, it's not sentient, Blair told himself, sitting on Jim's vacated chair. For an instant, the atmosphere seemed to say 'Mexican standoff', as the two men watched each other across the table. When they spoke, it was almost in unison. Blair with curiosity, Johnny with surprise. "You--" "It's you!" And perhaps relief. "I'm sorry," Johnny said quietly, looking down at the shard. "Where'd you get this?" Blair asked. "It's a long story." "I think you can give me the Cliff's Notes version." Johnny sighed, but nodded, reaching for the piece of antler but stopping just short of contact. "It was in a cave I kind of fell into. I'd gone hiking with my friend. Well, that had been the plan. But plans have a way of going astray for me." Blair couldn't help but smile. He knew the feeling all too well. "But you kept it. Why's that?" "It saved my life." Johnny paused and shook his head, realizing how obscure that sounded. "It's like I was telling Detective Ellison. I see things. When I touched this knife I saw its original owner. He needed my help and I needed his. We helped each other." Blair nodded. There was still much he didn't understand, but he believed this man was at least being honest about his ability, if he was being honest about anything. But the apprehension in the ancient shaman's face was all too clear in Blair's mind. "Tell me more about this man in the cave." "He lived long ago, before the Europeans reached America. He was like me, an accident allowed him to use his dead zone to see the future. But for some reason, most of his visions included me. He'd been seeing me all his life before I finally found the knife and was able to see him. He'd thought I was a bad spirit before that." Blair nodded. It fit. "But this isn't a surprise to you, is it?" Johnny asked. "You and I must have made a connection somehow. Maybe you--" Blair shook his head. "No, I don't have your gift. What I do is different." "I saw Jim's-- Detective Ellison's death, through your eyes." The confession floored Blair, left him with a half-formed word in his mouth. He couldn't quite process the idea that a complete stranger had been a third party to what would have been the worst moment of Blair's life. "It was going to happen tonight," Johnny said, relieving Blair of the pressure of having to speak right away. "I never saw the shooter. Just Detective Ellison lying on the floor, wounded. Detective Lincoln calling for help on his phone. And me-- you..." He trailed off, looking searchingly at Blair. "Thank you," Blair said, nodding. Touch. Smith's visions were triggered by touch. Part of him was afraid to let the man touch him, let him see into his life when Blair couldn't see into Smith's. But... "Maybe you can still help us." He reached into his pocket and pulled out one of the Abenaki pendants. He placed it on the table, next to the eroded knife. "This and two nearly-identical amulets were found on three murder victims this past week. We think they may have some connection to the killer." Johnny seemed hesitant, his fingers twitching slightly as they approached the object. "I recognize the design." "It's from the Abenaki tribe, the same as your knife shard," Blair explained. "The people I talked to link it to an old story about a spirit guardian, a man with three legs." He paused, remembering the shaman in the cave and his vision of Johnny Smith. It all did fit, and now another piece took its place in the puzzle. "It's you," he said, smiling. "You're the man with three legs." Johnny shook his head. "All I did was tell him where the meteor was going to hit. The rest was all him." "But the story must've survived. That's amazing." The implications of this were staggering. How often did this sort of thing happen? What effect would that have on cultures around the world? "It's crazy!" "Welcome to my world," Johnny said, smiling softly. Blair could tell this wasn't easy for him. He glanced at the amulet, and Johnny finally wrapped his fingers around it. Linc let out a sarcastic chuckle at the one-way glass. "So now I'm supposed to get shot? Are you buying this?" he asked, pointing a thumb at the table on the other side of the mirror, where Johnny Smith had just spoken his last prediction. Jim shook his head and looked at Lincoln. "I don't know. But you did go out there intending to become bait. We can't rule out that this guy will come after you now." "And it hasn't occurred to you that this could be the guy?" He gestured animatedly at the glass. "He's from Maine! Hello?" "So now we arrest everyone from Maine?" "It's too much of a coincidence and I'm not sure I buy the psychic thing. Sandburg is just playing along with it, that's not going to get us very far." Jim frowned, watching Blair and Johnny Smith at the table. He had to admit that Linc's suspicions weren't completely unfounded. John Smith had interrupted a criminal investigation with claims that he couldn't prove. His behavior would have made anyone else an instant prime suspect. But Blair believed him. Or rather, wanted to believe him. Jim decided to concentrate on the facts for the moment. "Okay, so we call this Sheriff Bannerman of his, ask if he's legit, then we get the Sheriff to check up on the Abenaki site for us as well, speed that up a little. That way at least we get somewhere, one way or the other." Jim knew Linc didn't trust John Smith, and other than grilling him harder, the only way to check on his authenticity was to check up on his claims. That meant finding out who knew him back in Cleaves' Mills and who could be trusted to tell the truth. He glanced back at the glass and wondered what had really compelled John Smith to travel all the way across the country just to save one man. It was nearly mid-morning when they got a call back from Sheriff Bannerman on the Abenaki art. He'd vouched for Smith, which in Jim's mind was much better than the Naomi Sandburg kind of voucher, so for the time being, their new psychic wasn't a suspect. That didn't mean they'd let him out of their sight, though. "Do you really think it's a good idea to let Sandburg go with Smith?" Linc asked as he fidgeted in the passenger seat of Jim's truck. "They'll go off on their whole whooooohooo freakazoid tangent and we'll find them setting up their own little fortune teller shop downtown." Jim frowned. They were all tired and testy. "Sandburg went with Smith because if I sent you with the psychic, you'd end up arguing with him the whole time and not getting anything accomplished. Sandburg speaks the guy's language. Besides, you've got a price on that sea-urchin head of yours." "Funny." Linc shook his head and ran a hand through perpetually unruly hair. He didn't say anything else until they reached Jacob Lennox's apartment building. "It all started with Jacob," Smith had said. An obvious statement to Linc, but much more than that when paired with the evidence from the Kingsley house, and the information they'd gotten from Maine. Smith had let go of the amulet, but continued to stare at it as it lay face-up on the table. "They symbolize Jacob," he said. "I thought the amulets represented you in the old shaman's vision," Blair said. Johnny shrugged. "To the killer, they represent Jacob." He lifted his gaze and looked at Linc, who had entered the room and was watching the proceedings with open skepticism. "He wants you now," he said, pointing a finger, delivering directly the warning he'd told Blair about moments before. By the look on Blair's face, Jim could tell he believed the warning. For the moment, Jim decided not to argue. Blair's visions were too on the money to be mere coincidence. The landlord was happy to let the two detectives in, even tried to convince either one of them to take Lennox's empty apartment, "I'll even waive the deposit for one of Cascade's finest," which Jim knew was only because Lennox could no longer claim his. "We should've brought the psychic," Linc complained as they looked through the organized clutter of Lennox's studio. "He could just go around grabbing stuff and make our job easier." "So now you believe him?" Jim asked, opening drawers and rifling through clothes. Smith had said there were more amulets. "I might if he'd come over here and give me a few more demonstrations," Linc said, idly rifling through a book from the shelf. Jim's phone rang. "Ellison," he said into the receiver. "Jim, it's the cousin," Blair said hurriedly. "Of course," Jim replied with a roll of the eyes. "Hey, I found a receipt," Linc said from across the room. "We think he's headed your way," Blair said. In the background, Jim could hear Johnny Smith muttering angrily, "I should've known that changing the who and the where wouldn't change the what." "Seems he bought a bunch of the things," Linc added. "But where are they?" Jim didn't ask what Johnny had meant. He didn't have time. In the distance, he heard the sound of a gun safety coming off. He only had time to tackle Linc to the floor before the window next to them shattered. "Jim! Jim! What happened?" Crap. He put the phone to his ear, even as he still lay on the floor. "We're fine!" Just being shot at. Nothing new here. He hung up and glanced at the broken window. It faced the side of another apartment building, one even more run-down than the one they were currently in. When he stood up he could see an open window on that building, and through it, the shape of a man, moving away quickly. "Lincoln! We got our guy, come on," he said, moving to the door and racing out of the building. The building next door wasn't fully abandoned, but a lot of the apartments seemed vacant. The front door opened without anyone needing to buzz the detectives in. The lobby area was unfurnished and littered with newspapers and dead leaves. "I should go around, cover the rear exits," Linc said. "No way, it's you he wants." "Then I'll draw him out and you can catch him." "Fine," Jim said. He could hear footsteps ahead, rapidly fading away. If he timed this right he could beat Linc to the perp. "You go in, I'll go around." They exchanged nods and Jim stepped back out to the stoop. He could hear Linc inside, moving quickly but cautiously along the hallway. Without wasting another second, Jim rounded the building. The alley between the run-down building and Lennox's was narrow, littered by a few trash bags but not impassable. "Hey! You can't come in here!" someone shouted inside. "Ah shit, sorry," said Linc. "Has anyone else come by this way?" Footsteps echoed in the vacant hallways. Following the sound, Jim reached the back door and reached for the handle. His fingers curled around the rusted metal before he heard the shot, breaking the steady sequence of sounds he'd been tapped into a second before. He yanked the door open and raced inside, gun drawn. At first he didn't see anything other than the short strip of hallway that preceded the exit and turned right from the main hallway. "Lincoln?" he called out. No response. He turned the corner and saw Lincoln lying in a slump. A splatter of blood and pierced plaster on the wall behind him. Jim ran towards the fallen detective, kneeled beside him, quickly checked for a pulse. Blood was spreading over his scalp and dripping, staining the floor. "Linc," Jim said. "Stay with me, come on." He was alive, breathing, barely conscious. Looked like the bullet only grazed him. "Can you hear me? Lincoln, look at me." Linc's eyes fluttered and attempted to focus. He let out a small groan that sounded like a curse. "Up... th'stairs," he mumbled, weakly lifting his hand to point, then let it drop, slipping into unconsciousness. "Like hell," Jim muttered, pulling out his cellphone and calling for an ambulance. Blair broke into a run when he heard the gunshot. "Go back to the car!" he called back at Johnny. Out the corner of his eye he saw Johnny's protest, the man waving his cane but staying close to the car regardless. One less thing to worry about. Blair raced into the building and saw Jim and Linc right away. "Jim!" Jim was talking into his cellphone, obviously calling for help. He began to stand from where he crouched beside the fallen detective, but Blair shook his head. He knew that Jim wanted to leave Blair here with Linc and go after the shooter himself, but Jim was already on the phone, switching places would waste time. With a look, Jim understood and pointed at the stairs. Blair nodded and took off. The creaky steps led to a hallway even darker and dustier than the ground floor. For a few moments he didn't hear anything, didn't know where to go from there. He held his gun with both hands, aimed low, almost afraid of having to use it. There could be people there, innocent bystanders, and if what Johnny Smith had told Blair was right, the killer himself was nothing but a victim of his own mind. They had found Bobby Jensen's cousin's house, and Johnny had confirmed it was the house he'd seen Lincoln get shot in. It hadn't taken them long to find the picture of Stewart Jensen and Jacob Lennox in his bedroom. "Hey, I've seen him," Blair said, looking at the picture of the two young men. "He approached Linc at the club." His hand moved to his pocket, ready to get his phone out. But he hesitated. "Can you tell anything from that picture? Where he might be?" Johnny peeled off his glove and picked up the small frame. His eyes lost focus, seeming to stare through the picture rather than at it. "Stewart loved Jacob," he said after a moment. "He thought he was the only one, but found out Jacob was seeing others." He looked at Blair. "He thinks Lincoln is one of them." A sound caught Blair's attention, then a shadow at the end of the hallway flitted across his field of vision. He began to follow it. "Stop!" he called. "Cascade Police!" The only response was a second gunshot, which miraculously missed its mark. The shadow fled through a door on Blair's left, into one of the vacant apartments. Blair ran towards it, wondering if it could really be that easy and knowing in his gut that nothing ever could. He entered a small apartment at the end of the hallway, just in time to hear a sound at the nearest window and turn to see a young man scrambling out onto the fire escape. "Freeze!" he shouted, but the man was already making his way down. Blair ran to the window and looked down, gun aimed at the perp. "Drop the gun and put your hands on your head!" he ordered when the shooter finally stopped and looked up. Oh God. The kid couldn't have been older than nineteen, but there was a fury in his eyes that disregarded all sense of time and age. He lifted the gun and aimed it at Blair. Blair's heart was racing but he couldn't let this go, couldn't lose control. "Put the gun down and nobody will hurt you," he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. Yet the kid's arm was the one that was shaking, finger tight around the trigger. Blair could almost see the perspiration in the hand. "Drop the gun," he said again. He still didn't like pointing guns at someone, he dreaded the thought of firing, but he knew he would if he had to. He'd done it before, it was something he had to live with. His field of vision narrowed to that single focus: the gun and the hand that held it precariously, shaking, sweating. The Abenaki amulet hanging from his neck and Blair knew Jim had been right about seeing it at the club. His own fingers began to sweat and he knew he couldn't hold this situation indefinitely. One of them would end up pulling the trigger. Suddenly, a flash of silver caught the sunlight and swung in an arch, hitting the young man on the back of the head and sending him sprawling. The gun flew to the side and landed on the sidewalk. "Johnny!" Blair called, almost scoldingly, as he realized what had happened. The gun landed just by Jim's rapidly approaching footsteps. He aimed his own weapon at the still struggling suspect who finally, seeing himself surrounded, gave up. Johnny, standing to the side, frowned at his cane. "I really thought I hit him hard enough to knock him out." "You did enough," Jim said. "Thank you." "What are we going to do with you?" Detective Jim Ellison asked, folding his arms as he stood across the table from Johnny Smith. "You got the killer," Johnny said. "Everybody's alive." "You triggered a false alarm in a crowded nightclub, interrupting a police operation in the process. Not to mention the suspect had approached Detective Lincoln at the time and we would've got him then. Instead we had to go back out there and Lincoln got shot," he said, unfolding his arms and leaning forward to rest his hands on the table. Johnny tried hard not to shiver under that ice blue gaze. It had been a while since he'd had any of those visions, but they'd cut deep, bringing to the foreground parts of himself he still wasn't sure he had or was just imagining. He cleared his throat and met that gaze with all the intensity he could muster in his sleep-deprivation and travel-weariness. "No, you would not have gotten the guy then because you were going to get shot. Fatally." "For which we have only your word to go on." "I did what I had to do. You do what you have to," Johnny said with a shrug, folding his own arms and looking up at Ellison with what he hoped was indifference. He wasn't going to let the detective get to him, visions or no visions. He wanted to get home before Bruce got any bright ideas about coming to rescue him. The door to the interview room opened and Detective Lincoln entered, looking mighty annoyed and sporting a bandage on his head, nestled amongst matted tufts of black hair. Detective Sandburg was close on his heels. "You should just go home, man," Blair was saying. "You got shot!" "Thank you, Captain Obvious," Lincoln replied. At an inquisitive look from Jim, he added, "EMT's are easy once you pull the whole 'I haven't slept in thirty hours and I got a gun and am not afraid to use it!' routine. Was only a nick. They stitched it. End of story." "So we were right," Jim said. "The hair is a defensive weapon." Blair's losing battle with laughter was plain to see. Johnny fought a smile of his own and looked expectantly at Lincoln. "You almost got me killed!" Lincoln stated, pointing a finger at Johnny. "I thought it was only a nick," Jim pointed out. Johnny decided to cut through the crap once and for all. "Am I being charged for that as well? Am I being charged with anything?" Lincoln blinked, straightened up and shrugged. "No, you're free to go." "Good." Blair waved Jim closer as he approached the exit. "We gotta see about Cousin Stu. Word is he's lawyered up and they're gonna try for an insanity defense. Jealous rage sort of thing." By the time Johnny got to his feet, the two were gone, only Lincoln left behind. Johnny decided to extend an olive branch. "I really tried to avoid the whole you getting shot thing. I'm sorry it didn't quite work out." Lincoln shrugged, pulling out a chair and sitting down. He really looked in pain, but at least the injury had not been worse. "All's well that ends well, right? Could've been worse than a headache and we got the guy. Just, from now on, stay in Maine. I'm sure they need you there more than we need you here." Johnny nodded. He'd done what he'd come to do, but he wasn't looking forward to anything of the kind repeating itself. "Oh, one more thing. You have visions about people, right? I mean, you saw Ellison and Sandburg and that's why you came here." "Yes," Johnny said, hesitantly, not sure what this was about. "So those two, I mean, are they--?" Lincoln waved a hand and arched a brow. Johnny blinked and stared, as if not understanding the reference at first. He was about to make a swift denial when Lincoln's hand went from waving to swatting at the air. "Never mind. Forget it. I don't think I want to know." Johnny shrugged. "Take care of that head of yours," he said. Jim and Blair hadn't gotten far across the Homicide bullpen before a tall man with long dreadlocks whooshed past them, pausing only long enough to ask, "They told me Johnny Smith was here?" Jim nodded and Blair pointed at the interrogation room. Upon taking a look in that direction, he saw Johnny stepping out of the room. "Johnny," said the dreadlocked man. "I told you to stay off the leg!" "Bruce, what are you doing here?" Johnny asked, and Blair thought he saw him blush. "Trying to keep you out of trouble, but I guess that's a pointless quest," Bruce replied. "Are you done saving the world for today?" Jim and Blair exchanged amused glances. "I guess even psychics need backup?" Blair asked with a grin. "Yeah, something like that," Jim said, nudging his partner to keep walking. He wanted to put the entire case to rest, and himself to bed, as soon as possible. "Okay. Run this by me again," Simon said, frowning at Jim and Blair. "Jensen thought Lennox was cheating on him, so he killed him. And then he just kept on killing everyone from the club? What about Kingsley?" Blair shook his head. "Stewart Jensen got his necklace from Jacob, but so did Ray Manchester. Linc found a receipt for eight of the things in Jacob's apartment, so Stu had a long list ahead of him. Luckily he didn't know specifically who had received each one." "Well, not so lucky for Kingsley," Jim said. "He actually bought his amulet himself. He didn't know Lennox at all." "Yeah, even worse luck was being friends with Bobby Jensen. It was a case of wrong place, wrong time. Whenever Stewart saw one of the amulets, it's like he snapped. He fixated on the person until he caught them alone." "And that explains why he was able to catch Colin unaware in his car. They knew each other," Jim explained. Simon nodded. "And the psychic?" "Oh, he helped," Blair said quickly. "He was a great help," Jim piped in. "I just hope we never need him again." --end--