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"Most problems created on the Two-Hearted Path begin when we follow our compulsive minds and leave the gift of spiritual guidance in the dust of our disregard. In contrast, when we bring our spirits home to our hearts, and become One-Hearted, our potentials come alive."
-John Kimmey, The Hopi Prophecy and the Time of Purification

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Charlie tracked the progress of the fly. It crawled down the flowered wallpaper of the hotel room, past the one full rose, the only one without a tear or stain. It flew to the ceiling, the window, then back again. Charlie swung his legs off the bed, sat up and stared at the phone. He'd left three messages for Ellison. He was worth more respect than this. Good snitches weren't easy to come by. And if he wasn't good at much else, he was good at that.

He stood and paced -- come on, come on -- traveling from bed to window, ending finally in front of the mirror where the reflection of someone he didn't know stared back at him. He was twenty but looked thirty. Soon he would see Grandfather in his reflection, skin ruddy bronze with lines on his face growing deep like the craggy landscape of Arizona. The thought warmed him and for a moment took him from this land of rain and deep green.

"Do you still dream of me, Grandfather?" He traveled deep into his reflection. "What do your visions tell you about your Hopi grandson now?"

The brief flash of warmth faded and he felt cold again. He spun away from the mirror. One hit; he just needed one, then he would get his shit together. Ellison's idea might work. He could try rehab: three meals, a roof over his head, all without the price of a blowjob. That's what Ellison said. And his partner, the one with the curly hair, had stood behind him, nodding, looking at Charlie like Grandfather used to, like he mattered for something.

Charlie rubbed his eyes. Tired. He was so tired, but he couldn't sleep. He scratched his arms, bumping over scabs formed yesterday and the day before from different things: the needle, the scratch of his own fingernails, and that guy who got rough. Charlie took a breath and let it out.

"Fuck this."

In two strides he was at the door. He could earn it the hard way one more time. What the hell did it matter? He reached the door and opened it with a yank, stalling suddenly and gasping at the man standing there, poised to knock.

"Charlie-boy," the man said.

"Rock?" Charlie tried to keep his voice from quivering, but it shook anyway and rose in pitch. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Came to see you. Gonna let me in?"

Charlie stood firm for a moment, drawing his spine straight. Then Rock chuckled, that low mean sound, and pushed him back into the room, following and closing the door behind him.

"Where you off to?" Rock flashed white teeth.

Charlie shrugged and stepped toward the window. He looked through a tear in the shade, noticed the sky taking on color, a sign to go home. But Rock was here and you didn't get around him; you waited till he let you go. Rock's beard and mustache were gone. He wore the black Stetson, pulled low till it almost touched his sunglasses. Charlie tried to remember the last time he'd seen Rock's eyes.

"Nowhere." Charlie looked at him and made his shoulders relax. It wasn't good to show Rock how scared you were. He liked it too much.

"Nowhere, huh?" Rock walked toward him. "Now that doesn't sound like the path for a smart boy like you."

Charlie tried not to flinch as Rock reached out and caressed his cheek.

"Whatever," he said.

"You look like shit, Charlie-boy. Been holding out on yourself again, haven't you? Been thinking it's time to clean up your act and start living right? Shit. You could get yourself one of those sweet, clean little jobs where you ask folks if they want fries with that."

Rock traced his thumb across Charlie's mouth.

"That would be a shame." He pushed his thumb in, rolled it across Charlie's tongue then pulled it back and sucked it into his own mouth. "Shame to waste a mouth as sweet as yours. You're a natural. Never met a better cock sucker than you."

Charlie flinched as Rock reached for him again. He backed up into the corner.

"Look, what do you want man?" he asked. "You want a blow-job? No problem. So long as you got the cash."

"I got better than cash, baby." Rock pulled a bag from his pocket. "I got your joy juice here. I know what you like. I came prepared. And what I want is your mouth around my cock. Now."

He pulled Charlie from the corner and pushed him onto the bed. Charlie lifted himself on shaking arms and sat on the edge. He looked at the bag and chewed his lip. There was more than one hit in there. There was enough to get him through the week.

"So you came here for my mouth, huh?" Charlie leaned back on his elbows, tossed his head back and forced a grin. He could do this. Hell, yeah. So what if it was Rock. What the hell did it matter?

"Yeah." Rock grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him up. "Do it."

Easy. This was easy. The act. Charlie almost liked this part when he didn't have to think, when his hands took over, then his mouth. He popped the button on Rock's fly, pulled the zipper down slow, leaned in and mouthed the hard shaft through the fabric of white briefs. Rock moaned. They always moaned. So easy. He pulled the black jeans open and down. Then reached for the briefs.

"Slow it down, Charlie-boy."

Rock's hands were in his hair, pulling his head back. Charlie looked up and found his own reflection tossed back at him from Rock's sunglasses. A sound escaped him, something small.

"My show, boy. Remember that."

Charlie nodded as much as the grip to his hair would allow. After a moment, the grip eased and he moved his head forward. He touched Rock's hips, petted them, fingered the elastic of the briefs, lifted his eyebrows. Rock nodded. He remembered then, how Rock liked his shaft held tight at the base. He pulled the briefs down and moved his hands in slowly until his fingers brushed the wiry patch of hair.

"Do it," Rock said. "Do it slow, like I taught you."

And Charlie did. He was slow and sure. He remembered the lessons and he followed them. This would be it. This would be the last time. He wasn't doing this shit anymore. Just one more time. Once more to get the bag. Then he could get off the stuff slow, a little at a time. And he could do it by himself. He didn't need anyone's damn help.

Rock moaned and thrust into his mouth. Charlie felt the grip on his hair again, but it was okay. He could take this. He could take anything. Then Rock was letting go, shooting down his throat. Roaring like a lion, like the king of the goddamned world.

It took a few minutes for Rock to come back down, to slow his breath and look at him.

"Let's take care of you now, baby."

Charlie rubbed his hands on his jeans as Rock put his clothes back together.

"I got it covered, Rock. Just give me the bag and you're good to go."

"Yeah, right, little man. The way your hands are shaking, you'd lose half and then where would you be?" Rock smiled at him, a smile without teeth, gentle, almost caring. "Lie down. I'll take care of you."

Charlie shrugged and scooted up the bed. If Rock wanted to play nice, let him. Rock used to be nice sometimes. Charlie lay back against the pillow and tried not to think of those times. They had been good, those times when Rock liked him.

He watched the preparation. Rock was always slow. Too damned slow at everything. But, eventually, the powder became liquid and floated in the syringe. Rock found the vein first try. God. Now it would be okay. Charlie almost cried with relief but bit his lip then sighed as Rock pushed the plunger in slow, slow. Then yeah, oh yeah, shit yeah. There it was. The burn across his shoulders, that sweet ache. And the room softened, the edges blurred until the roses were whole and the light looked clean through the window.

"Sorry, Charlie-boy," Rock whispered. "I'm sorry you've got to die. Can't have you spilling my secrets though. I just can't."

Charlie tried to make sense of Rock's words. But he was floating away and it felt too good to stop. He felt Rock's hand on his forehead, stroking. Nice. And as the room grew dim then gray then black, he heard the muted sound of a phone ringing.

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Blair was the wolf, padding silently down a dim hallway. It was past the time of evening when the dark feels heavy and sounds tap the spine like unwelcome fingers. Light spilled beneath one door, the last door in a long row of doors with silver numbers hung from nails in the wall beside them. The carpet smelled of earth and mildew and cigarette ash. He followed it until he stood just outside, listening to a voice pitched low. The tone unsettled him. He pulled his focus in and narrowed it to the beat of his own heart until he felt at peace.

A drumming started. It spoke to him as the door opened into a brilliant light. He leapt through it and emerged into morning within the library of Rainier. Students gathered at tables of deep cherry. He wove among them and caught threads of quiet debate over myth and culture and prophecy. In the midst of them sat an ancient, a man with skin of bronze and leather, deep lines etched his face. He turned to Blair and the lines about his eyes crinkled as he smiled a smile of welcome; a smile of greeting to someone long awaited.

Blair woke from the dream with a start. The ground was shifting. It took a moment for him to realize the ground was Jim, thrashing about within a dream of his own. Blair lay like a blanket over him. He lifted himself slightly and looked down into Jim's face, tinted with the blue light of early morning.

"Shh." He smoothed his palm across Jim's forehead.

The struggle quieted then stilled. Jim's face went slack, his lips parted on a soft breath and his hand came to rest on Blair's ass.

Blair smiled and curved his hand down to Jim's cheek then trailed his fingers across the cool skin of one shoulder toward the chest, now rising and falling in a calm rhythm. He loved to touch Jim's chest, the mix of soft skin and firm muscle. He traced one finger along the ridge defining the pectorals from the abdomen and thought of women's bodies so generous and warm, full of curves, secret folds and soft places. His past lately felt like an abstract thing, the history of someone else. The only reality was Jim. He was the constant, the one searched for, the one found. Blair felt a pang in his chest, the neurotic little twitch that liked to flare when things were going too well.

Jim mumbled in his sleep, a surprised sound, low then high in pitch. Blair flattened his palm against Jim's belly and smiled at the twitch of fingers on his ass. He skated his hand down and took hold of Jim's soft cock. He lay back down, rested his cheek on Jim's chest, felt the rumble of a soft snore. When Jim woke, Blair would ask again about the nightmare. Maybe this time Jim would tell him what it was. For now, he would imagine Jim's fingers were truly aware of his ass and that Jim's cock was hardening due to a pornographic idea involving said ass. Blair's own cock began to take interest in those possibilities, all the way up to the point when Jim mumbled "Carolyn."

Blair froze; a sudden flash of cold then hot sparked through him. He sat up, knocking Jim's arm away.

"Son of a bitch."

Jim's eyelids flew open and he blinked.

"What? Whatzit?"

"Fuck off!"

Blair shifted toward the edge of the bed and swung his legs over only to find his chest encircled by strong arms.

"Chief? Easy. What's wrong? What happened?"

"Nothing. I have to pee."

"You told me to fuck off."

"Yeah?"

"Did I tell you not to pee or something?" Jim sounded lost.

"NO." Blair felt ridiculous. "I just. You just. Never mind, okay?"

Jim's arms tightened into a squeeze as he buried his face in Blair's neck. "Bad dream?" He rocked Blair side to side, then smiled against his shoulder. "The one with the flying monkeys?" He chuckled. "Or the one with Judy Garland and that dog?"

"Okay. That's it. Let go." Blair twisted and Jim released him. "I'm not a fucking terrier."

Jim's mouth hung open. Arms flung wide. Blair stomped down the stairs, ignoring Jim's shout.

"I didn't say you were! Did I?"

Blair slammed the bathroom door and leaned on the sink. He looked up and caught his reflection. He saw stubble and not just your average stubble either. It was some goddamned heavy stubble. He twisted his neck and stared at his ass.

"It's a goddamned man's ass," he said, then jerked at Jim's response through the door.

"I thought you had to pee."

Shit.

"What? Is it your morning for pee patrol?"

"You're not the only one with a bladder, Sandburg."

Blair peed, left the seat up, refused to flush, then turned and pulled the door open. Jim stood with his arms crossed, white boxers slung low on his hips, chin tilted up. There were shadows under his eyes like small bruises and he had that look, the one he didn't get often, the "You're Scaring Me Here, Chief" look. Blair deflated like a popped balloon.

"Sorry man." He waved Jim toward the toilet. "I'm going to grab a shower, okay?"

"Sure." Jim's arms dropped to his sides.

Blair turned the water on in the shower and paused just outside the curtain to let it warm. He tossed a sideways look at Jim. Now that was a man's ass. That was... hell, that was perfection.

"So." Blair cleared his throat. "You had another nightmare this morning."

Jim finished up, closed the toilet lid and flushed. "San Francisco. The bust." He shrugged. "Then we were in the shower and I was washing your hair. And, you were making that noise ...then damned if Carolyn didn't show up, knocking on the bathroom door, saying something about lunch."

Blair felt his eyes go round. "What noise?"

Jim washed his hands and hung the towel back on the rod. "The kinky one."

"Yeah?" Blair felt an absurd amount of relief. "Well, at least you weren't dreaming about her ass."

Jim looked as if he might ask what the hell that meant, but instead chewed his lip and nodded. Blair grinned. Jim grinned back.

"You're weird as hell this morning, Chief." He pointed to the shower. "And you're wasting hot water."

"Oh, yeah. Hey, you can go first." Blair arched an eyebrow. "Or we could share."

Jim paused a moment, scanning Blair as if he could unlock the mystery from three paces, then shook his head and came closer.

"Good idea." He touched Blair's jaw, ran his thumb along the whiskers. "You need a shave."

Blair followed Jim into the shower. Water rushed down his back, over his shoulders, across his chest. He shuddered as Jim followed the path with his fingers, dipping into the hollow at Blair's neck, tracing the line of water past his sternum, through the dusting of hair, into his navel. Blair gasped. Jim smiled, that dirty quirk of lips, and began retracing the path with his tongue. Coherent thought flew away as Jim reached his groin.

"Oh man." Blair allowed his head to fall back under the stream. Water pulled his hair down, made it heavy and Blair fought for balance. Jim steadied him with hands on his hips. They soon slid to his ass, squeezing, bringing him forward. Heat. God. Oh. Jim swallowed his cock. So good. Blair lifted his head away from the shower stream and looked down. Water ran from his hair down his chest over Jim's lips, which were working hard now, sucking.

"Jim. Now. Oh shit."

He came, and thought returned slowly, at a pace to match Jim's slide up his body. Nothing had ever felt this good. Held tight to a muscled chest, leaning in toward the kiss, giving way to Jim's tongue as it pushed in and took over, he thought of desire and love and knew everything he ever felt before this man was preparation.

Jim released his mouth with a slow tug of teeth against his lower lip. He pushed Blair against the wall of the shower, nudged his legs apart, lifted him a bit and brought their groins together. They moaned. Blair's breath hitched at the new flare of sensation along his cock. Jim began to move, sliding his hard shaft against Blair's.

"Can't get enough of you," Jim said before plunging back for another kiss.

The pace mounted. Blair felt the cold of the wall against his back as Jim's thrusts moved him up then down the slick tile. Jim's hands were on his ass again, squeezing, moving his hips in a circle, grinding their cocks together.

Blair pulled his mouth away and panted. Jim latched onto his neck, scraped his teeth against the soft flesh, slid down to Blair's shoulder and bit. With a shout, Blair came again. Jim moved faster. Pumping, pumping. Blair tried to thrust back but lacked the strength to do more than cling.

"Yes!" Jim's roar echoed around them.

Then the air settled into quiet except for shaking breaths and the splatter of water on skin. Jim brought his forehead against Blair's, rolled his head gently from side to side.

"Damn," he said.

"Mmm."

Jim grinned at his incoherent response. "You've got a damn fine ass, Chief. Manliest ass I've ever seen."

Blair snorted. "Smooth talker." Then pulled Jim's mouth back to his own.

The shower ran cold, they ran late, but eventually got ready to head to the station.

"It's barely light," Blair complained as he pulled their jackets from the rack by the door. "Remind me why Simon picked six thirty in the morning for our meeting?"

"He wants to leave early today so he's getting us out of the way." Jim grabbed his jacket and began a search for something in the pockets. "He's doing something with Daryl."

Blair yawned and watched as Jim moved his search to the seat cushions of the couch.

"What're you looking for?"

"My cell phone."

"Oh man." Blair smacked his forehead. "I borrowed it last night when I ran to the library because mine wasn't charged. It's in the Volvo."

"Great, Chief."

Jim pulled his jacket on and grabbed his keys. He cuffed Blair on the back of the head and opened the door. Blair tossed a sheepish look over his shoulder and sprinted down the stairs. He found the phone in his car then joined Jim in the truck.

"Here you go." He checked the battery indicator, still okay, then tossed the phone at Jim before climbing in. "Sorry about that."

Jim ignored him and focused on dialing in to check his messages. He frowned.

"What's wrong?" Blair asked.

"Charlie left three messages." Jim punched a number into the phone.

"Damn." Blair pictured the kid, no doubt pacing somewhere, and wondered what was up. Charlie was a sad case. He needed to get off the streets soon or he never would. When they met, he had felt something click between them, nothing definable but solid. And he had watched Charlie's trust grow. Jim had worked hard to build that trust. Blair hoped he hadn't just blown it.

"No answer." Jim dropped the phone on the seat between them. "Wonder what he's got."

"He didn't give any clue in the messages?"

Jim shook his head and pulled the truck out into traffic.

"Shit. Jim, I'm sorry."

Jim sighed. "Don't worry about it, Chief. Just try to keep your own phone charged so you're not borrowing mine, all right?"

"Sure." Blair looked out the window.

He felt a tug on his hair. "Hey Darwin, I said don't worry about it."

Blair turned back and caught the warmth in Jim's glance. He smiled at the slightly befuddled look on his face and felt a rush of sympathy.

"Strange morning, huh? I hope I didn't wear you out in the shower," Blair teased in an effort to wipe the crease from between Jim's eyebrows. "You look kind of tired. You know, some say early morning sex clouds the mind, slows the synapses in the old brain."

"My synapses are fine, Sandburg. And just whose brain are you calling old?" Despite the gruff tone, Jim's shoulders relaxed a bit and his grip on the steering wheel eased. "You have too many brain cells. That's your problem. They crowd each other, stuff gets lost." Jim tapped the wheel; chuckled at his own joke and the line of concentration gave way to an Ellison grin.

Blair took a quick breath, tossed suddenly by a wave of affection.

"What?" Jim asked.

"You."

"Mm." Jim nodded. "Maybe there's something to this morning sex theory after all. For the younger less refined partners, I imagine it could be a problem. Maybe I better start cutting you off, huh Junior? Let you work up to handling it a little better."

Blair squawked a protest but the ring of the cell phone cut it short.

"Charlie," Jim began. "...Oh, sorry Simon. What's up?"

Any thoughts of teasing faded as he watched the expression forming on Jim's face.

"Shit. Yeah, we're on our way." Jim hung up the phone and glanced at him. "The Feds had a sting set up for Kennet this morning, but he never showed. Instead, we've got three dead bodies under the wharf."

"Any ID?"

"All three were FBI. Someone blew their cover."

"Man." Blair grimaced as Jim popped the lights and sirens on. "You think Charlie knows something?"

"For his sake, I hope not."

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The wharf teemed with FBI, police cruisers and grim faces. Simon was not in the general mill and if not for the pungent odor of fish, Jim would have found him by the trademark scent of his cigar. But he wasn't in that much of a hurry to face what was coming, so he searched the old fashioned way: he looked around. He had a headache, the dull throbbing kind that settled at the base of his skull. He needed a good night's sleep, just one night without that fucking nightmare. The dream was always the same...

...The panther morphs into a mirror of Jim. The mirror speaks:

And his shot takes Blair's face off. In one instant, everything precious in his life turns to blood...

Jim pulled himself back from thoughts about the dream and rubbed his forehead. He had to shake it off. It was just a nightmare. Let it go. But it seeped into his days now, rested just at the perimeter of his mind and kept him on edge. It also made him hover near Blair like some anxious kid.

Blair stood beside him now. He had been quiet on the quick drive to the crime scene. His mouth was set in a tense frown. Jim wanted to rearrange those lips but settled on a friendly pat to one shoulder. It wasn't enough. Since the bust in San Francisco, Jim could not get enough of Blair, the physical reality of him, whole and warm and alive.

Blair wanted to know about the nightmares. Hurt flashed across his face when Jim shrugged him off. Jim knew he should tell him. He had resolved not to keep his dreams from Blair anymore. But this one felt different. How the hell could he tell him about this? Hey Chief, get a load of this one: I dreamt I killed you... again.

Jim hated dreams. He fucking hated them for the twisted messages Blair insisted he listen to, for the shadow logic and the grip they held him in long past waking. He hated that feeling almost as much as the friendly distance he kept from Blair in public. It felt like a leash. Polite distance, touching like they always had but pulling back from a caress. He watched now as Blair struggled with the zipper of his jacket. Curls flew in every direction as the wind picked up and swirled around them. Jim's fingers tingled and nearly ached with the effort it took not to reach out and push those curls back. It was the little things that bugged him most days. Little moments missed for the sake of a bigger picture.

"Ellison, over here." Simon waved from behind the yellow tape separating the crime scene from the rest of the wharf.

Jim nodded and walked over. Blair fell in step beside him.

"What's the story?" Jim asked.

"One shot, back of the head. All three victims were found face down with their arms tied behind their backs."

"Tied with wire?" Jim quirked an eyebrow.

"You've got it. Kennet's trademark."

"Any idea how their cover was blown?" Jim asked.

Simon shook his head. "Not yet. At least I haven't heard the theories. I'm sure Bowen has some but so far he's not been inclined to share."

The FBI agent in question stood near one of the cruisers, cell phone pressed to his ear. Jim focused his hearing in time to catch the last bit before he hung up.

"No. I am not pulling him. He's the best chance we've got. We can discuss this later." Bowen shoved the phone in his jacket pocket and turned to the bay with a scowl and huff of white breath.

"Sounds like he still has a man on the inside," Jim said.

Simon shot him a look. "You show any sign of knowledge about the FBI players in this case and your ass is going to land under suspicion, Jim. I doubt if even Sandburg here could come up with a plausible explanation for why you would be able to have heard that. Bowen is not only the Special Agent in Charge of our local FBI field office. He's a top of the line hard ass. Tread lightly."

"Understood, sir." Jim said. "Kennet's killing sprees aren't limited to FBI agents. I'm assuming they'll want info about our own murder investigation. Jim ran his hand across his hair. "You know, when we've crossed paths with Bowen and his band of merry men before, they haven't been exactly willing to share information."

"Maybe they don't need our input here," Blair spoke up.

"Jim, stop preaching to me about things I know." Simon tapped the ash from his cigar. "And Sandburg, you would be wrong. Jim's presence was actually requested."

Jim shot his eyebrows up in question.

"Your card was found in the pants pocket of one of the victims," Simon said.

Jim shrugged. "That's not too surprising really. I've been all over Kennet's turf asking for information that might help our case. Maybe I stumbled across Bowen's man and handed out a card."

"Maybe." Simon agreed. "We need to get a look at the bodies and see if you recognize any of them."

"Regardless of what I've seen, Captain, tell me we're not going to just turn our information over to Bowen. Not without some give and take."

"Looks like he's coming this way." Blair tipped his chin in Bowen's direction.

Jim watched as Bowen strode toward them. He was a big man with a thick mass of shortly cropped blond curls. He dressed well and had the finely groomed look of a man who knew what he liked. Wire-frame glasses offset the intensity of close set hazel eyes; but as he closed the distance, Jim noted the gleam. There was something familiar about that look.

"Whoa," Blair murmured beside him. "He could rival you in the icy stare competition."

Right, Jim thought, he'd seen that look in the mirror a few times.

"Captain Banks." Bowen shook Simon's hand.

"Agent Bowen, I'm sorry about your men."

Bowen nodded his acknowledgement as he tossed his glance to Jim then back to Simon.

"I need cooperation from your men, Captain," he said, "and I don't have the time or patience for tap dancing."

"Now hold on a minute." Simon pulled himself to his full height. "I am more than willing to overlook pleasantries here but I will not put up with insinuations that my staff plan to withhold information pertinent to a federal investigation. Kennet is a thorn in everyone's side. We all want him taken down. It's time for all of us to cooperate."

Bowen spared Jim another look, longer this time. Jim met the attitude head on with ice of his own. Bowen could be an arrogant, ego-driven asshole, but he was not immune to pain over the loss of his men. Jim noted the tension in his glance, the feel of a man dancing on the edge of a very fine line.

"Agreed, Captain." Bowen nodded to Simon then turned his glance back to Jim. "Can we get to work?"

"Lead the way." Jim swept his arm toward the pier where the victims had now been covered with yellow tarps.

Jim looked at Blair and frowned. He should stay back. Placing Blair in any close proximity to three shredded skulls seemed like a bad idea, a horribly bad idea. Jim flashed on a memory of San Francisco: Blair, streaks of blood on his cheek, slivers of bone in his hair, glassy eyes. Jim felt a tremor course through him and the sounds on the dock dimmed then swelled. He felt dizzy until a warm hand touched his back.

"Ready, Jim?" Blair's voice was low and smooth; sound settled back to normal in its wake.

"Chief, you don't need to see..." he began.

"Let's go." Blair's chin lifted and his eyes held steel.

Jim sighed but curbed his tongue. Blair knew the score at crime scenes. He handled himself well. So what the hell kind of argument could Jim use here? Blair, I need you to stay back: there's blood. Yeah, he might react well to that, in some other universe.

Jim snapped on a set of gloves. One of the forensic team helped him pull the tarps back one at a time. Jim took care not to step on debris littered on the ground: bottle tops, shards of glass and gum wrappers. He squatted by each corpse and took the opportunity to extend his senses despite impatient sounds from Bowen. Something niggled at him, a small thing he couldn't quite grasp.

"Do you recognize any of these men, Detective?" Bowen asked.

There was nothing unusual about any of the victims. They were average height, average build. Just your basic average. The shooter had held the gun at the same angle for each shot, judging by the deflection of the bullet through each skull and out the left cheekbone. It had been the same with Jonathan Warner. Jim flashed to the memory of Warner's mother at the scene. She identified her son with half his face blown off. Jim's jaw clenched. This killer used the same technique regardless of his prey whether they were FBI or eighteen-year-old pushers. If you turned on Vincent Kennet, you got the same deal.

"Jim?" Blair's voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

He looked up and caught Blair's concerned gaze. He looked pale. Jim tried to soften his expression as he nodded at Blair but the effort was no doubt wasted. He was angry. Everything about Kennet and the people who carried out his orders pissed him off.

"I don't recognize any of them." Jim stood and faced Bowen. "What was their cover and which one of them had my card in his pocket?"

Bowen's jaw twitched and he sighed in irritation.

"I have someone who needs to be present at this conversation," he said. "His situation dictates what information I share. We'll talk when I can arrange a meet."

"Any idea when that might be?" Jim asked.

"No." Bowen's cell phone rang. "Excuse me."

"I wouldn't want to be in his shoes," Simon said as they watched Bowen walk away.

After an agreement to meet with Simon later in the day, Jim and Blair headed back to the truck. Jim struggled with a nagging sense that something had been missed. He flipped through recent memory, all the snapshots of the scene, but couldn't pinpoint it. He slammed his door, which felt good but didn't resolve the unease, and then he started the engine.

"Seatbelt," he reminded Blair.

"Oh, right." Blair cursed as the belt refused to cooperate.

Jim reached over and untangled the belt before fastening it with a smooth click.

"I guess it does work better that way." Blair's eyes reflected a warning of mischief. "Those senses of yours are amazing. You know just the right angle to click it to a guy."

Jim snorted and shook his head.

"Your hands are shaking, Chief." He nodded toward the dock. "Want to tell me what's going on in your head? If you're feeling shaky, why the hell were you so bent on seeing the bodies? The tough guy act isn't necessary."

"I'm fine." Blair's cheeks flushed pink. "Just because I don't have ice water coursing through my veins doesn't mean I'm going to avoid crime scenes."

Jim felt the muscles in his jaw twitch. "I'm not questioning your ability to handle a crime scene here, Chief, I'm just saying you don't have anything to prove."

Blair froze for an instant, a look of surprise blooming on his face as if Jim had answered some question he wasn't supposed to know about. Then irritation took hold and his eyes darkened.

"Let's talk about you for a minute." Blair took on the look of a microscope in narrow focus. "Mr. Tough Guy who has nightmares every fucking night but won't talk about them. How about you tell me what's going on in your head?"

"Christ. Can the psychotherapy keep for later, Chief?" Jim sighed. Like hell he was going there now. He picked up the cell phone. "I'm calling Charlie again."

He dialed the number and jerked a bit in surprise when a woman answered.

"Who is this?" Jim asked.

There was a pause then "Why don't you tell me who you're looking for?"

Jim concentrated on background noise and heard the crackle of static followed by a voice from Dispatch.

"This is Jim Ellison. I'm a detective with Major Crime. Now you want to tell me who you are?"

"Officer Dannon. My partner and I answered a call from the manager here at the Regent Hotel. There's a body. Looks like some hustler OD'd."

Jim sagged and squeezed his eyes shut for an instant.

"Detective?"

"Yeah." Jim looked out the windshield at the dark bank of clouds rolling in from the bay. "I'm on my way."

He hung up then turned toward Blair.

"What?" Blair touched his shoulder.

"Charlie's dead."

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