STORM SIGNS

Part 1 - Gathering Clouds

Chapter 1

In the middle of a sentence, Detective Jim Ellison dropped the papers he was about to hand to his partner, Blair, and lifted his head. "What the...!" he exclaimed, then inhaled deeply, trying to sort out a specific scent.

Anxiously, Sandburg looked around, trying to spot something unusual in the bullpen of Major Crimes, apparently wondering if he needed to call the bomb squad. Not seeing anything, he turned his attention back to Jim, to find the sentinel with his eyes closed, concentrating on his enhanced senses. Putting a hand on his unofficial partner's forearm, he said "You're trying too hard again. Just let it happen."

Absently Jim sat back in his seat, away from the touch, but giving a reassuring pat on his shoulder. "It's not that, Chief. I just don’t believe what smell that's all. It's impossible."

"So what is it, already?" Blair said with some exasperation, dragging a hand through his curly hair.

Hiding his disconcertment, Jim admitted, "Peach pie."

"Peach pie?" It was his face and the expression in his dark blue eyes that said there had to be more to it than that; Blair very carefully kept a neutral tone.

Looking more uncomfortable, not able to meet his partner's gaze, Jim elaborated. "Mrs. Beckett's peach pie; the mother of an old surfing buddy of mine. She’s won more ribbons with that recipe than I've shot bullets. But she lives in Hawaii; there is no way I could be smelling her cooking."

Intent on their conversation, Jim didn't particularly notice an uniformed officer approaching, leading another man in Navy whites who carried a white bakery box. "Oh, I don't know, Hoss," the sailor said. "Mom always said you had the nose of bloodhound when it came to her pie!"

Leaping to his feet, Jim spun and grabbed the newcomer into a huge hug as he slid the box onto the edge of Jim's desk. "Tom!" He rocked them both, pounding on the newcomer's back. "Damn, why didn't you tell me you were going to be in Cascade!"

Tom pounded back, laughing uproariously. "And miss the chance to sneak up on you, proving again that you shoulda been a SEAL, not a Ranger? Naww, need to rub that in as much as possible."

"Hey, if I’d gone SEAL, I might have had you for a commanding officer. Talk about your fates worse than death." Jim stopped beating on his old friend, and turned back to Blair, leaving one arm looped lazily over Beckett's shoulder, Jim's taller frame making it easy.

Surprising Blair, to judge by the flash of it in his expression, Jim reached out to pull him forward a little. "Blair Sandburg, I’d like you to meet the only SEAL who should have been a Ranger, Admiral Thomas Beckett. Blair's my civilian unofficial partner and roomie, Tom."

Blair shook hands with the naval officer, and Jim watched him size Tom up quickly. Beckett was older - late forties - and had the lean, seasoned look of a serious career military man, much the same way Jim did despite his years out of the service. Tom's hair was more gray than sandy, and the last of his youthful good looks were weathered, but his sparkling, lively eyes caught Blair's attention and Jim could all be see him decide that for once, he might like one of Jim's old military friends.

His impression was confirmed when Admiral Beckett grinned, lighting up his face, and said, "I promise - no war stories. I do, however, have some serious dirt on this narrow-assed cop."

"Cool!" Blair agreed enthusiastically. "My mom did me in, and I've been looking for a way to get even since."

"Listen to a word he says, Sandburg," Jim began, "and the best peach pie on this planet will never grace your taste buds."

Blair glanced at the white box, then at the audience, including the lingering uniformed officer, they -and it- were drawing. "I don’t think there’s enough to go around, anyway, man."

The glare Jim gave the other members of the bullpen was sincere, and he slowly, deliberately, took his holstered weapon from his belt and laid it on top of the box. Everyone found something fascinating to do somewhere else, though not very far away from Jim’s desk. He glared harder, but was forced to give it up when Beckett elbowed him.

"Can you get it and yourself out of here? I'm on my way to Washington to deal with the nozzles there, and I've only got a six-hour layover. I had to carry that pie through a base full of starving sailors and defend it from a planeload of jet jockeys, because Mom insisted you needed a taste of home cooking. I want my fair share."

With a last withering look at the crowd, Jim answered, "I'll go talk to my captain. There’s some of Blair's veggie lasagna in the freezer we can make for a meal, and I've got a great bottle of wine I've been saving for a special occasion."

Before Jim could act, Simon's voice sounded from behind his officers. "All right, people. Don't you have work to do? Ellison! Maybe you can tell me...." Banks paused, catching sight of Jim's gun sitting on top of the pie box. Without changing tone or beat, he went on. "Why you've drawn your weapon?"

Not in the least intimidated, Jim picked up the gun, and put it back where it belonged. "Simply a deterrent, sir. I was just on my way to explain the situation to you."

Simon's face became tired looking. "Deterrent, situation?"

Picking up the pie box, Blair opened it and waved it gently under Simon's nose. "One pie, many stomachs. Jim was trying to hold them off until he could get out the door without a riot."

Breathing in deeply, Simon's expression became nostalgic. "Man, that smells like my Gran's cooking." He opened his eyes, which he had closed to appreciate the scent better, and stared at Jim. "I suppose you want the afternoon off?"

"If you wouldn't mind, sir. I haven't seen Tom in a couple of years. I could save you a piece of the pie?"

Simon looked around the bullpen at the officers who still lingered very close. With a melodramatic sigh, he made as if to draw his gun. "You make a run for it; I'll cover you. I'll be by your place after shift, and *don't* forget the vanilla ice cream."

Laughing, Jim scooped up the box and his jacket, and made for the door, trailed by Blair and Tom.

***

When the last of the pie was crumbs on well-scraped plates, Jim sat back and smiled at the naval officer opposite him. Blair, Tom and Simon had been trading "Jim stories" all night long. Half expecting to feel stupid and isolated as the butt of their jokes, he had instead felt surrounded by their laughter, a part of them. He hadn't enjoyed that family feeling often; the first time had been sitting at the Beckett family table, too many years ago to think about.

Suddenly remembering the loss to that table, Jim sobered and looked away, feeling vaguely guilty for enjoying himself.

As if sensing his sudden mood swing, Blair reached over and tapped him on the back of his hand. "Jim?" he asked questioningly.

Shaking his head, Jim took a hard look at Tom Beckett, and saw the tired, pained lines around his mouth and eyes. Tom caught him in his regard, lifted his eyebrows, then tapped significantly with his fingers in a particular configuration on the table. Both of them abruptly became professionals, the transformation catching their dinner companions off-guard.

Jim stood, miming to Blair and Simon to keep talking. Though considerably startled, neither missed a beat, and kept up their patter. They watched intently, plainly giving their conversation the smallest part of their attention as the two warriors methodically searched the loft for listening devices.

Coming back to the table, Jim said, "It's clean, though we both know if someone wants to eavesdrop, there are ways."

"This'll help," Tom told him, taking a small device from his pocket.

"One of Sam's gadgets?"

Tom nodded, and sat back down. "And as you've probably figured out, this layover wasn't a pleasant side trip. It's the reason I left Hawaii; the senate committee is an excuse, though I am testifying before one."

"Are we going to get an explanation for all this, or do mere civilians not rate one?" Simon tried for humorous, but it was wearing away to irritation.

Leaning his elbows on the table, Tom scrubbed his face with the palms of his hands. "It's hard to start, and I don't have a lot of time. The crazy parts - deal with them, ok? I'll try to explain as best I can later."

Studying Beckett intently, Jim reached over and put a hand on his shoulder. "Spill it."

In response, Tom reached into the breast pocket of the jacket hanging on the back of his chair, and handed a business-sized envelope to Jim. "This came in the mail for me yesterday."

Tuning his senses up several notches, Jim examined the envelope. Both the handwriting and the scent lingering on it were vaguely familiar, but he couldn't identify them. He looked quizzically at Tom, who was staring blindly at the tabletop. "And I'm looking for?"

"The postmark, right now."

Carefully Jim checked it out; the initials "SB" were written over the date of the postmark. With that, the other two clues clicked into place. More gently than he had thought he was capable, he said, "Tom, Sammy's been dead for over two years now. I helped you bring the body home. This is some kind of sick trick."

Taking the envelope from Jim, Blair looked it over, obviously thinking furiously. "Beckett, Beckett - two years.…" He sat bolt upright and gaped at Tom. "*Doctor* Sam Beckett, the Nobel Prize winner? You're related?"

"Little brother," Tom said shortly, and took the letter away to reopen it.

"Man, I was so sorry to hear about his accident." Blair turned to Simon to explain before Simon could lose what was left of his temper. "His field was quantum physics, but he was a true Renaissance man. Music, martial arts — did you know that his work on the Egyptian language is still *the* textbook for the field? No, sorry, course not, I mean…"

"Believe it or not, Sandburg," Banks said dryly, "I do read Time on occasion. I have heard of the man. Jim, when you asked for compassion leave that time, it was for his funeral?"

"Yes, sir. Been friends with the family since before college." Only giving Simon a portion of his attention, Jim watched Tom pull out another, smaller envelope and a note that said, *Give this to Jim. His life depends on it.* The odd thing was, the note was signed 'Magic.' Without thinking, Jim asked, "Magic?"

Turning over the note he still held, Tom looked at the signature, then at Jim, "How'd you read that...never mind." With a deep sigh, he shrugged. "It was the nickname of one of the men in my command in 'Nam, who had a knack for knowing what was going to happen before it did. He once did something that reminded me so much of Sam, I used to tease him and call him 'Little Brother.' When I got home, I told my brother about it, and once in a while, when Sam had done something really unique, I'd call him 'Magic,' after that guy on my team. Kind of a joke, you know."

"Tom, anybody could know that, and it's not that hard to forge handwriting these days. Someone could be trying to use you to get information on his project. Even shut down, some of the things he'd been working on are important."

"Maybe," Tom interrupted, "but what's written on the outside of your letter could only be from Sam. He’s the only one who would know to invoke that name; he's the only one I've ever talked to about her." He handed Jim the envelope that said, *In Maggie’s memory, Tom, please get this to Jim Ellison.* Again, the letter was postmarked with yesterday's date, and the words were written over it.

Lifting it to his nose, Jim sniffed. Sam's scent was distinct to him, now. And fresh. "Could his death have been a trick?" he asked slowly, suddenly reluctant to know what was inside. "A way of getting out from under the government? Or maybe, they faked it to get a better grip on him? With the project he was working on going under for lack of funding, they might have been afraid he'd sell his genius elsewhere."

"We’ve seen something like that, right here in Cascade," Blair broke in. "It's getting to be a cliché, practically."

Shaking his head, Tom answered, "I was there when he died, Blair. The security was so tight, it couldn't have been an impostor; he'd have never gotten into the place. It *was* Sam who died in that coolant leak, trying to shut down the place before it could blow. Between the searing steam temperatures and the massive radiation doses - no one could have survived."

"Have you talked to Calavicci about this? If anyone would know if something was suspicious about Sam's death, it would be him," Jim asked, bouncing the edge of the letter on one knuckle.

Tom watched his finger tracing a random pattern on the tabletop. "No. He blamed himself for not catching that crooked contractor before the materials were used. I... I think that the only thing that kept him from sucking on a gun was Beth and the girls. Bringing this up would be agony for him; I can't do it without a better reason than an envelope with Sam's handwriting on it."

Blair, who had been restlessly watching Jim fool with his envelope, finally burst out, "Will you read the thing already! Dead or alive, it has to be important for him to make this kind of effort to communicate with you."

"You can't possibly believe that's from 'the other side,' Sandburg!" Simon said incredulously.

"Why not? You have got to quit seeing the world in such a linear way, man. There are so many possibilities!"

"Could we get back on topic here, Chief?" Jim quieted his partner, and tore open his letter. Reading the two lines quickly, his face lost all color and the note drifted from nerveless fingers.

*Jim, they know you're a Sentinel. Take Blair and run!*

Snatching up the paper before it could touch the tabletop, Blair quickly scanned what was written on it. Handing it to Simon, he put both hands on the table and leaned over it to face Beckett. "Do you know what it says?" he demanded.

Tom shook his head slowly, taking his coat from the back of the chair and putting it on. "I don't want to know." Blair sank back down onto his chair, blinking in confusion as the Admiral checked the time, then put a hand on Jim's shoulder, ignoring his immobility. "If it's any help, this isn't the first time I've had this happen, had a sign from my supposedly dead brother. Before it was a word from a stranger, or a helping hand when I needed it, because I was 'Sam’s big brother,' in times and places where there was no way they could have even known Sam, let alone me. This," he said, gesturing toward the note Simon was examining as if expecting it to explode, "is the first time I've had something concrete, something that could be verified."

Gathering the notes and envelopes, Tom took out a lighter and set fire to them, leaving them to burn on his dish. They all watched silently until the paper was ash, then he checked his watch again. "I have a plane to catch, and my guess is you two have a lot of talking to do. Keep the jammer, Hoss - in your line of work it might be useful sometime." He shut it off, then headed for the door.

Simon looked at Jim, who was still staring at the ashes of the notes, cocked an eyebrow at Sandburg in question, then gathered his own coat. Turning to the admiral he added, "You need a lift?"

"I was going to catch a cab; is the base out of your way?" Beckettl paused, looking grateful at the offer.

"Some, but I don't mind. I'm sure there are a few things you could have told me about my best detective that you might have skipped over because of the company. This'll give me a chance to hear them."

Taking the forced humor at face value, mindful of a potential audience, Tom dredged up a fragment of a smile. "Well, there might be a story or two that does'’t bear repeating in front of him. If you like your front teeth, that is." Opening the door, the grin suddenly became a real one, "As a matter of fact, there was this time he…."

The door shut on them, not that either Jim had even heard it open in the first place. Lost chasing the fleeing fragments of memory, Jim sat as if zoned, distantly wondering if he actually had, but on his own thoughts instead of his senses. Finally, sighing in frustration, Blair perched on the edge of the table next to Jim, put his fingers under his chin, and forced his head up until their eyes met.

"You're not even going to think about it, are you?" he asked, conversationally.

Blinking, coming back from a great distance, Jim gently shook himself from Blair’s hold and stood rustily. "No." Picking up the jammer, turning it on before pocketing it, he began to clear the dishes. "If whoever wrote it knows what I can do, then they could've faked the scent and handwriting so that I'd be inclined to believe it. If they want me to run, it's for their reasons, and I won't co-operate."

"And if it was real?" Blair asked, curiously, not letting his own tone give away his opinion.

"Then Sam knows me well enough to know that I wouldn't give up a home turf advantage without more than a vague 'they' as a threat. At the least, I'd have to know 'who' so I wouldn't run right into them, not knowing they *are* the threat."

Going into the kitchen and starting the dishwater, Blair thoughtfully said, "Maybe he couldn't tell you more, for some reason. He might not know exactly who 'they' are, himself."

"Or maybe he just wanted to give me a warning and a good scare to whoever's after me." Stacking the dishes to one side, Jim took up a soapy sponge and tackled the kitchen surfaces, maneuvering gracefully around his partner's activity. "Bracket pegged me; one of the agencies could have, too, from the same files, and they have pretty long arms. No place to go, in that case."

Without looking up from his task, Blair asked, "You won't change your mind - even if I think the threat's real?"

Tossing the sponge into the water, Jim leaned on the counter beside the sink. "You think I should."

"Yes. All your arguments are true, but the real reason is that you won't run, period. Not from a threat, not from an enemy you think you can beat, not from an attack you think you can come out of in one piece." As Jim dried his hands, Blair confronted him, poking him in the sternum with a wet finger. "Don't you think Dr. Beckett would have taken that into account before he took the chance he did to contact you? But he told you to, anyway."

"You think it was him."

"Don't you?"

Jim mentally exited again, but returned quickly. "I honestly don't know."

"Because then you'd have to believe in ghosts?"

"Because I'd have to believe that one of the best human beings who ever lived has been lying to everyone who loves him. I can't do that." Sidestepping Blair, Jim left the kitchen and headed upstairs, effectively dropping the conversation, but almost hearing Blair think, *Can't? Or won't, Jim?*

He didn't have an answer.

***

Looking up from the paper he was grading, Blair saw the Native American who had been seated in the back of his last Anthro 1 class that morning standing in the door of his office, regarding him placidly. He'd noticed the dignified gentleman, but was used to having unexpected people drop in to audit his classes and had paid no more attention to his presence.

Curious now, he asked, "Can I help you?"

"You're a good teacher, Mr. Sandburg," the slight man said bluntly, leaning against the doorjamb. "It's plain you have a great deal of respect for the cultures you study, without being naive or too detached. And that you expect your students to act the same."

"Uh, thank you, Mr…?" Blair waved at a chair, then hastily got up to clear the books and papers from it.

"Washaki, George Washaki. On the other hand, you're a lousy housekeeper." Washaki took the pile from him, looked around once at the clutter, then sat down with it in his lap.

"Let's just say it's not high on my priority list, okay?" Blair grinned at the older man, suddenly sure he could learn to really like this person a great deal. "And please, call me 'Blair.'"

"I'd say call me 'George,' but I hate the name. I don't mind answering to 'Washaki,' though." He brushed his hand on his pants, then pushed back the long braid that had fallen forward, as if afraid it would get dusty, too.

"'Washaki'...Cheyenne?"

"Shoshone, but good guess." He shook his head at Blair's gesture toward his coffee machine, and tracked him visually as Blair got up to freshen his own cup. "Have you studied the North American indigenous populations at all?"

"Not formally. My mom and I stayed for a while on a couple of the reservations when I was growing up, and I've made a few Tribal friends, here and there. Oh, and Mom studied with a Sioux medicine man once, what was his name, Thunderfoot, Braveheart - no that's a movie...anyway, she told me about that culture." Sipping from his cup, Blair sat back down and studied his guest.

"Then you know about visions and Vision Quests?"

"Oh, yes. I've thought about doing a paper on them, comparing them with similar rites in Indonesian peoples. The similarities go beyond casual co-incidence, in my opinion. The use of native herbs to induce the required state…."

"God help the Grandfathers if you do decide to formally study with them," Washaki broke in gently. "They respect curiosity, but I think you might be a bit overwhelming even for them!"

Abashed, Blair shifted gears on his mouth. "I think this is where I'm supposed to ask you why you want to know, right?"

Laughing, Washaki moved the papers from his lap to the floor, and picked up a pack he had placed there. "Yes. But I think we can skip the preliminaries." Suddenly very serious, he pinned Blair with an analytical look that was both assessing and understanding. "You're one of the few white men I've met that I think I won't have to convince of the truth. I had a vision, a very powerful one, and it brought me here to you."

He took a small packet of white leather from his pack, tied with beaded and feathered straps. It was a medicine bundle, similar to a few Blair had seen in museums. Eyes going wide, Blair barely restrained himself from reaching for it, knowing it could be a sacrilege to the Native American if he were to touch it. When Washaki began to undo the bundle, Blair wondered if he was going to have to do a 'toon imitation and chase his runaway eye balls down the hall. Standing up to bend over his desk to see as closely as possible, he looked at the objects in the hide, trying to memorize each one.

"It told me that one of these totems was for you and that you would know which one it was."

Blair hardly heard the other man. On the far side of the skin, close to Washaki, was a flint knife with a wooden hilt. Though the handle hadn't been carved, as far as he could tell without holding it, the grain of the wood and the way it had been polished suggested a panther about to pounce. Drawn by it, forgetting any restrictions, he touched it gently, first the wood, then the flint.

With a sharp cry, he yanked his hand back and put his finger in his mouth. The sharp stone had nicked him.

Grunting in satisfaction, Washaki put the blade on Sandburg’s desk, folded the rest of the bundle up, and returned it to his pack. With the air of a storyteller, he sat back in his chair, eyes half closed, and began to speak.

"When I was a youth, I had a strong vision, one that changed me from a boy to a man. The truths I learned about myself, my people, and the white people led me onto a path of seeking - and resistance. I joined ARM, protested, not always peacefully and not always righteously, but it was part of the learning on that path. At one point, hunted by the FBI, I hid with an old, old Grandmother who lived far from the rest of the community.

"Many of the stories and myths of the Nations were lost as the white man pushed us from our lands and tried to destroy our cultures. Half of what we know is from dim memories of childhood, and Grandfathers and Grandmothers whose minds were no longer the best. And, like the old granny women of the Appalachians, some of that knowledge has been distorted or changed by ignorance and superstition. It is not always possible to know whether or not a tale or legend is truly of our kind.

"When I left the grandmother hiding me, she gave me this bundle, having told me all the stories that went with it, insisting that it was sacred. I don't truly know, but the history that goes with that knife is the oldest.

"Long and long and long ago, when Four-Legged Brothers and Two-Legged Brothers still spoke the same language and walked beside each other as friends, there were warriors of our people whose animal guides gifted them with their own skills. They would have the sight of Hawk or the nose of Wolf, and were a great blessing to our People.

"But the gifts of Four-Legged Brothers are hard for Two-Legged ones to bear, and these warriors were like raw blades: sharp and valuable, but as likely to cut the People as help them in their sacred madness.

"Now, among our People, Seekers have always been born. If they survived the hardships of their youth - always the outsider, never the strongest of the braves or the swiftest or the best under the furs - they often grew to powerful medicine, able to see the connections between the People, our Brothers, and Mother Earth very clearly. Able to use that medicine for the good of the tribe.

"And able to guide the Animal-Gifted, to be the hilt for that raw blade, to allow it to be used better in service of the People.

"To fit a blade onto a grip can be done in one of two ways: they can be forced together, mated against their will into one thing, and lashed so they cannot be separated. Or they can be gently shaped, carved, fitted so they become one, of their own accord.

"If we were talking of wood and stone, it would not matter which method is used. But when we talk of men, it matters greatly." Opening his eyes, Washaki gently took Sandburg’s hand and placed the knife in it.

"If the Gifted and Seeker are forced together, they can still work for the good of the People. But anger, rage, fear, pain, hatred, and all the other dark and unhealthy spirits will always color those deeds. They will never be as good and true as the pair might wish.

"If they come together from respect and love, they are a weapon that can be destroyed, but never defeated.

"My vision told me that this is your time to choose, Blair Sandburg. He says very simply - take your sentinel and run. Now. Or the choice will be taken from both of you."

Dumbfounded, seeing in his mind the slip of paper for Jim that bore similar words, Blair stared at the beautiful knife in his hands, as he felt his life dissolve around him.

Some indefinite time later, the knife was gently taken from him and he looked up to see Jim examining it closely. As he did, he jerked his hand away to stick a finger in his mouth. Sucking, he hastily put the knife down. "Got a damn splinter."

Automatically, Blair stood and reached for the injured digit. "Let me see."

In almost the same place as the nick on Blair's hand, a bright bead of blood slowly welled over the skin. Holding his finger next to it, Blair said quietly. "It got me, too. It *chose* me, too."

"What? Sandburg!"

Absently Blair reached for the first aid kit he kept on a shelf. As he began to clean away the blood, he said, "I had a visitor earlier today."

Five minutes later, finger treated, and no trace of wood found in it, Jim stalked over the coffee machine and poured himself a cup, keeping his back to his partner. "And you believe this con artist?"

"Jim, I have no reason not to believe him. He didn't ask for anything.

"He will, soon enough!"

Pushing aside Jim’s interruption, Blair tried to continue. "He didn't offer me anything, either."

"Of course not. It's too soon in the scam."

Sticking to his guns, more firmly this time, and with some exasperation, Blair pushed on. "And frankly, he didn't tell me anything I haven't already heard."

"Look, this guy's more than likely stumbled onto your research and is looking to use you!"

"For what, Jim? What could he possibly want from me, from us even?"

"I don't know. Maybe he knows someone who's wanted and needs your police connections. Maybe he's wanted, himself." Jim calmed. "Either way, I am not going anywhere, for reasons we've already discussed."

Moving to where Jim stood, Blair planted himself in front of his partner. "Washaki was upfront with me about his involvement with the law. Not that I could be any use to him, what with Mr. Straight and Narrow as a partner! Look, there's no reason not to think his message is any less valid than Sam's is. You know I don't agree with you about it being a fake. Hell, I don't even think you believe it's fake."

"Don't you think that it's just a little too coincidental that you got a warning identical to mine in a way and from a source that practically guaranteed you'd believe it?" Avoiding Blair’s eyes, Jim sipped at his coffee, grimacing.

"No more than it's a coincidence yours came from a source you could trust." Snatching up Jim's free hand and laying the identical wounds side by side, he said, "No more than I think this is a coincidence. Jim, there has always been a spiritual element of being a sentinel that you turn a deaf ear to. Well, it's screaming at you right now! Pay attention to it, and to me! If the Chopec Shaman who guided you in Peru were standing here right now telling you of a vision, you'd listen. I may not be worthy of the same respect as Incacha was, but damn it, I'm all you’ve got! Listen to me! We can *not* ignore these warnings!"

Jim stiffened and swung away. All he would give Blair was his back. *You idiot,* Blair thought, as he remembered the half-healed wound that Incacha's death was to Jim, one he masked with anger when he was forced to deal with it. Pulling a hand through his hair, Blair leaned on the edge of his desk. "Awww, man. I'm sorry. I only meant...that is...I needed you to listen."

"Save it, Sandburg." The words were clipped, and Jim put away his coffee cup, still not facing him. "Still want a lift home?"

"Uh, yeah. I have a few things to finish here, then I'll be right with you." Not that he did, but Jim obviously wanted some space, and Blair guiltily gave it to him.

"I'll wait in truck."

Face showing his dejection, Blair let Jim go. "I'll only be a minute."

"Whatever." Opening the door, Jim hesitated before going through it. "Look, it can't hurt to be ready to go. Just in case. Just be sure that whatever you decide, keep it low-profile. If - if! - we are being watched, I don't want to spook them. Okay?"

Feeling some of the tension give, Blair nodded, already busy looking through what he needed from his desk. "Right. Could use some pointers on that. Like, what would they be looking for, or how to allay their suspicions, that sort of thing."

"Well, for starters, 007, don't tell anybody you think you're being watched."

Blair half smiled, and regarded his partner as Jim waited for his retort. "Maybe I'd better make a list," and, deliberately muttering, he picked up a pen. "Number one - don’t - tell - anybody…."

"That's enough, Chief!" Jim’s tone was mock threatening, and suddenly they exchanged identical grins. Blair threw the pen at his partner, who caught it. Things back to normal, Jim waited while Blair finished packing up, then switched off the lights as they left together.

***

"Come on, Jim, being the keynote speaker at the Captains Convention is a great honor." Blair sidestepped another pedestrian loaded with too many suitcases and offered Jim another bite from his popcorn bag.

"Long boring speeches, rubbery chicken, laughing at stupid stories from half-drunk cops...some honor. I'll take just dropping him off at the airport, thank you." Taking Blair up on it, Jim tossed a few kernels in his mouth and chewed. "Better him than me, though." Absently he dodged someone running for their gate and scanned the crowd to see if anyone else had left boarding until the last second.

Stopping where they were, Blair looked up at his partner, eyes wide. "You really mean that, don't you? Not about being the speaker, but about being a captain."

If Jim was surprised at Blair reading past his actual words, it didn't show as he helped himself to some more popcorn. "Look, Chief, I know I couldn't do my job half as well if it weren't for him running interference with the mayor, the commissioner, the press, you name it. And not just me. Our department is one of the best because of him and his support of its people." Jim shrugged, then went on. "But he doesn't get to do much real police work anymore." Putting another handful into his mouth, Jim chewed and waited patiently for Blair to mull that over.

"So all you want, all you ever plan on being is a detective; never trying for captain, never going to try for your own department?" The words were neither condemning nor critical. "Twenty years from now you'll still be doing this," and Blair waved his hands at the concept in general, then dipped into his bag and spoke around his own mouthful, "and that's all right with you?"

"Or something like it. Anything wrong with that?"

"No, but given the…." Blair’s voice trailed off as he saw that he had lost his partner's attention. Jim was staring down toward his left. Following his gaze, Blair saw that a little girl had taken Jim by the first finger on that hand and was looking up at him. She looked to be about seven or eight, and was a sturdy, strong-looking child with a wild riot of red curls that looked to be first cousin to his own unruly locks. Her face was solemn, but something about the eyes hinted that she was normally a happy person.

Going down onto one knee, Jim brought his face down to her level and smiled. "Hi,there."

"Hello. Are you a policeman?" She touched the badge that Jim had left hanging around his neck to make getting through airport security easier. "This doesn't look the same as my daddy's did."

Jim held it out for her to hold. "There are all sorts of policemen. I'm one kind; maybe your daddy is a different one."

"Are you the kind of policeman who finds lost people, sometimes?" She rubbed her thumb over the badge, then let it drop.

Crouching by them, Blair assured her, "Jim is and he's very good at it, too. I'm Blair, by the way." He held out his hand to shake, and she very seriously took it.

"I'm Jordan Black, and my daddy got lost."

Recognizing the intent look Jim assumed when focusing his senses, Blair took up gently questioning Jordan, as much to help her stay calm as to allow his partner to work. "Can you tell me where you saw him last?"

Jordan looked around the area, concern beginning to mark her face. "It all looks the same." Checking it out himself, Blair realized that from her angle, all that could be seen of the airport was the bottom halves of people rushing around and the lower half of furniture.

"What you need is a different perspective," Blair told her.

"Perspective?" She stumbled a tiny bit over the word, eyes going big.

"You know, a new way to see things. Is it okay if Jim picks you up? He’s like, way tall, and I’ll bet you could see everything from up there."

Giggling, Jordan nodded.

Mentally returning, Jim caught Blair's eye and gave a slight shake of his head, but opened an arm for Jordan. "Elevator, first floor, going up!" Under the cover of securing her knees against the crook of his arm and letting her wrap an arm around his neck, he softly told Blair, "I could hear someone giving what sounded like a description of her, but he stopped talking before I could pinpoint a location. I'm going to call security; hopefully that's who he was speaking with."

He straightened, dramatically doing it fast and sudden to make Jordan squeal in delight. "Top floor! At this height, dizziness, silliness, and a sudden craving for chocolate can be expected. Please inform your elevator attendant Blair if you experience any of these symptoms."

Trying to make himself seem shorter, Blair tilted his head as if peering up a great distance. "Wow. What's it like up there?" Jim took out his cell to speak into it quietly, and to cover that, he chattered on. "I mean, is it colder? Can you touch the clouds? Is it scary?"

Leaning forward confidentially, Jordan whispered, "Maybe just a little scary."

"Oh. Well, I have the perfect thing for that. Cheese popcorn. My mother always told me it's impossible to be scared while eating cheese popcorn and my mother never led me wrong, especially with popcorn. Would you like a bite?" Stepping closer, Blair laid one hand over Jim’s wrist as he held up the bag for Jordan to fish from.

"Jordan!" The man's voice clearly rang over the crowd. The three of them looked up as an older gentleman, not much taller than Blair and showing enormous relief on his craggy face, broke through the crowd.

"Daddy!" Jordan bounced once in Jim's arms, knocking Blair's food to the floor, and reached out for the man running toward them.

Another traveler bumped into Jordan's father as he lifted his arms for his daughter, making him stumble. Automatically Jim caught him, dropping the cell, and bracing for the jolt. One of Mr. Black's hands grabbed onto a strong biceps, the other closed over where Jim and Blair's flesh met.

Like a camera flash going off in their eyes, all three men and the girl were blinded by a brilliant light that bled instantly into black and white, so strongly contrasted, gray did not exist. As quickly as it came, it left, leaving Jordan falling into her father’s arms, wailing, and the partners leaning drunkenly on each other.

"Easy, baby, easy. You'll be okay." He rocked his child and made soothing noises.

"Daddy, make them *listen!*" Jordan buried her face in the curve of her father's neck, sobbing.

"I'll try, I promise." Running a light hand over her hair, Black studied them.

His head bent down toward the floor, Blair fought to bring a complete breath into his lungs, grateful, not for the first time, for Jim's physical sturdiness. That stability was all that held him up. As for his partner - Jim may as well have been a store mannequin; even his chest was hardly moving.

"You saw," Black said bluntly. "Both of you."

"Yes." It came out as a wheeze and Blair tried again, producing a louder, if as wobbly, sound. "Yes."

Jim shook his head, not in denial of seeing, but in denial of the possibility of what had happened.

Gesturing at the Jim, Black, intent on confirming to him what they all knew, said in dispassionate tones, "I saw you: older, leaner, more sinuous, harder, colder, meaner. Dangerous because of a rage only he's keeping leashed." Turning to Blair, he went on. "And you - thinner, fragile, scarred, damaged; hair long and white, bleached by trauma, by pain long endured. Your face framed by mirrored wrap-around shades; holding onto your life, your sanity with his strength.

"It's what's waiting for you if you don't leave, now. You've been warned twice. You won't be again; you're out of time."

Black blinked once, as if refocusing on external reality, and reached into his inside jacket pocket. "These people will vouch for me, if you need that. But whatever you decide, do it now."

Taking the card from him, Blair read it, then glanced up at his motionless partner. "Thanks."

With a compassionate touch to Blair's arm, then Jim's, Black said, "I don't know if I can be of help. If I can, without endangering my family, I'll try. Call me. Thank you for helping Jordan." With that he wheeled away, cuddling his daughter close, lost almost immediately in the airport crowd.

Jim and Blair stood silently studying each other, oblivious to the bustle and fuss ebbing and flowing around them. Finally, Blair asked conversationally, "Which flight are we leaving on, Jim?"

Dredging a sigh up from the bottoms of his feet, Jim shook himself once. "Pick one, Chief."

Chapter 2

A bottle of expensive scotch. A good cigar. His service revolver. The gun cleaning kit. Lights low, the phones turned off, the computer inactive. This was Al Calavicci's Friday evening ritual; one that went all the way back to Project Star Bright, held sacred against even congressional committees. It was his own personal down-time, to allow himself to relax and recharge before resuming his helter-skelter rush through life.

He went through the motions of his weekly rite, not because he wanted to tonight, but because it was expected of him. Right now that was his god because he had to keep up appearances to the staff, to his family, but most especially to the supposedly unknown camera cataloguing his every move. Despite that, as always, his private ceremony gave comfort, letting him settle into his own mind with ease.

With a glance at the clock, he turned his back on the hidden lens of the bug, knowing his high-backed chair would block him completely from its intrusion. Freed at last from prying eyes, his face settled into deep lines of sorrow and grief, as he sipped at the unwanted scotch in his hand. In front of him were the pictures of what he treasured above all else: his lovely ladies in all their various glories.

There was patient, loving Beth, still beautiful after all these years, still sharing her compassionate strength as a nurse. He had several photos of her: one in her nurse's uniform, another dressed to the hilt for a night out, and, his favorite, a candid shot he had taken right after the birth of their first daughter, showing her looking into the unseen crib, maternal joy lighting her face. Then there were pictures of Lilbeth, his oldest, growing from babyhood to toddler to schoolgirl, to ravishing young lady out to become a doctor. Two shots were of the twins, Katherine and Karen, called Honey and Amber professionally because of their uniquely golden looks. Theirs were from their model's portfolio, not that a paid photographer was needed to capture their incredible beauty. And of course, there were pictures of the baby, Trudy. She was a tomboy who claimed she was going to be a fighter pilot when she grew up, and anybody who didn't think she could had better get the hell out of her way.

Al snorted. She would, too. Much as she shared her mother's dark-eyed looks, her spirit was all fire and impatience, like his - truly his child. They all had the Calavicci spirit to the max, but in her it snapped and cracked like fire, making her his secret favorite. Not that they weren't all treasured. His family was his greatest joy, greatest comfort. And it wasn't enough.

Almost reluctantly, though it was part of the ritual too, he turned up the heavy silver frame that laid face down in the midst of all the rest. It was the picture they had used for the cover of Time, and Sam had autographed it and given it to him as a joke when Al had moved into his offices at Stallion's Gate.

It was only fitting that a photo of him take center stage amid the rest, though even Beth believed it was because Al thought of Sam as family. Only he knew it was because without Sam, there wouldn't be any family. No Beth. No daughters. Al remembered, oh how he remembered, what he’d had before. Before Sam had changed Time for him.

To the rest of the world, Quantum Leap ended before it began, with the death of its creator in an accident at the nuclear heart of the project. Only Al remembered the original history; the five years Sam spent putting right what once went wrong in Time, helping people while wearing someone else's face. Five years that ended for Al with a final Leap that he had only dim images from, ended with him laying face down in Beth's lap, screaming Sam's name, with *two* sets of histories, one that could not have existed yet, warring in his mind. The confusion and stress had sent him over the edge for a while.

That breakdown might have saved him. When the sniveling, grinning weasels came to his room, hinting at consequences and Sam's good name and danger to the family if Al didn't go along with them, he had been too numb to care - too heartbroken to appear to be anything but harmless to their plots. Maybe that had been a gift from Sam, too.

It had allowed him to sit back, laughing up his sleeve, as they tried to take over Sam's work. As if Sam had been stupid enough, or even naive enough, not to know there had always been a chance that could happen. Or to think that if the project was taken over, it would be put to good use. Al watched them looking for computer logs, backdoors, for notes that didn't exist, questioning the staff. They had thought that if they moved fast enough, they’d be able to forestall any roadblocks Sam or Al might have put up.

Hah. Nozzles. Their failsafe had been the simplest. The moment Ziggy no longer read life signs from Sam Beckett, she had simply shut everything down. Permanently. She erased and destroyed every file that either of them had entrusted her with, and they had entrusted her with it all. Then she shut herself down, sending overloads into her systems to fry them, never to be resurrected again.

Their efforts to 'repair' a machine they had no clue about had been a source of amusement for Al these past long, dreary, painful years. Just about the only source of amusement he had now, despite the girls.

Emptying his glass, he swiveled around again - careful to compose his face - and refilled it. Checking on the time once more, he turned back, put up his feet, and took a long draw on his cigar.

So far, they had made the assumption that he knew nothing about the technical aspects of the project, and that he had no information that they could use. But through his sources Al knew they were getting desperate, and that was dangerous. It was only a matter of time - time, hah! - before they turned their attention back to the washed-out flyboy, on the off chance he might know something useful.

That would be bad. Not for him; he could care less what happened to him. In fact, he’d actually be grateful to them to have a focus for all the anger he'd been stifling. Surveying the family grouping one more time, he turned Sam's portrait face-down again and closed his eyes, putting his feet back up. He had ten more minutes before he moved to protect his family from ruthless men that might see them as bargaining chips, and he wanted to spend those concentrating on the man who gave his lovely ladies to him.

The only person who had ever been allowed to intrude on Friday evening had been Sam, anyway. He would come in, sometimes, not very often, sprawl into a chair with a beer that Al kept in the little fridge for him, and sit silently. Sometimes he would doze off; mostly he sat, his own feet up, and sipped on his beer, his mind a thousand miles away but still somehow *there* to Al.

For the first year after his death, Al had sat in the office during 'his' time, believing with all his heart that Sam was out there, Leaping, trying to get back to him. Eyes closed, he would sometimes try to recreate that feeling of Sam's presence, but it had always eluded him. By the first anniversary of the accident, Al no longer believed, and any hope of Sam's return eluded him. Day after day ground by with no sign of Time being changed, or of Sam's influence, though Al wasn't sure that he would be able to see the differences, now, the way he used to.

All Al could see were the changes in himself. The loss of joy, of purpose, these were all too familiar to him, and there would be no Sam Beckett in this history to give Al the swift kick in the butt he needed to get his head on straight; or even better, to challenge him. And if life did present him with a challenge worth answering, he didn't think he had the heart, the interest, or even the energy to rise to it. He couldn't think of a single reason to even try.

He wasn't even rising to the occasion as far as ladies were concerned. Beth seemed grateful; in recent years, they had become more and more good friends and less and less husband and wife. He would always love her, but knew now, as he could never have imagined in the other lifetime, that the lost love of your life is always the greatest. The one you wake up to every morning is better in many ways, but….

But….

But not worth the price of the one person, who had always believed in you, always trusted you, who gave up his own chance at home and family to save your life. Who, in the end, gave his own life to fulfill your deepest dream.

Not for the first time, Al asked himself if Sam had known the price he would pay for giving Beth back. If he had chosen to die, or if he had simply done what he thought was right and accepted the consequences. He wasn't sure which thought was worse.

His internal timer went off, and he spun the chair around slowly to confirm. It was time. The glitch he had so carefully put into the 'hidden' security system would activate in a few minutes. For fifteen minutes he would be totally private; whatever happened during those minutes would be between him and God. The family, the staff, the nozzles would believe the appearances he would set up. He had been very, very careful about that.

Not one thing had been done out of step today, or for weeks before. There would be nothing unusual for the camera or the spies to record. Today was no special anniversary of anything. The changes in his will, insurance, all of it had been made ages and ages ago; no reason for suspicion on that front. Opening the gun cleaning kit, he considered once again whether to go for the quick head shot, but even that could be suspect. Hard as it was, he was going to have to go for the throat injury, and hope he could deal with the pain.

To all appearances an old, tired man with one drink too many in him would accidentally shoot himself while cleaning his gun, and bleed to death before he could summon help.

Setting everything out, he took a final drag off the cigar, finished the scotch, and took the cold steel in hand. Looking down the barrel wasn't anywhere as un-nerving as he had expected. Nor was he afraid. Or anxious. Or even relieved.

That last bothered him a bit. He should, after all, feel something, if only relief. He should have some last words, too, but couldn't come up with a thing to say. Shrugging, he awkwardly put his thumb in the trigger, letting the barrel cant toward his throat. This was going to have to be judged carefully.

As soon as he thought he had it right, he yanked on the trigger, not allowing himself to think, but one thought crash through his mind as he did. *Did you know, Sam? Did you know?*

The hammer clicked, metal hitting metal hollowly.

Al almost dropped the gun in surprise. He was positive he put a bullet in it. Opening it, he checked, jaw dropping as the bullet ejected. He stared at it a minute, snorted in disgust, then took out a box of them. Lousy, defective….

Releasing the catch, a fresh cartridge entered the chamber, and the slide snapped close. Oddly, it was even easier this time to aim the thing and he jerked at the trigger as soon as it was in position.

The hammer fell harmlessly.

Completely confused, Al set out to examine what should have been the instrument of his death. No ordinary gun, it was a 1964 vintage Colt "Gold Cup" National Match, semi-auto pistol, chambered in .38 Super. Al could have gotten it chambered in .45 caliber, like everybody else in the services carried, but he preferred the .38. Besides, he liked the chrome finish and custom scrollwork that only came with this model.

*So what went wrong?* he thought in confusion. *Maybe - could it have been the ammo? Oh, hell.* Al snatched up the first failed cartridge to examine it. No dimple in the primer. He ejected the next shell, chambering a third, and pulled the trigger. Again it failed to fire, and, as with the first, the second ejected cartridge didn't have a tell-tail dimple left in the primer where the firing pin should have struck it.

Mindful of his remaining time, Al dismantled the weapon. He removed the slide assembly, careful not to allow the barrel and spring to let go. When he got to the striker plate and hammer mechanism, he found what he was looking for. Or in this case, *didn’t* find it. The firing pin and spring were gone.

Which was a flat impossibility; no one had access to this gun but him. There wasn’t any reason for anyone to have access, and he would have never left the piece in anything but perfect firing condition. Picking up the leather-clad, velvet-lined case, he hefted it thoughtfully, then examined it.

To his surprise he found one corner of the lining peeling up. Gingerly he pulled it away to reveal the missing firing pin. With it was a string, both ends tied together, all balled up.

***

Meandering into the committee hall, Al blinked and tried to look alert. He must have failed miserably; the next person who went by him gave him a wide berth, as if afraid that fumes of alcohol would contaminate him. That suited him just fine, though he hadn't been near the booze since Friday. It didn't matter to him why people kept their distance as long as they did. The events of Friday evening had kept him from sleeping all weekend. He had gone through the routines of home and family on automatic pilot, smiling apologetically at the girls when they called him on it, but unable to bring himself into any better focus.

If only he could be sure that the nozzles weren't behind it! He twisted at the bit of string that was looped over his left wrist, frowning fiercely and not caring for the moment if anyone noticed. Sam's string theory of Time, and the way he illustrated it, was hardly unknown, thanks to all the stumping they did to raise funds for the project. It was such a subtle reminder of him, though, that Al couldn't imagine anyone but Sam thinking of using it. Yet, why would Sam be so subtle? Did he know Al was being watched? In that case, how had he gotten to the gun without being seen in the first place? But if it were the nozzles, how could they have known what he was planning? How did Sam? From a Leap? Then why not a stronger message? Why not just *talk* to him for Pete’s sake?

Head spinning, he almost walked past the intensely quiet argument without noticing. In fact, it was the flash of gold from the scrambled eggs on the hat that caught his eye, and military training had him looking up to salute.

Tom Beckett was nose-to-nose with Senator Weisman, his expression and body screaming defiance at the man. Instinct propelled Calavicci towards them. Beckett was in no position to provoke a man like Weisman; he had his immediate family, his mother, and his sister and her family to protect. Putting on his most jovial, harmless attitude, Al staggered up to them and pounded Tom on the shoulder. "Hey, Waterdog! Whacha doin' inside the belt?"

Weisman hastily put some distance between himself and the two sailors. "Admiral Calavicci," he acknowledged disapprovingly.

Giving Al a sharp look, Tom smiled, nevertheless, and gave him a quick hug. "I've been here a little while, you old Skyhound, but I've been too busy to get in touch. I'll bet I’m here for the same thing you are." Then looking towards the Senator, Tom added, "It looks like they're finally going to wrap up the investigation of the accident at Stallion’s Gate."

Affecting a careless shrug, Al replied bitterly for Weisman’s ears, but let Tom see what was in his eyes, "Bout time, too. It'll finally be over with; let 'em rest in peace."

If Weisman saw Tom’s gimlet stare at Al, he misinterpreted it. With a flash of a satisfied smile, he broke in. "Then I'll be seeing both of you gentlemen in the chambers. Calavicci, Beckett." Nodding, he dismissed himself and strode away, self-proclaimed winner of the confrontation.

Face hard, Beckett started to move, but Al's casual grip was a vise. Startled, Tom looked down at the hand on his arm - and saw the string surrounding the wrist. His gaze shot back up to Al's, and he started to speak. With a small shake of his head, Al stopped him, looked around the room, and then steered the two of them with drunken tacking toward a small alcove set away from the main hall.

"One of the advantages to spending so damn much time around here," Al said sotto voice, "you learn all the best spots to talk in private."

"As in not bugged?" To Al's surprise there was a trace of outrage in Tom's words, as if he thought this of all places should be sacrosanct.

"Yeah, though it's tricky, it still happens. But there are also some great places to be if old-fashioned eavesdropping is what you have in mind. Here," and he made a shaky wave in the air. "We’re as private as you can get on the Hill."

With a quick glance Tom assessed their position. From a distance, their stance, expressions and tone gave the impression of one old friend gently upbraiding another, and trying to get him to come to his senses. Calavicci watched Tom take it all in and decide to trust him. Casually Tom tugged at the string on Al's arm. "He's been in touch?" he asked half hopefully, half worried.

"Of a sorts. You?"

"Got a note from him asking me to deliver a message to a mutual friend. I'm not sure it's not a hoax. Weisman - you do know Weisman is behind the takeover of the project - may be trying to trick me."

"You mean behind the *attempt* to take over," Al said smugly. But he rubbed his head and studied the floor. "I don't think he meant to lose Sam; just put the Project in a position where Weisman could call the shots. With Sam gone, they're getting desperate. Tricks are the least of my worries."

"Tell me about it," Tom snarled, and Al’s eyes leapt up to find white-hot anger in the other man. "He had the balls, the pure, unmitigated *balls,* to threaten me just now. Wants to know if I might have been privileged to inside information, and if I 'know where my duty lies if I do.' As if I'd even understand any of Sam's work!"

Tiredly, Al nodded. "Same dance, different tune. I've been as unhelpful as I could, but…." He let the words trail off, feeling ashamed for some reason that he hadn't done more.

"But you've got family, too." Beckett drilled visual holes into Calavicci, gave a short nod. "Thing is, they don't know as much about me as they think they do, thanks to Sam. You?" At Al’s dismissing shrug, he went on. "There are…ways that I have to take care of Rachel and Mom and the rest. Hawaii's a distance, but that cover should stretch enough for a lovely set of ladies."

Jolted clear down to his heels, Al stood straight, head high for the first time in days. "They're my responsibility, Tom. But thank you."

"And you were probably the most important person in his life. Can you imagine how pissed Sam’ll be if I don't help take care of you and yours?"

They both smiled at the memory of the missing scientist's righteous indignation, which had been directed at both of them on more than one occasion. "What a pain in the butt," Al said fondly. He sought for and found Weisman: tall, elegantly dressed with perfectly coifed hair that was a distinguished gray, and easy to spot even in this Washington crowd. If Al didn't have to worry for his own, there were a few corpses he'd like to see unearthed, not a few of which Al was certain had that slime-ball's name on the body bag.

"Spread that wing," he said slowly. "In turn, I might, just might be able to make life a little more interesting for our favorite congressman and some of his buddies."

"Al," Tom began, obviously thinking about it, liking the idea, but having reservations. "Maybe we should save it. I think...." He stopped, searching for words.

"That Sam may have a plan?"

"Is that possible?" Tom asked frankly.

Watching Weisman as a nondescript, but still vaguely threatening man approached the senator, Al nodded. "Your brother has changed," he said absently. "In ways only God and Time fully understand or appreciate, I think." Al continued to study Weisman as he discretely separated from the ongoing discussion with his colleagues. The smaller man murmured a word into Weisman's ear and the two of them parted, but to Al's practiced eye, they were heading for the same spot.

Ruthlessly cutting off the questions rising to Beckett's lips, Al faded into the darker recess of the alcove, taking Tom with him. "Weisman," he hissed. With a swiftness only a few had ever seen, Al moved in the same direction as Weisman, but at a different angle. At the last second Al detoured, letting himself into an abandoned cloakroom. With Beckett on his heels, he crept along one wall, dragging a hand on it until he came to the spot he was looking for. Marked only by an irregularity in the panel was a sealed-off door to the area where Weisman was about to take his private meeting.

Using his penknife he pried at the panel and put his ear to it. Inches away, Beckett did the same thing, so that the crack was wide enough for both to hear.

"...Thought he was unaware of the surveillance." Weisman’s voice was cold.

"We'd taken every precaution." Nondescript’s voice was icy, precise and with a hint of Boston in it. "It is very likely that his sudden decision to vanish had nothing to do with our operation. However, I am well aware he is too valuable to our mutual interests to be allowed to slip through the cracks. Though our operatives have not been able to determine what case Ellison is presently involved with for Cascade PD, or, if, indeed, he is working under their auspices, we believe he and his partner will not remain out of our sight for long."

At the name of the person they were discussing, Beckett went rigid, and Al scoured his memory since it rang a bell for him. Something about surfing….

"I would not count on your operatives. If they were reliable he would not have known to elude them in the first place."

"I think," Nondescript's words dripped icicles, "that you forget Ellison is a trained Black Ops Ranger. We are sure he was merely being thorough, assuming for security's sake that he was under surveillance. Our agent was close enough to observe when Ellison and his partner suddenly approached one of the gates where he identified himself as an officer following a suspect. It seemed straightforward; wait at the gate until Ellison returned up the boarding ramp with the suspect. Unfortunately, our operative failed to consider they might board the flight to follow the suspect, as opposed to apprehending him directly. When our operative realized the flight was leaving, he contacted us, we tracked the flight, and positioned others at point of arrival."

"Let me guess," Weisman said with dry amusement. "They weren't on it, and all the passengers checked out clean. They probably exited the boarding ramp from the other end, or maybe took the maintenance hatch to the docking area, and went on their way undetected by your people."

Weisman's pleasure at the compound mistakes obviously struck a nerve; Nondescript said even more coldly, "Yes, those involved have been...reprimanded. Their replacements reported the subjects neither returned to their home or the station. Both locations are staked out; phones to known associates and family are tapped; all of the usual procedures are in place.

"However, all that can be learned from leaving Ellison on his own has been determined. There is no reason to delay his removal to a clinical setting for more advanced testing and study by our research team. Since he has chosen to leave his familiar environment, it would be foolish not to take advantage and apprehend him as quickly as possible for our uses."

"Oh, I certainly agree. Just one problem, you have to find him first." Weisman was twisting the knife, now, but Nondescript had apparently expected the dig.

"I do not anticipate that being a problem. With your influence, however, the task may be made less complicated."

"You wish my assistance with what, exactly?" Weisman’s bored voice drawled.

"Cascade is saturated. If he is there, or if he returns, he will be taken quickly. However, though there is no reason to believe so, he may no longer be in the area. With your resources we can place a warrant on him. Perhaps it could be for questioning on some federal matter. But the warrant is not to go to Cascade. We do not wish his co-workers coming to his aid."

"And you feel that his potential value to the project is worth the involvement of my people." Weisman sounded distant now; Al wished frantically for a look at him. Maybe he wasn't as comfortable with Nondescript as he wanted to believe. Beside him, Tom had the look of a man torn between elation and worry, and Al suddenly made the connection between surfing and the name Ellison.

"Frankly, he is of great interest even if you are unable to succeed in your goals. You will assist." The last was more command than request, compounded by a silky thread of unpleasantness in the small man's voice.

"My goals are not so far out of reach," Weisman said firmly, more firmly than even Al thought necessary, "that I am willing to let a useful piece be lost to error." Weisman considered for a moment, then continued. "I'll have a word or two, here and there, with some of my associates. I believe a warrant can be issued. Something that wouldn't make the authorities gun-happy, but eager to bring him in. For questioning on the whereabouts of a known terrorist, perhaps?"

"Whatever," Nondescript said dismissively. "Be certain to bring this to the attention of your contacts in the Forestry, as well as Parks and Recreation services. Given Ellison's background, he may go the survivalist route, if attempting to avoid attention or detection for whatever reason."

Weisman had no reply to that, and the faint echo of steps told the listening men that the conversation was over. Straightening, Calavicci glanced at Beckett. "Ellison? That kid you taught to surf; he hung around your mom's house for a while?" Inspiration hit him. "The mutual friend Sam gave you a message for."

Pacing around the dusty room, Tom dug his hands into his pockets and shrugged. "Sam must have warned him or something. But why was he being watched? What do Weisman and company want him for? What could a Ranger, even a Black-ops one, have to do with Quantum Leap?"

Al dug through his memories, considering anything Sam might have said about Ellison that would make him valuable to a sleaze ball like Weisman. He struggled for a moment, but came up empty. Making an erasing motion, Al thought, 'one thing at a time,' and turned his attention to the present. "Tom, this is beginning to look a hell of a lot more serious than one or two crooked politicians trying to make a buck off defunct secret research."

Nodding morosely, the Tom halted his steps in front of Al. "Or maybe add to their status by coming up with a technological coup during an election year." He pinned his fellow officer with a laser-sharp gaze. "Question is, what are we going to do about it?"

Turning away from him, Al strolled away a few steps. While in deep thought, his hands were in autopilot: taking a cigar from his pocket, preparing and lighting it. Slowly loosing his patience, Tom began to pace. Still in thought, Al's eyes followed Beckett without really seeing him. Finally, heaving a sigh as hard as the situation they were in, he gently intercepted him, coming to a stop in the almost same spot he had originally vacated.

"You're going to do nothing," Al said bluntly. "On the Hill you’re unknown. To Weisman and his people, you're a half-assed chance at some potentially useful insight on Sam's work. We have to convince them you don't have enough brains or interest in all that scientific stuff for them to bother with you."

Seeing the same mulish look he had seen on Sam so many times, Al added gently, "Being the home guard is the hardest thing of all and the most important. How can we, or anyone else we bring in, fight effectively if we have to worry about our homes and families?"

"Wait a sec. Anyone else? Who would you let in on this?" Tom asked, as if it hadn't occurred to him that the situation might go beyond personal involvement.

"At the moment," Al stressed the words carefully, "we don't know what Weisman and the spook he was just talking to are involved in or with who. But they talk about enough manpower and authority to take a cop at his home, or hunt him down nationwide. Do you really think the two of us by ourselves can do more than expose Weisman and a couple of his lesser goons?"

Going back to his pacing, Tom was silent for long seconds. "I don't know how many I can provide safe haven for," he said finally. "And I don't know how well what I can do will stand up to the level of scrutiny I'm beginning to think may be necessary."

"So we don't give them any reason to look at you very hard. Or me, for that fact." Bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, Al went on. "Me, they've already discounted as a harmless drunk. If you and I seem to have a fight and don't talk again, as long as they continue to think that we're at odds, even if they begin to suspect me, they won't look at you." Turning away again, Al thought out loud, "First, we have to set up a way to communicate."

"Are we really going to do this?" Tom halted abruptly and poked Al in the ribbons on his chest. "I mean, take on some insubstantial conspiracy that we can't prove, even to ourselves, really exists? What are we supposed to be anyway? Characters in some Crenshaw mystery?" His voice rose, getting angrier and angrier with each question.

Relatively sure the room wasn't wired, not caring if people heard the tenor of their words as long as they couldn't understand them, Al let Tom vent. Like his brother, Beckett had a certain amount of patriotic naiveté and innocence. This had to be a bad blow to him and he needed to accept their current circumstances. Al needed him to, as well. If he was going to trust Bethie and the girls to this man's care, he had to be sure Tom was as determined as he was.

When Tom finished, breathing hard and looking murderous, Al said, "Yes. We are going to do this. Or at least, I am." Letting the steel show for the first time he leaned up and into the other man’s space. "Ever since I held Sam in my arms, watching him calmly accept his death, listening to his life bubble away as his lungs filled…." Al took a breath and continued. "I've swallowed an anger that God Himself should be afraid of. Now I have a target for it. A target that deserves to suck up those years of bile, and I am, by God, going to enjoy watching him taste every drop."

Tom forgot his own anger a moment, apparently struck by the inner strength that still existed in his aging friend. A strange compassion filled his face, and he half-reached across the gap between them, then let his hand drop. "Okay, then. Okay." He turned away, then stopped and looked over his shoulder to regard the Al once more. "I want to be there for the kill. You savvy, Calavicci? I'll stay in the background for now. I’ll drop all contact with you and your family, and protect anyone you send my way. But when the time comes for those responsible for Sam’s death to go down, I'm the triggerman. Got it?"

"Got it." Impulsively Al pulled him into a hug. "For Sam's sake, I promise."

Awkwardly they hung onto each other for a moment, then pulled apart. Thumping him on the shoulder, Tom put on a stony face and 'stormed' out of the room. Giving him a few minutes to gain some distance, Al let himself slump, checked the mirror to make sure he looked bleary, though that was far from the way he felt, then disconsolately wandered out himself.

Keeping the image up all day was no problem. He’d mastered the art of dissembling in 'Nam, when doing so was all that kept him from torture or certain death. Behind it, he watched the committee hearing with a certain sardonic pleasure. Their sacrificial lamb bleated at the appropriate times, pleading guilty with extenuating circumstances. Al couldn't look at him too often; his image would waver and distort, then Al would dimly see another man sitting in the contractor's place. He was used to this sort of double vision, caused by Sam's first Leaps. In the original timeline, someone else had been planned for this role, and Sam had saved him. It made Al happy, both because it was a confirmation that the Leaps *happened,* and because if Sam saved the original contractor, he deserved it.

This pathetic creep was going to go down for a variety of charges, but murder wasn't going to be one of them. He was being well paid to keep his mouth shut and to serve the time, probably in one of those 'minimum security' resorts the government was so fond of. That or his associates had already written him off. Once in prison, it would be a cinch to arrange a contract for a hit. No loose ends that way.

The only harsh note in the day was seeing Donna Elysee at Weisman's table. She was trying to keep Sam’s work alive, not knowing the person who had stepped in to 'help' her was the last person she should have trusted. Unfortunately for Weisman, Sam rarely talked shop with Donna, and had left her out of large portions of the project, preferring she concentrate on her own interests. Inwardly sighing, Al thought it would have been better if they had had the original history, where she and Sam hadn't married. If Sam knew about her helping to subvert the Project, however unwittingly, it had to hurt.

When the hearings recessed for the day, Al headed straight for his office, careful to look hung over, and avoiding Donna. Later, while these interminable sessions went on their ponderous way, he would have to try to see if he could pull her aside and pump her. The thought left a bad taste in his mouth. If he could explain everything later, he was sure she would forgive him, but in the meantime, it was a rotten thing to have to do. Maybe he would have Beth talk to her; the two were on friendly terms, if not in fact close. That might makes things easier all the way around.

Al struggled to push away worries of how he was going to tell his wife what he was up to, and how much she needed to know, or even if he should say anything at all. Finally putting it aside, he sat down at his desk and brought up his computer. After an hour or so of work, he began to curse the thing, blaming it for something it hadn't done. In fact, it was working fine, but needing an excuse, he slapped at the monitor a few times as if it weren't. Finally, muttering blackly, he opened a tool case and crawled under his desk to where the tower sat.

Now safely out of view of the surveillance camera, he opened the case, checked his tell-tales, then hooked up the extra hard drive he'd hidden in it. As he suspected, they had checked his files, but not the machine itself. They'd never bothered to actually look and see what was physically in it. Still muttering dire threats, he clumsily pulled himself out from under his desk, and sat back down. Undetected by the camera, he called up the program that would hide anything he did on his computer from the network with routine stuff until deactivated, and accessed the new hard drive.

On it were programs that would be the envy of even the world's most prolific hackers. Viruses, worms, search and destroy — anything you needed to get into any system, complete with passwords only people with Umbra clearance had, including ones that the system operators didn't know existed for Umbra. Sam had written them so that Ziggy could get what she needed from where ever she needed it, without having to always go through channels. That time-saver had literally 'saved Time' on more than one occasion, and he was grateful he'd been able to talk Sam into including them in her programming. And, of course, into allowing Al to have copies.

It had been a few years since the programs had last been updated, yet they were still state of the art and were going to be very, very useful. Happily he called up his favorite. It was a virus that attached itself to primary files that were being downloaded, so that the system calling them would have a nervous breakdown, self-destructing in the process. From then on, when that system was restored, it would not be able to 'read' the primary file. Check the file list, it would be there, but accessing it would only find enough superficial information to convince the reader it was legit. The end result was, that without ever noticeably deleting a thing, a person could become practically invisible to all computer systems.

If Weisman wanted Ellison so badly, and Sam wanted him safe, Al was more than happy to frustrate the first to please the latter. He called up Ellison's service record, only to have a totally unexpected message scroll across the screen.

SANCHO — WHILE YOU'RE DOING JIM, DO BLAIR SANDBURG, TOO

Even knowing it was a dream, it was disconcerting to see the city landscape around him flicker and flip, becoming first one place then another. His corner stayed the same, though, and Al leaned on a mailbox in the bright sun and amused himself by guessing what part of D.C. would appear next. It took a while, immeasurable by dream time, but eventually he realized that someone was making their way toward him through the maze, moving determinedly in whatever zigzagging path was necessary to get to him.

It was a tall man, made taller looking by the unrelieved black he wore. From his combat boots to the turtleneck under the long trench coat, to the fingerless gloves, there was no color at all about him. Only his face, lined and tanned, held any, and the hardness of those blue eyes made them as impenetrable as if they had been black as well. With shock, Calavicci recognized Jim Ellison — an older, harder, much more dangerous Jim Ellison.

In the manner of soldiers everywhere, he automatically sized up the other man, deciding what the outcome would be if the two of them were to dance. With an unpleasant sinking feeling, Al admitted he was candy to this warrior. As was just about any other fighting man he'd ever encountered, despite the gray frosting the buzz cut of Ellison's hair.

A sliver of movement behind the imposing figure drew Al's eye, and he realized Ellison wasn't alone. Almost disappearing into the shadow of the bigger man was a slight figure, dressed the same as his companion, with the addition of a black fedora and wrap-around sunglasses. From under the hat spilled a long braid of pure white hair, falling over one shoulder and nearly to the small man's waist. Despite the way his face was almost completely obscured by the hat and glasses — and the color of the hair — Al knew it was the anthropologist that had been living with Ellison for the past few years, and that Sandburg had changed every bit as much as his friend.

God knows, he had been corrupting and attaching viruses to the files for those two all day. Little wonder he would dream about them tonight, too.

*Yes.* The air whispered around him. *You're thinking of us, thinking of Sam. It made it possible for us to find you.*

Idly Al looked around at the still shifting environment, hunting for the source of the whisper. When he returned his attention to the two men, they were standing in front of him, and the background behind them began to slow its mad metamorphosis. He shrugged. "Why were you looking?"

The man/ghost - Sandburg, yet not Sandburg - sidled around to stand in front of Ellison, though the bigger man kept his arm around his partner's waist. *Sam has started to change Time again,* and he gestured at the maelstrom around them, *but it's not stable, not yet. While it's in flux, we can, I can, come back to you. There's something you should remember. Something you need to remember to be able to help Sam. To help both of you, later.*

"Listen to him, sir," Ellison added, using the same military formality he always had around Al. "We want to help, that's all."

Pulling on his chin, Al thought about it for a second, then shrugged again. "Sure, why not? Only a dream."

*Which can be worse than reality, sometimes.*

Startled, he studied the shielded face intently, but saw nothing, not even the reflection of himself in the glasses. "Yeah, there is that."

"Game anyway?" At Al’s nod, the pair turned and began to walk away, and the city began a slow melt, becoming trees, bushes, undergrowth. The sunlight, which had been spring clean and comfortable, became oppressive and brassy, painful in its regard.

"Awww, jeez, Louise," Al moaned. "Viet Nam. There’s nothing I want to remember about 'Nam."

*We know; we're sorry.*

Without thinking he had been following the partners, and now he stopped, uncertain he was up to dealing with a nightmare. "Kid warned me," he muttered, hanging his head.

"It's okaaaayyyyyy." The word trailed off into a guttural growl, and Al's head shot up. The men were gone; ahead of him loped a big black cat of some kind, and a silver wolf.

*Nothing here can hurt you while we guard.* The wolf paused, looking back over its shoulder, and Al swore he could see the promise in its gray-blue eyes.

He trudged after them, reluctantly, but drawn by the inevitability nightmares could have. The heat became a weight he could feel, bowing him down, burning away his navy whites until all that was left was filthy, tattered rags. Losing strength, he sagged, unable to stand, only able to crawl, and finally, not even able to do that. The walls of the tiger cage closed around him, stifling him, but not as much as the deadly silence of the camp.

They had pulled out, prisoners and VC alike, retreating from oncoming troops. He'd been left behind, locked in the cage, more than half dead with some infection that left his skin hotter than the jungle ever could make it. He hadn't been worth a bullet, nor the time for a thrust of the knife, just part of the trash left behind.

He mumbled that, tearing at his chest, trying to pull off his own skin, it was so tight and hot. Cool hands caught his, holding them both easily in one, and one came up to cup his jaw. "No, never, Al."

His eyelids had the enormous weight of the sun on them, but he managed to pry them up, slightly, to look up at the man holding him. Hazel eyes, shining green in this light, smiled into his. "Who?" he gasped, but that single word was more than he had in him, he began to spiral away, ash before the desert wind. The single sound, "Sam," followed him, and in the days and nights that followed he learned that it meant water on his lips, gentle hands washing and cooling his body.

Without thought he fought at first, knowing only hard, hurting hands before this. The memory of soft, feminine ones was so distant as to be less than myth to him, waking or sleeping. Trust came hard, but come it did when the hands never lost their patience, their caring touch. After that, it was a short step to looking forward to them, and to the voice that always came with them.

It was only noise, but, like the hands, it never lost its gentleness or comforting tones. Once in awhile, he would wake completely, staring wildly around at the Spartan room he was in - the commandant's, his own deeply hidden voice said - then latch onto the green eyes under the brown hair, one lock of silver hanging almost into them. What he saw there, confusing and indescribable as it was, always sent him back into peaceful rest.

Sam never told him how long he nursed him through the fever; Al never thought to ask. One day, somewhere along its sunlight hours, he realized that he could *taste* what was being dribbled down his throat. It was orange juice, and with Herculean effort he summoned the will to grasp at the wrist holding the fruit to his mouth. He wrung it dry, licking at his lips when it was taken away. "Good," Al mumbled. Squinting from under his lashes he took a look, a good look, at the man who had been tending him.

Though he was dressed in the soft pajama-like garments of a Vietnamese farmer, the height and coloring was definitely that of a westerner. The tall, lanky man moved with practiced ease, putting aside the peel of the first orange segment, picking up another and propping Al's head up on one forearm while he offered it. Feebly Al swatted it away. "Escape!" The one word forced its way out of him, almost painful on his tongue.

For a moment, Sam hid his face away, head hanging. "No," he answered, softly. "Just...help, for a while."

"Why?" Al found he could ask without either pleading or screaming.

"It won't make any sense." He held up the orange piece again, and Al couldn't resist sucking on it as strongly as he could manage.

When it was dry, he said while Sam switched pieces, "A white man running loose in VC territory, without so much as knife for a weapon, and carrying fresh fruit. Doesn’t make sense, already." It was the longest speech he'd managed in days, and he struggled to stay awake after exerting himself so hard.

Giving him the last piece, squeezing it gently to get the juice to Al without any more work on his part, Sam said slowly, "This is how it's supposed to be, Al. They left you here to die. You didn't, but you were in too bad a shape to escape. I can't change that; if I do, someone else will pay for it. Would you have someone who wasn't supposed to be in that cage take your place?"

For a moment his desire to get *out* overrode anything, but before he could shame himself, it subsided. The sigh that came out in answer held years' worth of suffering, and not a small amount of pride. He turned his head away, and mumbled, "But helping is okay?"

To his surprise, Sam blushed. And, even more surprising, Al found it endearing. "No, not really," Sam admitted, finally.

*God, this kid is an innocent,* Al thought, ignoring the fact he looked to be some years older than himself. How the hell did he manage to survive in this devil's pit? "So what's the catch?"

"Catch?" Sam settled him down carefully on the thin pallet, took a damp cloth, and cleaned his chin and cheeks of the juice and pulp there. He pretended to be intent on this minor task, but Al could already see through the other man's small deceptions.

"As in, is this just one incredible hallucination? Am I dead and this is eternity - on second thought, if that's it, I don’t want to know." Sleep was already wrapping him up, but he blinked it away for a second, then gasped at the depth of sorrow and pain he saw in Sam's face. Fighting it, sleep made him blink again, and when he could focus, he thought he must have been mistaken. The only expression his companion wore was one of amused tolerance.

"Neither, Al. Go back to sleep. Heal." With a doctor's capable skill, Sam put a finger on the pulse in the thin wrist, and the back of his hand on Al's forehead. "Fever's gone, but your pulse is racing just from having a bite to eat. We have a few more days before the V.C. take back this part of the jungle. Enjoy the peace while you can."

"Peace," Al murmured. "Damnifino wha' that means a'more." He fell asleep, the first natural one he had had since he became ill. When he woke, Sam had been there again, and like each of his brief minutes of wakefulness over the days, they talked only about meaningless things. He learned Sam was pilfering a cache that belonged to commandant, but wouldn't say how he learned of it. That both sides had retreated from this area at the same time, each thinking the other had over-run it. That the man *was* a doctor, "among other things," he had mumbled, and Al had already learned that probing would only disturb his new friend.

Friend. That was a scary word to apply to a man that came out of nowhere, and had already kindly let him know that he would leave as unexpectedly. But as Sam handled Al's ailing body and its messy functions without so much as a blink, somehow allowing Al to deal with it as matter-of-factly, he knew that no other word could apply. On occasion, he would wake in the dark of the night, shivering despite the sultry air, wondering if he had gone mad. Always Sam was beside him, sleeping with one hand on Al's chest or back, to monitor him. He would study the tired face, questions harassing him worse then the insects. In the end, he would simply accept that Sam was doing the best he could, willingly, and for no other purpose than because Al needed it.

Humanity, kindness — Al had certainly seen little enough of that in his life. Finding it in the middle of a stinking jungle made him think about things he had once swore never to consider again. Things like God, Trust, and Faith: scarier than 'friend.'

A night came when Sam slept restlessly, and Al knew with the intuition of someone who had been left many times in his life that this would be the last night they would share. Moved by the impulse to know more about this mystery, Al inched closer on his stomach, until they lay side by side, then lifted a tentative finger to trace the elegant features of the other man. Objectively he decided Sam had mom-and-apple-pie wholesome good looks that would weather easily into distinguished. Al wound the silver forelock around a finger, let it spring away, tested the shadow of beard.

Under his questing touch, Sam murmured dreamily and shifted until only the clothes they wore separated them. It didn't seem odd to Al, though he had never had the desire before, to pet the wiry muscles of the chest and arms, skim over the flat stomach. It must have tickled; Sam smiled and rolled to his side, facing Al. Sleeping or not, it was an invitation Al couldn’t deny. He went to his side, too, and hugged the slim form loosely.

It felt good, and he tucked his nose into Sam’s breastbone, breathing deeply. Damn if he didn't smell good, too. Thinking he’d been in this hellhole *much* too long, he gave a final squeeze and turned away. Sam, apparently, didn't want to be deprived of his new pillow. He followed, wrapping both arms around Al and snuggling into his back.

Yawning, Al stretched in the embrace and let it be. He couldn't remember the last time he had been held, and this was innocent as two small children tumbled together in a crib. But they weren't children, and through his fatigue he felt a tiny trickle of physical pleasure. Alarmed and annoyed, he pushed it away, but to his horror it wouldn't leave.

Denial wasn't going to work; with typical Calavicci stubbornness, he turned and attacked it head on. It wasn't as if he hadn't seen a few things between the other POW's in the camp, or hadn't had his share of that kind of abuse from the guards. But he'd never been interested in fleeting relief with another prisoner, and his stone-cold, uninvolved acceptance of whatever the guards doled out made him no fun to them, so he generally had been left alone.

Sam didn't fit into either of those categories; his kindness and understanding were precious in this place, making them erotic in their very scarcity. So the guy had been nice to him, he liked it, and his libido decided it was okay to say that with half a boner. Nothing serious. He yawned again, and squirmed to get away from a lump bothering him.

And would have sat bolt upright if he'd been able. The lump he was wiggling against was Sam’s erection.

In the split second he had before his companion's breathing changed and the body behind him tensed, Al made his decision. As Sam shrank away, Al covered the hand on his chest and held it in place. "I don't mind, if you want to," he whispered, proud that the only thing in his voice was shy invitation.

Going very still, Sam's breathing stopped all together, and Al worried that Sam had been dreaming about someone much softer and prettier, and was finding reality very disappointing. *Well, stupid flyboy, of course he was. What could possibly be sexy about this bag of sharp-edged bones you’re hauling your brain around in? Good-looking as the kid is, he's probably never been short of company from lovely ladies in his life or had to go without long enough to need to screw anything that moved, unlike some over-sexed….*

Fingertips brushed over the head of Al's maleness, soft now because of his fears. "Thank you." Sam's voice was sincere and quiet, "But I'm not going to rut on you like some animal just because I've been lonely."

Tilting his hips back in unmistakable invitation, feeling Sam's arousal grow even more, Al coaxed, "Come on, Sam. It's okay. I've been around the block a few times; I know the score. It's just to keep sane. Doesn't mean you're a queer or anything. It doesn't mean anything but you're horny."

How he knew, he didn't have a clue, but something told him that his words hurt his friend, very badly. Carefully Sam pulled away and started to get up. Before he could sit all the way up, Al turned and clutched at his elbow, holding him in place with feeble intent. In the dim light from the moon, he could barely make out the other man’s face, but the shine on the lashes was what Al needed to see.

Damn, he *had* said something wrong. Throat tight with sudden pressure, Al forced out one word that shocked him to his core. "Please?"

Sam’s head jerked around, and though Al couldn't see his expression for the shadows that lay over him, he knew Sam was as shocked as well. "Why? Truthfully, Al."

Timidly, emotions in too much turmoil to find that as upsetting as it should be, Al opened his arms. "Because I want it so badly. It's been so long, so long, Sam, since anyone loved me, and this might be the only chance I'll ever have to know any kind of loving again."

Hesitantly Sam came into his arms, twisting so that they were on their sides again, face to face. "Then you know that it is making love for me." The tone wasn't a question, but it was scared, so scared.

Nodding into the hollow of Sam’s throat, Al added, "And you've never done anything like this."

"No. I never thought I would. But…." Sam’s voice trailed off, and the chest under Al's cheek heaved. Not knowing if he should encourage him to cry or not, Al hugged with what strength he had, hoping it give Sam whatever it was he needed.

"Oh, God. Forgive me," Sam choked brokenly, then put his fingers under Al's chin to lift his head. Opening his mouth to ask 'for what,' Al had no chance to speak. With one kiss that was hotter than any fever that ever burned in mortal man, Sam claimed him, enclosing him tightly with long arms and legs. An answering passion boiled out of Al from someplace deep inside him that he hadn't known existed. It met Sam's fire, matched it, joined it, and grew with it exponentially until both were consumed, writhing in equal abandon.

Somehow they got Sam's clothes off, without parting more than an inch anywhere along their bodies. Bare flesh against bare flesh, delicious in a way Al had never known, he clung to his lover, too debilitated to do more than that. For all the wildness of Sam’s loving, he accepted Al's limitations, worked with them, willingly taking responsibility to thrust and grind for both, making it good for them.

With a cry that was half prayer and half scream, Sam erupted, sending a steady flow of slippery liquid into their joining. Panting harshly, eyes rolled all the way back into his head, Al strained up into the shuddering body, releasing his own seed with a soundless howl. He had time to wish for more before he fell headlong into exhaustion, hands locked around Sam's neck even in sleep.

As he slept, he watched from a few feet away as Sam cleaned them up, then held him, rocking slightly, whispering, "You are going home, Al. It'll take longer than any man should have to endure, and it'll be bad, sometimes, when you get there. But it'll always get better, and you'll never, ever feel alone again. I'm always with you, even here. I'm always with you."

For the first time since it happened, he remembered awakening, back in the tiger cage, the remainder of the commander's stash with him, as the other prisoners were pushed back into their usual places, amid the normal shouts and threats. Frantically he had looked around for Sam, but even his name slipped away as the other POW’s clamored at him, wanting to know how the hell he'd survived.

"The catch," he said, as the rest of the memory blended into the jungle. The panther pacing around him, forming a perimeter, rumbled deep in its chest in acknowledgment.

*Yes. No memory of Sam, other than a vague impression of someone being there and a promise heard and held only in the deepest part of your mind.* The wolf sitting at his feet regarded him with human eyes, filled with compassion.

"Why?" Al's scream set the panther's ears back, and the wolf got up to pace beside it, flanks bumping at every step.

*So Time wouldn't be changed.*

"But...but I made it the first time without him anyway. It couldn't have made a difference," Al sputtered, not understanding why such a precious thing could have been taken from him. Pivoting to do so, Al spoke to the animals as they walked around him.

*Yes, you made it on your own, with your spirit and will unbroken if badly battered, but now you know he is always with you, helping keep your soul alive. Remember that.*

Stumbling under the imperative of that voice, Al lost sight of them, and when he straightened, Ellison and Sandburg -

*No, Panther and Chief.*

- stood in human form in front of him.

Ellison - Panther - took him carefully by one elbow. "Sir? It's time to go back, now." He pulled Al forward a step, as if dragging him through thick mud.

Around them the jungle hardened, lost color, and flattened, and the city streets of D.C. began to break through the facade of the jungle set. Though the grip on him was strong, the figures before him began to turn translucent, insubstantial. "No, wait! Why do I need to remember that Leap now? What is Sam making right? Don't just bounce out of here without explaining, damn it! I didn't invite you in to my head in the first damn place."

Unintentionally he reached out, almost touching the smaller of the two men. Panther roared, simultaneously shoving Chief behind him and pushing Al back with the hold on his arm. Losing his balance, Al fell backwards.

Jerking awake and upright as the sensation of falling slammed his heart into overdrive, he opened his eyes to his and Bethie's bedroom. Frantically he looked around, half expecting the furnishings to begin to melt and shift, but it was only their room, with the same furniture, same smells, same sounds. Beth was on her side, facing away from him, snoring quietly into her pillow. Down the hall he could hear the opening and closing of a door, then the giggle of the twins.

Automatically he checked the clock. Past curfew - again. Putting on fatherhood at the same time he put on his robe, he shoved away the weird dream he'd had with the practiced skill of someone who’s dealt with nightmares for an eternity. But Sam's voice, whispering through tears, "I am always with you," stayed with him, keeping his reprimand to the girls light and his night's rest peaceful while he dealt with the memories Time had stolen.

Chapter 3

"Yes, Officer, how can I help you?" Warily Jim rolled the window down in the battered Jeep, schooling his face into surprised innocence. Since they had left Cascade on the run, nearly three months ago now, they had studiously avoided attracting any official attention at all, not sure how long the arm of their unknown enemy was.

"License 'n registration, please," the beefy man drawled. From his over-stuffed uniform, he looked to be a local sheriff, and he didn't seem happy to be dealing with out-of-staters on this deserted stretch of mountain road.

Beside him, though his heart beat erratically, Blair looked out the window projecting boredom, and whined, "What's the matter, Big Bro? Too eager to get rid of me?"

"If you hadn't lost the directions," Jim retorted, playing along, though both of them knew they had been driving legally, "I wouldn't be short on time, now. Why didn't you just have Mom give them to me, instead of scrawling them down on who knows what?" Since he already had both requested items in hand, he gave them to the officer and turned to 'glare' at Blair, not even his eyes showing his concern.

"Could you step out of the car, please, Mr. Walker?" With a tap to the frame of the door, the officer stepped back and toward the hood, one hand hanging loosely over his weapon.

"Jim," Blair whispered, for his ears only, "do you hear anyone else around, or maybe the hum of a wire on the sheriff?"

Keeping his hands in plain view, Jim unfolded himself out of the vehicle, shaking his head as he did, and leaned on the open door where the cop could see him. "Is there some problem, sir?"

Ignoring him, the cop called to Blair, "You too, son. Scoot out this way, and I want to see some ID."

"Sure." Blair slid across, and hopped out, turning his back to the officer as he did, putting one hand on the roof and reaching into his back pocket with the other. "I don't get it; this has to be a set up," he went on for Jim.

As the sheriff dragged his tongue over his lower lip, close-set black eyes staring at Blair's behind, Jim stepped around Blair, shoving at him so that he stumbled toward the back of the car away from the other man. "Chrissakes, kid," he snapped irritably, "can't you even get out your wallet without help?"

Looking over his shoulder, taking in the hard line of Jim's back and protective stance in front of him, Blair snapped back, in character, "Lay off! Here you go, Officer," and gave the license to Jim, who handed it to the sheriff over the door.

The cop looked at it perfunctorily. "Benjamin Walker. Brothers?" he asked, with a certain amount of disbelief clear in his voice.

Leaning on the jeep's roof this time, still keeping Blair on the other side of him, Jim shrugged. "Dad's second wife wasn't from around here, if you know what I mean."

"Mmm-hmm. Well, Mr. Walker," the Sheriff rumbled, "we had some trouble at a local motel last night, and yours is one of the cars listed as registered to a guest. I'd like to ask you boys some questions, separately."

Blair and Jim caught a glance from each other, held it, and let it go quickly. "Before you do, if you could tell us what happened, we might be able to save you some trouble, officer," Jim started.

"Yeah, the only reason we were there was 'cause we got all turned around…." Blair started, inching away like he was avoiding Jim.

"You mean *you* got us all turned around," Jim grumped, moving in closer to the officer.

"And it got so late we had to pull into the first motel we saw. I didn't want to go in 'cause he," and Blair jabbed a thumb at Jim, "was being such a jerk about being behind schedule, but if he'd stopped earlier to ask for directions, we wouldn't have gotten so off course."

Hand resting solidly on his gun now, the sheriff interrupted, as he held up his other hand, palm first. "That's enough, now, from both of you. Son," and he pointed at Blair, "you go stand by my squad car and wait 'til I finish with your brother here." As Blair opened his mouth to argue, he added, "No fuss, now. Go."

"This is way wrong," Blair muttered quietly for Jim, but he 'huffed' away as if annoyed, casting angry looks back over his shoulder.

Tracking him with his hearing, Jim narrowed his eyes and waited for an opening to take the officer on. Even if he hadn't been on the run, he wouldn't have trusted this situation. Everything about it was against standard procedures and screamed 'trouble' at him.

Whatever was on the cop's agenda, he wasnt stupid. He got no closer, but ordered, "Turn around, hands on the roof, feet spread."

Slowly doing as he was told, Jim said, pinning him with a sharp look, "If you're going to frisk me, sir, you should know you'll find a weapon in a holster on my belt. My licenses and permits for it are in my wallet."

For the first time the beefy man showed some hesitation, stopping mid-step. "You a cop, son?"

"No, sir. When I got out of the military a friend got me into private security - you know, for celebrities and movie stars, people like that. I've been a bodyguard for a while now."

Obviously waffling now, the cop tapped his finger on the butt of his gun, and notched the others onto his belt. "Good money?"

It was plainly a stall while he made up his mind, and Jim went along with it willingly. A big rig was coming down the road, a logging truck from the sound of it, though the sheriff couldn’t be aware of that yet. Having a witness, no matter how fleeting, might be all the push the officer needed to let this go. "Okay money. Been doing basketball people past couple of years; fringe benefits are good. I’ve seen every Bulls' game, away or home."

A blast of cold air swept over them, and from a few yards away, Blair yelped and huddled into his coat. A scent of lust came with it, assaulting Jim's nose, and he studied his opponent carefully. The man was staring at his partner again, face redder than before, and his heartbeat leapt dangerously. Stealing a quick glance at Blair himself, Jim could see, abstractly, what the sheriff liked.

With his cheeks flushed rosy with the cold, his eyes sparkling in what Jim knew to be alert readiness, Blair was a picture of healthy beauty. The wind had tumbled his hair, framing the strong face and accenting the bow of his full lips. Despite the heavy coat Blair wore for the drafty jeep, it was obvious that he was sturdily built though Jim knew the sheriff wouldn’t guess just how strong he was.

Blair lifted one expressive hand to brush away a strand of hair clinging to his mouth, and that single action tipped the sheriff the wrong way. As his heart accelerated again, the officer pulled his gun and a pair of handcuffs. "You can tell me about it on the way to the station. Don't give me any trouble now, son, and this will be over with that much faster."

Making him meet his eyes, Jim abandoned their pretense and warned softly, "Don't. This won't go down the way you expect."

"Well, now," the sheriff replied in a mock-friendly voice, giving Jim another once over. "It looks as though you might have been teaching little brother something besides how to throw."

"If I had been inclined that way, I would have never gotten through the flock of girls that've always been around him." His eyes narrowed, and he let the officer see past his own facade. "I. Don’t. Want. Him. Hurt."

It held the cop, but only as long as it took him to look over at Sandburg, again. With a visible swallow, he motioned with his gun. "It's best you not think about it, right now. Face forward."

Tensing, not worried that the rogue would see it now, Jim did as he was told, keeping his hands in full view. He tuned his hearing to the point where he could hear the bastard's blood flow, putting all attention on the subtle clues the sounds of movement gave. If he could catch the sheriff at the right moment in the right position….

The logging truck lumbered around the bend, and the driver, apparently recognizing the officer, sounded its horn. The bellow of it was enormous, slamming into Jim’s head like a blow. Hands going for his ears, he tried to spin the dial down before the pain knocked him out. The sheriff, thinking Jim was attacking, grabbed him by the back of the head and bounced his forehead onto the jeep. Two blows so close together were too much; Jim’s knees buckled.

Expecting more from the sheriff, he was dumbfounded when the hefty man quickly grabbed Jim’s gun out of its holster and ran at top speed for his unit. Through the ringing in his ears he heard Blair say cheerfully and idiotically in a pseudo good ole' boy accent, "Breaker, breaker good buddy, can you come back to this smokey?"

The radio snapped, crackled a few times, then a woman's astounded voice say, *Petey, is that you?*

"Hey, no. My name’s Benji. What's yours?" Blair had to be able to hear the sheriff pounding toward him, had to have seen their scuffle, but he kept up the charade of being oblivious to the rhino bearing down on him. Struggling to his feet, Jim followed the lumbering cop, but was too staggered to beat him to the cruiser.

Aiming the gun at Blair’s head, the officer snapped, "Drop that mike! And you, stop where you are!" The last was directed at Jim who skidded into the hood of the vehicle as the radio crackled again.

*Where is Sheriff Johnson? What are you doing on his unit?*

The tableau held, then Blair slowly handed the handset over to Johnson as the radio continued to squawk. *Sheriff Johnson? Are you there? Petey, are you there?*

The woman’s voice was rising and becoming harsher. His face hard and set, Johnson raised the mike to his lips. "Yeah, Susie. Just having some trouble with a couple of smart-alecky tourists."

*Need backup? Madison is only a few minutes away.* She sounded relieved and matter-of-fact now.

Anger crept out around the edges of Johnson’s control, but he managed to say neutrally enough, "Have him swing by, just to make sure. But I think I got these two in hand."

*Can do.*

"Out." He threw the mike back in the car, nearly hitting Blair with it. "This," he hissed, "is not over. Don’t think for one minute this is over."

Pulling himself up and meeting the furious man squarely, Jim repeated quietly, "Don't do this. It's not going to go down the way you want."

"We'll see about that." He gestured to Blair to get out of the car, and in short order he had them handcuffed and in the back of the cruiser. As he started the car, another police vehicle drove past, honking once at Johnson as it went.

Checking the bruise coming up on Jim's forehead, pressing close to his partner, Blair murmured, "What's going on here, man?"

Leaning in so that their heads nearly touched, Jim whispered back, "I'm not sure you want to know, Chief. And Johnson is the least of our worries. Those fake ID's won't hold up to a close check, and they'll do a computer search on our fingerprints. As soon as we’re booked, the clock is ticking."

Wincing, Blair muttered, "Even if we can handle being made, there's a chance whoever's after us will trace any queries on your files. They'll find us." Worriedly he gave his friend a nudge on the shoulder and sat back, still sub-vocalizing for Jim. "What are we going to do?"

Making sure Johnson was distracted by reporting in, Jim shifted in his seat as if accommodating the handcuffs and let his head hang so he could speak to Sandburg without being seen in the rearview. "Probably won't be much of a station, and only two or three deputies. It's late in the afternoon already; a finger print search takes time, especially with the technology a small town is going to have. Chances are the night shift only has one person; we should be able to get out of lock up and out of town without hurting anyone."

"Okay." Blair wiggled in his seat, checked Johnson out for himself, and then added, in normal tones, "Do you think there's anyway I can keep my coat?"

Going back to their cover, Jim asked scathingly, "Why, are you afraid someone's going to steal it?"

"No, man," Blair complained, "I'm cold. Freezing. Frigid. Turning into a people-cicle."

"Kid, you are the only person I know who could be standing in front of a roaring fire in the South Seas and still bitch about it feeling nippy. It’s going to be a jail, not a hotel. You'll be lucky if they give you a blanket to sleep under."

"Hey, just because some of us have antifreeze in our veins…." Blair twisted, bumping back into Jim’s arm, then settled down in his seat. The fleeting contact was enough for Jim to feel, in the padded sleeve of the coat, a hard bump about the size and shape of a knife. A casual search wouldn't turn it up, and Jim was willing to bet that a metal detector wouldn't either. Blair had been carrying his wood and flint knife since the day Washaki had given it to him; more than likely that was what was in the jacket. Oddly, knowing the old-fashioned weapon was there was reassuring. Half listening to Blair's mini-rant to the sheriff, he closed his eyes and lectured himself on patience.

***

It turned out there were three deputies, and the jail was one room with a lockup attached to the rear. There was an entrance from the main street, a door, which separated the office from the lock-up (and led to the lone rear entrance) and only one window: a vast picture window overlooking the main street. The dispatcher sat in front of it, packing up her purse as they came in. At the suspicious glare from the older woman, Blair smiled cheerfully and introduced himself, apologizing nicely for bothering her earlier. Under the cover of that distraction, Jim quickly sized up the other men, and was relieved to see one of them pick out the bruise on his forehead and immediately frown speculatively at Johnson.

Blind to it, Johnson booked them on reckless driving, assaulting an officer and resisting arrest. Letting his astonishment burn on his face, Blair went speechless while Jim shook his head, not bothering to protest. Johnson threw down Jim's gun on the counter with a flourish, adding, "He was carrying this."

"The permits are in my wallet," Jim put in quietly.

With a trace of triumph in his voice, the sheriff countered, "So you said. I didn't find them." He put Jim’s wallet beside the gun.

"And the duplicates are in the glove compartment of my jeep, '83 Cherokee, Colorado plates 899-PTW," Jim finished. The deputy wearing a nametag which identified him as 'Parker,' took on what could only be called a very satisfied grin, but hid it quickly.

Face blank, Johnson rushed them through the process, virtually ignoring Blair while the grad student chatted up the dispatcher, commenting on her resemblance to Jackie Onassis, to the lady's preening pleasure. Jim neither said anything, nor made any threatening moves. While it didn't seem possible for him to appear harmless, he didn't want to give anyone the impression he was looking for trouble. Or, worse still, have the other deputies pay *too* much attention to him.

Intent on scoping out the possibilities while Blair badgered the sheriff good-naturedly about making a long distance call to his mother, Jim was looking at one of the computer screens when a power surge hit the building. The lights flickered, blinked out, and came back on a second later. Stepping close to Sandburg, Jim cautiously put his hands where anyone could see them while the occupants of the room broke into disgusted mutters and groans.

"Again?" Susie's hands flew over her equipment.

Without looking up from his desktop, Deputy Parker said distractedly, "Big storm coming in off the mountains. We got the generator primed?"

"Won't be enough to run anything but heat and lights if the power goes again," the woman warned.

Everyone except Parker began to zip and button up, preparing to go out in the cold. "Better make sure things are battened down before you head off for the night," Johnson instructed his staff.

With a last disgusted look at the computer, Parker took Jim and Blair by the upper arms and escorted them toward the back. "I'll get these two bedded down for the night, then check the ginny myself. Suz, are you driving or staying with your sister in town tonight?"

Amid the chatter of good-byes and warnings about the weather, the office rapidly emptied behind them. Parker took them past one cell, apparently occupied by an enormous bundle of seething blankets. The blankets produced a pair of flat, empty brown eyes that followed the deputy’s every movement as he locked the partners up.

"Your next door neighbor is Davey. He's pretty quiet and harmless. You be sure to leave him alone."

"No problem, Deputy," Blair said sincerely. "Can I have some extra blankets, too?" He went meekly through the door, and sat on one bunk, lifting the single covering on it dispiritedly.

The look Parker gave them was enigmatic, and for a second Jim considered talking to him about Johnson. What he saw on the deputy's computer screen, which was running a routine 'fugitives wanted' release before it crashed, weighed on his tongue, though, and kept him from speaking. If Parker had his own thoughts on the subject, it would probably be better not to confuse the issue with unwanted observations from a hunted man.

Taking the other bunk, Jim examined the mattress, and resigned himself to lumps stealing what sleep he could've gotten. Stripping off his coat - the room was chilly but not uncomfortable to him - he watched as Blair got up to pace around the small space, hugging himself. A moment later a sunny grin lit up the cell; Parker offered him a stack of blankets. Reaching carefully through the bars, Blair took them, "Thanks!"

"No thanks necessary; you'll be needing them if the storm takes out the power tonight; the cells get kinda cold. There'll be food for you in a bit; probably nothing more than stew, but it'll be hot and filling."

"Thank you anyway, Deputy Parker," Blair told him honestly.

"Mmmm." Parker stared at both of them in turn, and Jim had no trouble meeting his searching eyes levelly, openly. Whatever the deputy hoped to see he must have found; he nodded to himself and left the room.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Blair joined Jim on his bunk, winding himself into one of the blankets. "We're getting out of here soon, right?" he whispered.

"As soon as the deputy settles in for the night," Jim murmured softly, almost into his ear. Apologetically, he reached over to take off Blair's glasses, which he had put on during booking. "It's an easy lock; sorry about this."

"Whoa, whoa, wait up a second." Blair dodged Jim's hands, removing his glasses himself. "You are *not* going to break these, no way. Here." From the frame he produced a small piece of wire and handed it to his partner. "I stuck that on when you replaced the last pair you used for a lock pick. Had to put one on the other side for balance, too, in case you drop that one."

"Chief, you never cease to amaze me," Jim said admiringly, and cuffed Blair gently over one ear. "What else do you have hidden under all those layers of clothes?"

Worry darting lightly over his expressive features, Blair answered cheerfully, "Not as much as I wish, since we're obviously not going back to the jeep, right?"

"Sorry. And we can't hole up here in town either, despite the storm. I saw a warrant on me on the computer before it died; it's a federal one. When they see that, they'll be determined to bring us back in, regardless of how shady they think Johnson is. This is their turf; too much a chance of them finding us.

"We're going to have to depend on Ranger training and," mindful of potential ears, Jim paraphrased, "Other things to get us through it. Once we're clear…." He shrugged. "I've got three $100 bills and a prepaid credit card in a different name under an ace bandage on my left calf. It'll have to do to get us to one of our other stashes. In the meantime, you should get what sleep you can. We'll leave as soon as it gets quiet."

From the next cell, a tiny voice whispered, "That's when the Sheriff takes care of 'unfinished business.'"

Jim turned at the sound of it, and at Blair's questioning eyebrow, repeated it for his cellmate.

To Jim’s surprise, Blair reached through the bars and laid a tentative hand on the edge of the blankets. "Are we 'unfinished business,' Davey?"

Moving away, hoping that it would encourage the other prisoner, Jim leaned on the bars, his back to the men.

After a minute of silence, Blair tried again. "Davey? If we're in trouble, I d really like to know about it."

A filthy hand crept out and stroked one of Blair's fingers. "The sheriff always has unfinished business with the pretty ones. He's never had a prettier one in here, either."

Jim could sense Blair’s distress scream across the small cell, and had to school his stance and expression to passivity. To his credit, Blair only said calmly, "Well, I've got Jim with me. And you're here. I don't think he'll try anything in front of witnesses."

"I'm no witness," Davey whispered. "I'm just the town junkie. Nobody pays me any mind." There was a pause, punctuated by a wet snuffle. "And your brother will be the guarantee you do what he wants."

"He's done this before, hasn't he?"

"Oh, yeah." The dirty hand stroked one last time, then disappeared back into the folds of fabric. "He's pretty quick; it shouldn't be too bad."

"Davey," Blair said gently, pushing away a bit of the cloth around the barely seen eyes. "Have you been the sheriff's 'unfinished business?' Is there someone you love that he uses as a guarantee?"

For a fleeting moment the mound turned rigid, then quickly thrashed as the mass beneath the blankets turned away from Blair, but not beyond the comforting touch. "Not me, not unfinished, not anymore. Junkies, we aren't so pretty, you know?" With that, Davey went silent, and the cell with him for a time.

Then he broke the silence with a sad offering. "Michael. Sheriff caught us at the motel, like he does a lot of his 'business.' Better to keep him happy than be known as the town faggot; at least that's what Michael always said. But Michael must have lied to me or something, 'cause he's gone...gone."

"Is being known as the town junkie really that much better?" Blair didn't push, but tucked the edges of blankets back into the stack. "Deputy Parker just thinks you're Davey. I think he'd listen to you, if you give him a chance." At that, even the eyes retreated into the cocoon of coverings.

Not surprised that Blair had picked up on Parker, Jim sat back down next to his roomie and prepared himself to wait. It was too early to know whether timing would allow them to escape, or Johnson to complete his business with them. All he could do was rest and hope that Blair would be able to do the same. With a soldier's patience, he made himself as comfortable as possible.

***

Johnson knew his people too well. Moments after Parker left the station for a patrol, he let himself in the back door, giving Jim barely enough time to hide his improvised lock pick and throw himself down on the cot. Weapon already drawn, the sheriff stood for a minute, long enough for the prisoners to notice him, then aimed the gun squarely at Jim.

"Back to the bars, hands through them," he ordered shortly, taking out a pair of handcuffs with his free hand.

Digging the wire into the cuff of his sleeve, Jim did as he was told, trusting that Blair would find a way to stall the man until he could use it on the handcuffs.

As the sheriff let himself into the cell, Blair stood straight and defiant, all traces of the spoiled, air-headed brat he had affected earlier gone. "This isn't going to go down the way you want it to," he said calmly, unknowingly repeating Jim's words from earlier.

"There's no reason for it not to. Or for your brother to get hurt, son," the uniformed man said almost kindly.

"Don't expect me to believe that, Johnson," Blair answered in the same measured, even tones. "We both know that if you lay a hand on me, he'll kill you. Or be killed trying. And then you'll have to kill me. So why should we make it easy on you? You want me? You’re going to have to surpass homosexuality and dive into necrophilia, man."

"Now, there's no reason for anybody to die, here." Johnson paled, somewhat, but refused to admit that Blair was getting to him.

"Why not? You've done it before, haven't you? Your moves are too slick; too practiced. What'd you do, anyway? See my brother help me out of the car at the motel last night and decide we were gay? You figured, out of state plates, checked in late at night and out early the next morning so no one notices we were around? You stalked us, didn't you, to see if we were heading for the Interstate or traveling the back roads. That spot where you pulled us over - perfect for you to see anybody coming or going for miles, but no one to see you.

"Bet there's a good place to dump the bodies, right close by. And there has to be bodies; too much chance you might pick the wrong someone. Like the kid of a wealthy man, or a straight man too infuriated by what you're doing to keep silent about it. It's all too big a risk to let them live, isn't it, Sheriff Johnson?"

Sandburg's contemptuous emphasis on his title sent the final dregs of color and the last of Johnson’s control straight down the drain. "There's a gully a few hundred yards from where I pulled you over; a place you're going to be spending the rest of eternity," he snarled. "And you'll be grateful for the peace when I'm done with you."

Raising his gun to whip Blair with it, he stomped toward the smaller man. Before he had taken a step, Jim tackled him from behind, handcuffs still dangling from one wrist. Sandburg snatched the gun from Johnson as the two men grappled with each other, banging around the confines of the bars.

Fueled by fear, larger than Jim by several inches and quite a few pounds, Johnson was nearly a match, despite all Jim's training and experience. Twice he slammed backwards into the bars, pinning Jim there with his weight and size. Twice Jim got free, once by kicking down into the back of the sheriff's knee, and once by digging a thumb into the soft place behind an ear. The last time Johnson tried a body slam, he and Blair were ready for it. Jim went limp, ducking down under the man's shoulder blades as Blair cracked the sheriff on the side of the head with the gun.

Johnson went down with Jim's hands hard on his throat to make sure he stayed down a while. Fingers sinking deep into the baggy flesh, Jim squeezed, dispassionately watching his victim's lips turning blue. Smaller hands covered his, not tugging or moving, simply resting on them. With a half-uttered growl, he let go abruptly and backed away, flexing his fists.

Removing the handcuffs from Jim to put them on the downed man, Blair muttered, "We have to find some way to protect Davey from Johnson when he comes to."

"And everyone else," Jim put in angrily, "for good. We can't do it ourselves. Do you think you could talk Davey into testifying? He has to know the reason why his friend 'left' is because he was murdered by this piece of shit."

Looking up from his task, Blair shook his head. "I don't know...look, why don't you finish up here. I'll go check the front office for things we can use. Maybe one of us will think of something in the meantime."

After Jim secured the sheriff with his own cuffs, he used the big man's belt to tie his ankles; then ripped off a piece of pillowcase to gag him in case he came around any time soon. Parker wouldn't stay away from the station long, especially in this weather and with prisoners to watch. Tossing a blanket over Johnson, Jim quickly made up a shape under the blankets on the other cot, in hopes that if Parker did look, he'd see two bodies and not look further.

As Jim was tying up the blankets in a roll with the killer's shoelaces, Blair zipped back through the connecting door, placing small items in various pockets, and handed Jim a large hunting knife. Taking one look at the shivering pile at the farthest end from the bound man, Blair sighed. "The only way Davey will talk, I think, is if he's safe from retribution from Johnson. You think Parker would offer him protection, if Davey could at least point him in the right direction toward hard evidence on the killings?"

"You want to stay and talk to the man?" Jim finished his task and slung the improvised harness for the blankets over a shoulder, standing as he did and thrusting the knife into his belt.

"Sort of. I typed a message on his computer and programmed it to beep until he touches a key; then the message will come up. He doesn't know about the warrant on you yet, and is already suspicious of the sheriff. I told him what Davey told us, and what Johnson said in front of him, and strongly suggested that because of it, Davey's life was in danger. Jim, he'll check it out and keep Johnson away on one pretext or another until he does. I'm sure of it."

Grumpily, but already making for the door, Jim only said, "You cut down on our getaway time, Chief. Move it."

"Can we make up for it by taking a squad car?" Blair grinned and dangled a set of keys from his fingertips.

Taking them from him as they stepped through the door, Jim shook his head. "No, too conspicuous."

Looking up and down the frozen, deserted streets, Blair said conversationally, "Who would see? And why are we getting in if that's the case?"

"To see if there's anything else we could borrow. Besides, we can use it for misdirection. We'll drive it out of town, and if anybody sees us, they'll report the direction it was going in when they saw it. But we'll ditch it where it won't be found right away, and go another way. I think," Jim dug out a map from the clutter on the dash, "yes, I did see this. Look here." He pointed to a spot on the map, turning it so the streetlight would illuminate for Blair to see as well. "This is where we are." He traced a short line towards another spot. "This town isn't directly connected; you have to drive all the way down to this junction, then back up. They won't think of us going there; they'll assume we're heading straight for the state line.

"In the meantime, with the squad car hidden, we'll cut across country. We can rest, wait for the hunt to die down. And we can keep an ear on what's going on over here. If Johnson isn't at least suspended, we can come back and see what we can do for Davey."

"How many miles is that, Jim?" Blair asked dubiously.

"I make it to be twenty, mostly uphill, but we've done more than that for fun."

"And the storm they're predicting?"

"I know what to do in this country, and this cruiser probably has survival gear in the trunk. It won't be the most comfortable hike we've ever made, but I think this is our best option for throwing off any pursuit from the sheriff or whoever the hell else it is we're supposed to be getting away from."

Jim put the map in an outside pocket and started the car. "If you have a better idea, now's the time."

Grinning, Blair asked, "Feel like a little walk?"

***

Suspended in a cold, white world filled with ear-blasting howling, Blair put one foot after the other, and tried not to drag on Jim. It was hard to tell if he was or wasn't. All of his skin had quit reporting in long ago. The tug on his arms as Jim plowed another step through the snow was distant and constant; his feet found their place in Jim's footsteps without his conscious direction. They both moved like automatons, propelled by habit rather than will.

Between his hands latched onto Jim’s belt and the rope Jim had tethered them with, Blair knew that if he faltered, or gave up to sit and just rest for a minute, Jim would go down too. Since he had been acting as both wind and trail breaker, he had to be as exhausted as Blair was. The heat that had been under his gloved hands when they burrowed under Jim's coat to hold on had long since faded. If they fell now, it was possible they would never get up again.

The analytical part of Blair's mind, the part that never stopped evaluating and cataloguing the world around him, calmly insisted over and over that they should have dropped long before now, anyway. That even Jim's senses weren't of any use during this temper tantrum of Mother Nature's. Blair didn't listen; they *were* still moving, though he had no idea how they were managing it. If Jim were lost, he was doing a damned good imitation of knowing where he was going.

Between the map they had taken from the cruiser, a small compass in the handle of the knife Blair found, and Ranger skills, they had confidently set out cross-country hours before the storm hit. Once it had, they had conferred briefly and decided to go on as long as Jim could see the landmarks he'd picked out or until he found shelter of some sort.

Whiteout conditions prevailed within minutes of that decision, and, for the first time, Blair had some idea of what it had taken Jim to trust him to guide him through his Golden-induced blindness. His respect for his partner had raised another unnecessary notch. Though he had to cope with the possibility of being lost or frozen to death, it was way better than dealing with drug distributors, guns, and other equally unpredictable man-made dangers. The snowstorm, at least, was not deliberately trying to kill them.

After a while, his mind, cut off from the body by the overload on his systems, began to drift, no longer paying attention to their trudge through the snow. His muscles worked so well on their own that Blair didn't even consider trying to reconnect. He was content with the trance-like turn his mind had taken. How long the state lasted he had no way of telling, but a primal, terrifying sound finally cut through it, jarring him back into his cold, cold body.

The wolf's cry sliced through the static from the snow, hitting every nerve in Blair's back, making him stand straighter than he ever had. In front of him, Jim started to take another step, but stopped the instant he met resistance from behind him. Ponderously he swung around to check out Blair, took one look at the head's-up stance, and began to turn in a slow circle, surveying the terrain around him.

At three-quarters of the way through, he, too, went on alert, and even through the veil of white, Blair could tell from the way he held himself that he was bringing up one or more of his senses to use fully. With a clumsy slap on Bair's snow covered shoulders, Jim took off again, this time at an angle to their original path. Shivering from something other than the cold, for a change, Blair followed him.

The ground under foot became steeper and rockier, despite its white covering, and then they were in a small stand of closely grown pines. The relief from the wind and driving wetness was immediate, though not complete by any stretch of the imagination. Nor did it seem to be Jim's final destination. They made their way to the end of the grove, where it bumped up into the naked face of the mountain.

Ducking beneath a low-hung branch, Jim led him around a large boulder and into a small cave, not quite tall enough for Blair to stand up in. Jim was forced to hunch over as they went deeper into it, peeling away scarves and blankets from their faces and stomping off snow.

"J---" The first sound snagged on the raw lining of Sandburg’s throat, and he had to try again. "Jim?"

"It goes down and in about five more yards; we'll be warmer if we can get to a back wall and away from the wind. The earth will insulate us enough so we won't have to worry about freezing, at least."

The darkness was actually a relief from the unrelenting glare of the storm, and Blair's eyes adapted gratefully. "Great! Think we could build a fire?"

"Not unless there's something already in here to burn; green wood is too smoky for a cave this small, and the deadfall is under two feet of snow. We've got that sleeping bag and chemical hot pads from the cruiser. We can get snug enough."

Jim stopped at what looked like the back wall, frowned thoughtfully, then inched along it toward the right. "This crack," he muttered, putting his hand in it. A second later his entire body followed, yanking Sandburg along with him. The opening was tight for Jim; Blair slipped through easily. The light from the cave entrance became a heavy jagged line running along the edge of the rock fall that created a tiny room in the mountain.

Arms stretched out, Blair could brush his fingertips along all the walls, though he had to be practically kneeling to do it. Already sitting, Jim began to unburden himself, piling things tidily to one side. "Claustrophobia had better not be a problem for either of us," Blair observed, plopping down next to his partner and trying to untie their tether with numb fingers.

"Or fear of the dark. An IRS agent's heart will be brighter than this place is going to be after night fall."

Trying to find Jim's eyes in the half-light, Blair blurted, "Night? We'll be here that long?"

"Or longer," Jim said distantly, telling Blair that he was searching through sensory information, trying to interpret it. "The storm feels…." He capped the back of his head with a hand, as if to release an ache there. "...it *feels* big."

Understandingly, Blair nodded. "You know, half the time I think that the worst problem you have with your senses is that you don't have the vocabulary for them. Telling me what you feel or smell or whatever must be like me trying to explain C-sharp to a deaf man."

Shrugging, Jim rose up to knee-walk over to the split that served as an entrance to their chamber. "More like one who's hard of hearing," he muttered. "Either way, we'd better settle in for a long blow." He began unrolling the sleeping bag.

"Ground's sandy; that's something." Blair started stripping off his top layers of clothes, stuffing them into the top part of the crack, both to cut down on the draft and to dry them.

"Shoes and socks, too, Chief," Jim ordered, putting the wettest of the blankets to one side and spreading the driest over the bag. "We'll put them just under the bag, and the heating pads at our feet. Dry the socks and shoes, keep our feet warm."

"Yeah, but what about the rest of me?" Blair grumped darkly. Too tired to put more effort into complaining than that, he quickly did as he was told and soon both of them were spooned together in a makeshift bed. They fell asleep even before their shivering stopped, and for the next two days, did little more than that.

In the quiet womb of the earth, they curled around each other as intimately and chastely as twins, seldom moving, mostly simply floating in the embryonic embrace of the blackness. They took turns crawling up to the entrance to deal with bodily functions and bring back snow to melt in a plastic baggie that once held sandwiches, but saved what food they had for when they were ready to begin the rest of their trek back to civilization.

In the encompassing quiet and dark, sometimes words were whispered.

"Mom?" "Deserved to know." "But they'll find her." "Long gone, Chief. Even if they find the commune, no one there knows where she is." "Or would tell if they did." "Naomi's safe. It's okay."

"*Would* have killed him." "I know."

On some level, Blair had never stopped being aware of the distant hum of the winds or the faint vibration of the bedrock around them as storm pummeled the landscape. When it finally stopped, the lack was strange enough to pull him from his twilight sleep. He peeled away from the heavy weight of his partner and made his way to the opening of the cave.

Blair leaned on the tunnel wall, light headed and fuzzy from too much sleep and too little food. The cold draft from the mouth revived him somewhat; he stepped confidently past the boulder hiding it and stared out into wonder.

Beyond the small gathering of trees, some of the clouds had come to ground and now danced and skipped along its surface, before darting back up to rejoin their brothers swirling above. They left twinkling trails of clear light and bluish sparkles of stars behind them, woven in an intricate pattern that almost made sense to Blair. Trees and rocks alike wore their new garments of white and shine proudly; their true colors and shapes mysteriously accented and sharpened.

As Blair watched, the clouds reluctantly made their way to places unknown, slowly allowing the moon-filled sky to peek into their newest creation. The moon itself came up directly in front of Blair as he watched, its light reaching toward him in single brilliant swath. The light path looked solid enough to tread on, and Blair whimsically put one foot on it, expecting it to plunge into snow up to the knee.

The path held, shimmering under his bare toes.

From the shadows of the trees, a large panther with Jim's eyes materialized to sit beside Blair, head tilted up to study him calmly.

"Cool. I'm not awake."

With feline disinterest, the great head swung away, looking out to the rising moon. Following his gaze, Blair saw a huge white wolf come from the moon the same way the panther had from the shadows. A few feet away from him it sat on its haunches, staring at him quizzically. With a head butt, the panther urged Blair to walk, then laid down on the threshold of the path. The wolf quivered expectantly, then rose quickly to join Blair as he took his first steps on the trail.

It felt faintly warm to his bare feet and solid, though wisps of it curled around his toes like fog. The loose snow swirled and whipped in the arms of the wind, brushing around Blair, feeling like satin on his skin, inviting him to dance as well. The air around him began to shimmer with the beat of music he could only see, not hear, and his wolf companion wove and darted around his legs, teasing him into jumping and leaping in time to it.

The ground was far below him now, and the stars within easy reach, if he chose to touch, as he spun through the steps he knew from somewhere eons ago. Other people - unknown and hardly seen - danced as well, and many different animals watched, encouraged or cavorted as their nature and mood demanded.

It was the most fantastic, exhilarating play Blair had ever known, and he knew that if he wanted, he could continue this frolic until the stars tired of singing. But the tom-tom thrum that had marked the measure for him began to slow and falter. He paused, head thrown back, panting from his exertions. That was wrong; very wrong. That steady sound should never fail; *could* never fail.

Following instinct, his wolf racing ahead of him, he ran, following his heart to the source. The moonlight path he had easily traveled up became treacherous on the way down: cold, slippery, yielding so that he sank in, forced to run through it. It was too thick, much too thick, and he couldn't breathe, couldn't draw in air, he was smothering, they were smothering.

He opened his eyes to an utter void; not even the faint light that should have seeped around the rock fall was there. Under his ear he could hear Jim's heartbeat slowing, failing as the movements of his chest became deeper and more ragged. Though he was on top of Jim, his own chest struggled to lift, and from somewhere he recognized that there was no weight on him. Only no air for his laboring lungs to pull in.

"Jim!" He half rose, smacking at his partner's chest. "Come on, Jim, wake up!" There was no reaction, and Blair struck harder. "Jim!" Under him, he could feel Jim beginning to fight for breath.

Something must have closed over the cave mouth, blocking the air supply, Blair realized groggily. Disoriented by the complete lack of light, he threw out his hands, feeling along the walls to find the way out of their chamber. Scrabbling along them, he dug at the rock, but couldn't find a gap, a crack anywhere. Fighting down panic, he tried to slow his search, be more methodical, but the black on black dots poking through his eyeballs told him they were rapidly running out of time.

Damn, if there had been a major rock fall or avalanche of snow, they would have been awakened by it. It had to be that the cave entrance was only snowed over, which meant there had to be some light, some air still moving. Forcing his pants high and light in his chest, he strained to feel, to see some minute lightening of this deadly night.

There, there. Only a shade, a fragment of a shade, but it *was* different, and a hint of air teased past his cheek on that side. Lunging forward, he practically fell through the opening, then scrambled his way up the tunnel toward the outside. Ahead of him he could barely make out a patch of not-quite black and aimed for it, pulling up short as his hands hit something hard and cold.

And wet. Running his fingers over it, Blair realized it was ice. The wind had blown enough snow over the entrance to cover it and the minor difference between the outside air and the cave air warmed by their bodies had allowed a layer of it to melt, then freeze. Dizzy, he punched at the coating, doing nothing but hurting his hand in the process. He tried again, then swayed and leaned on the wall, sucking his knuckles.

Had to get through - he needed something heavier to break it. Bending, he searched for a rock, but stood again as a prick at the small of his back reminded him of his knife. Taking the stone blade in hand, he raised it over his head and slashed down with all his waning strength. A dozen chips flew from the impact, scoring his hand and face, and cracking a tiny hole in it.

Literally putting his nose at the air hole, he inhaled and exhaled deeply several times, feeling his head clear. Then, afraid the brittle flint would break, he chipped carefully at the opening until it was large enough for him to put a hand through. It only took a couple of pulls to bring down the rest of the barrier and a rush of clean, cold air into the cave.

Hands in his armpits, he hustled back down to their sleeping chamber, and fit back past the barrier to it. To his dismay, the air there was heavy and dull; there was almost no draft coming through from the topside. Hastily he removed all the stuffing from the crack, then bent over Jim. Slapping at his partner's face, he called, "Wake up! Now, Jim! Wake up."

He didn't so much as stir. Hastily Blair put his ear to Jim's mouth; he was barely breathing. Moving down to his chest, he listened for a heartbeat and found that it was far too fast; thin and thready. He got his knees under Jim's shoulders, then put his hands in Jim's armpits and hauled backwards, dragging him closer to the crack in the rock fall. No way he was going to be able to squeeze the unconscious man through it, but at least there was more air movement by it.

"Jim, you're scaring me, here, man. Wake up! Wake up!" Blair hit him again, and again got no response. Kneeling up, he pulled at his matted hair and thought frantically, before realizing there was a cold draft hitting him directly on the face. If he couldn't get Jim up to the air, he'd have to bring the air to Jim. Deliberately he emptied his lungs then filled them, repeating the cycle twice more. Bending over his partner, he made sure the airway was clear and breathed into him.

Pausing between every other respiration, he straightened to get clean air and repeated his wake-up demands. By the fourth time, Jim was tossing his head and mumbling, groping around the room as if to search for what disturbed him. "JIM!" Blair shouted, hoping the excess sound would pain him into full consciousness.

"Sandburg? Wha?"

"Air's bad. We've got to get out of here, now!" Getting his hands under Jim's arms, Blair heaved, and with clumsy help, got him more or less upright. It made a marginal difference; Jim shook his head and tried to take some of his own weight. "Move," Blair urged, and inched out of the room. With the help of the wall and the frigid breeze, they both navigated up until they were a few feet from the concealing boulder.

Sitting heavily, Jim leaned back, dragging the blanket he had held on to over his shoulders.

"You okay?" Blair bent over him, cupping his mouth to feel the warm, moist journey of air in and out of his lungs.

"Got a killer headache. You?"

At the reminder, Blair's own head announced its discomfort to him loudly, and he half collapsed onto the floor next to him. "Man, I wish you hadn't asked me that!"

"Christ, Sandburg! Your feet are ice!" Jim picked up the chilled extremity from where it had landed next to his calf and put it in his lap, under the blanket.

"I had other things to think about besides putting on my boots," Blair muttered, worming the other foot in beside its mate.

Not content to have only the feet to warm, Jim snagged Blair by an arm and encouraged him to scoot close enough beside him to share the covering as much as possible. Jim chaffed carefully at Blair's icy flesh and asked, "What woke you anyway? From the smell, we had to be pretty close to suffocating."

"Weird dream," Blair said shortly, but smiled as some of the wonder and magic leeched back into the real world.

"Yeah?" The tone cajoled, and Blair spilled willingly, trying to paint with his words what he had seen. When he was done, Jim shifted around to get Blair under the covers better and commented, "A wolf?"

Half asleep, soothed by the warmth around him, Blair said, "Why not? You dream of panthers."

"Well, this time, so did you."

A long pause ensued. "And it always means something when you do. I wonder…." Pushing away the fantasy images, Blair focused on the doorway. "One thing about my dream was right. The storm has stopped."

Tilting his head to peek up at the sky, Jim agreed. "As soon as it gets light enough we should head out." He was very still for a second, and Blair wasn't surprised when he reported, "Must not be far from that town; I can hear cars and people."

"For you, not far can be ten miles, especially with the way sound can carry in the mountains."

"I'm hearing a radio broadcast. Late-night talk show." Jim grinned widely, and thumped Blair on the back. "He's bemoaning what the world is coming to when a local sheriff can 'abuse his authority to make his jurisdiction his own preserve for satisfying his perverse hungers.' Sounds like Johnson's been made."

"Good for Davey! He must have talked."

"And Peterson must have had more than suspicions, too. Taking down a sheriff is risky; he could have been waiting for a break."

"Any word on us?"

Jim didn't answer immediately, and Blair amused himself by tracking down all the gaps in their warm shroud and trying to stop them. "Nothing. Not even a 'be on the alert for these men, wanted for questioning' alert."

"Maybe they're too busy to worry about us."

"Maybe."

The sky began to lighten in the east, and Blair could tell by the growing tension in his partner that Jim was preparing to move. Bracing himself as well, Blair nudged his head into the broad shoulder in front of him and said simply, "It feels good; knowing that we helped Davey put right what went so wrong in his life. Maybe now he can get the help he needs to heal, put it behind him."

"He's got a long, long road if that's the case."

"But we put him on it. You know, Jim, there are lots of people who could use a boost just to get things back on the right track. A boost from someone who hears more, sees more than the average cop; knows the system and what does or doesn't work. Who isn't bound by a cop's restrictions."

"Or from someone who *understands* more," Jim said as he tapped Blair’s forehead. A few minutes later, he said reflectively, "D.C. is bound to have more than its share of those in need. P.I.'s?"

"Maybe nothing so official. We could, you know, trade information for information, too."

"If nothing else, we can make eating money by snitching." Jim dug his fingers into his skull, then sighed. "Not exactly protecting the tribe, here, Chief, but you're right. We can do some good while we're trying to help ourselves. Wonder how long it'll take us to hitch to D.C.?"

"Hey, who said anything about hitching? We've got enough for a bus, right?"

"If you think I'm going to spend another night in the same clothes without a shower, you are dead wrong. I'm so dirty my skin is threatening to divorce me. Besides, they wouldn't let us on, smelling like this. I've had the dial down on my nose for ages."

"Hot water," Blair said eagerly, "I remember hot water. Okay, we can do this." He popped up, scattering the blankets, and dashed for the back. "Dibs on the shower."

"In your dreams!" Jim hustled after him.

"If you think the stink is bad now, think of how bad it's going to be to you when you come out if I don't go in first," Blair shot back over his shoulder. Jim's answering grumble was muffled, but Blair wasn't listening anyway. He was already turning over the possibilities of how a sentinel could serve the tribes of the underground communities of a city.

End Part One



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