Blair woke in a soothing, lamp-lit darkness. His head ached less, his side more so, but not enough to keep him from taking fascinated stock of his surroundings. Music floated to him in tangled skeins of sound, also voices, soft and not distinct. Different rythyms tapped or pounded or snapped out, a silvery flute, followed by warm amber triplets spilling from a sun-mellowed guitar. The voices spun in song, rose in argument, and whispered in agreement as he became aware of the not unpleasant scent of woodsmoke and wax. Every instinct the anthropologist possessed was telling him that he was safe. Whoever these people were, they would not harm him.

"Are ya hungry yet?" A soft voice spoke from the curtained doorway, jolting him back to himself.

An elderly woman stood just inside the room, a deep mug in her hand. Its steam carried a fragrant, gut twisted aroma to his nose.

"I've brought ya some beef broth, and a bit of bread. Sonata doesn't want ya eating anything too hard to digest right now." She walked slowly toward him, her white hair in a long plait hanging down her back over two sweaters and a patched pair of jeans. Tattered Keds and socks knitted in bright stripes adorned her hesitant little feet.

Blair eased himself to a sitting position, ignoring the pain in anticipation of food. A grumble from his interior wecomed her approach and he grinned sheepishly.

The old woman chuckled. "Well, I'd guess you ARE hungry then. Eat it slow, boy, and dip that bread in the broth to soften it like."

He mumbled a "thank you" as he took the chipped mug from her delicate blue veined hands and accepted the large end of fairly fresh French bread in its paper towel napkin. Blair took a cautious sip, letting the savoury stuff slide into his hollow pit of a stomach. Another few sips and he forgot the white haired woman watching from a chair beside him and concentrated on his feast. Slowly, bite by bite, his yammering stomach was soothed with food, and he ate the last chunk of broth soaked bread with a sigh of contentment.

"That was great...uh.." The young man flushed. He hadn't even asked her name, but she smiled again as she took the heavy mug from his suddenly tired hands.

"Don't fuss, youngun. Y'had more important things on yer mind than lad di dah manners. I've been hungry m'self, and I know what it's like when ya finally get food. I'm Charleston, Charlie for short." Her pale blue eyes were clear in the seamed, tanned face, and full of good humor.

The anthroplogist smiled back, enchanted with this strange tribe's Elder. He tried to thank her again for the meal, but was interrupted by a gaping yawn. Charlie got up, patted his hand and twitched the motley assortment of quilts comfortably around his shoulders.

"Y'get yerself a good sleep, hon, and we'll talk later." As she crossed the room with her small silent steps, he was already out.

"You called a cop? Jazz, girl, what were you think?" Retro was pacing 'the quad', the large central area where their group of street performers did most of their busking. The sun gleamed off his fashionably bald head, and caught the brass armband on his bare muscled arm. The three days of sun had darkened his cinnamon brown skin, had tanned all of them except Jazz, who flushed under her light sunburn.

"He's not just a cop, he's the guy's roommate. Blair said that he'd be frantic, and he was, believe me." She shivered under her faded Rainier U sweatshirt. "And pissed, too. But I didn't stay on for long, and I made the call blocks away. I'll use a different pay-phone tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Cha-Cha shook her dark gypsy curls, blue lights glinting from the raven waves. "You're gonna call back? Jazz, girlchik, that's nuts. How do you know this cop isn't setting a trap for you?"

The smaller woman ran both hands over her short strawberry halo. "I don't. He can't stake out every phone booth in Cascade, can he? I'll pick a really bizarre, out of the way place, and beat feet out of there as soon as I tell him Blair's still okay."

"That's another thing, this Blair of yours. He doesn't sound too dumb. If he figures out where we live.." BeBop interrupted Retro's new speech.

"Jazz and I both decided to bring him back here, you guys. We owed him."

"He's an OUTSIDER!" Cha-Cha put in, "we owe him nothing."

"We were all outsiders before we found each other, Chachi." Jazz pointed out. "If we aren't willing to help someone in trouble, especially someone who got into trouble helping us?" She let the thought trail off, but they all got the point.

The gypsy girl made a face. "Chachi? Like Scott Baio?" and wrinkled her tanned nose. "Please."

They all laughed, but the conversation was over. Blair would be cared for as long as he needed help. There would be no repercussions for the two that had brought him into their sanctuary.

"I want to be able to start the trace the minute I know it's her!" Jim demanded and the communications technician sighed.

"Yessir." The equipment itself wasn't that difficult to set up and install, but the looming, glowering giant of a detective made her fidgety. With relief, she caught a whiff of Captain Banks expensive cigars. Carefully keeping a straight face, she grinned inwardly, kept her head down, and thus missed the last glare Jim threw in her direction as Simon dragged him off. Finally. Now she could work.

"Jim, I know you're worried about Sandburg, but harassing Blake isn't going to do anyone any good." Simon banks sat behind his desk and watched one half of his best team pace. Ellison looked ready to take something, or someone, apart. "Anyway, the woman said that he was safe, right?"

"Yeah, and she said that he'd been knifed. She said that he'd lost a lot of blood. She said that her "family" was taking care of him, Simon!" And Jim looked away, jaw clenched.

"We'll find him, Jim." and Bank's voice was a lot more certain than he felt.

Fortunately, Officer Roberta Blake really was as good as her reputation and the taps were well in place when a hesitant voice called to ask for Detective Ellison. Blake nodded at Jim, and he punched the hold button. "This is Ellison."

"Oh, hey, hi detective."

"You know, I never did get your name. I appreciate the updates here, and I'd kind of like to know who to thank." Jim made his voice as friendly as he could, focusing on hers and hearing how fast her breathing was. She was scared. Damn! What had she done to Sandburg?

"Jenn" shot out of Jazz's mouth before she could stop it, the name she hadn't used in six years. The name no one knew anymore. She panicked, then thought swiftly, and realized that no one who'd ever used her righteous name was anywhere near Cascade. It was okay.

"Jenn, thanks. How is Blair doing today?"

"He's doing okay. Running a low grade fever, which Son..our doctor says is very normal for this sort of thing. If he rests a lot, he'll be able to move in a couple of days. She says that he's a really fast healer."

"He'd have to be." Jim muttered to himself, then concentrated. Had to keep her on the line. Had to LISTEN, filter out the traffic. Some kind of motor, maybe. Too noisy for a car, too loud for a lawnmower. Not a motorcycle...

"Jenn, you said that Sandburg had been in a fight, but you never told me how he got involved."

"Didn't I?" The girlish voice relaxed a little, in response to the lack of anger in his tone. "BeB- a friend and I were involved in a domestic fight, a guy was beating up another friend of ours in front of their kid, and when the jerk jumped me from behind, Blair tore into him."

Jim listened to her enthusiastic praise of his roommate's action with chagrin and some grudging pride. Damn, but Sandburg had guts. He could no more watch a woman get hit than Jim himself could. It sounded like he'd handled himself pretty well against a much larger opponent too. Some sort of low, deep sound in the background of Jenn's story and Jim focused on it.

"Detective, we've got it!" Blake hollered, and Jenn heard her.

"You've been tracing me? I should have guessed, can't trust cops. The others were right about you." and Jim winced as his only direct lead to Blair slammed the phone down in his ear. He didn't waste breathe berating the communications officer, he simply snatched the paper out of her hand and ran for the Ford.

Webmaster: PJ Browning