Alex stared at Blair for a moment, then put his hand in place of hers on the ice pack, and got to her feet. Crossing the room to her bag, she started pulling out clothes and putting them on.

"Alex? What is it? What's going on?" Blair was confused, which, he realized, seemed to be the normal state of affairs for him lately.

She glanced at him as she pulled on a pair of jeans. "I'm getting out of here."

"It's three o'clock in the morning! Why do you . . . " Wait a minute, wait a minute, she'd said, 'I' not 'we'. His heart started pounding again, and he felt light-headed. That meant she didn't need him anymore, that meant he was expendable, that meant . . .

"Stop it, stop it!" She was holding her hands to her head; her eyes squeezed shut in pain.

Laying the ice down, Blair got up from his position on the floor and went to her, leading her to the bed, forcing her to sit down. "Alex, relax, relax. Don't try and push through it right now, you're tired. Just pull it back, turn down the dial . . ." When he felt the tension leave her, he asked, "What happened? What triggered the spike?"

Lifting her head, her tired blue eyes met his. "You. You were afraid, and your heart started racing, and it was so loud . . . and I knew you were afraid of me . . ." Her hand flew up to cover her mouth, and tears slid down her cheeks. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs for a moment, but she pushed away his attempts to comfort her. Drawing in a long breath, she finally spoke again. "I can't hurt you, Blair. I don't know why. I tried, at the fountain, but there was this voice inside my head, like the voice I hear in my dreams, telling me that it's the Sentinel's duty to protect the Guide. I don't know what a guide is, but I know it has something to do with you . . . and every time I hurt you, or make you afraid, it's like I feel what you feel, magnified a hundred times . . ."

The anthropologist stared at her, a million theories flashing through his mind, most of them being discarded, but one in particular seemed feasible, almost logical, almost natural. What if a Sentinel's guide couldn't just be anybody off the street? What if it was really Guide, with a capital 'G' instead of a lower case one? What if a Guide was as genetically different as a Sentinel, and they were specifically designed to work in tandem, as a team, as one unit, not as Sentinel and geeky guy chasing after him taking notes and shoving him under garbage trucks when he zoned?

"Oh, man!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet and beginning to pace, his thoughts tumbling over each other in his eagerness to share his breakthrough with her. "Alex, Alex, I'm a guide, I mean I'm a Guide! What you're experiencing is perfectly natural . . . What I'm feeling is normal, is supposed to be the way a Sentinel/Guide pair interact. Oh, man, I thought I was going crazy because I couldn't escape when I had the chance . . ."

Alex frowned. "You were trying to escape?"

He waved his hands placatingly. "But I couldn't, don't you see? You needed me, and my instincts wouldn't let me abandon you! Just as your instincts wouldn't let you really hurt me! Oh, wow, Jim is really going to freak when he hears this!" Jim . . . shit . . . this would not be what he wanted to hear. Being told he had a genetic need for a Guide would not go over well with "Mr. I-Don't-Need-Anyone-Else-To-Define-Me".

At the mention of Ellison's name, Alex had risen and started dressing again. "Alex, talk to me. What is it? What's making you feel you have to leave right now, and leave me behind?"

Stopping what she was doing, she looked at him, struggling to put into words what she was feeling. "Because if I leave you behind, you'll be safe."

Blair grabbed her hand and squeezed it, his expression earnest and eager. "Why? Something must have triggered it . . . something I said . . . The temple! I told you I saw the temple and you freaked!"

Wolf running through the jungle. Warrior with painted skin notching an arrow to a bow. Drawing the arrow back, letting it fly, shooting the wolf. The wolf shifting into Blair. Blair was hurt, dyingÖ "No!" Alex backed away from Blair. "I won't let him kill you, I won't! And he can't, if you stay here . . ."

Someone wanted to kill him? "Who, Alex, who wants to kill me?" he asked anxiously.

"Your friend, the other Sentinel, Detective Ellison . . ."

Simon set a mug of coffee down in front of Jim. "When was the last time you ate something?" he asked the sentinel. Jim rubbed his eyes tiredly, and tried to focus on the map of Sierra Verde spread out on the conference table. "Or slept?"

"I got a couple hours in last night, before . . ." His words trailed off and he clenched his jaw.

"Before what? Before you had this vision of Blair and Alex together? Come on, Jim. How much stock can you put in that anyway? You don't know the back story, all you got was one tiny glimpse of them together, or is there still something else you're leaving out?"

Pushing his chair back from the table violently, Jim stalked over to the window and stared out. "It just . . . turns my stomach. She nearly killed me at the foundry . . . If it hadn't been for Connor showing up when she did . . ."

The captain pulled a cigar out of his pocket, and rolled it between his fingers, observing the lines of tension in his friend's back. "Jim, Sandburg doesn't know that . . ."

"Well, he should be able to figure it out! He's read her rap sheet; that security guard she shot is still in the hospital . . . he's intelligent, he's resourceful, he should be trying to figure out some way to get away from her, not help her, for christ's sake!"

Simon considered his next words carefully, then decided it didn't matter if Jim didn't like what he had to say, he needed to hear it. "Have you stopped to think about the fact that you brought this on yourself?"

Jim whirled around, his eyes flashing dangerously. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the conversation you had with Sandburg a little over 36 hours ago, right out there." He gestured toward the bullpen. "The one where you told him you couldn't trust him, that maybe he should seek out someone else to write about, that you didn't need his help. You practically pushed him into her arms, Jim."

Ellison's eyes closed, the dream of the previous night running through his mind. He shot the wolf, and she healed him. Turning his back on his friend, he said, so low that the other man had to strain to hear him, "I know, Simon, I know."

"Jim . . . Jim's trying to kill me?" Blair's knees suddenly felt weak, and he grabbed for the edge of the dresser.

Alex's hand on his elbow steadied him. "That's what I was dreaming about when you woke me up. I was in the jungle and I saw a wolf running. Your friend was a warrior, who shot the wolf with an arrow, and the wolf turned into you." Her fingers under his chin lifted his face so his eyes met hers. "I can't let that happen . . ." She struggled for the words to express what else she was feeling.

He interrupted her before she found them. "It already has, Alex." It was her turn to pull him over to the bed and sit him down.

"What are you talking about?"

Blair leaned his elbows on his knees, and dug his fingers into his hair. "Last night, a couple hours before you came to my office, Jim told me that he couldn't trust me, because I helped you, and didn't tell him about you. He told me to find someone else to write about, like I even give a damn about that stupid dissertation . . . He told me he didn't need my help to find out who he was . . . ." The guide wrapped his arms around his stomach, wondering if the pain in his gut was the result of the spiritual arrow the sentinel had shot him with.

He felt Alex's hands rest tentatively on his knees, and her words, when they came, were soft and hesitant. "I'm sorry . . . it's hard for me to imagine what that kind of a relationship would be like . . . but from your reaction, I can tell he hurt you very much . . . ." He nodded dumbly, and she touched his head gently as she straightened up. He looked up to find her sliding her feet into her shoes.

"Don't tell me you're still going to leave?"

She shouldered her bag. "I have to." Snagging the keys from where he'd left them in the middle of the bed, she grabbed her gun from underneath the pillow and tucked it into her purse. She turned to find him standing in front of the door.

"I can't let you do this, Alex." She stared at him in disbelief. "Look, just listen to me for second. I know you can't tell me where you're going, but obviously it's dangerous if you want to leave me behind."

Tossing her head in irritation, she said sarcastically, "Yeah, it's dangerous. I'm going to meet my partner, who's already told me he's looking to get rid of me. And his method of changing partners leaves a lot to be desired." She made a gun with her forefinger and thumb and pointed it at her temple.

Blair grabbed her hand and yanked it down. "That's why you need me then, to watch your back, to protect you, to keep you safe . . ."

Her eyes widened, and she took a step back from him, a soft little sob her only articulation. "Alex, what's the matter? What'd I say?"

She shook her head slowly, fighting not to cry. "No one's ever . . . I . . . no one's ever wanted to . . . take care of me, to protect me . . . I've always been alone . . ." She lost the battle, and the tears flowed freely down her cheeks.

Wrapping his arms around her, Blair pulled her into a gentle hug. "It's okay, it's okay. We're both tired and on edge, and vulnerable. Let's get couple hours more sleep, and take a fresh look at things in the morning, okay?" He felt her nod her head against his shoulder, and he took her bag and set it back down on the dresser as she undressed again. Gathering the covers from where they had fallen on the floor, he climbed back in bed, tucking them both in.

Flipping off the bedside light, Blair lay on his back next to her, suddenly having mixed feelings about what he was doing. Alex was a criminal, he reminded himself, a thief with a propensity toward violence, and . . . and . . . She inched closer to him on the mattress, and he lifted his arm, feeling her tuck in against his side, a happy little sigh escaping her lips as she closed her eyes.

Blair blinked away the sudden dampness in his eyes. Jim, man, I'm sorry. I don't know what's happening here, and I never meant to hurt you, but she needs me in a way you never did. I'm a Guide now, and maybe, just maybe I can help her, not only with her senses, but in turning her life around. That would be worth it, wouldn't it? To help her become what she was meant to be, a Sentinel, a protector of the tribe instead of an outcast from it. He felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Yeah, that would be worth it.

The small plane hit another patch of turbulence, and Blair grabbed for Alex's hand, nearly stabbing her with the pen he was also clutching. "Hey, watch it, babe. I thought a Guide was supposed to protect the Sentinel, not spear them with writing implements." She gave him a warm smile. "Relax, it's only a couple more hours."

"A couple more hours! Alex, maybe you didn't understand me when I told you this before: I'm afraid of heights, really high heights, like airplane heights . . ."

She gave his arm a squeeze. "We'll be fine. Right, Paco?"

The pilot didn't move his eyes from the instrument panel. "Si, senorita, everything is a-okay."

"You better pray it is, with what we're carrying," Blair muttered under his breath, "or say goodbye to a big part of the rainforest."

She poked him in the side. "Keep your morbid thoughts to yourself. Go back to writing your letter, get your mind off the storm."

Sighing, Blair did as he was told, re-reading the first part of what was rapidly becoming a novel.

Dear Jim,

Well, that was debatable. Jim was still dear to him, but was he still dear to Jim? Probably not, certainly not if he ever got to read this letter. More morbid thoughts . . . what was he doing? Oh, the letter!

Well, I've been gone for three days now. Have you noticed I'm missing yet? Part of me hopes you have, and part of me wants to spare you that pain, or really the pain I imagine you must be feeling if you've put two and two together, and figured out Alex kidnapped me. Which she did, but I'm not kidnapped any more, I'm kind of willingly going along for the ride now.

And it's turned out to be a really interesting trip. Alex is . . . complex. A lot like you, really. Makes me wonder what a Sentinel without a seriously fucked up childhood would be like. Probably amazing . . . not that the two of you aren't amazing, but, well, I can't help but feel your life experiences have maybe stunted your potential. Anyway, it was a really long drive to Tijuana. I know, I drove most of the way. And once Alex and I came to an understanding, and I'll get into that later, we talked, and talked, mostly about the Sentinel stuff.

Like you, she'd had heightened senses from childhood, and a traumatic event caused her to repress them at about 6 or 7. She couldn't really remember the exact age, but with a little bit of coaching from me, she could access the memory of what happened. That really wasn't the direction we were heading in, it just kind of came out. Seems her natural parents were members of a very small strict fundamentalist religious sect, woman's place is in the home, spare the rod, spoil the child kind of thing, no tolerance for anyone or anything that was beyond their realm of right. Now imagine being born into that world with heightened senses. When she started showing signs of being "different", they tried to beat her senses out of her, sometimes locking her in a closet for days, which, ironically, only strengthened them. After several years of trying that and failing, they, in their wisdom, decided she was possessed. My god, Jim, they tied a six-year- old girl to a bed and performed an exorcism on her!

And like everything else they'd tried, it failed to make her senses disappear. Her parents finally managed that when they turned their "problem child" over to Child Welfare Services. The trauma of being torn from the only home she'd ever known, as horrible as it was, buried those senses so deep it took solitary confinement in prison to force them out again.

Anyway, after CWS took over her case, she was shuffled from foster home to foster home, and I'm suspecting more often than not abused. But as she told me, "It was kind of comforting, because that's where I came from, that's what I understood. I didn't do too well in those families that talked about love. I mean, what's there to love about me?" I started bawling then, just listening to her talk about herself that way. I'm trying to help her, I really am, but I think it might take a lifetime to make her see that she really is worth loving.

I just read over that last sentence, and I realize you must be thinking I've lost my mind. That's what I thought too, until it hit me the first night on the road, what I am, what my purpose in life is. Hold on to your socks, Jim, cause this is gonna knock them right off. I'm a Guide. Not a guide, but a Guide. I'm like you and Alex, in that I'm different from everybody else. I can hear you right now, saying, "You just figuring that out now, Chief?" Well, yeah, I guess so. There's some ancient, mysterious, genetic synchronicity between Sentinels and Guides. They are necessary to each other's existence. Just how, I haven't figured out yet, but I know there's certain lines we can't cross. Like Alex couldn't hurt me, and when I had the chance, I couldn't leave her, not when she needs my help.

But I'm getting off track here a little bit. Anyway, the rest of Alex's life can pretty much be gleaned from her police record. In and out of juvie, then worked her way up to women's prisons in Oregon and California. That's where she met her current partner, a shady lawyer with South American connections, who saw the potential a person with heightened senses would have as a high-tech thief. He got her sentence shortened, and once she was out, she began working for him. But now, he seems to see her as more of a liability than an asset, and, we've come to the conclusion, is looking for a way to get rid of her.

Which brings me to the reason my handwriting is so horrible. I'm in this little tin can, flying over these mountainous rainforests, and like it does in a rainforest, it's raining, and the turbulence is terrible. And, I have to admit, I'm scared shitless, not just about this flight, but about what I've done with the rest of my life. I'm aiding and abetting now, Jim. There's no way a judge and jury are going to buy the hostage thing if we get caught. I've helped transport stolen US government property across state lines, and national borders. I'm heading to a meeting with a man who wants Alex dead, and whatever drug lord he's dealing with.

And like the hopeless optimist I am, I talked Alex into running toward trouble instead of away from it. We have a plan, not a very complicated one, but dangerous of course. Wouldn't want to screw up the track record, now would we? I told her she was crazy when she agreed to go along with it, told her she was a bad influence on me. And she told me she thought it was the other way around, that I was a good influence on her. Anyway, we're going to try to get out of this alive, but if it doesn't happen, then hopefully this letter will find its way to your hands.

I just wanted to make sure you know, Jim, that you were a hell of a lot more than a research subject to me. Despite our differences, we became friends, best friends, almost brothers, and I thought we could weather anything. I guess I was wrong. I'm not looking to lay the blame anywhere, Jim, but if I was, I'd have to lay it on my own shoulders. Not for helping Alex, no matter how I look at that, I can't see I did anything wrong. Yeah, not telling you was wrong, not looking closer at the things going on between us was wrong. And that was my fault, because I didn't know what I was. I didn't know that there were all kinds of instinctual things going on with me too. I hadn't even considered the possibility that I, as the Guide, was as important a part of the equation as the Sentinel, and maybe part of the reason for that lies with you. Not anything I think you did consciously, maybe I just was so in awe of what you are, that I kind of lost sight of my own contributions.

I promise I won't make the same mistake with Alex. I can't afford to. It would get us killed.

I guess that's about it. Our pilot tells me we'll be landing to refuel shortly, and if I get up enough nerve, I'll stick a stamp on this and drop it in the mailbox.

Blair twirled the pen nervously in his fingers for a moment, then scrawled, Love, Blair, at the bottom. Alex leaned over and said above the noise of the engine, "All done?"

He nodded, his pain-filled eyes meeting hers. Her fingers wound with his, and she squeezed reassuringly. "It's okay. You aren't alone; neither of us is alone any more."

He leaned his forehead against her shoulder as the plane's wheels touched the ground. "Goodbye, Jim," he breathed.

Jim Ellison walked out of the local estacion de policia, his long legs carrying him back toward the hotel at a rapid pace. Simon lengthened his stride to catch up. "Jim. Jim!" Catching the other man's arm, he pulled him to a stop. "Hold on a second. What in the hell's up with you?"

"Ortega was lying, Simon. He knows something about Hettinger, and Arguillo. God! I can't believe we're wasting time like this! Alex is here; I can feel it! And if she's here, then Sandburg is too."

Simon let go of his arm, and they proceeded at a slower pace. "Are you sure Ortega was lying, Jim? After all, your senses haven't exactly been firing on all cylinders lately." He was referring to the five separate occasions he had caught the sentinel either zoning, or experiencing a sensory spike, in the 96 hours since Blair had gone missing. He was beginning to seriously worry about his friend, and he was starting to think that the only reason Jim Ellison had held it together for the past four years was because of one person, Blair Sandburg.

"Yes, Simon, he was lying. I didn't need heightened senses to read his body language. He was nervous, couldn't look us in the eye, and the news that someone's smuggled nerve gas into his jurisdiction didn't seem to upset him a bit. I'll lay you odds he's on Arguillo's payroll."

"You may be right there, Jim. But where does that leave us?" He opened the side door to the hotel, and they headed for the stairwell.

"I want to check out Arguillo's compound. Maybe find out if the nerve gas has been delivered yet. If it hasn't, maybe we can get a lead on Hettinger, Alex and Sandburg if they try to arrange a drop off."

They rounded the corner of the stairwell, and were confronted by the sight of a familiar figure leaning over the twisted body of a man at the bottom of the stairs. "Connor!" Simon barked. "What are you doing here, and what in the hell happened to him?"

Inspector Megan Connor looked up from trying to find a pulse. "I don't know, sir. I heard a noise outside my room, some shouting, though I couldn't make out the words, and then I heard him fall. I was . . . indecent, and by the time I pulled something on, whoever else was out here was gone."

Jim knelt beside her, feeling for a pulse at the neck, and finding none. Rolling the man onto his back, he looked up at his superior in surprise. "It's Hettinger. His neck's broken, and . . . " he examined the man's hands, "there's powder burns on his right hand. Did you hear any shots, Connor?" He glanced around, but couldn't find a gun.

She shook her head. "No, but it could have been silenced." She opened his suit jacket, intending to search his pockets. Instead she rocked back slightly at the sight of a fresh bloodstain on the front of his shirt. "Bugger! I thought he just fell or was pushed. Didn't realize he'd been shot."

Ellison leaned over, examining the stain more closely. "He wasn't, there's no bullet hole in the shirt, and no wound. This is someone else's blood." Without really intending to, he took a deep breath and was lost in a whirlwind of images.

Hettinger, screaming at Alex, Blair visible behind her. A gun being fired . . . Alex dropping to the ground . . . a blur of motion, another shot, and two bodies tumbling down the stairs, only one of them getting to their feet. A curly haired anthropologist rose from the tangle, one hand clutching his side, crimson blood spilling over his fingers as he ascended the stairs . . .

"JIM!" His captain's roar and solid shaking brought him out of the zone.

Bringing a hand to his aching head, Ellison winced. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! They were here, Simon! We just missed them, they were here!" Leaping to his feet, he took the stairs two at a time, registering the bloody handprint on the rail, and the spatters of blood on the concrete floor of the hallway. He followed the trail to a door halfway down. Not bothering with knocking, he yanked out his weapon and kicked it open.

It was empty, but in some disarray, as if the occupants had left in a hurry. More bloodstains adorned the carpet in front of the door, and blood-spotted towels were tossed on the bed. Picking one up, he sniffed it. Damn, they were both injured . . .

"Jim? What did you find?" Simon stood in the doorway, his keen eyes taking in the room. "Connor's gone to get Ortega, not that that'll do us a hell of a lot of good, if he's working for Arguillo, and this is his work."

Ellison shook his head. "No, Arguillo had no part in this. I saw bits and pieces of what happened. Hettinger shot Alex, and Sandburg . . . ." The image of his friend, his guide, trying to stem the flow of his own blood flooded his mind. He shrugged it off with a curse. "Damn it. Keep it together, Ellison." He met Banks' eyes again. "Sandburg went after him, they both took a header down the stairs, and Hettinger got another shot off. Blair's hurt, I don't know how bad . . . so's Alex . . ."

Simon ran a hand over his close cropped hair. "Aw, damn itÖ" He slammed his fist against the door in what for him was an uncharacteristic outburst. Shaking his hand ruefully, he gazed around the room again. "They didn't have time to take everything with them, there's gotta be a clue to where they would be headed in here somewhere." He walked over to the dresser and started yanking open drawers.

Jim crossed to the table that stood in front of the open door to the small balcony. Through it he could see the long wooden form of a pier, and a beach dotted with palm trees. Another flash of memory caught him by surprise. Alex leaning against the door jam, concentrating on a conversation that was taking place on a boat tied up to the pier. Blair stood beside her, his hand lightly rubbing her shoulder, supporting his partner. Jim came back to the present with a gasp.

"You okay, Jim?" he heard his captain ask.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm okay. Just seeing some things I'd rather not . . ." His voice trailed off as he looked down at a map lying on the table, a map of the jungle surrounding the village, with the locations of the local ruins clearly marked. Lifting the map up, he found a drawing of a pyramidal temple, a carving in the shape of an eye prominent on its side.

Again he felt himself falling into a vision, helpless to stop it. Alex and Blair racing through the jungle, looking back over their shoulders, dodging bullets. Climbing the steps of the ancient ruin, they joined hands, then placed the palms of their free hands, her left, his right, on either side of the eye. A door opened, and they disappeared inside.

"Jimbo? Ellison? Are you there?"

This time it was Connor pulling him back, and he blinked once, then his eyes focused again on the drawing. "Simon, come here." When the other man had moved to stand beside them, Jim pointed at the picture. "This is where we'll find them. This is where they're headed . . . it's calling to them . . . ."

Connor looked swiftly from one man to the other, her expression confused, but she held her tongue.

"Can you find it, Jim?" Simon asked.

The sentinel nodded. "It's calling to me, too."

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