From where he sat on the floor, Blair could see anyone who came into the evidence room for Cascade PD, but it was unlikely they could see him. That had been deliberate on his part, to an extent. It took concentration to identify the artifacts taken in the bust of a large-scale private collector, even if it was only to do it well enough to be able to pinpoint the museum from which they had been stolen. Blair knew himself well enough that if someone came in and said 'hi,' he would get distracted, and he was going to a Jags off-season exhibition game with Jim when he was finished. For once he'd like to make the tip-off. Or at least for it not to be his fault if they *were* late.
But it was accidental, too, since the collector had been fond of large pieces and Blair had had to eel in behind several to get to the shelves they blocked. Murphy, the sergeant in charge, had offered to help him move them, but the older man looked as if his heart didn't need that kind of strain. Calories from donuts past lingered on the stout frame, and he looked almost stereotypically like an Irish cop with his too-red face and bright green eyes.
Either way, Blair was grateful he was hidden when Detective Sergeant Greg Church of the Homicide squad blundered through the door, carrying a bumper from a large car. He didn't like Church, for no good reason that he could point to, except that the detective had flat, empty eyes that gave nothing away while drilling in deeply to find every secret in every person he met. It didn't help that Jim didn't like him, either. The sentinel's instincts on other people weren't infallible, but were often good when it came to sensing if someone was dirty. There was no love lost between the two, and, by association, Church didn't like Blair, going out of his way to make things difficult for him whenever he could.
Hunching down, hoping that he wouldn't be noticed and Murphy wouldn't mention him, Blair tried to put his mind back on the job at hand, but couldn't. It was strange to see the well-dressed Church handling something as filthy and awkward as a bumper. He usually delegated potentially sweaty, messy tasks to his long-suffering partner. Doing physical work might wrinkle or dirty the discretely tailored suit the man wore to hide slumped shoulders and a caved chest.
With that puzzle playing at his concentration, Blair kept glancing over at the two men, as they struggled to get the thing through the door. During the process, a bunch of papers on the desk just under the glass partition between the room and hallway was knocked to the floor, and Murphy automatically bent to gather them up as soon as his hands were free. While he had his back to the other man, Church slapped something under the metal shelf just beside the desk, then something else on the bottom of the one above it.
He did it so quickly, Blair wasn't quite sure he'd actually seen it at all, but from his vantage point, sitting on the floor and peering up, he could see a gray patch that was slightly different from the rest of the gray metal of the shelves. Automatically he looked to see what was between the two patches, and sat straight up, worry snaking along his spine. It was the basket that held tapes to be transcribed.
Some were witness tapes, others were from authorized bugs, but all were probably going to sit in that basket the entire weekend, waiting for a clerk to type them up. And since it was the Friday of a three day weekend, it was very likely most wouldn't be touched again until Tuesday. If those *were* magnets clinging to the shelves, by then those tapes would be garbled nonsense, if there was any sound left on them at all.
Keeping his head low over the clipboard in his lap so that if Church did see him, he'd think that Blair hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary, Blair pretended vast absorption in his task. Fact was, he didn't even see the list in front of him. All he could think of was how long would it take before it was safe for him to leave the evidence room without it being connected to Church having been there. And whether or not Jim was still in the building or if he was going to have to tell Simon by himself what he had seen.
Mercifully, Church left quickly after that, leaving Murphy to struggle with getting the bumper out of the way on his own. As soon as he was sure the coast was clear, Blair crawled out of his nook and helped, casually bitching with the officer about the detective. With a little creative clumsiness of his own, he bumped the tape basket, and on the pretense of straightening it, moved it away from the magnets. Then he fled for Major Crimes, trying not to run.
Jim looked up from his paperwork as he entered, eyes smiling, but that quickly died. There was no way for Blair to be sure if it was his expression that warned all was not well or if it was something only the sentinel could perceive. Either way, the deliberate stroll and the off-hand wave given on the way across the room clearly didn't fool him.
He murmured just for Jim, "I need you to come down to Evidence with me for a minute; can you think of an excuse?"
With a barely visible nod, Jim agreed, and a moment later stretched, his shoulders flexing powerfully under his sweater. He said mildly, as if bored, "Ready for me to give you a hand moving those rocks, Chief?"
Falling in immediately, Blair defended, "Hey, not just rocks, man. Architecture. Whole pieces from a dozen different temples in South America. The carving on them alone graduates them from mere stone, never mind where they came from."
Standing, Jim shrugged and tossed a pen to his desk. "Looked like rocks to me. And I'm still trying to imagine how the thieves got them out of the museums."
Snickering, relaxing now that he was doing something constructive, Blair shot back, "Can you imagine what they must have charged Sutton? Hernia surgery isn't cheap! Hey, is Simon still here? This is taking way too long, and I don't want to miss the game tonight."
"Luck's with you. Not only here, but hasn't bellowed once in three hours; might actually be in the mood to extend the deadline."
"Uh, oh. That means he's over due." Pretending reluctance Blair looked at the captain's door, but Jim caught him by the elbow and dragged him toward it.
"What's the worse he can do?" Jim asked reasonably.
"I do *not* want to find out."
A knock got them a distracted "Come!" and they went through, Jim nodding at the grimace of acknowledgement from Banks. Heart pounding again, Blair sat on the edge of the table as Jim leaned on the door, obviously waiting patiently both for the captain to be free and for an explanation from his partner.
Eyes on the floor, he announced bluntly the second the phone went down, "I just saw Church sabotage the transcription tapes in Evidence."
"How?"
A worry that Blair hadn't admitted to himself melted away at Jim's ready acceptance, but all he said was, "Magnets."
Head in hand, rubbing at his forehead, Banks asked, "I take it he doesn't know you spotted him?"
"No, I don't think so. I bought us some time by moving the basket, but you know how meticulous Murphy is. He'll notice and put it back where it belongs."
"Man got the job because of his attention to that kind of thing," Simon pointed out, as if Blair were criticizing the officer.
"And he's been asking for special storage for them for years, but the commissioner never saw any need for the expense," Blair agreed.
"Not to mention the head of the secretarial pool that does the transcriptions is sleeping with him," Jim said unexpectedly. "She'd raise all kinds of hell if it suddenly became inconvenient for her to just sweep by and scoop up the basket on her way to her office in the mornings." At the look from the others, he tilted his head, giving the impression of shrugging with that motion. "I don't always get to choose what I hear, you know that." He thought a minute, then asked, "You didn't tell Murphy?"
"No, though I can't give you a good reason for it."
"That might be the way to play this," Banks said grimly. "For now." Abruptly he stood. "Come on, let's bag them for evidence. Church had to have left prints on them, and is probably planning on retrieving them before anyone discovers the tapes are corrupted. Better get a list of which ones are there, too. If we can pinpoint his target, we'll be able to add motive to the method and opportunity for IA."
"Sandburg gave us a cover. I'm going to help him move the artifacts he was cataloguing, and he's trying to talk you into letting him give you the list tomorrow to go to the Jags game tonight."
"Good thinking; I can work with that."
Despite the light way the words were spoken, Blair couldn't help going wide-eyed at the praise, and he popped up off the table right into a gentle punch from Jim. "Don't let it go to your head," Jim said, a smile off-setting both the punch and the words. "Even a rookie's got to get it right once in a while."
Lifting a single finger in reply at the notion he could be considered a rookie by any but the most technical definitions, Blair tossed himself out the door after Simon, saying persuasively, "It's not as if the museums will get back the pieces until after the trial, anyway."
They kept up the mock debate all the way back down to Evidence, pausing in the elevator only long enough for Jim to point out, "Church is going to see in the log book that we checked out the tapes; it might spook him. If we talk outside the cage a minute, maybe I can read the labels from there. That shelf is right beside the glass partition."
"Call it a plan," Banks said firmly. The doors opened for another passenger, and they went back to their cover.
While Blair and Simon bent over a clipboard, supposedly conferring about the artifacts and incidentally blocking a clear view of Jim to anyone coming up or down the hallway, Jim dictated what he saw while Blair wrote. Taking the list with him to run the records on the cases, Banks gave reluctant permission for Sandburg to 'just get the damned thing in before the end of *this* millennium' and left. Then Jim and Blair moved the artifacts, both because it did need done and because it provided the chance for Jim to peel off the magnets, careful to use the baggie so as not to get his own prints on them.
Jim left, perfunctorily razzing Blair about not making him wait, and that left that nothing to do but go back to his cataloging and try to put the matter out of mind. Fortunately the pieces were interesting enough that after a while he was able to concentrate, and he had almost finished when his partner showed up at the door again. To anyone less well versed in Jim-speak, which was primarily a visual language, the man simply looked impatient to leave.
To Blair he looked as if he'd locked down every emotion he had except one: anger. The line of his shoulders was so straight it made Blair's neck hurt just looking at it, and tension poured off them in waves that were nearly visible. Regardless, he kept to appearances, hoping that anybody noticing them would take his haste for eagerness to see the game.
Somehow he made it to Jim's truck without exploding into questions. Though he acted surprise, he wasn't when Banks arrived, claiming his car wasn't working and that the two of them had time to give him a lift, Once safely on the road, Blair couldn't hold it in any longer. "What! What?" he blurted, not able to find anything clearer to ask in the morass of fear and worry surged up at their grim expressions.
The Simon and Jim exchanged a look, and then Simon sighed. "Not a single one of those tapes were directly related to Church, or even to Homicide."
Thinking furiously, Blair asked, "That means he was doing it for someone else. Question is, from inside or outside of the department."
"Both?" Jim said tiredly. "A while ago I over heard a couple of uniforms bitching about Murphy, really belly-aching about how careful he is with his records. One of them said something of the effect that it was only a matter of time until he was gone. I thought he was referring to retirement; Murphy's already got his twenty, Now...." He opened and closed his hands once on the steering wheel, as if that could relieve his anger. "What do you think would happen to him if the tapes were corrupted?"
"That's a stretch, Detective," Simon snapped. "Unless a conviction hung on one of those, and I seriously doubt the DA would take a case with only that much evidence, the worst that would happen would be a reprimand, or maybe, *maybe,* a suspension."
"As proud as Murphy is, it would be a blow to him," Blair pointed out. "After that, another mistake or two, even small ones, along with the right remarks about losing it in his old age - he could be edged out."
"What good would that do?" Banks asked. "Assuming that he did decide to retire, his replacement would probably be as precise. That's what they'd look for in a candidate."
"But maybe not as rigid," Jim said grimly. "Murphy's got a reputation for being the most incorruptible cop on the force. So totally by the book and straight that the Academy uses him as a poster boy."
"Jim, I don't like where this is going," Simon said worriedly.
"Then you're going to like this even less. There were two sets of prints on the magnets and I ran them both: Church's and Captain Taylor's from IA."
The silence that lingered in the truck was stifling, and Blair broke it before he forgot how to breathe. "Since no one else wants to, I guess I get to be the first to use the 'c' word. Conspiracy. You think there's more going on that a random dirty cop or two."
"Four different people from three different departments linked to the same crime," Jim pointed out flatly. "I know how circumstantial the evidence is so far, and that all we have is speculation. But think about this - how many dirty cops have we had in the past couple of years, *including* in IA? That doesn't happen in a vacuum. There has to be a certain amount of laxness, laziness, tolerance, hell I don't know how to explain it."
"Like an atmosphere of crookedness that fosters more of the same?" Blair asked, seeing where Jim was going, fidgeting uneasily with his seatbelt.
"I don't believe it," Simon said bluntly, shaking his head and staring out the side window. "I won't believe it. Cascade PD has one of the best reputations in the country, no small thing considering some of the stuff that gets thrown at us. We have high solve rates, minimal amount of civil suits and claims of harassment or abuse. Hell, we have cops from other cities applying for openings on the force."
"Look, all I know is that something is wrong," Jim said stubbornly. "The question is - what are we going to do now? Who can we trust with this?"
More silence, this time nearly murderous in its weight, and Blair couldn't think of a thing to say to lighten it.
Finally, reluctantly, Simon admitted, "What we have to, one step at a time. Right now what we've got is the thread that Church gave us; let's see where it goes."
"Just us?" Jim asked, jaw clenched so tightly the muscle in it that it was one continuous throb>
"For now. Until we have a case built up," Simon agreed heavily. "We'll start by finding or making duplicates of the magnets Sandburg found, and keeping the originals. Church won't try to retrieve them until they've had the best chance to work, so we should probably put our decoys as soon as possible. Hopefully, the tapes won't be exposed to the magnetic field long enough to do any damage. Think you can drag out the artifact thing until then, Sandburg?"
"I wasn't planning on working on them any more until next week anyway," Blair said, deliberately sounding cheerful about it. At the look Banks gave him, he shrugged with his hands and grinned. "Hey, you can't blame me for taking what I can get!"
"Yes, but do you have to be so smug about it?" Simon groused back.
With an effort the three of them tried to turn the conversation toward more normal avenues, but it was a strain that showed.
In the weeks that followed it grew worse and worse as they essentially went undercover at the job while they followed their single lead. The initial thread became a vine with many tendrils digging its insubstantial way into virtually every department at every level. Simon stopped protesting, even automatically, that it couldn't happen to *his* police force, and hid the files and evidence in a place that even Jim and Blair didn't know about. They had their own set secreted away as well, and the three of them worked toward finding the one solid piece of evidence, the one witness, that would let them take the accumulated findings to the DA's office.
It was their hope that the findings would be so overwhelming that the DA wouldn't have a choice but to prosecute even if he were part of the conspiracy. Finding out that it reached beyond the force had been an unpleasant surprise, but not nearly as bad as learning that it reached into Major Crimes. The day that Jim overheard Rafe being pressured/coaxed into not talking to a witness for a murder was the last day that Blair saw the detective smile except when he was performing his role at work.
That night he gave up on trying to sleep, and padded barefoot toward the balcony where Jim had spent far too much of his free time lately. "Room here for two?" he asked, pitching his voice to fit into the hush of a 3am Cascade.
"Not going to nag me to sleep?" Jim asked, equally softly.
"I'm beginning to think that it doesn't exist; sleep's only a story made up by other people to make me feel inadequate." Blair leaned his forearms on the railing, bending a little to do it.
"Sounds paranoid."
"You know what they say," he answered tiredly, wanting to drag it out into the open, at least between them. "Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you."
Without thinking, it seemed, Jim glanced around making sure the conversation was private. Though he religiously looked for bugs and tails every day, there had been no sign so far that their covert investigations had attracted dangerous attention. Catching himself at it, he went rigid, then clearly *willed* himself to relax, scrubbing at his face as he did.
"If they aren't now, they will be," Jim said bluntly, sounding as if he were a soldier at the Alamo. "We can't win on this one, Chief. Nail the dirty cops and be shunned for bringing down our own, for spying and prying and holding all of us up to the eye of the press. Turn our backs on it and be faced in the not too far future with the choice of either joining or being brought down by 'friendly' fire. Maybe, if we're lucky, they won't think we need to die, so we'd just get framed for some massive blunder like they're trying on Murphy and Colt."
"We would have faced that choice sooner or later, anyway," Blair pointed out. "It may not be much, but the advanced warning that it's coming might make all the difference to surviving it."
"I know, Chief, I know. It's just...." Shutting his eyes and hanging his head, Jim mimicked Blair's position on the railing. "You've always had a better handle on this sentinel thing than I do. What does a sentinel do when his tribe turns his back on him? When he's thrown out, exiled?"
Heart aching, wishing he could dare to wrap his arms around the hurt in Jim and hug it away, Blair answered, "Finds another tribe; one worthy of him." A snort told him what his partner thought of the chances of being accepted by another police force, and he added, "There's more than one way to protect the tribe, more than one way to use your senses, Jim. When it's time, we'll find one that we can live with. It's not as though you've never had had to turn your back on an old life for a new one before."
Surprisingly, Jim asked very softly, "We, Blair?"
Thinking of a friendship that survived more than some marriages, soul harboring a hope for more even after so long, Blair repeated definitively. "We."
Turning his head, Jim looked at him, really looked, studying him more intently and thoroughly than he had the day they met. Then he gave the half smile that had always melted Blair's insides and agreed as firmly and gently, "We."
****
About three weeks later, wary of the old elevator in the Court House, Blair decided to take the stairs after he'd finished going over his testimony with one of the assistant district attorneys on a case where a court appearance was unavoidable. Racing down the stairs lightly on sneaker-clad feet, he spotted movement farther down the stairwell, near the parking garage and froze mid-step. Church was slipping through the door to the outside, following a man Blair couldn't identify from the back. Knowing that the homicide detective was supposed to be on vacation in Florida, visiting his parents, Blair followed, being as quiet as possible and pulling out his cell phone.
Thankfully Jim answered on the first ring. **Ellison.**
Praying that the sentinel would instinctively pitch his hearing down, Blair breathed, "Jim, Church is at the Court House, sneaking out the back way with someone."
**Understood. I'm at Lincoln and Dover, 5 minutes away.** There was a hesitation, as if Jim wanted to tell him to stay put, but it was too likely that this was the link they had been looking for - the contact outside the department that they knew had to exist but hadn't been able to name. Instead he said woodenly, **No heroics, Sandburg.**
'Be careful, Chief,' Blair translated from Jim-speak. "Hey, I'm allergic to bullets and stuff like that," he whispered. At the foot of the stairs himself by then, he left the cell on so Jim could hear, too, and leaned gingerly onto the door until it opened a crack, grateful it hadn't latched completely shut.
Less than five feet away, in a blind corner created by the addition of a new parking garage next to the court house, Church was talking earnestly to a man Blair recognized as a judge, but whose name he didn't remember. Though he couldn't hear the actual words, and didn't want to open the door any wider for fear of drawing their attention, he aimed the cell toward them and hoped it wasn't too much to expect Jim to be able to listen to the conversation.
Whatever it was about, it obviously wasn't a happy one for either of them. Within moments it was obvious both were furious, keeping their voices down out of pure necessity. Without warning, Church drew a gun fixed with a silencer and fired. Blair jumped at the muffled report enough to make the door swing the rest of the way open.
The detective had been watching his victim fall, but his eyes flew up to meet Blair's, recognition and fear flooding them. Not giving him a chance to react beyond that, Blair spun on his heel and ran, pulling out his gun as he did. Phone to his ear, he said reasonably calmly, "I could use some help here." A nearly silent bullet whinged! by his head, and he bent down, feeling stupid but not able to control the impulse to make himself as small as possible.
**North exit!** Jim barked.
Rounding a corner, heading for it, Blair screeched to a halt at the sight of two of Church's fellow detectives. "Trouble ahead of me; I'm heading to the next level up, Jackson Street exit," he told Jim over the phone, matching action to words.
For a second he considered finding cover and returning fire until his partner arrived, but he was out-numbered and worried about civilians entering the garage. Distantly he heard Church yell, guessed that the next bullets weren't going to be silent, and put on a burst of speed. For a minute he didn't think it was going to be enough; three shots plowed into the parked cars near him, one shattering a window.
At the ramp he hesitated fractionally, not sure which way to go, and a hand reached out to yank him to one side as another bullet zipped through where he had been. Thumping Jim on the arm in recognition, Blair obeyed the silent command of the grip on him and ran again, urged forward by his partner.
As usual the skies of Cascade were vainly trying to empty themselves, dumping the daily allotment of rain on all and sundry. In was heavy enough that he couldn't tell for sure where they were running, and had to depend on Jim's guidance from behind to know where to go. Around them he could see/hear the zings of bullets, and that made the weather inconsequential.
Finally he could see Jim's Ford ahead of them, door hanging wide open. When he was close enough that he could hear that the engine was still running, he offered up a wild prayer of thanks to whoever might be interested that the truck hadn't been stolen.
Jim pushed him in yelling, "Drive!" Not needing any other encouragement, Blair did as told, seeing the sentinel return fire out of the corner of his eye as he peeled out. Without thinking, he circled the block, coming back to the parking lot from another entrance, and went up to the top level, bringing them not only behind their pursuers, but also above them. Braking sharply, he put the truck in reverse, then backed into a nearly invisible corner.
Beside him Jim leaned forward in his seat, head tilted to listen. Practically holding his breath, Blair waited the verdict, relaxing only when Jim reached over and gently turned off the cell still clutched in one of Blair's sweating hands. Taking his own out, he hit the speed dial, and said into it a moment later, "Simon? Yeah, sorry to bother you, but something's come up. No, no, nothing like that. Look, Naomi is in trouble in India or Bangladesh or wherever the hell it is she is right now. Uh? Oh. Soon as we can get a flight. I don't want to leave you in the lurch like this, but he doesn't think he can handle it by himself. You can cover? I don't know... two weeks maybe? Yeah, yeah. I know. Yeah. Thanks. I owe you, big time."
The trembling had started the minute Jim had used their code phrase - trouble in Bangladesh - to let Simon know they had been made and had to lay low. It turned to out-and-out shaking when the enormity of what had happened hit. They were well and truly sunk now. Church had no choice but to either kill them or be killed himself by his higher ups in the conspiracy in order to protect it.
And he had crooked cops to help him.
For a minute Blair was completely lost in terror, far, far more than when he'd been running earlier. Then he knew what he had to do to survive, had help on the way, had no *time* to think about the consequences. Now there was nothing but time and waiting, and the only help he could expect was in it as deep as he was.
Before he had time to find his way through the overwhelming mess in his head, Jim got out of the truck. "Come on. There'll be an APB out for us, and the truck is too easy to spot." Reaching into the bed, he took out a tarp, motioning with his head toward an unremarkable minivan on the other side of the garage.
Standing watch while Jim broke into it, Blair fought the panic attack nibbling at the edge of his mind, not certain in this case it wasn't fully justified. Getting the door open seemed to take forever, but at last Jim handed him the tarp and sent him into the van to spread it over the inside to prevent leaving behind any forensic trace of themselves. When it was down, he sat on the passenger side, and told Jim "All clear," settling himself to watch again, this time through the mirrors.
He didn't see anything, but Jim didn't get in, and Blair nervously scanned as best he could, worried what the sentinel was sensing. About the time it occurred to him that Jim might have zoned, he slid into the drivers seat and began hot-wiring the van.
"Where to?" Blair asked through chattering teeth, once it started, bouncing a little to try to keep warm until the heater kicked in.
"First a bank machine for cash. I have a corporate card that belongs to Steven that I gave him funds for a while back so it couldn't be traced back to me. Then the airport."
Jim sounded distant, more distracted than Blair could remember ever seeing him. Chalking it up to keeping the senses way up to watch for trouble, he protested, "That's the first place they'll look for us."
"No, Simon's or Major Crimes is the first place," Jim disagreed. "They'll expect us to turn to them for help and protection. When we don't show, then they'll cover the airport. We've got a window of opportunity we have to use. But it's not big enough for us to take a major airline; they'd just be waiting for us when we landed. So we're doing something different."
"You had this planned already," Blair realized slowly. "You have for a while."
With a hand Jim brushed away the comment. "There was always a chance things could go bad; made sense to prepare for it."
"Man, I don't know whether to be mad because you did it without talking to me, or thank you for being so damned anal about always covering all the angles." Mopping away a layer of the moisture on his face, Blair shook his head, unwillingly giving in to the thankful. "Whatever you've got in mind, I hope it's dry."
"Cold and wet is your world, huh, Chief?" There was a flicker of humor over Jim's tense features.
"Again," Blair agreed wryly. "What I want to know is why do bad guys always pick lousy weather to chase us?"
"As often as we get sunny weather, they probably take the day off to catch some rays," Jim said solemnly, only his eyes giving away his less than serious intent. "Don't worry; we're going someplace nice and dry."
A few hours later, Blair peered into the rigged cargo box that said 'stereo speakers' on the outside and had a layer of speaker cartons under the wood on all sides, so that a casual peek into the crate showed only what was expected. But one end was rigged to open like a door, showing a well padded space about four feet high, five feet wide, barely long enough to let Jim lay down without too much crunching. It was apparent from the conversation between Jim and the pilot/owner of the old, battered cargo plane that this was dry spot he'd been promised. "Great. From one misery to another." The thought of being in the dark, small container while flying was almost as bad as knowing he didn't really have a choice.
Shuddering, this time not from his cold, clammy clothes, he re-joined Jim and Dawson in time to hear his partner say, "This makes us even, then?"
"Completely," the barrel-chested man agreed cheerfully, rocking up on his toes a bit. "Provided you keep your end of the deal and forget you ever knew about this little sideline of mine."
"Done," Jim said firmly. He glanced sideways at Blair and added, "One thing. It's a long flight. By any chance do you have some dry clothes?"
"No problemo." Dawson turned, tossed a grin at Blair, and said, "The freelancers who use the pilot's lounge in this hanger are always taking off, you should pardon the pun. There's a whole bunch of stuff that's been cleaned out of abandoned lockers." Leading the way to a large room attached to one side of the hanger, he went on. "Usually around the holidays someone bundles it all up and takes it to a shelter, but I don't think anyone will mind if I practice a little goodwill early."
Blair found himself liking the friendly, chatty man and wondering exactly how it was that Jim had met him. They didn't seem to be the type to hit it off, yet his partner was trusting Dawson to get them to safety. Vowing he would get the whole story out of Jim sooner or later, Blair knelt beside the carton Dawson showed him and began digging through it.
He quickly found a pair of jeans that looked like they might do, and a sweatshirt that was big, but not too big. On his way through the box he also found a few garments for Jim, handing them up wordlessly. When he stood, Dawson pointed toward a door. "Bath's that way; towels on the upper left are up for grabs, too."
"That's great," Blair told him sincerely.
"Go ahead, Chief," Jim said. "I'll change in a minute. There's a few details I want to go over, just in case."
"God bless anal cops." The words were pure impudence and tossed over his shoulder on the way to the bathroom.
"We have our uses," Jim shot back dryly.
In record time, carrying his sopping sneakers, but feeling much better, Blair came out to see Jim pull his borrowed sweatshirt down over dry pants, the black sweater and dockers he'd been wearing on their way into a garbage bag thanks to Dawson. "Hey, I didn't mean to take so long."
"You didn't, Chief," Jim assured him casually. "It just hit me that I could get dry and talk at the same time."
"And I'd like to thank you for the inferiority complex," Dawson said dryly. "I don't suppose you rent out that chest of yours to us less fortunate males? Weekends maybe?"
"That sounds suspiciously like a come-on," Jim said to no one in particular.
"Only pure envy." Dawson gestured toward the hanger. "Gentlemen, your carriage awaits. And you shouldn't let it wait long. Chances are good they'll connect the stolen car to you when it's found in the long term parking lot, and they might check *anybody* who took off in the general vicinity of the time you left it there. I'd like to be able to fudge when my cargo is loaded since I can't fudge the departure time with the tower."
"Please tell me that the hold is heated," Blair said, eyeing the craft as they left the lounge.
"Unfortunately, my friend, it is not. However, there are sleeping bags good for much colder temperatures than you'll be subjected to. The bad news is that you'll be in them a long time; we won't be traveling at jet speeds in this venerable craft."
"If you have to go," Jim said in pseudo paternal tones, "You'd better do it now. The next rest stop is a long way away."
"Jim, man, I have to tell you, this is absolutely the last time I let you book accommodations for us," Blair tried joking tiredly.
"At least it's not a monastery."
"They had indoor plumbing and heating."
They bickered good-naturedly about who'd made the worst sleeping arrangements until Dawson locked them into the cargo box. The dark inside was nearly complete, to Blair's eyes, and they couldn't risk talking again until they were in the hold for fear the loading crew might overhear. True, Blair could have talked if he wished, but there didn't seem to be any point if Jim couldn't reply. And he wasn't sure that he had enough control to keep it that quiet, himself. In a way, that was the worse part of being trapped in the inky box: the silence. Without banter to cover his seriously rattled nerves, the events of the day began creeping back up on him, looming larger and more sinister than they would have in the light.
Then Jim hauled him close, fitting them back to belly, draping his arm over Blair's chest and capturing the hand curled there. Long fingers worked Blair's, smoothing and rubbing in a gentle massage that communicated better than speech, and the terror seeped away under the reassurance of warmth and touch. A warning squeeze told him the loaders were approaching, allowing him to brace for the jolt of the lift, and another told him when they were about to be dropped into place in the plane.
He maintained his silence, waiting for a signal that it was safe to talk. It never came; instead the props on the old plane started, reverberating through the metal so badly that Jim tensed up, the sound undoubtedly battering at his sensitive hearing. Shouting once, "Dial it down!" Blair took his turn at trying to soothe and relax the hand clutching his. After a while the cold of the altitude began to seep into their hiding place, and, miserable on all fronts, they both took refuge in sleep.
Each time the plane came in for a landing on its hop-scotching journey, they woke again, usually with only enough time to murmur a few pointless comments to each other. Hunger added itself to Blair's general discomfort, as did thirst, but he didn't complain, since that was pointless too. About halfway through the endless night, Dawson stopped for refueling, according to Jim, and they crept out cautiously to take care of nature's call.
Stiff from the cramped quarters, Blair staggered creakily toward the open hatch, but it must have been worse for Jim with his greater size. The sentinel stumbled and would have fallen if he hadn't caught himself on the edge of their temporary home. Head down, he leaned there a second, but before Blair could cross back to him, he stretched cautiously where he stood. Keeping tabs on him from the corner of his eye, Blair hastily attended to his demanding bladder, relieved when Jim joined him a moment later to do the same.
Remembering his promise to himself, Blair asked nonchalantly, "So how *did* you know about Dawson's little sideline?"
"Long story, Chief," Jim answered shortly. Then, moderating his tone, he added, "And not mine to tell. If you have a chance, you can ask him."
Cold, hungry, stiff, and still scared despite it all, Blair snapped, "Why? I wouldn't get a straight answer from him, either. Damn, I don't know which is worse, being led around in verbal circles or the damn wall you throw up. Can't any of you former covert operative types just *say* that it's all hush-hush, top secret, can't talk about it government shit?"
As soon as the angry words were out, Blair wished he could call them back. Whether he liked it or not, Jim had given vows of loyalty and secrecy about parts of his past, and it wasn't in the man to break oaths like that without better reasons that a partner's random curiosity. About to apologize, he was surprised when Jim turned away without so much as barking back.
"Dawson's bringing some water and food, I think," Jim mumbled. "Better we eat after we're hidden again."
Before Blair could respond, the pilot hopped through the hatch, carrying some plastic wrapped sandwiches and a large bottle of water. "Worst of it is over," he announced cheerfully. "We'll fly straight to LaGuardia from here. With luck you'll be vanishing into the city that never sleeps before the rest of the world wakes up."
Up until that second it had never even occurred to Blair to ask where they were going, and the shock of that distracted him until they were back in the box. Absorbed by how much he had assumed, feeling guilty not only for taking Jim's protection for granted, but for his sharpness earlier, he chewed at the dry sandwiches without tasting them. Realizing as he finished his first that he had all of them, he pressed one into Jim's hand, but his partner pushed it back.
"Not very hungry," he whispered. "But I'm going to drink the lion's share of the water if you don't take it now."
"You'll regret that in a few hours," Blair murmured, automatically.
With a snort, Jim agreed, "What goes in... but it's not long now. I'll be okay."
"Don't say I didn't warn you."
"Yes, Mother Blair."
Just like that the squabble was forgiven and forgotten, and Blair put aside what was left of the food to finish the water. That done, he crawled back into his sleeping bag, trying not to jab Jim with an elbow or knee, succeeding for the most part. Whether it was because they'd been on the ground for a while and the plane had warmed, or because the bedding held residual body heat, he was much more comfortable and started to drift off before the refueling was finished.
As he floated somewhere between asleep and awake, Jim spoke into his ear, so softly that it was little more than a hint of sound, "I hate all the secrets, Blair. Most of them aren't even mine, but that doesn't change the fact they have to be kept. To protect others, to keep my word. And they're always there, like all secrets, wanting to slip out in a careless word or casual conversation, so that no matter how close I am to someone, I can't really open up. Can't relax, can't trust myself." He sighed, exhaustion and pain carried in the small breath. "They're an invisible wall between me and everyone I care about. I'm so sick of that. So damned sick of watching you slam into that barrier and not able to reach out and pull you through."
Wide awake now, clinging to the hand holding his on his chest, Blair fumbled to find an assurance, a light comment that would tell Jim that he understood, that the hidden past didn't *have* to be between them. Before he could, the props chugged into life, and Jim moaned in pain, burying his face into the nape of Blair's neck. "Damn vibration is killing me!"
"Oh, shit! I didn't even think of that!" Blair shouted over the noise. "Can't tune it out?" There was a shake against his back - no. "Can you focus on some other sense to block it?"
A hesitation, then the chest pressed into him began to move deeply and rhythmically, puffs of warm air hitting his neck and cheek as it did. He thought for a minute; hearing, touch, taste, sight were all pretty limited. Jim had to be concentrating on scent. Taking a deep breath himself, Blair looked for what there was to smell besides the stench machine oil and fuel. And blushed, because he could easily pick out his own odor, which meant it had to be strong enough to be nearly over-powering to the sentinel.
It didn't seem to bother Jim. If anything, the tense frame began to relax, conforming itself to Blair's body in a way that was simultaneously calming and arousing. Taking a page out of his own book, he dwelled on that, on how secure and warm he felt, and that allowed him to put away the desire. With it gone, sleep came easily, and the two of them spent what was left of the flight resting.
Some undeterminable time later, a light shake on his shoulder brought Blair out of it, and he blinked fuzzily into the unrelenting dark. A moment's consideration told him the plane was coming in for a landing, if the change in the pitch of the engines was any indication. Beside him he could feel Jim tentatively stretching and working the kinks out, grunting from the aches, and he followed suit, taking that as a warning that they were going to need to move fast.
He wasn't mistaken. Before the last of the forward momentum of taxing had stopped, Jim had the door to their hiding place unlatched, and led the way toward a hatch near the tail. Jim listened intently, then un-dogged it, pulling Blair through with him into early morning light. It took about fifteen minutes to make it to the main terminal from the small hanger used for the fly-by-night airlines because they were unwilling to be seen by any of the ground crew.
At the terminal itself, though, Jim boldly stepped into a main corridor, taking out a pair of dark sunglasses and collapsible white cane. Slipping into a position to be led, as if blind, he explained at a conversational level, "If anyone looks at us, all they'll really see is the cane. Later, if our picture is shown around, its unlikely anyone will connect us to the blind man and his guide."
"Never thought I'd be grateful for the human tendency to overlook the 'less fortunate,'" Blair answered, trying to match Jim's 'I belong here and have nothing to hide demeanor.' Taking on the role given him, he led the way through the light crowd, taking care to leave a wide berth between them and other pedestrians.
"It has its uses," Jim agreed. "Cabbie won't remember us either, I hope. To be on the safe side I'll pick one that doesn't seem to understand English very well so questioning him will be too much of a hassle for a casual check."
"You're way too good at this," Blair said. "And I don't think I've ever been more grateful."
"Nice to have a use for it that I can be proud of," Jim said absently, head tilted to listen as they exited the terminal. In front of them was the usual parade of yellow cabs jockeying for position to get fares. "About five down," he said quietly.
As if not really paying attention to the vehicles lined up at the curb, Blair strolled down the sidewalk, until a bit of resistance from Jim told him they were at the one they wanted. Giving the driver an address, Jim got in, feigning just enough clumsiness to be believable as a blind man. As soon as they were in, the driver took off, and Blair had to brace himself as best he could. He'd forgotten what demons NYC cabbies were on the road.
Torn between praying both silently and in startled shrieks, he didn't really pay attention to where they were going. Even when the cab screeched to a halt, and he gladly tumbled out, the only thing on his mind was that it was over. Muttering to himself about requiring stuntman training for all cab passengers, he obeyed a gentle push at his elbow from Jim, and went into the building in front of them.
Once inside, Jim took off the sunglasses and dropped the cane into a waste can before leading the way to the stairs. The events of the past twenty-four hours had been too overwhelming for Blair to so much as blink when they went down into the basement, back to the rear, and through a door that Jim produced a key for from his wallet. That door led to more stairs: neglected, dimly lit, narrow ones that went on forever before ending in a low-ceilinged subbasement as dingy and forgotten as the way to it.
Again they traveled the length of the room, this time climbing through a smashed wall at the end and going down another level by ladder to end up in a tunnel that stretched as far as the eye could see. It was fretfully lit by an occasional naked light bulb and shook faintly underfoot. In the distance he could hear the roar of trains, subways, and he thought the quivering ground might be from the weight of them passing.
"It's fairly common knowledge that New York is supposedly riddled with abandoned subway lines, lost basements, even bomb shelters," he said, checking both directions uneasily. "But the operative word here apparently is 'supposedly.'" He glanced up at Jim, faintly disturbed at how pale and tired he looked. "I have to admit, this is the last place on earth anybody would think of searching for us. How well do you know your way around?"
"Well enough. The tunnels are practically a living thing, Chief," Jim answered. "Entrances are sealed or buried by construction, new ones made by the same. Or by the people living here."
"Whoa." Blair took a deep breath, "Real Morlocks?"
"No, not exactly. They're good people for the most part." Jim set off down the tunnel, moving confidently over the rubble and trash. "Homeless, as forgotten and abandoned as the underground pathways they've made their home."
Cautiously Blair said, "It sounds like you know them pretty well."
That won him the closest thing he'd seen to a real smile from Jim in longer than he cared to think about. "Some of them. Like the tunnels, the population changes constantly. Those that can find the strength to pull themselves up, leave and go back to being normal people topside. Those who can't, sink lower, becoming the truly the lost souls of the streets. Only a very few make this their life." He stopped at an intersection, picked up a piece of pipe lying on the ground, and hit the cluster of piping overhead. "Listen."
With his attention called to it, Blair realized that there was a nearly constant tapping going on around him - a tock of metal on metal that was too systematic to be random. "They're talking! Using the pipes for a kind of telegraph."
Nodding, Jim beat out his own message, and the others stopped, creating a silence that was un-nerving after the chattiness a moment ago. Within a few minutes a single set of raps came back, and he sagged, resting his forehead on the grimy wall. "I told them I was here, not alone, and that we were in trouble. They're sending some people to meet us."
The relief in him was palpable, and Blair couldn't help laying a comforting hand in the small of Jim's back. "You thought they'd turn us away?"
"No, not really. They believe in helping others," Jim admitted. "It's just that they don't like it when strangers from Above are brought down without permission. Probably one of the people coming is a member of the Council, to officially give approval." Straightening, he caught the hand at his back and used it to tug Blair along. "It'll get darker as we go, and I don't have a flashlight," he explained.
As gloomy as it was, it never became as dark as the cargo container on the plane had been, but it still took concentration for Blair to place his feet. "You make it sound like it's more than some people sharing a shelter; it sounds like there's a community down here, a culture."
"I've wondered more than once what you would make of it, Chief," Jim surprisingly admitted. "With all your talk of sub-cultures and closed societies." They went on a few more feet, then he added, his voice shy and hesitant, "They have a guardian, their own kind of sentinel. You have no idea how often I've wanted to introduce the two of you."
That pulled Blair up short, and he had to fight down another stab of anger at the damned secretiveness in his partner. But he swallowed it down, hearing Jim's own words whisper through his mind.
**I hate all the secrets. Most of them aren't even mine, but that doesn't change the fact they have to be kept. To protect others, to keep my word.... They're an invisible wall between me and everyone I care about. I'm so sick of that. So damned sick of watching you slam into that barrier and not able to reach out and pull you through.**
So Blair nodded, and asked curiously, "He has enhanced senses? How many?"
"Not exactly, but sort of. You'll understand when you meet him. And Blair, this is important: you can never, ever tell anybody, not even Naomi, about the people down here. Much as you'll hate it, I know you can keep it to yourself."
"Why!?" Blair couldn't help blurting in exasperation.
"Mostly for the children's sake," Jim answered. Before Blair could demand a clarification, a real one, and not one he'd understand later, Jim stopped. "People up ahead."
A moment later a large shadow blocked the light in front of them, and Blair instinctively drew closer to Jim's side, clutching at his biceps, Whoever it was *big.* Taller than his partner, shoulders much wider, and walking with a lithe grace that screamed both power and speed were at his disposal. Between the light behind him and the long hooded cloak he wore, Blair couldn't make out any other details besides those, and he wondered if this was the guardian Jim spoke of. Whoever it was, it seemed the sentinel knew him; the welcome in his expression was unmistakable.
When the stranger was close enough, Jim said in a mixture of relief and joy, "Vincent!"
"James!" The voice was rich and deep, wrapping raw velvet around Blair's nerves, banishing his incipient anxiety.
With no more than that, Jim threw himself at the other person, throwing his arms around the huge body for a rough hug. They pounded at each other for a minute, faces hidden on each other's shoulders. The spike of jealousy at the sight caught Blair off-guard, and he looked away, not wanting to see an emotional openness from Jim that he had thought reserved for himself. It brought his attention to a petite blonde woman standing slightly behind the two friends greeting each other, and he traded a wary smile with her.
As if they had seen that, Jim and Vincent drew apart, and the sentinel reached for Blair. Winding an arm around the smaller waist, he said proudly, "This is Blair Sandburg, my partner and roomie. And that must be Catherine with you."
The introduction effectively killed the momentary jealousy, and any kin to it died as well, when Vincent nodded in acknowledgement, murmuring, "His letters have been filled with you in recent times." Like Jim, he pulled his companion close, nearly dwarfing her. "Catherine, this is James Ellison."
"The Army Ranger?" she asked.
"Cop now," Jim told her.
Holding out his hand for a shake, Blair laughed, "Catherine, Vincent... I'm not as bad as he says, really. I promise."
"Really? Then you didn't persuade him to try tofu?" Despite the humorous tone, Vincent made no move toward taking the hand offered him, and Blair dropped it, feeling awkward all over again.
Sighing Jim said, "Vincent, I'm sorry, but I'm nearly out of time here. We need sanctuary; dirty cops are after us." That made Catherine gasp and stiffen, but he ignored her reaction. "And I need Blair to be able to trust you to protect him." Stepping forward, saying again, "I'm sorry," he caught the edges of the hood on the cloak, and with a slight pause, pushed it back.
Vincent brought one hand up, as if to stop him, and Blair started at the sight of it, the questions he had at Jim's mysterious words dying. Long fingered, with nails that looked more like claws, Vincent's hand was covered in a strawberry-blond fur that was long and silky looking. Instantly his eyes flicked toward the face accompanying it, and he inhaled sharply. The most human part of Vincent's appearance was his eyes. They were a vivid blue not unlike Jim's, filled with intelligence and gentleness that was nearly tangible. The rest was a melding of human and beast, creating a mouth that was more like a muzzle and ridged brows that nearly overshadowed the other features. it was all covered with more of the same fur, coarser or finer, depending on where it was.
A sort of resigned pain settled over that unexpected face, causing Blair to catch his control with the tips of his fingers and smile. "Jim told me there was a guardian here Below; I take it that's you?"
"Yes," Vincent admitted cautiously.
"Great! Mind if I ask you some questions later? Maybe some of the others, too? See, I've studied closed cultures, tribal guardians, that sort of thing and while I might not be able to write about being here, the data could be invaluable for later research, if I ever try again to get my PhD. Nothing too personal, I promise. Well, maybe a *little* personal, but Jim can tell you that I respect 'no' when I hear it, well, mostly, and...."
Catherine chuckled, and interrupted, "Think we should warn them?"
"I doubt it would be much help," Vincent answered her dryly. "We were told.... James!" He lunged forward, catching the sentinel as he crumpled, and Blair grabbed Jim from the other side, going with him to the ground. "You're injured!" Unerringly a huge hand went to one side of Jim's body, nail tips precisely catching and dragging up his sweatshirt.
In the dim light the slowly spreading blood stain on the bandage slapped just under Jim's ribs was sinister looking, and Blair hastily checked Jim's back to find the entry wound. "Damn, damn, damn, damn - why didn't you *tell* me you'd been shot at the parking garage!" He cradled Jim's head on his shoulder, supporting him in a half-seated position so that Vincent could examine the bullet holes.
"You would have insisted on trying to get me to a hospital or doctor," Jim bit out. "Had to get here first. Had to. But Father is a doctor."
"Father?"
"The man who raised me, and the leader of our community," Vincent explained gently. He glanced up, and Blair did the same to see Catherine knocking at the pipes with a flashlight. "She's alerting him that we need medical help." With amazingly deft movements, he examined Jim, shaking his head. "Blood loss and infection."
"Tell me something I don't know," Jim groaned. He grabbed the cloak's catch at Vincent's throat and pulled him down so they were face to face. "Promise me you'll protect Blair! Promise me!"
"I..."
"Promise me!!"
"Oh, no you don't," Blair butted in, fingers on Jim's chin to turn his face toward him. "Don't you dare pass me onto someone else like I'm a ticking bomb! I can take care of myself."
"Blair," Vincent said softly. "If he does not know that you are safe, he will not rest or heal. And you are safer with us than alone. My hesitation was only because I will have to justify taking in a stranger to the Council."
Glaring at him stubbornly for a second, Blair started to argue, but the weight of his partner suddenly doubled, calling his attention to the heat pouring off the lax body. "It's okay, Jim, its okay. I'll be all right, you take it easy and rest."
"Trust him, Chief, please trust him," Jim mumbled, eyes beginning to glaze over as the last of his strength gave out. "I do, and I swear, you can, too. Completely. Trust him. Stay Below, stay safe."
"Hey, it's not like they'd be able to pry me away from you," Blair tried to laugh, incipient tears making it sound realistic. "I'll trust Vincent, for your sake, I promise."
"Won't be sorry, won't be." Jim twisted restlessly, but released his hold on Vincent.
Laying a tender hand on his forehead, Vincent added, "And I will watch over him. Now, sleep James, save your strength."
Jim shook his head fractionally and clumsily patted at Blair's face. "No, gotta tell you something, 's important, wanted, God, *wanted* to tell you...."
From a short distance, they all heard "James!" shouted in fear, and Blair looked up in time to see a tall, older woman rush toward them, moving with the dignified grace of a ship under sail. She looked vaguely familiar, and when she was close enough for him to see her clearly, he knew why. Blue eyes exactly like the ones he saw every time he studied his partner's face were fixed on them.
As she fell to her knees beside them, Jim tried to smile and said, "Mom. This is Blair."
finis