"All right, people, listen up!"

Automatically turning towards Simon's familiar bellow, Blair paused mid-reach to give Rafe a file he had asked for earlier, smile fading at the peculiar undertone in his voice. To his surprise, Simon crossed the bullpen to him, and said more quietly, "There's something on the news we need to see."

Hand on Blair's shoulder, Simon gently steered him to a desk in front of the television set, raising the remote to turn it on. The other members of the department clustered around them, murmuring their curiosity and a hint of alarm, as if they, too, had picked up on something off in their captain's behavior. It was enough to give Blair's unease a significant boost, and he settled on the corner of the desk, furtively clutching the edge as if that would ward off whatever turmoil Simon was heralding.

Despite expecting it, he jumped at the blast of sound from the television, and Simon hastily reduced the volume, abruptly turning the blare of noise into words. "...at this time. Repeat, there is no indication that this is an act of terrorism. Authorities *have* placed the police and other organizations on alert as a precaution, but initial reports from witnesses and on-the-scene personnel suggest very strongly that the explosions and fires may well have been accidental in nature."

Pausing to look very solemn and sincere, the newscaster shuffled his papers aside, and looked directly into the camera. "For those of you who have just tuned in, KTL5 News has learned of a series of explosions at the County Municipal Center that has resulted in the destruction of at least three buildings, and on-going fires in several more. Fire companies from the entire city and the fire chief himself have responded, and the police have barricaded two block radius around the area."

The people around Blair had fallen silent to listen to the news, but as the anchorman gave out details, a soft murmur of questions began to rise. Blair could hear Jim's name being spoken, but he couldn't find his way through his growing fear to the vocabulary necessary to confirm what they were beginning to realize: that his partner was scheduled to testify in court today in the County Courthouse, which was part of the Municipal Center. More hands joined Simon's on Blair's shoulder, or rested lightly on his upper arms and back, offering reassurance and support, and he desperately, desperately needed that contact. It was all that kept him from disintegrating into a mass of disconnected parts, too stunned to do more than watch the images on screen of billowing smoke and rushing emergency vehicles.

Simon only gave his people a few minutes to absorb the impact of what had happened before he began giving orders, obviously acting on directives from higher up. With a last pat or squeeze for Blair, they left to start their assignments until he was sitting by himself, and it wasn't until the anchorman returned to normal programming that he shook himself out of immobility.

Already certain of he had to do and how to go about it, he went to Jim's desk and opened up the program he wanted. A few clicks and a flurry of keystrokes later, he was ready to go, and he put on his jacket, automatically checking for his cell phone and the backup battery for it. After a stop by the color printer to pick up the sheets he had had printed there, he aimed himself for the door, pulling up short when Simon intercepted him.

"No," Simon said, very gently and compassionately. "You have work here to do, and it's no help to Jim if you're harassing the rescue teams already on site."

Blinking at him once, Blair took a deep breath to kill the shout of frustration at having to explain himself. "Look," he said as levelly as he could manage, "if he's okay, Jim's the best bet for finding anybody left alive in the wreckage, and he'll need me to help filter out the sensory chaos at the scene. If he's hurt, I'll be needed to talk to the doc or the EMT's about meds and help keep him calm if his senses are whacked out because of his injury, which we both know is what usually happens. If he's the one who needs rescued, I'm his best bet for him being found fast because I *know* that he would be doing in almost any circumstances, even these."

"Blair," Simon broke in, tone even more gentle.

Not giving him a chance to say more, Blair stubbornly went on, growing grimmer and harder as he spoke. "And if he's dead, I'm going to have to see the body or the bits and pieces before I can possibly believe it. Then I am so out of here that I'm already gone, man. Let me go, Simon. Let me go!"

Visibly swallowing back whatever it was that he had had on the tip of his tongue, Simon looked down at the papers in Blair's hand. Turning them so that they could be clearly seen, Blair waited for Simon's reaction.

"Have you seen this man?" Simon read aloud, as he took the top sheet. "This is the picture the department used on Jim's i.d.," he added, staring at the photo.

"Jim would have been in serious cop mode when the excitement started. If anybody there remembers seeing him," Blair explained, fighting hard not to simply push his friend aside and get to Jim, right now! "It'll be easier for them to recognize him from this instead of one of more relaxed shots I have."

With obvious reluctance, Simon said, "Good thinking. You're going to have trouble getting close because of the roadblocks and traffic jam, but I'll call Dispatch and let them know you're on the way so you won't have to fight to get past the uniforms."

"Tell them I'm going to be a Red Cross liaison for the department. Once I'm there, that's what I'll do to make myself useful, if I'm not... if Jim... uh, I...." Unable hold off another moment, Blair gave Simon what he hoped was a comforting, apologetic pat to his arm, and ran.

He made it to the garage in record time, and peeled out, speeding far too recklessly and not giving a shit at all. To make it worse, he was on the phone with every E.R. front desk that he could reach while he drove, convincing clerks to contact Rhonda in Major Crimes with the names or description of anyone who came in by ambulance from the fire. His excuse was that a detective would have to take statements, but he didn't really need it since more than one of them knew him and Jim by reputation, if nothing else. Almost without trying he learned that Jim hadn't been brought in, nor any patient matching his description, and he got a promise to get a call if they did see Jim.

In short order he'd covered that possibility, and, thanks to extensive knowledge of the back alleys and shortcuts gained while riding with Jim, he was within a half-mile of the Municipal Center before he had to take to his feet. By the time he could see the smoldering ruins, it looked like most of the fires had been put out, save for those farthest from what seemed to be the initial blast. Red Cross was already putting up a tent, and Blair simply presented himself to the first person there who looked like they had a clue about what was going on.

To establish a reason for his presence so he wouldn't be forced to leave, he showed her his i.d. and asked the tall, matronly woman, "Have you started collecting the names of the evacuees and injured?"

Distracted, she glanced at it and him, then at a clipboard. "No, you know the drill?"

"Yes," Blair said, lying without hesitation.

"Okay, then, start with that bunch over there - the one with a judge sitting in the middle of it? They were in the courthouse when it went up and have been here the longest. Get names of anyone who's already left, trying to get home, too, just in case we get calls if they're late."

She handed Blair a PDA, presumably to keep his list on so that it could be downloaded to a PC, then turned her attention to one of the dozen other people vying for it. Familiarizing himself with the gadget as he walked, Blair paused a moment to pin Jim's picture with its caption to his shirt, then started the daunting tasks of talking to survivors. Very shortly he realized, weird as it was, that he actually knew more than they did about what happened, thanks to the media. But they had the details that he hoped he could eventually use to track Jim's movements.

Before long a tired, sad black woman in judges' robes sitting on the ground caught him by the sleeve and lightly touched the paper. "I have."

***

The hardest part of testifying, as far as Jim was concerned, was not zoning in pure self-defense at the incredible tedium of listening to lawyers and witnesses going over the exact same material that he had spent weeks, if not months, pulling together and putting to use. Fortunately he usually spent little time on the stand. The prosecution tended to let him say his piece with little help from them, and defense attorneys generally hated cross examining him for some reason. Today's case was a parental abduction that he had been dragged into when he initially pursued the father for reckless driving and public endangerment. Jim's role was so small, that with luck, he could be on his way home in less than an hour.

To keep himself alert - and a little less bored - Jim cast out his hearing, considering that sense to be the most useful in this situation. He didn't really process everything he picked up, depending on a perception of 'wrongness' to decide if he should really listen. The technique, which Blair had taught him as an extension of his military/cop training, made it feel far less like he was eavesdropping on the world and more like he was on sentry duty.

For a moment Jim couldn't help but wish his partner was beside him. He had always missed Blair when they couldn't be together, but since their relationship had changed, he *longed* for Blair's company. Part of it was that they were still so new to each other, he was sure, and no doubt over time the edge of the need would dull. Perversely Jim almost hoped that it wouldn't. In a way, the ache to have Blair with him was a reminder of the man himself. Restlessly shifting in his seat, body recalling the heat and pressure of the goodbye hug and kiss that Blair had given him that morning, Jim forced himself to turn his mind back to his hearing.

Idly sifting through snips of music from passing vehicles, the usual street noises, and the metallic grumblings of heavy equipment, Jim caught an angry mutter. It held a subtle slurring that told him the speaker had been drinking, possibly heavily. Most people wouldn't know how much he'd had, but experience told Jim that, whoever it was, he was probably a hard-core drinker, with serious practice hiding it.

Because the words were accompanied by the sorts of noises that meant the use of machinery, Jim tightened his focus in time to hear the man mumble, "Stupid kid thinks he knows my job. Been doing this since before his daddy was a bump in his granny's belly. I know how to read a blueprint, and even if I didn't, I damn well put most of these lines down in the first place. I know where they are; I know where to dig. Don't need no college ejucated asshole to tell me."

Statements like that fell under the heading of 'trouble in the making,' and Jim made the effort to pinpoint where the man was, not surprised to discover he was at the edge of the road construction next to the courthouse. His concern cranked up another notch when he didn't hear anyone near the man. A loud dispute had broken out a good distance from the drunk, and Jim was willing to bet that most, if not all, of the other workers were caught up in it. It was likely that the site foreman, if that was who the stubborn, unreasonable person in the middle of the debate was, had no idea that his orders about where to dig were being disobeyed.

Mentally bringing himself back to the courtroom, Jim glanced at the judge, gauging if he would be held in contempt of court if he tried to leave in the middle of a witness giving his testimony. Before he could decide, he heard a muffled 'crump!' and the backhoe ground to an abrupt stop. The operator gasped, "Oh, God, no, oh, God, no," over and over, heart thumping to the point that Jim could hear it as clearly as the chant.

Jim turned toward where the man was, as if that would help him see through steel and concrete. A split second later, the prayer changed to, "Not the gas line, please God, not the gas line." Catching the first whiff of gas, Jim left as quickly as he could, no longer caring if the judge was annoyed by it. Taking out his cell phone and dialing Dispatch, he ran for the nearest fire alarm and pulled it, only to irritably repeat the action when nothing happened. Dispatch answered at the same time a bailiff Jim vaguely recognized came out of another courtroom. Motioning to the man to join him, he met him halfway, hoping that the bailiff would listen to his side of the conversation.

After quickly identifying himself, he said to both Dispatch and the burly red-headed man in front of him, "I'm reporting a gas leak at the intersection of Main and First, the Municipal corner. They were digging there and hit a line." Jim met the bailiff's eyes, relieved to see the alarm rising in them. "Contact the fire chief, then please get word to the squad cars to stop traffic in the area and make sure the construction workers are in the clear. I'll see to the evacuation of the courthouse - it's closest to the leak - but it may take some time. Apparently the alarms aren't working."

"Disconnected for repairs," the bailiff, whose name tag read 'Turner,' said softly. "All the dust from the roadwork was wreaking havoc on the sensors and lines. Sprinklers system, too, since they're on the same circuits."

Nodding his understanding, Jim said into the phone, "I'm on the first floor and have help with me. You just call the right people and get that gas main turned off!"

He hung up and, after a split second of indecision, dialed Simon's number. As he did, he walked toward the courtroom at the part of the building that would take the brunt of any damage if the gas exploded, and said to Turner, "Best thing to do is to move from this end to the far exit, evacuating people along the way, go up a floor, do the same thing after making sure the stairwell is empty. With luck, more help can be picked on the way."

"We've got bailiffs or cops of one flavor or another on almost every floor, thanks to the way they distribute the case loads and judges' chambers." Turner said.

"That'll work in our favor." Simon's voicemail came on, but they were almost to the door of the first room he wanted to clear. Putting the phone away instead, Jim put on his best cop-face and went in, thankfully catching them between witnesses. "Ma'am, we have an emergency, permission to approach the bench?"

Though she frowned, looking over her glasses at them, she gestured for them to come forward, and Jim obeyed, moving as fast as he thought he could without looking panicked. "Gentlemen," she said sternly, when they were close enough. "Explain yourselves."

Her frown deepened as Jim told her who he was and what he'd discovered, and she tapped a file on the edge of her desk. "Your source for this, detective?"

Without hesitation, Jim lied, frantically hoping she never discovered that he was supposed to be in another courtroom right at that moment. "I was taking a break outside, heard the backhoe hit something metallic, and knew from my time in the Army that wasn't a good thing. A second later I smelled the gas, probably because the wind was with me, and the operator booked for his foreman, so I came in to pull the fire alarm to empty the building as efficiently as possible."

In truth, he could hear the backhoe operator busily persuading himself that he hadn't just fucked up royally. "Had a bad night, just thinking the worse 'cause I'm tired and don't feel good. Probably just a big boulder, or maybe something left over from when this stretch of road was first laid."

A cold chill chased over Jim. Luck had been with the drunk so far. A spark, any spark, even one from something as small as a cell phone, could set off the gas. But he hadn't tried to move the bucket once it hit, and apparently enough soil had crumbled into the breach to plug it, at least temporarily, giving them all a chance. Jim's next stop, the instant he had convinced the judge to start an evacuation, would be to get to that damn idiot before he talked himself into pretending nothing was wrong.

All too aware that he was running out of time to do that, but with no choice but to let the judge make up her own mind because he wanted to use her authority and presence to make the evacuation to go smoothly, Jim met her ebony eyes. Letting his fear show, he said, "Your honor, if I'm wrong, you can slap me with contempt and put me away for as long as you like, no fuss from me. None. But if I'm right - well, the best thing is simply to get everyone to a safer place until I'm sure, one way or the other. You've got my badge number, I'll give you my i.d, my gun, anything. Just help me clear this building."

She put down the file and took off her glasses to study him, gaze sharply penetrating. A black woman on the bench didn't get there by not being able to make good decisions fast, sometimes based on nothing more than character, and she abruptly stood, rapping her gavel. "Court dismissed to the green of the Center; Bailiff Anderson, please lead the way, and use the exit at the opposite end to where we are now."

Barely hiding a sigh of relief, Jim escorted her to the door, talking loud enough for everyone to hear. "Just a precaution, you understand. At least you'll have a chance to enjoy the sunshine."

Going along with his pacify-the crowd-patter, the judge said, "I have to admit, that sounds good. Cascade gets two whole unexpected weeks of beautiful, dry weather, and I don't get a chance to get out in it until today. I'm Amelia Grady, by the way."

"Judge Grady," Jim acknowledged, voice dropping since they were alone with Turner by then, just outside the door. "Get your other bailiff to bring up the rear and make sure everyone gets out. Turner is going to go up to the next floor, and once he's recruited others like we did here and has everyone moving, he'll go to the one above that, and repeat the process. Once the exodus here is well underway, would you stand in the stairwell and make sure no one tries leave by that route? It should be possible to get everybody out fairly quickly that way."

"Good plan. If anyone balks, call down the stairs for me, Turner, and I'll back you up." Judge Grady added sternly, "We meet on the top floor and go out together. That way I know the place is empty."

"Thank you, Ma'am," Jim said, relieved. The two of them obviously had things in hand, and he spun on his heel to race for the backhoe operator. Too late, too late - even as he turned, he heard the man give into his pride and stupidity and put the machine in gear. The bucket lifted, metal scraped over metal, and there was a snap that sent Jim's heart into his mouth.

The entire building *pulsed* like a giant heart giving its last beat, and the air around Jim changed in a way he would never be able to describe or understand. He opened his mouth to warn the Turner and Grady, but suddenly his skin was alive with pain. Frantically he struggled to get the dials down on all his senses, praying that instinct would cut in and handle what normally took serious effort. Just as he succeeded, the sound blast hit, not just his hearing, but his whole body, as if he'd been slammed by a wave while surfing.

Staggered, he somehow pushed the others toward the wall, and they weathered through the groans and complaints of the courthouse as it absorbed the effects of the explosion. They were protected from debris and fire by the solid structure of the stairwell, though Jim could already detect tendrils of smoke finding their way into the air. With a last shudder the building settled, most likely only a temporary reprieve from its suffering, and there was a moment of near silence before the first cries of alarm were raised.

Giving the judge a nudge to get her in motion, Jim said, "The plan stays the same, but I'll take the second floor, in case there were injuries, then above where ever Turner is. Move fast; people are going to start panicking now."

Not giving them a chance to respond, Jim ran up the stairs, catapulting into the hallway and nearly hitting several people worriedly investigating the noise they had heard. Mercifully, the rooms that took the worse of explosion's impact were empty, and no one objected to moving along. Jim snagged a county sheriff, briefed the man with a rapid fire delivery, and moved on as fast as he could. By the time he cleared the top floor, turning back a few who were trying to escape the wrong way from the thickening smoke, most of that part of the courthouse was on fire.

Stopping in the middle of the emptying hallway, he tried to get some decent air into his straining lungs and listened to make sure there was no one left behind. He didn't find a single heartbeat or footfall except for the two he expected, and he joined them at the top landing. Turner punched at him, a mano-el-mano smile flashing briefly, and Grady grinned at them both, suddenly looking ten years younger and much less judicial. With no need to discuss it, they sped down the steps and toward safety. Seeing became a problem after a floor or two, thanks to stinging eyes and the failing lights, but they all made it to the door at ground level with only a little stumbling and a single near fall.

Sunshine had never looked so good, and Jim reached for the door, ushering the judge through it first. He waited for Turner to leave, but the bailiff pointed down toward the basement level. "The holding cell for prisoners is that way. We've got half a dozen or so going to trial today, according to the schedule posted, and at least two guards with them. I have to make sure they get out, too. No alarms, remember? It's not likely any contact's been made to warn them because the guards answer to the jail and prison, not police."

Immediately Jim said, "I'll go with you. You'll need the extra man power if someone decides this is a golden opportunity. Not to mention that you might need my badge to convince them this isn't a trick."

"Has to be now," Turner said, already moving away. "That fire is burning hot."

Grady started to follow him, but Jim blocked her path. "You've done enough, and you're needed more out there, handling the problems that are bound to come up." Dropping his voice, he added, "And you would make a good hostage if the worse happens."

She obviously didn't like the sound of that, but backed up a step. "Damn, all those years of law school and sitting the bench, and what am I good for in an emergency? Babysitting!"

"Is that really any different from what you do all day long in court?" Jim said, and made his escape before she could do more than snort in amusement.

***

"The last I saw of Detective Ellison," Judge Grady said kindly, absently arranging the folds of her robe around her knees, "he was disappearing into that dark, smoky basement with one of my bailiffs, sometime before the second blast."

Blair closed his eyes momentarily, mentally seeing Jim do exactly that far too clearly for his own peace of mind. Plucking at a blade of grass next to where he was sitting, he asked, "Did you at least see the prisoners come out?"

"Not exactly." She pointed to the far end of the parking lot on the opposite side of the quad where several buses could be seen. "But I've spotted flashes of the orange prisoners wear over there, and it's not unusual to take a load back from morning court and bring in one for the afternoon. It would be a logical place to take anyone evacuated from the holding cells."

"Thank you." Blair leaned forward and caught her hand to squeeze it gently, pretending not to notice that it flustered her. "For trusting him and for getting all those people out. Are you going to stay here for a while longer?"

"Don't think I have much choice," she said tartly. "Between the emergency vehicles, the wreckage, and the worst traffic jam in the history of Cascade, I don't think I could get my car out of its parking spot, let alone on the road. Most of us here know we're stuck; we've been sharing cell phones to let family and friends know we're okay."

Handing her the PDA, Blair said, "Here's another way to do that, if you're interested in staying busy. This belongs to the Red Cross: take names, list which floor or department they were on, and give it back to them. By now they've established a phone number that's being broadcast by the media for people to call if they have questions about evacuees."

"Be good to have something constructive to do besides try to calm the hystericals," she said, with a flash of relief. Grady tapped the picture on Blair's chest again. "Good luck finding him."

Blair tried to give her a confident grin as he stood, but he couldn't hold it even long enough to convince himself. With a little wave good-bye to her, he trotted toward the prison buses, taking out his cell as he did. "Rhonda? It's Blair. No, it's worse than it looks on TV, way worse. You know that funny flat 'z' arrangement of the Courthouse, Social Services, and the old City Hall? All gone.

"Look, that list of casualties that you've been working on, how's it coming along? You getting cooperation from the hospitals? Hey, really? No fatalities, so far? Man, that's amazing. Yeah, pretty close to a miracle; I don't think there's an unbroken window for blocks around."

He had to stop and take a long, sighing breath at her next comment. "I know you'd call me if Jim's name turned up on it, honest, Rhonda. I'm just keeping my promise to Simon to give him updates, doing my liaison thing here. You can tell him that a judge says that the building was empty when the second explosion went off. Simon's on his way down to a command post they're setting up? I'll watch for him. Yes, *and* I'll stay in touch with you, personally.

"One last thing, have you heard from any of the other departments about cops that might have been here? They've all reported in? That's good news to share. I owe you one." He forced a realistic laugh. "Consider it done. Next time Jim goes on a tear, I'm there for you. Later, Rhonda."

Putting away his cell, Blair bent from the waist and put his hands on his knees, letting his head hang almost to his chest. He couldn't allow himself to think about Rhonda's attempt at keeping his morale up; not now. It was too much of a reminder of the good Jim had brought into his life. Oh, there was bad, too - at times, very bad - but it never came close to outweighing the good. Once in a while, he would count those particular blessings, and the first on the list, besides Jim himself, was Major Crimes. What he had there was beyond teamwork, almost beyond family, and it was a belonging that he had never known or thought he needed until they had simply opened up and accepted him.

If the worse happened, Major Crimes would still be there for him, of course. But without Jim, without Jim....

Blair shut down that line of thought, pulled himself upright, and dragged himself back to the problem at hand. Targeting the prison buses again, he made for them with a single-mindedness that few people would have thought was in him. A dozen yards away he caught sight of several uniformed officers standing guard and forced himself to adopt a more leisurely stroll designed to hide his true urgency.

One of the officers saw him coming and lifted a lazy hand in greeting, face lighting up in pleasure. Recognizing him from several cases that he and Jim had worked on where the man had been first on the scene, Blair relaxed fractionally and returned the wave. Fallion and his partner, Abbot, were living proof that not all successful partnerships were based on dynamically differing personalities. The pair of them might have been brothers, sharing the same slight, wiry build and blonde good looks more common on California beaches than in a police department. They also had the same definition of what a good cop was; one that Jim approved of heartily.

Despite that, Blair said misleadingly, "I see you're the ones that got drafted to provide the extra coverage for the prisoners."

"Lucky us," Fallion said with his usual good cheer. "A bailiff flagged us down to ask for the assist, and Dispatch was more than happy to leave it to us. Major Crimes in charge of the scene?"

"Banks is on the way. You two doing alright? Need relief or backup?" Blair asked, not directly answering the question so they could draw their own conclusions about why he was there.

"Not yet," Abbot said, just as cheery as his partner. "The screws have them pretty much in hand. We don't have any serious hard cases in the batch, and they're all pretty entertained by watching a city block burn down."

"If that changes, you have Dispatch patch you through to Major Crimes; they'll take care of you." Blair looked around as if searching for someone he had been told to find. "Wasn't a bailiff named Turner supposed to be here working with you?"

"He's the one that waved us down," Fallion said. "But he took off as soon as we were secure, saying he wanted to call home and let his wife know that he was out of harm's way."

Blair took the blow without visible reaction, but he had to glance aside to give himself a chance to regroup and think of another way to track Jim's movements. Both officers let him, pointedly not asking about unusual addition to his shirt. The department grapevine being what it was, Blair realized they had to have a pretty good idea that Jim was the only cop due in court that day who hadn't been accounted for as yet. Which was why they had willingly bought Blair's cover about checking in on them; they probably thought Banks was giving him busy work to keep him occupied until the search for survivors in the rubble could begin.

Throat tight at the unexpected consideration, Blair fumbled for a conversational gambit to cover the moment, and spotted a prisoner sitting by himself, happily playing with cards. Pointing at him, he asked, "Is that one giving you problems?"

Fallion chuckled. "Not hardly. That's One Card Monty. We were a little worried about leaving the old guy in with the bad-asses, and besides, he can practice with his cards there. Cuts down on the wheedling and begging to be let go."

"That's One Card?" Blair said, surprised by a flare of interest. "He's like an institution with the police, or so I've heard. He's supposed to be the world's worst hustler."

"He's not operating with a full deck, sad to say," Abbot said, studying the subject of their discussion with something resembling affection. "Literally and figuratively. Social services puts him in halfway houses and assisted living facilities, and he just wanders off, forgetting that he's supposed to be there, or just not wanting to be caged, benign or not."

Without missing a beat, Fallion took up the story. "Most people think his bad attempt at Three Card Monty is a comedy routine, yuck it up, and give him a handout. Or take it as a creative spiel for one, with the same results. Old guy actually makes out pretty good."

"Mostly beat cops just move him along if he's blocking traffic or annoying a storeowner," Abbot put in as his partner took a breath. "We only bring him in if we have to; pressure from brass or from upstairs. He won't call a bondsman for whatever reason; maybe just enjoys not having to scramble for a hot meal for a change."

"Which is what happened this time, and he'll likely get thirty days suspended or tossed back into a care facility until the cut backs put him on the street. Again. It's a vicious cycle, but One Card seems to thrive on it."

"Still it'd be good if the he could have a better place to sleep. Or if there was a kindly soul or even a paid one to pay attention to little things, like seeing he's got the right clothes for the weather, but do it without locking him up. Old guy's getting up there, you know."

"Maybe you should talk to him. I've heard tell you're good at finding ways around and through the system to make it work the way it should. Whataya think, Sandburg? Got a few minutes to spare right now?"

While they spoke, Blair fought the urge to bounce his head back and forth like he was watching a tennis match, and when they finally shut up, he said admiringly, "Do the two of you practice that? The whole rapid-fire, 'his words right on the heels of yours,' thing? Cause I have to tell you, you're great at it."

They laughed, and chorused, "Just partners, you know?"

One of them, and at that second Blair couldn't honestly say which one it was, gave Blair a companionable shove toward One Card. "Give it a shot, will you? Work your magic."

Blair let momentum carry him toward the old man, who looked like somebody's Jewish grandfather, more at home at a beach front in southern Florida than in cold and rainy Cascade. Balding, short and skinny with an old-man belly covered by a frayed work shirt and horrendously loud houndstooth jacket, One Card patiently shuffled his three cards on the ground in front of him over and over again, working hard to hide the one tucked in the palm of one hand, but not succeeding very well. Despite that, his expression was serene, almost as if the failed attempts were a form of meditation especially designed for him.

Without breaking his intense gaze, he asked pleasantly as Blair approached, "Are you a social worker, a cop, or a do-gooder?"

Sitting beside him on the grass, Blair grinned and answered, "Believe it or not, just a little bit of all of them."

That won him a side-long glance, and One Card muttered to himself, "And you just want what's best for me."

"No, man," Blair said very solemnly. "I want to know if you have what you need. Are you getting enough to eat, are you dressed warm enough, do you feel safe enough at night to sleep well? That kind of thing."

One Card went very still, hands paused mid-motion. "You aren't going to try to change things because the cops asked you to get me off the street?"

Promptly and firmly, Blair said, "No way, that's not it at all. Fallion and Abbot are worried about you; that's all. You tell me you're good with what you've got, and I'll leave you be. So will they, unless somebody higher up complains. You know how that is."

Going back to his shuffling, One Card nodded. "Yeah, they're some of the good ones." Unexpectedly he stretched out a slightly palsied hand and rubbed a thumb over Jim's picture, right at the chest. "He's one, too. A very, very good one."

Hardly daring to breathe, Blair said softly, "Tell me."

***

Halfway down the stairs Jim could hear that trouble was waiting for them, and he put his hand on Turner's shoulder to slow him down, drawing his gun as he did. Mouth tightening when he saw that, the bailiff said, "You know something I don't?"

"My partner would say I'm either being a Boy Scout or totally paranoid," Jim said distractedly, trying to make sense of the muddle of shouts, curses, and moans. "Lights are out except for the emergency units, you can smell the smoke, and they had to have felt the blast, if they didn't hear it. So they know there's a problem, but not what it is, and that could put them on edge."

"Point." They reached the bottom of the stairs, and Turner stopped at the door, pulling back his shoulders and standing a little taller. "Better let me go first. The guards know me by sight and that should put them at ease. If things go bad, it'll give you a chance to size up the situation before you come in shooting."

Much as he didn't want to, Jim had to agree with him, and he stood to one side, weapon at the ready. Turner slammed through the door and stomped down the broad corridor as if to announce his presence, and Jim flitted after him, staying in the pools of shadows between the emergency lights. Though he never paused in his broad stride, Jim could tell when Turner heard the altercation by a sudden increase in tenseness and clenched fists.

To his surprise, instead of announcing himself, Turner turned the corner where the holding cell was and shouted at the top of his lungs, "What the devil is going on here?"

Sudden silence was his answer, and he scowled so fiercely that one guard actually choked on a smart-ass answer that sprang to his lips. Not giving them a chance to recover, Turner said, "Never mind. We're short of time here. To make it quick - gas line break, explosion, fire, evacuation. No one is being left behind to die. No one is using a fire as a diversion for an escape attempt. The courthouse is not being over run by terrorists. Any questions? No? Then you know the drill. Everybody to the back of the cage except *you,* we hand you the manacles and you put them on everybody, one line, shortest to tallest."

No one moved, then the fat guard snarled, "And we do this on your say so?"

Taking that as his cue, Jim holstered his gun and stepped out where he could be seen, badge held high. "Ellison, Cascade P.D., and it's on my say-so. But feel free to go look for yourself. Better yet, call your dispatch and have them check with the authorities. By now it's likely that you're the only people in Cascade who don't know what's going on."

It looked like Fatty was going to argue, but Turner went to the hooks were the cuffs were hanging and took down what they would need. Unlocking a shotgun from its holder, the other guard pointed it at the cell, waving the prisoners to the back. All of them obeyed quickly, except one, while Fatty grumbled to himself about the radios not working worth a damn down here.

Far too jittery for Jim's peace of mind, the guard with the shotgun poked it in the general direction of a man curled nearly in on himself in one corner. "Yo, old dude! Everybody to the rear, like the man said."

The older man just moaned and tried to squeeze in tighter on himself.

"I said..."

"I'll handle him," Jim said, pushing the barrel of the shotgun to one side and moving in front of the prisoner. "You cover the others."

Glaring at him, the guard obeyed, standing to one side so he could watch Jim, too. Ignoring him, Jim squatted down until he was on level with the old man, familiarity tugging at the edges of his mind. Spotting a card on the floor beside him, it came back to him, and he said, "Robert Towne?"

"Who's calling me that?" the man mumbled, but he untucked himself enough to peek at Jim. "I'm One Card, now. I haven't been Robert in a long, long time."

"So long that you've forgotten me?"

It took a moment, but then One Card beamed with pleasure. "Officer Jim! I took a wrong turn and saw a bad turn and you listened to me when nobody would."

"That's right," Jim said, not caring a whit that his fondness for the old man was showing. "You told me who made the turn bad and how they did it, and I put them away. You did me a big favor back then. I'd like to do one now for you, if you'll let me."

Uncurling completely, One Card said, "Turn about, right? You going to get me out of here before it turns ugly in here?"

"I can't let you go," Jim warned him. "But I can take you outside for a while. That is, if you'll get up and let them cuff you."

Eyeing the other prisoners who were almost done chaining themselves together, One Card said dubiously, "Go with them, like we do to and from?"

"Better than this cell, isn't it?" Jim coaxed.

"Bad in here," One Card agreed. "Getting worse." He stood, seemingly oblivious to the relieved grousing, and let himself be linked to the others.

Ignoring the disgust aimed his way by Fatty and Nervous, Jim moved to the back of the room. "I'll bring up the rear."

"I'm with..." Nervous started, then stopped himself, face twisting in fear. "Do you hear that? We gotta get out now! Right fucking now!"

"We are," Jim said, his voice so hard that Nervous almost turned the shotgun on him. Directing his orders to the prisoners, he added, "Turner is going to lead us out. We're going to go nice and steady and nobody is going to try to run and trip the line up, right? Now move!"

No one argued with him, and they set off at a steady pace, accompanying themselves with quietly muttered prayers, threats and curses. Before long, though, the smoke thickened, and they could hear the muffled roar of the fire above them. Turner ground to a stop, glared at one of the guards when he started to protest, then changed direction.

"The Social Services wing connects down here, too," he explained, almost casually. "That exit opens onto a little courtyard that's pretty sheltered from the street and this building. There's a good chance the damage hasn't gotten there, yet."

"Just get us out of here," Fatty snapped.

"Before we die," one of the prisoners mumbled, but not loud enough for Fatty to hear.

Jim had to agree with the sentiment, sensing it was going to be a near thing. Judging from the heat overhead, the complaints from the building itself, and the shouts of firemen and spectators outside, the fire was totally out of control. Steel and concrete or not, fire retardant materials or not, too much of what man loved burned easily. Jim would bet that the books and paper files everywhere, and the refurbished wood paneling used in the courtrooms and judges' quarters were at least partially responsible for the ferocity of the flames. To Jim's mind, it was a race between reaching safety and the ceiling coming down.

The trek through the labyrinth of the basement took on nightmarish qualities that tore at everyone's nerves with the sameness of the hallways slowing time down to make them feel endless. Protests grew louder and more virulent, taking on an edge that promised violence, guns or no guns, chains or no chains, and very, very soon. The worst part was that Jim couldn't really blame the prisoners. The guards were in worse shape than them, right on the edge of bolting or worse - and they had the heavy weapons.

Just when Jim thought one of them would crack from the strain, One Card started chanting, "Left, left, left my wife, forty-eight kids and old gray mare to do right, right, right for the country that I live in, right foot, left foot, right foot left foot, hip by jingle, left, left, left my wife..."

Several prisoners and Turner were startled into sheepish chuckles, then, to Jim's surprise, the prisoners picked up the chant, one by one, until all of them were singing and shuffling along in time to the beat provided by the old rhyme. Only Nervous stayed sour, but unconsciously he moved to the beat, too, as he walked.

A loud crash sounded behind them, and a burst of hot air swept through the corridor like a miniature tornado. The song faltered for a moment, save for One Card, and Jim picked it up with him, intentionally reinforcing his aura of unhurried calm. It was a false one. Jim could easily hear the frantic pounding of One Card's heart, despite the background racket, and see the faint sheen of perspiration that had nothing to do with the basement's rising temperature.

Oddly, he reminded him of Blair, and for one horrible, impossible second, Jim wanted his partner with him, even here, even now, though instinct and common sense said that it was much, much better that Blair was safe. Jim shook his head at himself, and hid a grimace. It wasn't likely that Blair would stay that way, of course. He'd be on his way here the moment he learned of the fire, brain already filled with plans and ideas on how to be useful.

Fixing his will on the very real possibility of seeing Blair soon, Jim slogged on with the others, helping steady one man when he nearly tripped and giving another an encouraging nod when his eyes searched out Jim's. More crashes and thumps came, and it became hard to breathe without coughing. Then there were stairs, appearing almost magically, and they climbed, unable not to rush now, with safety so close. They burst into air that was brighter and cleaner, but not by much, and Turner led them across the small patio to another door, straight across a hallway to its mate on the other side, and onto the green of the municipal center.

Turner headed for the prison buses, and Jim let the line go, hesitating while still in the courtyard, certain that something was wrong, but unable to pinpoint exactly what it was. The smoke here was different. It felt strange against his skin and had an undertone in its scent that nagged at him for his attention.

"Officer Jimmy," One Card said, pulled along by the other prisoners, but looking over his shoulder at Jim.

Summoning a smile for him, Jim said, "I want to make sure Social Services is empty. It's not burning, but I think it should be evacuated, just in case."

"Another good turn?" One Card asked, but Jim was spared answering him as the door shut on the older man's back.

***

"He stayed behind?" Blair asked softly.

One Card laid his hands in his lap, bowing his head. "Yes. There was a boom, a very loud boom, and the buses rocked, and walls fell, including where the old people had poured out, like a gate had been dropped in a people corral, turning them loose. That turn may not have been so good for Officer Jimmy."

Horrified, Blair stared at the piles of debris that used to be buildings. The bulk of the ambulances and EMT units to be seen were clustered opposite what had once been the old City Hall, people in uniforms swarming around them with the kind of organized frenzy that Blair associated with professionals used to deal with major chaos. From One Card's story, it sounded to Blair like Jim had heard people trapped or caught somehow, and had gone to free them. In that case, if he had been caught in the blast and subsequent collapse with them, but not injured or seriously hurt, he would have stayed with those who were until the medics arrived. At least until he was needed elsewhere, but it would be a good place to look for him next.

Standing and brushing absently at the seat of his pants to dust them off, Blair smiled down on One Card. "Officer Jimmy may just owe you another turn about. Thank you."

One Card smiled back, beatifically. "Got to keep the world turning, don't we?" Unexpectedly, he caught Blair by the wrist, fingers surprisingly strong, gaze uncharacteristically clear and sharp. "I missed my turn, or it never came, and now I can only wait. Be glad you got yours, no matter how short or long it is."

A cold shiver danced over Blair." Glad doesn't begin to cover it; or grateful, or even blessed, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to fight for every minute of it I can get."

"Good, good." Confusion clouded One Card's eyes again, and he fumbled for his cards, mechanically laying them out side by side.

Blair touched the shining pate of his head in benediction and left, dismissing the odd moment in favor of deciding how to approach the medical personnel without being run off. His stomach quivered, but he clung to the promises that he would be called if Jim were brought into one of the hospitals. One the other hand, Jim should have called himself by now, if he were able, just to let Blair know he wasn't hurt, no matter how chaotic the situation was.

Maybe he's unconscious, Blair thought. Not badly hurt, but out cold, and the EMT's are transporting people more dangerously injured - triage at its best. Or maybe he dropped his cell phone. Given his record with his gun, that's not a bad guess.

Scrubbing the palms of his hands along his thighs, Blair killed his rationalizations and dove into the milling crowd, deliberately not looking at any one person in particular. Instead, on impulse, he tried to get a sense of the group as a whole, to see it as one entity that he could empathize with like any other individual. Letting himself be jostled this way and that, he 'listened' for character and mood, finding urgency and pain here - the more severely injured, being tended by the medics. Relieved joy was there, in the shape of a handful of parents who understood how close to danger their children had been. Toward the center was a cluster of people who could never have been in true danger at all, for they gave off an air of superiority at having done nothing more than simply surviving.

The scientist side of him was fascinated with what he observed in himself, almost automatically framing the experience as a paper to be submitted, and Blair accepted that was a mechanism to intellectually grasp the impact of discovering a new ability. The rest of him drifted toward a pocket of sorrow; a small cluster of elderly people, sitting on park benches and picnic tables as far away from the destruction as they could get, yet still in full view of it and the harried EMTs. He couldn't say why he knew they would have the answers he needed, that didn't stop him from joining them, casually drifting into their midst so as not to alarm them.

He had no need of the care; they enfolded him willingly, communicating their sympathy and shared grief with subtle shifts of body and expression once they saw Jim's picture on Blair's chest. There was guilt, too, and that mystified Blair, until he realized that Jim had saved them but was still lost himself. He fed back forgiveness, then, using small smiles and fleeting touches, murmuring to everyone in general, "He's a cop. He did what he felt was right, and I wouldn't have it any other way."

He kept up the softly uttered reassurances until all of the guilt and some of the sorrow abated, except for the strong, dark heart of it. The flow of humanity he was caught up in deposited him in front of that source: a dapper, middle sized, middle-aged man with a tidy mustache and bloody shirt sleeve. Blair stared at him until he lifted his head and sighed, hand clutching the wound on his arm.

"I'm Walter Dent," he said in quietly cultured tones. "And I may have been the last person to see your missing man alive."

***

Standing in the middle of the middle of the patch of grass, trees and bushes, Jim slowly pivoted, scanning with all his senses for the new danger they insisted was present. He was tempted to brush it off as a change in the blaze bringing down the Courthouse, but was not able to do so. Finally he looked through a natural gap in the tall hedge and past the chain link fence reinforcing it to a truck backed in next to the original City Hall where it connected to the Social Services wing. Backed into the tight corner made by those buildings, the truck was loaded with pressurized gas bottles and burning merrily.

"Damn," Jim said tiredly. "Too late to get a fire truck here to put that out; it's going to blow." He fought down a sigh of frustration even as he charged for the door into the long, low building. It had been built that way on purpose, with the needs of the disabled, elderly, and parents with children that it was meant to serve in mind. Though there were three obvious exits, for some reason people were clustered at the one closest to the old City Hall, trying to get out that way. If he went by their terrified cries and screams, they weren't succeeding.

He raced past the center doors to the wing, snarling at whatever idiot had chained them shut, which was a violation of fire laws, if not common sense. Long before he reached the edge of the mob, he could see the cause of the blockage. The doors on either side of the hallway opened in, and since one look out on the side with the burning truck would have scared any sane person into not using that exit, there was only one safe way out. And it was blocked by a massive wheelchair jammed between the wall and the door by the bodies of forty or more people. By the time the assembly had discovered their dilemma, the option of the courtyard exit was moot; they were packed too close together to be able to open that door again. Nor could the ones closest to the problem communicate it to the rear of the pack, so they would back off long enough to create room.

Sliding along the wall to use it for leverage, Jim shoved his way to the front, dismissing the bruises he was causing in favor of saving lives. Once there, he scooped the terrified teen out of the reclining chair and handed him to the woman frantically trying to pull it out of the way. "Hang onto him, even if hurts," Jim bellowed, and she managed somehow. Squatting, he found hand-holds on the frame of the chair and with a pained grunt, lifted it straight up and over his head. Twisting, he got it past the door, and it slammed open from the danger-maddened people who had been shoving on it, despite the obstruction.

With no choice but to wait until they were clear, Jim dredged up every ounce of patience and strength he had as they flowed out, and held on, teeth grinding together at the effort. To his surprise another pair of hands joined his, taking some of the weight, and he acknowledged the other man with a grunt of approval. Gasping, the carefully dressed man said, "There's a truck..."

I know."

"My fault, my fault." The man's grip slipped, but he regained it quickly. "I'm Walter Dent. Architect for the renovations. Gave permission for truck to unload there."

"Reason not to do that," Jim ground out.

"I know, I know. What chance, I thought."

"Cascade. Most dangerous city in the country."

Dent gave a short bark that might have been laughter in another time and place.

"Hold on," Jim said, feeling the chair slip again. "In three, throw it back down hallway. One...two..." He paused, estimating their combined strength and the heads of the last few people to run out. "Three."

With a very satisfying clatter, the chair hit the floor, bounced, and came to rest on its side. Jim reached for his helper, but the man spun, yanked open the courtyard door and was through it too fast to stop him. Half-afraid it was a suicide attempt and half-afraid Dent was going to try to put out the truck or something equally insane, Jim chased after him. A few feet later, it was clear their destination was a side door to the old City Hall, and Dent panted out, "People inside."

Listening, Jim heard three distinct heartbeats and voices, one of them saving, "We have to save as much as we can. Load yourself up like a mule"

"God, I can't believe this, I can't believe this," a woman said. "We find this room closed up behind a wall, it's filled with the documents and records from a *century* ago, and now it's all going to burn. I can't believe this, I fucking can't believe this."

Staying on Dent's heels, Jim threaded his way through mounds of building supplies and discarded remnants of the old work, to a wall with a hole knocked in it. He climbed through it in time to hear Dent say, "None of this is worth lives. Leave. Now. You've only moments to get clear."

"Dr. Dent," the woman protested.

"Consider it an official order," Jim snapped. "Ellison, Cascade, P.D. An evacuation is in progress, by court authority, and you will be held in contempt of court, if not for willful endangerment, loitering, or anything else I can think of to charge you with if you do not get out, now."

One man didn't need to be told twice. Though he carried as much as he could, he said as he left, "It's more than we had, and it hasn't made a difference all the years it was hidden."

"But, but," the woman sputtered, trying impossibly to stack more on the stack she was balancing. "It's history. It's evidence of what was; records we can learn from."

"It's paper," Jim said, not unkindly, grabbing a stack at random, himself, because of a curly-headed anthropologist who would see the value in at least trying to preserve what he could.

Apparently agreeing, at least to a degree, Dent took a stack as well, and herded the other man out in front of him. "Go, go."

Jim did the same with the women, using an elbow as a prod. The threshold of the opening was high. She tried to step over it without being able to see past her burden, and tripped backward with a curse. Dent heard, half-turned to go back, but Jim waved him on. "I've got her. Move!"

Foolishly she tried to scoop up what she had lost when she tripped, and Jim juggled his own load to reach down and pull her to her feet, ignoring her protest. At that instant he heard a thin, sharp whistle in the distance and knew it was too late to run. Acting on instinct, he pushed her down against the inside wall and covered her with his own body. For the second time that day, the air changed, becoming an enemy that beat at his senses, but this time it was accompanied by a rumble that terrified him even as it battered him into unconsciousness.

***

"You saw the wall drop on him," Blair asked sharply.

Misery in every line of his body, Dent nodded. "I tried to go back to them, I tried! But the ceiling was collapsing, and Hoffman dragged me away."

Wishing he could give the man the absolution he so desperately wanted, Blair took a deep breath and said, "You saw it fall - that doesn't mean you saw it kill. You're an architect; could you show me on a blueprint exactly where Jim was standing?"

"He couldn't possibly..."

"Then you'll help me find his body!" Blair snapped. When Dent recoiled, he made himself add more reasonably, "They find survivors underneath wreckage far worse than we're dealing with in this case. Until we find Jim and the woman he was with, we won't know for sure, and I'd rather think positive, here."

"Yes, yes, of course," Dent said, gratefully grasping after any straws that Blair offered. "I have the plans for the renovations in my truck. I'll be right back."

Watching him run off, Blair took out his cell and speed dialed. "Hey, you here yet?" he asked when Simon barked 'Banks' at him. "Good! Do you know where the picnic area is on the High Street side? Could you meet me there? Yeah, I think I've got a line on him, but I'll need whatever manpower you can spare. Thanks - I owe you big for this."

Scrubbing at his eyes at the gruff denial that he owed anything, Blair said, "We can talk about that later. In the meantime, what do you have that can move stone?"

Before long Blair had the blueprints spread out over a table with Dent, Simon, Joel and Dan Wolfe bent over them with him. Pointing to what were meaningless lines to Blair, Dent said, "The sealed room we found was here. We couldn't find any sign of it on the older plans on file, which is a good indication that it was deliberately hidden, for reasons currently unknown, and to judge by the method of construction, it was done a very long time ago. This is good news for Delia and Detective Ellison. To prevent detection the interior walls would have been reinforced, and because of the intended purpose, it was lined with extremely sturdy shelving. It is possible that would provide shelter for them when the exterior wall and ceiling gave way."

Studying the ruins of the city hall, Blair compared what was left with what had been there. "See that part of the wall that's still standing, more or less? Could it be because of the extra reinforcement provided by the hidden room?"

"A very sound theory," Dent agreed.

"What're we waiting for then?"

"Blair," Simon cautioned.

"Trust me, the last thing I want is for the wreckage to fall in on itself. I'll be so careful, you'll think I'm walking through a mine field."

"You are," Dan said calmly, pulling on leather gloves and putting on a borrowed hard hat. "Our extra weight might be what causes any part of the support protecting our victims to fail. Or it may be the last straw for a body being crushed to death. Pay close attention to your senses with every step; feel for give underfoot, listen for shifting and creaking."

"You've done this before?" Simon asked.

"Too many times." Dan brushed off the past. "Now is what counts, and every minute is precious. Fire department rescue teams will join us as soon as they can, but it looks like it's us for now."

Putting on his own gloves and hat, Blair said, "Let's go."

***

Jim dropped back into consciousness as abruptly as he'd crashed out of it, but not so fast or hard that he couldn't control a spasmodic jerk from pain and shock. His legs hurt from the knees down, his back was wet with blood from several puncture wounds, and his front was clammy with sweat from another person. A woman's soft form was pressed into his chest, barely breathing, and he could smell blood that wasn't his own. Because she wasn't awake, he checked her out, moving only his hands, as cautiously as possible.

Finding no obvious injuries to her head or abdomen, he looked down her body, automatically compensating for the darkness they were buried in, and found the cause of her distress. The very corner of a stone had wedged between his legs and hers, skinning his shins but crushing her feet. Though she would undoubtedly lose both of them because of it, the weight of the stone was something of a blessing since it was acting as a natural tourniquet, preventing her from bleeding to death.

Immobilizing her would be a good thing, Jim knew, but he had nothing on hand except himself. Letting her weight continue to rest on him, he swept their prison with his senses, looking for an escape route. It was possible, just barely possible, he decided. A massive wooden beam had fallen across a bundle of steel rods intended to reinforce the old structure, creating a tiny, stable shelter for them. Above that, most of the rubble was loosely piled and less than ten feet deep; maybe it could be shifted enough for him to maneuver through without bringing down the entire stack.

Putting his finger against her pulse to gauge blood pressure, he considered the risk of carrying the woman to medical attention against waiting until they were dug out. She was shocky, dangerously so, but he doubted that he could stop the bleeding if he could free what was left of her feet. For now, staying put was her best option.

If he were going to be digging, though, he needed to find a way to hold her in position, and after a moment's thought, Jim grabbed the bundles of paper which had fallen nearby. Using them as a sort of buttress, he eased away from her, pushing gingerly at chunks of shattered wood and rock, grimacing at the spikes of pain the simplest movements sent into his back and legs. Soon he was sitting beside her and tunneling upward, leaving a portion of his attention on her vitals while he worked.

He lost all sense of time, measuring his existence instead by how high up he could reach and how much further he had gone. The giant jigsaw puzzle he was working on needed every aspect of his senses. If this rock was moved - listen carefully, feel with the entire body - would that support give? If that beam couldn't be moved, see where was it pinned and if shifting those fragments would free it. Even smell and taste added clues in tiny trickles of dust, wisps of air that were cleaner or fresher than a few inches away.

His hands began to ache, nonstop, and after a while the pain began traveling in a dizzying loop from his shoulders to his back to his legs to his hands and back 'round again. It didn't occur to Jim to take a break, let alone give up. He absolutely no doubt that he had to keep going; Blair was on the other side of this mess.

It was stupid, he knew, and a tiny part of his rational mind suggested the woman wasn't the only one who was shocky, but he was positive that if he could just touch his partner, catch a glimpse of him, that the worst would be over and done with. The glory of Blair's skin or one of those rough silk curls under his fingertips meant that all that was left was the obligatory medical thing and inevitable paperwork. Jim held onto that single thought, like he had the promise of a hot shower when he was in the Rangers or the hope of the taste of freshly cooked meat while in Peru, and endured.

Finally he found himself less than a foot from the surface, and unable to move even the tiniest bit closer to it. He could, if he crammed himself into an impossibly tight gap, wedging his arm and shoulder between sharply cutting fragments of lathing, get most of his hand through a gap into the open. It wasn't much, and he paid for it by being so cramped he could hardly breathe, let alone shout, but it was an opportunity. Tucking himself down as small as he could, he waited to be able to use it.

***

Blair had heard the expression 'walking on eggs' many times, and had used it himself more than once himself, but this was the first time in his life he really, truly felt that was what he was literally doing. All too aware of what could be under his feet, he clambered onto the wreckage with a preternatural awareness of every move he made, until his back was against what was left of the wall. The others ranged out several yards on either side of him, and they moved forward slowly, taking turns calling Jim's name.

Listening with everything he had for a response, any response, Blair could not convince himself to do more than creep along, practically on his hands and knees. "Come on, Jim," he murmured. "I know you're listening for rescue efforts; you have to know we're up here. Find a way to let us know where you are. Bang on something, if you can't shout loud enough for whatever reason. Make something fall down with a boom. Come on, come on..."

In answer to the near prayer, a gunshot echoed through the air, and Blair felt a strong vibration in the steel under his hand. Without giving himself a chance to think, he pointed himself in the direction he thought the shot had come from and scuttled forward. "That's it! Do it again!" Jim obeyed, and this time Blair had no doubt what way to go. He caught a flash of motion - bloody, pale skin against the blacks and grays of the rubble - and dived for it, capturing Jim's hand as it blindly beckoned.

"Got you, got you!" he crooned, and added, "Watch your ears." With that warning, he shouted as loud as he could that he had found them, get the medics.

Stretching out on his stomach, Blair laid his cheek against the back of Jim's hand, whispering, "So scared, so scared, all the way through the soul of me." Jim squeezed tightly, telling him that he understood, he was there, battered and bloody, but there. His grip was strong, as was his pulse, but Blair could feel a tension that meant great pain. Despite that, Jim twisted his wrist so that he could stroke the line of Blair's cheek and slide a curl through his fingers, relief a palpable thing in the touch.

Clinging to the hand in his as Jim drew his arm back down the hole he had reached through, Blair settled himself down to wait. In the back ground he could hear shouting and the hum of rising activity, but it didn't matter to him. Everything from this point, until he could get Jim in their big bed and wrap himself around him, was routine, obligatory, maybe even cliche', and it was totally, completely unimportant. The universe shrank down to the warm flesh against his with the promises it held, and they were both content for it to be that way.

finis