Rainier University
Museum of Anthropology
Present Day

Drea's anxious eyes peered up at Blair, and she struggled to take a breath. Oh, god, he was terrified . . . Get a hold of yourself, man! Do your job, take care of your Sentinel. "Drea, honey, I know you're scared right now, but we have to get things under control. I know it's hard to breathe, but I need you to relax. Just listen to the sound of my voice, focus on me, and then turn the dials down, turn the pain down." He felt her body begin to unwind under his hands, and her shaking eased. "That's it, that's it, stay cool . . ."

He watched her throat move as she swallowed, then she whispered, "Pack . . ."

Pack? What? Damn! His backpack . . . if he was caught with it . . . . He shot a glance at Ellison, who was still dead to the world from the fist Blair had slammed into his face. He surveyed the area, looking for any place he could ditch the pack, and not have the cops find it. Think, Blair, think! You spent enough years here . . . steam tunnels!

Yanking off his knit cap, he pressed it to Drea's chest wound, placing her hands over it. "Hold that there, sweetheart. I'll be right back." Getting to his feet, he ran the few yards to the closest tunnel vent. Despite his shaking hands, he'd picked the lock and dropped the pack inside in a matter of seconds. Then, wiping off his black face paint with the bottom of his shirt, he returned to her side in time to watch a couple unmarked police cars and an ambulance pull into the museum's back parking lot. "Over here!" he yelled.

Forced out of the way as the paramedics began treating her, Blair got slowly to his feet, chanting a protection prayer softly, pausing only to answer the EMTs questions. Movement by Ellison caught his eye, and he saw the detective sit up, aided by a couple of the cops, Rafe and Brown it looked like. Another cop car pulled up, and Blair turned his attention to it, seeing the familiar figure of Simon Banks unwind from driver's seat. Aw, fuck, this was gonna be bad.

Captain Banks strode purposefully across the lawn, pausing to look down at the medics working on Drea, but he showed no sign of recognition. His gaze traveled up again, alighting on Blair. He blinked, once, twice, then said, "Blair? Blair Sandburg? It can't be . . . you're dead."

Forcing himself to breathe, Blair said, "Sorry to disappoint you, Simon."

The captain shook his head, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Then his cop face fell back into place, and he was all business. "What in the hell happened here? Did you call this in, Sandburg?"

"Yes. Ellison shot her."

A new voice entered the conversation. "Sir, that's Alex Barnes." Jim moved between the two men, and Blair unconsciously clenched his fists.

"She was unarmed, man! She didn't do a damn thing to you!" He barely kept a lid on his rage, but he knew his body language was telegraphing volumes.

Ellison swiveled to face the Guide. "You were robbing the museum. She was your accomplice."

"That's bullshit!" Blair spat, getting in Ellison's face. "I found you lying on the sidewalk unconscious. I was trying to help you when you grabbed me, and she told you to let me go. And you shot her! No warning, no nothing, just blam! If she dies . . ." He didn't finish the threat.

Brown trotted up at that tense moment. "Captain, Rafe and I checked out the museum. There are two unconscious guards in there, and the alarm's been bypassed. Looks like Jim may have interrupted a robbery in progress."

All eyes turned toward Blair. "I'm not saying another word. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going with Drea to the hospital." He started to follow the stretcher across the yard to the ambulance, but he didn't get far. Jim's hand grabbed him around the bicep, and Blair reacted, releasing his pent-up fury in one solid punch to the stomach. The sentinel doubled over, and Blair felt himself being shoved to the ground, Brown and Rafe wrestling the handcuffs on him, then giving him a cursory patdown.

Yanked roughly to his feet, the Guide stood silently between the two detectives as Captain Banks barked out orders. "I'll take him downtown. Brown, get on the horn, get forensics out here, and IA. I want this whole area gone over with a fine-toothed comb. No screw- ups!" He turned his glare on Ellison. "Enough's been screwed up already. You realize what this means, don't you? If you fucked up again, Ellison, it just won't be suspension this time. You'll be out on your ass." He moved in closer to the silent detective, and hissed, "Do I need to make you take a breath-a-lyzer test?" Blair's eyes widened at Banks' comments, but he kept quiet. Obviously things had drastically changed for Jim in the year he had been gone.

"No, sir. I'm clean, sir, have been for three months. You know that." Ellison's jaw muscles were working overtime.

"Fine. You stay here and wait for IA. I know they're gonna want your story first thing. Rafe, give me a hand with Sandburg." They walked him to the car, sticking him in the backseat. Simon climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine.

As soon as he pulled out, Blair started talking to cover up what he was doing. "Simon, man, please. You gotta take me to the hospital. I'll do whatever you ask, behave myself, anything, but you gotta drive me to the hospital." He straightened slightly in the seat, working one of his hidden picks out of the seam of his pants pocket.

Simon glanced at Blair's reflection in the rearview mirror, the neatly trimmed goatee and mustache throwing him slightly. "I can't do that, Blair. You know why. There are still charges pending against you from when you helped Alex smuggle the nerve gas out of the country. Plus whatever we come up with from the museum."

"Damn it, Simon. We returned the freaking gas, and we weren't doing anything at the museum! Jim shot her for no reason. I could lose both Drea and my daughter while you're dicking around with me at the station." He felt one side of the cuffs release and went to work on the other. "Have a heart, man!"

"Alex is pregnant with your daughter?" The shock was plain in the older man's voice.

"Yes, damn it, and getting shot sent her into labor." The other cuff unlocked, and he changed position a little, his gaze intent on the handle of the service weapon he could see poking out of Simon's belt holster between the two front seats.

Banks' attention shifted for a brief second as he looked both ways before proceeding through a stop sign. Leaning forward, Blair smoothly lifted the gun with his right hand as his left arm went around the larger man's throat. The sound of the safety being clicked off echoed in the sudden silence. Pressing the muzzle of the automatic to the captain's temple, Blair said softly, "Drive me to the hospital, Simon."

Banks couldn't believe this was happening. The man holding a gun to his head was not the Blair Sandburg he knew. That man had never been capable of the anger, of the violence that he'd shown tonight, or maybe he'd just never had a good enough reason for them before. "Blair," he began, "think about what you're doing . . ."

"Damn it, Simon, you are not going to talk me out of this! Either drive me to the hospital, or I will shoot you and drive myself. Is that understood?"

Simon met Blair's eyes in the rearview mirror. The pain he saw there knotted his stomach. This was a man whose entire world was on its way to Cascade General, and nothing else mattered but his being there too. He made a left at the next intersection and headed for the hospital, feeling the Guide's grip on his neck ease slightly. "Thank you," Blair said.

When they had reached the hospital, and Simon had pulled into a parking space and shut off the car, Blair released his hold long enough to give him the handcuffs. "Put the cuff around your left hand, then run it through the handle over the door, and cuff your right hand." The captain did as he was told, cursing the day he'd bought the luxury sedan with the strap just above the doorframe for extra support when getting in or out of the car. With his hands shackled in that position, he couldn't reach anything. Not the door handle, the window controls or the horn.

Blair slid out of the car, reaching over Banks to hit the auto door locks, then he tossed the gun on the floor of the back seat and shut the door. He headed for the emergency room entrance without a backward glance.

Dr. Ramona Twofeathers felt her pager vibrating at her waist, and she glanced down to see she was wanted in ER. A quick phone call confirmed it. A pregnant woman with a gunshot wound to the chest had just been brought in, already in the first stages of labor. The obstetrics resident headed for the elevator.

When she got off at the ground floor, one of the nurses yelled at her "Room 5", and she headed in that direction, noticing as she passed the desk a black-clad man glancing her way. She met his gaze, taking in the lines of worry around his blue eyes, his dark beard and ponytail, and . . . She let out a startled gasp, then headed behind the curtain, feeling his eyes on her back. Though she had only a small portion of the talent herself, which was why she had gone into the white man's medicine instead of tribal, she could see it in others. The man in the waiting room was a Shaman, a very powerful one.

Shaking off the strange sensation the man had given her, she turned her attention to her patient. "Okay, what have we got?"

Thirty minutes later, the patient, whose name she'd found out was Drea, was stable, and the baby wasn't in too much distress at the moment. Drea had been asking for someone named Blair, and Ramona had the feeling he would turn out to be the man she had seen in the lobby. Exiting the examining room, she asked, "Is there a Blair Sanborn here?"

The Shaman approached her. "I'm Blair Sanborn. How's Drea?"

"I'm Dr. Twofeathers, the obstetrician. I'll be working on her alongside Dr. Manners, our surgeon. What we are looking at right now is . . ."

Ramona never got to finish her sentence as four large men came barreling through the emergency room doors and made a beeline for Mr. Sanborn. One of them yelled "Sandburg!" just before they jumped him, shoving him to the floor. The Shaman fought like a wildcat, kicking, punching, biting; one of the men, dressed in a designer suit, staggered back, holding his nose, blood running from underneath his cupped hand. After several painful minutes, their sheer weight pinned Blair solidly to the ground, and she watched in shock as they yanked both his arms behind his back and snapped handcuffs on him.

Looking up at them from under the dogpile, his eyes pleading and tearful, he managed to gasp, "Simon, Jim, please. I wasn't hurting anyone. All I want is to see Drea . . . please, please let me see my wife!"

They moved away from him then, as if they were stunned by his words, and the tall white man with close-cropped dark hair jerked the smaller man to his feet. He stared down at him for a long moment, and the Shaman met his gaze defiantly. Finally the tall man said, his voice oozing disgust, "How could you marry that bitch?"

The younger man rocked back as if he'd been struck. Then he shook his head sadly. "If you can't figure that out, Jim, then you still don't understand what I am, what you and Drea are."

Jim's hands bunched into fists, and the muscles along his jaw tightened. Then shoving Blair in the tall black man's direction and turning his back on him, he stalked out of the ER.

Ellison pushed through the hospital doors, prowling across the parking lot, rage burning inside him. Coming to a stop at his truck, he slammed his fist down on the hood. Damn it! Blair was alive! He should be rejoicing, he should be happy . . . and all he felt was cheated . . . betrayed.

Alex still had her claws in him. God, he was married to her! And a child on the way . . . The unexpected wave of guilt set him to shaking, and he leaned heavily against the side of the Ford. An innocent child could die because of his rash actions. How could he have screwed up so badly, again?

The year since Blair's disappearance had been disastrous for Jim. Looking back on it now, he could see that was when his trouble had all started. He'd managed to lead Banks and Connor out of the jungle after he'd lost his senses; he hadn't needed them for that. Once they'd made it back to what passed for civilization in Sierra Verde, he'd gone looking for answers, but hadn't found any. Sandburg and Barnes had vanished into thin air. Reluctantly, he'd returned to Cascade at his captain's urging, but had continued to search for them, using his contacts in both the military and law enforcement to try and pick up their trail. But Alex had been too clever for him, she had covered their tracks well, and the five million they'd stolen from Arguillo was enough to ensure they remained hidden for a long time.

Jim hadn't given up though, he'd made a couple trips back to Sierra Verde and the surrounding area, showing their photos, asking if anyone had seen them. He'd found out a couple fitting their description had left the country by private plane a few days after he, Simon and Megan had returned to Cascade. From there the trail had grown stone cold. Until the day Simon called him into his office, nearly three months after the pair's disappearance.

The Brazilian government had contacted him after all other channels to locate any relatives of Blair Sandburg had failed. A badly decomposed body had been found in the rainforest outside Rio de Janeiro. Blair's passport had been in the man's pocket. The cause of death had been a gunshot to the head.

The news had hit Jim like a freight train. Only Simon's hand under his arm had kept him from collapsing to the floor. As it was, the older man had driven him home, and stayed with him long enough to reassure himself that Ellison wasn't going to do anything stupid. For a couple hours after Simon had left, Jim tried to convince himself that it was a mistake, that it couldn't have been Blair. But in a sick, perverted way, it made sense. When Blair was no longer an asset to her, Alex had gotten rid of him, as coldly and ruthlessly as she had tried to kill Jim. There was no doubt in his mind that she was capable of killing the kind-hearted anthropologist without a second thought. Blair probably had never known what hit him, or at least that's what Jim hoped.

After he'd come to the logical conclusion that Sandburg had met the "death by misadventure" it had stated on the papers faxed from Brazil, he'd gone to the cabinet, gotten out a bottle of tequila, and proceeded to drink himself into a stupor. And there he had remained, for the better part of six months. Nothing mattered anymore, not his career, not his family, not his friends. All of that had been tied irrevocably to Blair. He'd begun screwing up left and right; nothing was as important as numbing the raw wound inside him, the loss of his soul. He'd built up the walls Blair had so carelessly bulldozed through, shutting even Simon out. The only emotion he allowed to show anymore was rage, and he was indiscriminate in choosing his victims. More often than not, it was a friend he turned on, though he'd vented his wrath on a good number of perps too. And that had gotten him suspended twice, both times for excessive force, and the second time he had been intoxicated while on duty.

He didn't bother to deny he had a drinking problem; he just didn't care. Once again, he'd been called on the carpet by Simon, who had been trying hard to be understanding, to give Jim space, to give him time to deal with Sandburg's death, but Jim's "I don't give a shit" attitude was making it difficult for him to remember the man Jim had once been. Simon had been reading him the riot act, as usual, when Jim had just snapped. He'd stuck his friend, his superior officer, and that had nearly cost him his career. But it had been a wake up call; he'd finally heard the warning bell, and realized he needed to turn his life around.

It had been hard, probably the most difficult thing he'd ever done in his life, because it involved taking a really good look at himself, at figuring out why he did the things he did. It involved therapy, and mandatory AA meetings, both places where he had to expose his inner self to other people, something he had always been uncomfortable with. An Ellison was strong, he didn't show vulnerability, or weakness; if he was hurt, better he should suffer in silence than admit he needed help.

But Jim had thought he'd finally gotten through Blair's death, through the guilt, through the blame he rested on his own shoulders. If only he'd been able to forgive him, if only he'd gone to the university, if only he'd ever let Blair think there would be a chance for forgiveness if he'd ever screwed up about anything. Maybe then he wouldn't have been so easily swayed to Alex's side. None of that mattered now, Blair was dead, and as much as Jim wanted to take the blame, it was simply wasted energy. It wouldn't help Blair, and it would destroy him. So he'd given it up, and forgiven himself, or so he'd thought.

And just when he'd reached that point, when he was sober for more than two days in a row, the dreams had begun. Always he was in the jungle, dressed as the warrior he had been when he lived among the Chopec. He was tracking an animal, a jaguar he had determined from the tracks, but he never could seem to catch up with it.

Until almost three weeks ago. He had gone to bed as usual, and dreamed once again of following the big cat's trail. Only this time, he tracked it to its lair. Ducking his head, he entered the small cave, and suddenly his senses were back. He could see clearly in the darkness, could hear the panther's steady heartbeat and heavy breathing. Rounding a bend in the tunnel, he found the cat, only it wasn't his spirit guide, it wasn't the black jaguar. It was the spotted one, Alex's spirit animal. He expected her to growl, to scream, to leap at him. Instead, the jaguar made a low, soft mewling sound, and rose awkwardly to her feet, her heavy belly nearly scraping the ground. She turned around in the nest of grasses she had made for herself, then settled down again, panting heavily, her blue eyes regarding him with no hint of malice. Drawing back the string of his bow, Jim let the arrow fly, straight toward the spotted jaguar's heart. The dream had ended then, and when he awoke the next morning, his Sentinel senses were back online.

Try as he might, Jim had been unable to interpret the dream. But now, after the events of tonight, it was all too clear. The signs had been there, the warnings, and once more he had failed to heed them. Now Blair's child could pay the price for Jim's mistake.

Letting out a long, shuddering sigh, Jim slid down the side of the truck, coming to rest on his knees on the asphalt. God, he wanted a drink, wanted to lose himself in liquid oblivion, so he wouldn't have to face the consequences of what he had done. If Blair hadn't hated him before, he did now. And Jim's words to him in the ER had only driven them further apart. Nothing he could do, nothing he could say would make things right between them if Alex and his child died.

The Sentinel buried his face in his hands. There was only one thing he could do. Never a very religious man, for the first time in years, Jim Ellison prayed, not for himself, but for the brother whose family he'd harmed with both word and deed.

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