Blair gave a furtive look around. Nope, nobody noticing him. The bullpen was pretty empty just now, as a matter of fact. He began to type on Jim's computer keyboard.

S-A-N-D-B-U-R-G, B-

Nah, don't waste this opportunity on yourself. He was fairly familiar with the various ways in which he appeared on the police computer system. Though, he reflected, it probably wasn't half as full of Blair Sandburg as the hospital's computer system was. He grimaced at that thought.

Hmm.

With a little smile, he pressed backspace, deleting the last 'B,' then typed

N-A-O-M-I

pressed return and waited, humming a bit to himself. Another quick glance around. Still, nobody paying any attention to him. Jim was down the hall somewhere with Simon and Joel. Rafe was busy at his desk. Brown and Megan were....well, he wasn't certain where they'd gotten to, but he didn't see them.

The computer gave a beep and Blair turned his attention to the screen. Bound to be a lot of disorderly conducts, resisting arrests, that sort of stuff, considering the number of people, places, and things Naomi had protested in her life. But surely there would be some good blackmail material here. Something to use on his mother the next time she started one of her unbelievably embarrassing Blair-as-a-tiny-boy stories--which always seemed to emphasize the tiny part. Something nice and mortifying would be...would be....

What was he seeing? What was this?

Blair paged down in the report. Then he paged back up. A cold lump formed in his stomach.

Rape?

He was staring at a report of the rape of one Naomi Sandburg. It had happened--he felt his mouth fall open--here in Cascade?!

In 1988? Shit! While he was still an undergrad at Rainier.

And he hadn't known?

The room was spinning. Blair grabbed the edge of the desk with both hands, knuckles white with strain.

Mom?

His eyes were glued to the screen. He couldn't stop reading. By the end, his vision blurred in spite of his glasses, he was unable to make out the words, but he could see that several sentences had been appended to the case just a few months ago.

By Detective James Ellison.

He was falling. Sitting bolt upright in Jim's chair, yet Blair could feel himself falling. He shot to his feet, sending the chair rebounding into the desk behind.

"Hey, Schwarzeneggar," Rafe complained. "Take it easy. Don't know your own streng--uh, Sandburg? Blair, you okay?"

Wild blue eyes looked at the police detective, but they showed no recognition. They reflected only the horror of the thoughts flooding Blair's brain.

Jim knew about this. Jim had talked to her. Jim had interviewed her just three months ago. Interviewed his mother...in one of the rooms here probably...with a stenographer taking notes. He'd talked to her about...about....

The doors to the bullpen opened and Jim came in. He was saying something to Simon and Joel, but the words died on his lips as soon as he saw Blair.

The sight of Blair's white, strained face turning toward him triggered some protective instinct in the sentinel. His hearing dialed up of its own accord and he was amazed by the frantic speed of his guide's pulse.

"Sandburg?"

There seemed to be no moment of thought between action and deed. Jim said Blair's name and Blair launched himself through the air.

"You son-of-a-bitch!" was all Jim heard and then he was going down. Crashing to the ground beneath Blair's not inconsiderable weight.

Surprise, confusion, disbelief.

Pain.

Unprepared for the attack, unable to comprehend the anger that had transformed his friend's face, Jim landed hard and his head bounced off the floor. His ears rang, and pain lanced through his skull.

"You goddamned son-of-a-bitch!"

The shout, inches from his face, was another kind of assault. With his hearing dialed up, Jim felt the voice of his guide rip into his head, searing like fire.

Hands pulled Blair away, but not before he landed one hard right punch to Jim's face. Other hands got Jim to his feet. He stood, left cheek cut and bleeding, head pounding, staring at the lunatic who'd taken over his best friend's body. Sandburg was fighting to get away from Brown and Rafe. Fighting to get at Jim. Those familiar blue eyes were narrowed in fury. The familiar face twisted by ugly rage.

The room spun around the sentinel. Simon and Joel had pulled him to his feet and they continued to support him. He swayed drunkenly, but his eyes remained fixed on Blair's red, furious face. He couldn't take it in, couldn't even begin to understand.

"You interviewed her! Trying to clear the case, you son-of-a-bitch? Trying to get that close rate up another notch?"

"What? What're you--"

"Shut up!" Simon's bellow cut across their voices, and Jim covered his ears with both hands. "Sandburg, have you lost your mind? Explain! Now!"

"Please!" Jim's agonized whisper might have been directed at Simon. Please don't yell. Yet the sentinel's eyes were still on Blair, and the plea was meant for him.

Please explain. Please tell me why you're looking at me like that. Why your heart is pounding so hard, your breath sounds like a bellows, and I can feel the heat radiating off you from five feet away. And I can't seem to dial any of it down because of the pain in my skull.

Please?

Blair had stopped struggling against the arms that held him. "Ask him, Captain! Ask him about--" Blair glanced back at the computer screen on Jim's desk. The picture was small, but he could still make out the face of his mother. Younger, her hair darker and longer.

Her face covered by bruises and cuts, one eye swollen shut.

Blair swallowed convulsively, fighting the nausea rising in his throat. "Oh, god! Oh, fuck!"

He ran blindly from the room.

The detectives were stunned. No one spoke. Everyone looked at Jim.

"Jim, are you okay?"

Jim's pain-narrowed eyes had found the face on his computer screen, and he didn't respond to Simon's question. Yet, his own face paled so quickly that the captain took hold of his arm again.

"Jim, what is it? What the hell is going on? What was Sandburg--"

"Not now, Simon. Please." Jim moved quickly to his desk and cleared the screen of that terrible picture. He stood there a moment, one hand resting on top of the monitor. He managed to drag the dial down on his hearing, enough so that every noise wasn't agony. The dizziness faded somewhat.

But even though the pain in his ears lessened, there were no dials to ease the rest of it.

"Oh, god. Sorry. I'm so--"

The low-voiced words ceased abruptly as Jim jerked his aching head up and growled at himself, "Why the hell are you talking to the computer?"

Oblivious to the stares of the rest of his co-workers, and to the frustrated worry on Simon's face, Jim crossed the room and went out the door. He headed straight for the seventh floor men's room.

He needed no sentinel senses to hear the sound of ragged breathing inside the bathroom. The way his head was pounding he didn't think he could dial up his hearing anyway. He put a hand on the door, said "I'm coming in," and pushed it open.

Blair hadn't made it. He hadn't made it to the toilet and had vomited in one of the sinks. Now he sat on the floor in the corner nearest the door, legs stretched out in frontof him, his head tilted back against the wall. His face was wet from the water he'd splashed on it. Damp tendrils of hair clung to his cheeks.

His eyes had been closed, but as soon as Jim entered, they opened. From red fury a few minutes ago, now his face was ashen and showed no expression at all.

Jim waited for a few seconds, to see if--well, just to see. Asking permission perhaps. Blair said nothing, but his unblinking gaze remained on Jim as the detective came in and locked the door.

After securing the door, Jim paused again. Once more seeking permission. Still there was only that silent regard.

The detective crossed to the clean sink. Pulling a few paper towels from the dispenser, he dampened them with cool water and applied them to his stinging cheek.

In the mirror, he watched Blair watching him.

Jim ran a hand carefully over the back of his head, wincing as his fingers found the lump rising there. The damp paper towels were pressed into service. Gently.

In the mirror, he saw that Blair's face now wore a small frown.

"I did that."

Jim said nothing, trying to judge the meaning of those words. Not a question, yet not a statement either. Blair's forehead creased as his frown deepened.

Jim dropped the towels in the trash and turned to face him.

"Your face? I did--"

"I'm sorry, Blair," Jim interrupted softly. "I'm sorry you found out like...like that."

The frown stayed on Blair's face, and he began to shiver.

Jim came over and settled onto the floor near Blair. He rested his hands on his legs, wanting very much to reach out to his friend, but forcing himself to go slowly, carefully.

"Why?"

And again Jim hesitated. Why what? Why had this horrible thing happened in the first place? Why hadn't Naomi told Blair? Why had she told Jim? Why hadn't Jim told Blair?

"Why did you interview her?"

Oh, that why. Jim licked his lips. His throat was suddenly dry. "I didn't 'interview' her, Chief. She--" A deep breath. "It was after we got back from Sierra Verde--she came to visit but you were sick for most of a week. Remember?"

Blair gave no answer, no word or nod, but Jim thought he saw a flicker of memory in those eyes. He doubted that Blair remembered much about that time. The flu and a high fever, coming so soon after his drowning at the hands of Alex Barnes, had really knocked him out. He knew that Naomi had visited, but he'd spent most of his days and nights ill in his room.

"She was having a hard time, Blair. Dealing with almost losing you, and then seeing you so sick. We were sitting in the living room one night, both of us pretending we weren't trying to listen to the sound of your breathing in the other room." A tentative smile that was quickly gone from Jim's face. "And she said some things. I don't even remember what. Just some things that gave away what'd happened to her."

"Gave--" Blair's voice was raspy and he cleared his throat. "Gave it away to the cop who was questioning her."

Jim refused to be baited. His voice remained level, gentle. "Gave it away to a friend who was listening. She seemed glad it had come out. It was...it had happened ten years ago that night, and I think she needed to talk. So, we did. We talked, we checked on you, we ate potato chips. Who knew your mother has a secret passion for Pringles."

Blair was really listening now. The calm, deliberate words had finally penetrated his confusion and pain. His eyes never left Jim's face.

"We talked. She asked me--she asked me, Blair--to go over the record again. Asked me to listen to her story and go over the police file. Just to see if a fresh set of ears, of eyes, might turn up something new. Something that was missed. It was hard, buddy, really hard. Hard to hear what had happened to her, hard to see the things in that file. But I did it because she asked me to."

"And asked you not to tell me."

Jim shook his head. "No, she didn't ask that. She didn't have to. It wasn't my story to tell, Chief. It was hers. I did ask her if you knew, and she said no. The...attack had happened when she was coming to see you one weekend, to surprise you. She just...didn't come."

Blair was shivering again, and Jim couldn't stop himself this time. He moved close to his friend and put a hand on Blair's shoulder. Trying to be prepared for rejection, for more anger, for--he didn't know exactly what--yet once again, Blair took him by surprise.

The young man leaned slowly toward the sentinel until his forehead touched Jim's shoulder. He said nothing, just exhaled very slightly and stayed there.

Jim closed his eyes, his face rigid with emotion. Wrapping both arms around Blair, he rested his chin on the mass of curly hair. And stayed there.

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