I'd also like to dedicate this to those who have the extraordinary luck
to call another Best Friend. (Hi, BJ!)
Bonnie

---

Blair unlocked his car, threw his backpack in the front seat, then followed after. He situated himself with a sigh, then checked his watch. Okay, 11:00 AM. He was making good time; his only class was over, he’d met with one student, and he still had an hour before he was to meet Jim at the station for the meeting about the string of robberies hitting mini-marts. Feeling virtuous, he realized he had time to stop and put air in his front tires like he’d been promising himself for a week. No way would he feel like doing it tonight, after putting in a long day at his ‘other job’ as a police observer. Now or never.

He eased his green classic Volvo out of the parking lot at Rainier University. Traffic was light, another good omen. A couple of blocks away, he turned the car in to his usual gas station and pulled around the side to the air and water pumps. He climbed out and knelt down to fill his right front tire first. Looking around, Blair noticed the lack of custom. He grinned to himself; his days rarely went so smoothly.

No, Blair Sandburg’s days were usually rushed affairs, starting with a scramble to get to school on time, after an all-nighter grading papers or sitting on a stakeout with his friend, Detective James Ellison. After fulfilling his responsibilities as a teaching fellow in anthropology, he would begin his duties as Jim’s partner and Guide. These ranged from merely typing reports to chasing psychos through the streets of Cascade, trying to keep up with Jim and keep him from zoning out at inopportune - and dangerous - moments. He squeezed in meals, tests on Jim’s hyperactive senses and writing his thesis, when possible.

Today the gods smiled on the young anthropologist.

"Excuse me, mister, have you got any change?"

Blair looked up to see a lanky blond boy of about fourteen holding out a dollar bill. A pack full of books, apparently, dragged at one shoulder.

"I want to call my sister to pick me up."

Blair screwed the cap onto his tire, then stood up. "Yeah, I think so. Hang on." He tried his pockets; no luck. Reaching through the window of his car, he rummaged in his backpack pockets. Aha. "Yep. Here you go," Blair said, counting out the change into the kid’s palm. "School out early today?"

"Yeah. Conferences. Thank you, sir." The boy smiled, handed over the bill, then turned to use the phone behind them.

Blair was both pleased and offended. Nice to see kids with good manners, but when had he become a ‘sir’? His dark curly hair was longer than the kid’s, and he knew his jeans were overdue for a wash. Jim would’ve laughed himself silly if he’d heard that. Smiling, Blair jammed the bill into his pants pocket and turned back to the job at hand. Just as he finished the second tire, he heard another car pull in to the station, round in front. He wiped his hands together, grimacing at the grunge on them. Well, he’d go borrow the key to the restroom. He didn’t want to get his steering wheel grimy.

Starting around the corner to the mini-mart’s entrance, Blair noticed the open doors and idling engine of a brown Mustang before the door. An outraged shout and curses from inside froze him in his tracks. The popping of gunfire - a sound he knew well - sent his heart and feet both racing.

"Get down, kid!"

He saw the boy drop between the Volvo and the wall, while throwing himself down on the other side, scraping his knees on the pavement. Oh God, I’m in it now, he thought. Got to get help. He opened the driver’s door, still crouching, pulled his backpack out and scrabbled frantically for his cell phone. Jeez, it sounded like the OK Corral - where was the damn phone?!

Running footsteps, more shots exchanged - there! Blair flattened himself against the door in a panic and hit the speed dial for Jim’s cell.Pleasepleaseplease be there, Jim!

The roar of a gunned engine and squealing rubber nearly deafened Blair. Then more yelling while another ring went unanswered, and, oh no, the car was coming his way! It passed between the pumps before him in a brown metallic blur. Still clutching the phone uselessly to his ear, Blair raised his head to catch a glimpse of the license plate. As if in slow motion, he saw a gun muzzle pop out a window, followed by an arm, followed by a head, then - an explosion of sound and agony, someone moaning . . . and blessed darkness.

Half of Major Crimes this morning was concentrating on two robberies that had occurred in the last week. An informer had warned them less than a month ago that a Seattle drug network was expanding, and Cascade was to be its next market. One of the hallmarks of its street soldiers was holding up mini-marts, partially as a challenge and act of intimidation towards rivals.

As expected, they had a 7-Eleven and gas station mini-mart held up in short order; few witnesses, and all they saw were two masked and armed men who were quick and efficient, then escaped in a car later found to be stolen. No one had been injured, but the possibility weighed on all their minds; one Samaritan in the wrong place, one thug a little too quick on the trigger . . .

The few leads that Major Crimes had left them ultimately frustrated, like their Seattle colleagues. This morning, the detectives involved were to go over all evidence available from Cascade and Seattle, and see what they could come up with. Robberies were not usually in the jurisdiction of Major Crimes, but the drug connection made it imperative that they tackle the case from the beginning.

For Jim, it had been a boring morning, and he didn’t even have a decent cup of coffee to keep him awake. As if on cue, an enticing smell wafted from Captain Simon Banks’ office. Jim raised his head and sampled the odor again. Mmm, something new. Maybe Simon would take pity on him and share some of his cousin’s gourmet coffee. He picked up his cup and sauntered to the open door. When Simon looked up, Jim raised the mug hopefully.

"All right, Ellison," the big man said, rolling his eyes. "Close the door." He pushed the carafe across the desk. Jim did as asked, then helped himself. "But what am I going to do when everyone else starts expecting favors, huh? I won’t have any peace. Or coffee."

Jim grinned and sat at the conference table. "Just tell them the truth. I’m special."

Banks snorted. "Yeah, I can see that going over. Maybe I’d have to tell them just how special."

Jim only shook his head at the reference to his unique abilities. They drank in companionable silence for a few moments, savoring the coffee and unusual calm. Glancing out the office window into the bullpen, Jim noted the low activity.

"Ryf going to be back in time for the meeting?" Shortly before, he had passed the younger, dark-haired detective hurrying down the hall.

"I’m waiting to hear from him," Simon replied. "There was another robbery reported, with a similar MO to the last two. We may have to put off the review ‘til we get his report." The captain tilted his wrist to check his watch. "In which case, Sandburg may actually be on time."

Jim looked at his own watch. "Hey, he’s still got almost thirty minutes. He was pretty sure there wouldn’t be any problems today."

The two cops exchanged amused looks. Blair never expected problems, but they always came knocking.

Jim suddenly swung to face the outer office. Moments later, Simon heard it too: running footsteps pounding into the bullpen, bringing them both instantly alert and to their feet.

Detective Brown headed directly towards them. "Captain! Ellison, you gotta see this!"

The burly detective slammed open the door, pushed his way past the startled men and slapped the power button on the captain’s television. It hummed to life and he flipped quickly through the channels.

"I was passing the break room when this came on." He stopped on a local news broadcast and turned up the sound.

Jim’s gut knotted as he immediately spotted his bandaged partner , right behind the reporter in the center of the frame. Blair was lying on a gurney with a paramedic in attendance. Hardly hearing the reporter’s words, Jim found himself vainly trying to listen for Blair’s vitals. However, when the reporter jammed his mike into Blair’s face, and his Guide recoiled in confusion and winced in pain, Jim found himself looking carefully at the man; he’d remember that voice, that face filled with false concern.

"I understand you’re with the police department, sir," the reporter said. "Is it Blair Sandburg? Can you tell us what you saw?"

"For God’s sake!" Simon exploded. Brown shook his head. "How’d they get so close?"

Jim’s feelings were expressed more graphically; Blair was a possible witness to a crime? And the damn reporter just plastered his face on the news! Never mind that he was obviously injured and disoriented! He carefully placed the mug on the table, then clenched his fists in impotent fury and tried to interpret the scene.

"Where is this? Why the hell haven’t we been called?"

Brown said, "I’m not sure. I just caught sight of Sandburg and rushed to find you."

All became clear when Ryf appeared, frowning, and placed a hand over the camera. "Hey, back off!" they heard him order. "Give the poor guy some room. Anderson, take care of this!"

The picture went blank and there was momentary confusion while the news team was hustled away. The three men exchanged disbelieving looks.

"It’s the latest station robbery," Simon muttered. "Trust Sandburg . . ." he trailed off when Jim glared at him, jaw tensed in fear and anger.

The reporter reappeared, stationed on the sidewalk, with the chaotic gas station/mini-mart for a backdrop. Police were taping off the crime scene, onlookers jostling one another; an ambulance was partially visible, but Jim could no longer see Blair. The Volvo was glimpsed. He was torn between fetching his phone to get some information and waiting to see what the news report said.

When the phone in the outer office rang, he instinctively extended his hearing. When he heard Blair’s name, he strode out the door before Rhonda could summon the captain.

"I’ll take it," Jim told the startled secretary, snatching the phone from her.

"This is Detective Ellison. Anderson? Yeah, what can you tell me? How’s Blair? Uh huh . . . yeah, I saw it on TV . . . Okay, I’ll meet them at the hospital." He replaced the receiver and turned to Banks, who hovered in his doorway.

"They’re taking Blair to General. He was shot, but the paramedics say he was only creased." Jim hurried to his desk to collect his phone and jacket. "Probably got a concussion. He was out when they got there," he continued, backing towards the hall. "I’m going -"

Simon nodded sympathetically. "Go. I’ll be in touch." He called after Jim’s quickly retreating back, "Don’t worry, the kid’s tough!"

"And damned unlucky, " he said to the presence at his shoulder; Brown agreed.

Jim Ellison rushed into the hospital, eyes scanning his surroundings. He noticed Ryf standing patiently, apparently waiting for his arrival.

"Hey, Ellison," the other detective greeted him, amicably. "I decided to accompany Blair down here. The doctor's with him right now."

"How is he?"

"He's not in any serious danger, but he does have a concussion. The doctor wants to keep him under strict observation."

Jim could tell that there was something else the younger man wasn't telling him. "And . . .?"

Ryf took in a deep breath. "And he has a mild case of amnesia."

For a moment Jim simply stood, brow furrowing as if he hadn't heard the younger man correctly. There was no way he had heard that right. "He has what?"

"It's only mild and it's far from long-term, according to the doctor."

The assurances did nothing for the older detective. This was his partner Ryf was talking about. There was only one way he would feel any better about Blair's condition. "Where is he? I want to see him."

"I had a feeling you would. He's down here." Ryf indicated the corridor to the left of the waiting room.

Jim followed behind, Sentinel senses already searching for any sign of his partner. Just down the stretch to the right he could hear the familiar heartbeat. At the door, Ryf moved to the side, allowing Jim to walk in by himself.

Blair looked like he was in serious pain, his features pinched and pale. His eyes were slightly dilated and there were stitches on the side of his head. Jim winced in sympathy. This was hardly the reassurance he had been hoping for.

A fortyish woman, whose appearance screamed "doctor" with her wire-rimmed glasses, severely twisted-back hair, and the dead giveaway white coat, turned towards Jim as he entered the room.

"I'm Detective Ellison," he informed the woman. "Blair's my partner."

The woman nodded. "Dr. Schleider. Were you filled in on Mr. Sandburg's situation?"

"To a degree, but I'm not sure I understand what you mean by amnesia. Does he know who he is?"

Schleider nodded. "He has what is known as retrograde amnesia. His long-term memory is well intact, but he has forgotten events leading up to and during the shooting. The bullet only grazed the head, so he’s very fortunate, but it did require stitches. He's suffering from bilateral lesions to the limbic system." At the blank look she was receiving from her audience, she went on to explain, "The limbic system is responsible for forming new memories and retaining recent memories."

"How long will it take him to gain back his memories?"

"This form of amnesia is temporary, but it is hard to make an accurate guess as to how long it lasts. Sometimes it takes hours, others days. Right now I don't want anyone trying to jog his memory. It's dangerous for anyone in his condition. The concussion had some other nasty side effects that I want to tend to."

"How severe is the concussion?"

The doctor gave him a tight-lipped smile. "Considering the stubbornness this man has shown, it's nothing he can't live through."

Jim chuckled slightly. "That's Blair all right. Stubborn."

"Okay," a mildly groggy voice chimed in. "You guys done talking about me now? I am right here you know."

The Sentinel focused his senses on his Guide. Blair squinted to look up at Jim, a sign of a concussion. Otherwise he appeared alert.

"How you doing, Chief?"

"Other than the headache that ate Japan? Great, simply wonderful. I can't even remember what I was doing this morning!" he complained. "And now I'm being told I can't go home. Tell her that I can't stay here, Jim. Come on, you have got to explain this to her."

Schleider gave Jim an "I told you so" look over the rims of her glasses. It was plain that she had already heard the spiel. Sandburg truly was amazing. Even concussed, the kid was trying to be as slippery as a con artist.

"I don't think so, buddy. You have a concussion; I think it's best for you to stay right here. I really don't like the amnesia bit either."

Blair frowned. "It's not like I'm having an identity crisis! So I have a headache, so I'm a little bit dizzy, so I can't even remember what happened after I left the loft this morning!" He sank back into the bed, arms crossed over his chest, lip stuck out in a pout.

For an instant, Jim felt really sorry for the kid and almost considered insisting to the doctor that he take Blair home. Then he berated himself. That was exactly what Blair was trying to do. Unbelievable. The kid just about had him wrapped around his pinkie.

"Forget it, Chief. Don't act like you don't know what you're trying to do. I'm not taking you home tonight. It may not be safe, yet. I'll come get you as soon as you're allowed to leave tomorrow. I promise."

Blair brightened considerably at Jim's assurance. He opened his mouth to speak and was rudely cut off by a traitorous yawn.

Schleider inclined an eyebrow. "I think we should allow you to get the rest you need. Detective, I'm going to have to ask you to leave for now. You may come back later, but I think the company's only going to keep him awake now."

Jim looked doubtfully upon Blair.

"He's under constant surveillance. I'll see to it personally that nothing else happens to him."

"Thank you, Doctor. When would be the best time to come back?"

"I would say six, at the moment. I'm sure Mr. Sandburg would enjoy the company then."

"I'll talk to you later, Chief."

Already groggy with the medication he had been given earlier, Blair nodded and mumbled a good-bye before drifting off. Jim allowed himself a wan smile, shook his head, and left the room.

He had called the station while sitting in the parking lot at the hospital. Jim knew Simon had been concerned on learning Sandburg’s condition because he hadn’t made any sarcastic remarks at Blair’s expense. The meeting was postponed for the day, and Simon gave him the bare facts he knew: the suspects had entered the mini-mart, and the owner apparently confronted them with his own gun, retrieved at the scene. Presumably the robbers were masked, as one ski mask had been found inside. They also shot out the security camera. Sadly, the station owner was DOA, so nothing could be learned there. The station was riddled with bullet holes. Ballistics and forensics were going to earn their pay on this one.

The Blessed Protector in Jim warred with the cop. One wanted his Guide safely out of the mix; the other wanted justice for a dead man and disrupted lives. Simon and Jim both knew that Blair might have the answers they needed locked inside his blessedly thick skull.

Simon’s frustration had tainted his voice. "You mean he remembers nothing? Did you ask him?"

Jim had told him, "Captain, the doc said it was dangerous to press him. We have to let him alone for now, let him heal; maybe he’ll remember in a day or so."

Simon let out an irritated whoosh of air. Jim could imagine the mauling Banks was giving his cigar at that moment. "What if he doesn’t?"

"Then he doesn’t," Jim replied steadily. He had a secret preference; if Blair didn’t remember, then he was out of the investigation. A foreboding about this case prickled at his neck. Jim had cut the connection at those words, not wanting the discussion to escalate to the point where he’d have to apologize later for heated words. This wasn’t
Blair’s fault.

Now, Jim needed to check out the crime scene for himself; even forensics didn’t have his resources. He started the Ford’s engine and headed out. First a stop at the loft; then the gas station to see what Ryf had found - or hadn’t; a bite to eat, then back here.

He yearned for the boredom that plagued him an hour ago.

"The old man saw my face, Tony. 'Sides, he had it coming. And the other guy probably saw me. What was I supposed to do?"

"Before it was just robbery. Now it's murder. Big difference, if you haven't noticed before."

"I don't care. I killed the only witness. They'll never figure it out."

"What about the mask you were wearing?"

"What about it?"

"Did you get it?"

"Shit! I thought you got it!"

"Maybe it doesn't matter. They may not be able to prove anything. A mask isn't really substantial evidence if there's nothing to back it with," Tony tried to convince himself

A third person came into the dimly lit room. "Hey, guys. I think you better check this out."

The other two followed their companion into the apartment-sized living room. The TV was switched on to the news. On the screen a reporter was attempting to question a disoriented, injured young man.

"I understand you're with the police department, sir. Is it Blair Sandburg? Can you tell us what you saw?"

"He's not dead," the third person groaned. "Dammit, I thought you killed him!"

"So did I, but there's an easy way to fix that little problem. We find him and make sure he's dead the second time around."

"Murder," Tony muttered. "This is just wonderful . . . Uh-uh. You can just forget it, Jake. I'm not killing anyone."

"You're already an accessory to murder. It won't look any better in front of a judge for you. You help me or we all go down."

Tony scowled, still not entirely convinced, yet he reluctantly agreed along with his friend.

"Good," Jake grinned insidiously. "Now all we have to do is find out who this Blair Sandburg is."

A uniformed cop glanced at the ID Jim showed him as he drove up. Jim parked his vehicle with the others behind the south-facing building. He walked around the corner. And stopped. Sandburg’s car was still in place by the air pump, facing north, door ajar. Jim slowly knelt, opening his senses, and touched one finger to the rusty stain near the rear tire. There wasn’t much blood, not really. Blair had only been grazed. But to Jim’s sensitive finger, the blood was damp; to his sensitive nose, the coppery odor was fresh and raw; to his sight…it filled his vision, became his world, and Jim felt himself slipping into a zone-out . . . Part of him recognized the symptoms, and warned that he would be lost without his Guide to pull him out; but his senses told him Blair was there, all around him. His senses and emotions felt scrambled; he forced himself to concentrate on the meaning of the input: Blair was in trouble, needed him . . . he had to come back.

"Ellison?" Jim came to himself with a shudder; Ryf’s voice gave him a new focus. The other detective stood a few feet away, uncertain. "Are you all right, Jim?"

Jim rose to his full, six-foot plus height, wary. "Yeah. I came to see what you’ve got, as Sandburg won’t be any help in the foreseeable future."

Ryf knew that the older man’s stare dared him to probe further. Frankly, he wasn’t inclined; he had too much respect for the other’s skills, seniority and record. He’d seen Blair and Jim in action frequently, and knew how close the partners were. Whatever they had, it worked. And it was also a little bit daunting.

Ryf gestured to the Volvo. "I figure Blair was crouched here, using his phone, when he was hit. We found the phone by the car door. The batteries were knocked out of it. We’ve bagged it for now, but I doubt we’ll get anything but Blair’s prints. He was probably calling 911."

Jim nodded. There was a pay phone adjacent to the beige station wall; on their side of Blair’s car, parallel to Gaines Avenue, were two banks of gas pumps. Jim had quickly filtered out the sharp tang of gas that burned his sinuses, vulnerable as they were with his senses extended.

Pointing to the pumps, Ryf continued. "You can see where several bullets hit the beams supporting the roof over those. Some on the other side too."

He again pointed, this time to a much larger reddish stain that congealed on the cement behind them, near the southwest corner of the building. "That’s where the owner, Ray Ortega, made his last stand. I got here just as the ambulance was taking him away, but he never made it to the hospital." The young detective shook his head. "He has two daughters and a wife. I talked to a son-in-law on the phone. After I’m done here, I’m going to go see them. He seems to have been a tough old guy: pulled the mask off one of the robbers, grabbed his own gun, and faced them down."

Jim had been silently absorbing all he learned; now he drew some conclusions.

"So Blair was, what, filling his tires? These guys probably pulled up afterwards, attempted the robbery, were surprised by Ortega’s response and took off, exchanging gunfire. If Blair was on this side of the building, and they pulled in from the front, they wouldn’t have seen him ‘til they escaped out the Gaines exit, with Ortega still firing from the corner. Blair was caught in the crossfire."

"That’s the way I figure it, at the moment." Ryf cleared his throat. "Sandburg be okay, you think? I mean, the doctor didn’t seem too worried . . . "

Jim turned, his ice-blue eyes almost warm. "I think so. I meant to say thanks, for shutting down the reporter, and going with Blair to the hospital."

"No problem. He was so out of it, I really felt sorry for him."

The blue eyes hardened again; the jaw muscle worked. "How did the reporter find out who Blair was?"

Ryf had seen this coming and swallowed. "It was a rookie, Anderson’s partner. He recognized Blair and called out to me when I arrived on the scene." At Jim’s expression, he hurried on. "He and Anderson have gone to lunch. Believe me, we gave him a dressing down. But, really, if he hadn’t alerted me, I might not have gotten to the reporter when I did."

Ellison accepted that with a nod, and the other detective thought the rookie owed him, big time; the kid had made a mistake, but it didn’t merit the murder he was sure Jim had momentarily contemplated.

Ryf gestured. They walked around front where two more banks of pumps lined the property, and entered the mini-mart itself. Several investigators prowled among the racks of candy and soft drinks and magazines; collecting evidence, conferring with one another.

"I’m not sure how that news team got here so fast; someone said something about an opening exhibit at the university. Guess they were in the neighborhood."

"Talk about your comedy of errors." Jim shook his head. "It’s all a case of bad timing: if Sandburg had gotten here ten minutes later, if the reporters hadn’t been in the area, if the rookie hadn’t called out when he did . . . " He managed to joke: "Typical Sandburg luck."

Ryf felt on firm ground again and smiled. "I’m going to see how these guys are doing, then go talk to Ortega’s family. See you tomorrow?"

Jim gave his colleague a clap on the back. "Yeah. Thanks, Ryf."

When the younger man moved off, Jim surveyed his surroundings more carefully. He couldn’t risk a zone-out, but he could usually extend his senses without the intense focus that put him at risk. Using only one or two senses at a time, while grounding himself to his environment with another, seemed to limit his vulnerability also. ‘Divide and conquer,’ he thought to himself with a slight smile. Thus, he could study closely the security camera that stared at the ceiling in one corner, noting the broken lens and battered casing, while listening to the radio crackle from a patrol car parked in back. Neither sense predominated. But a faint whirring tickled at his hearing; he focused it back inside the store and filtered out the hum of refrigeration, fluorescent lights and anything else recognizable. Finally, he traced it to the camera they thought dead. The bullet’s impact had swung the shattered lens upwards, but the film continued to roll, undamaged. Jim smiled in satisfaction and called over one of the investigators.

"Don’t forget to bring that," he told the man, pointing up. "I think there’s something we can use in there."

Surprised, the man nodded.

The robbery had been unsuccessful. The cash register was still closed when the first police arrived on the scene. They found a couple hundred dollars inside, and a substantial amount of money inside an untouched, small safe in the back room; Ortega probably kept a key for it. There was a minimum of damage here, inside: two bullets buried in the wall behind the counter, miraculously missing a window; one in the door jamb, probably from the owner’s gun as he chased his assailants. A rack near the door had tumbled over, spilling paperbacks. Not much to show for the ultimate violence that had occurred here. Amazingly, none of the stray bullets had hit passersby.

Jim processed what he could without being too conspicuous. No unexplainable odors: various snack foods and beverages; one of the forensics men reeked of the onion rings he’d eaten at lunch; oil, slight smell of cologne (he’d have to find out if Ortega wore any); perspiration, dry odor of paper, car exhaust from the streets and, underlying all, the pervasive smell of gas. He caught the unmistakable, pungent odor of marijuana. Jim sighed, frustrated. Too many possibilities, too many people in and out of here, both before and after the murder. He tried to file it all in his memory for future inspection. If he was up for it in a day or so, maybe Blair could help Jim review it while in a light trance. They had tried that successfully on other cases.

Another half hour spent roaming the scene proved unhelpful. Jim gave up when his stomach grumbled, and returned to his truck. Tomorrow at the station he’d go over the evidence collected. Maybe the robber’s ski mask would provide a lead solid enough for a Sentinel.


When Jim pushed through the hospital doors that evening, he nearly gagged at the odors that assaulted his sensitive nose: disinfectant, various liquids and medicines, soap, sweat . . . illness. He had not
completely blunted his senses, which had been extended for the search of the crime scene; now they were unprepared to deal with the sudden onslaught of smells that festered in such a densely inhabited, enclosed area. Deliberately, he compensated, turning down the ‘dials’ until he could walk calmly through the corridors. Would he ever get to the point where he did everything instinctively, in complete control? He recognized his own impatience and realized just how much he still depended on his Guide for centering.

A middle-aged nurse was just closing Blair’s door. She had the fierce expression of a bulldog and the personality to match. She glared at the detective who towered above her.

"If you’re visiting Mr. Sandburg, you’re not to pester him about his memory. He needs rest and quiet at this point. Visiting hours are over at 7:00, so don’t be long." She bustled off to harass some other unfortunate without giving Jim a chance to reply.

Bemused, Jim listened in on Blair; if he was sleeping, he’d enter quietly. He heard the accelerated thumping of Blair’s heart and a slight groan. Worried, he pushed open the door. Blair was propped up in bed, eyes tightly closed, one hand worrying at the bandage over his stitches.

"Hey, Chief, I told you, you could hurt yourself doing that."

Blair’s eyes flew open. "Hey, Jim! Doing what?"

"Thinking. And now I’ve got a doctor to back me up." Jim pulled forward a chair and collapsed into it.

"Yeah, Jim, kick a guy when he’s down." But Blair couldn’t help smiling to see his partner. "So tell me, what’s happening? What am I missing?" He grimaced at the choice of words. "Besides a whole morning. Man, this is the strangest . . . "

Jim held up his hand to forestall the flood. "Uh-uh, Chief. No discussion of the case or your missing memories. Your watchdog out there made it perfectly clear." He gave a mock shudder. "Simon should recruit her."

"Who, Nurse Byrnes?" Blair grinned, distracted. "She’s a sweetheart, Jim. You must be losing your touch with the ladies."

"I guess she saves her manners for her patients." Jim studied his friend. Still a little pale, especially in contrast to the dark curls that framed his face. A crease in his forehead denoted pain. But there was a definite gleam in the expressive eyes that had been missing earlier.

Blair sighed. "You know, man, there’s not much to do here but think. One minute I’m lying in bed at home, thinking of breakfast, and the next I’m in the ER with a pounding head made worse by people asking stupid questions, like what year is it and do I know who I am." Blair stared up at the ceiling as if it had the answers he wanted. "I just can’t wrap my mind around it, Jim. It’s like the Twilight Zone."

Jim put a sympathetic hand on his friend’s shoulder, drawing the troubled blue eyes to his face.

"I know, it’s hard, buddy. Here, I brought you something that might help." He dug Blair’s Walkman from his jacket and laid it on the bedcover. Two cassettes followed.

He was rewarded with a slow smile. "This is great! What tapes you bring?" the anthropologist asked, reaching for them.

"Something with drums," Jim replied vaguely.

That earned him a suspicious glance. "Better not be Santana."

Blair read the titles. They were two of his favorites for meditation. One thing he could remember was tossing them in his tape case a couple days ago; they weren’t random choices. The big guy had been paying
attention all this time.

"Thanks, man. I’m touched."

"In the head," Jim joked, a little embarrassed. "How about some TV? Have you eaten?"

"I tried. I think our next case should be to find out what they’ve done with the real food here. Someone’s embezzled it and left glop in its place. Another reason I need to come home, Jim."

Jim shook his head at his friend’s persistence; he didn’t want him getting upset. "Look, before I leave tonight I’ll see what your doctor says about when you can come home. For now . . ." He reached for the remote on the bedside table. "I think a Jags game just started."

"All right. One thing first." Blair eased back the covers, and placed his feet on the floor as if he walked on eggshells. "I haven’t been to the bathroom since - well, I can’t remember."

Jim hopped up and steadied Blair while he got his bearings. "That’s getting to be a theme. Need help?" He grinned.

"No, Jim, I think I remember how to do this." He walked unsteadily to the bathroom, dragging his IV stand, while Jim kept a watchful eye out.

"Hey, Sandburg, nice jammies!"

Blair immediately put a hand back to the gaping hospital gown and groaned. "This really sucks!"

Jim smiled, sat back down and heard the door close. Now to find that game . . . He punched the remote and flipped through a few channels. A familiar face caught his eye.

Damn! It was that reporter from earlier! The crime scene was shown in all its sickening glory; "Recorded earlier" was displayed at the bottom of the screen. Jim felt a horrified sense of deja vu. Blair’s ‘interview’ was again shown, and Jim’s blood boiled. It didn’t matter that the news anchor who came back on temporized, saying that the witness’ identity had not been confirmed by authorities. The damage had been done. Unable to contain himself, Jim stood up and paced, turning the channel so Blair would see none of it.

Deciding quickly, he got on the phone and punched in Simon’s number, keeping an eye on the bathroom door.

"Hello." Simon sounded tired.

"Captain, Jim. I can’t believe what I just saw!" He tried to keep his fury down.

"The evening news? Yeah, me too. Jim, I’m sorry. I’ll have someone quash that and put the fear of God into the station."

Jim was aware of water running in the sink. "I’m with Blair; he’s in the bathroom and missed it, but he’ll be here in a minute. Tell them if they run that once more, they’ll have worse than God to fear!"

"Jim, just settle down. I’ll take care of it. See you in the morning." Banks hung up.

Jim sat down again, found the game, and tried to slow his breathing. Blair emerged and wobbled his way back to bed, Jim silently giving him a hand. Blair lay back with a sigh, feeling depleted.

Keeping his attention on the game, Jim was glad his partner didn’t have Sentinel senses that could hear his pounding heart, or feel the heat that lately flushed his face.

It seemed Blair didn’t need them. "Jim? What’s wrong?"

Keeping his face averted, Jim replied, "Nothing. Why?"

"Come on, man. One minute you’re Mr. Geniality, the next you look like the Grim Reaper." Blair put a hand out and touched his shoulder. "What happened?"

With a sigh, Jim faced his concerned Guide. No way would he burden Blair with this; a partial truth would have to satisfy him. "I just checked in with Simon about the case. Someone made a blunder. That’s all. It’s nothing for you to worry about."

Blair seemed to accept that, saying only, "From your expression, I’d hate to be in the shoes of the guy who made the mistake."

Jim managed a relaxed demeanor, and patted Blair on the leg. "Forget him. Let’s watch the game."

A pleasant hour passed while their favorite basketball team pounded their opponents, and Blair’s eyes drooped. A nurse came in - not the dreaded Nurse Byrnes - checked Blair’s vitals and gave him some medication. He faltered quickly after that, whatever energy he’d gained during his afternoon nap obviously deserting him.

Finally Jim checked his watch. Seven o’clock. He smiled at his drowsy friend and rose.

Turning the set off, he said, "I better get out of here before the bouncer comes. You feeling better?"

With an effort, Blair roused and returned the smile. "Yeah. Headache’s down to a dull roar and I’m only seeing two of you now. No, really. Thanks, man. For the music and, uh, everything."

"No problem, partner. Want to listen to your tapes?"

At Blair’s nod, he snapped a tape in place and took the headphones from un-resisting hands, settling them carefully over Blair’s head.

"Okay, you’re good to go. I’ll track down the doctor and be back tomorrow. Hopefully to spring you. Good night."

Blair barely nodded, eyes closed. Heartbeat and respiration were at his normal resting pace. Soothing music emanated from the Walkman, easily picked up by the Sentinel’s acute hearing. With a final glance back, Jim eased silently out the door.

At the nurses station he requested to talk with Dr. Schleider, if she was available. She was on the floor, so he restlessly paced during the ten minutes it took her to finish up with another patient.

"Detective Ellison, wasn’t it?" Although the doctor looked tired, her starched coat and coiffure had held up admirably. She gestured him to sit with her. "Have you seen your friend?"

"Just left him. Can you tell me when he can come home?"

"Well, I’ll have to check his chart again, of course, but we like to keep concussions for twenty-four hours. There has been no deterioration in his condition so far, and that’s a good sign. Tomorrow around noon I’ll give him a final look, and if all’s well, he can go."

Jim cleared his throat, both relieved and a little nervous. "You heard what happened to him, didn’t you? He witnessed a robbery and got in the way. And a man was killed."

The doctor nodded.

"Well, twice now Blair’s picture and name was broadcast on the news. We haven’t caught the killers yet, and we don’t know how much Blair may have seen. In short, I’m worried about his safety here."

"The nurses station is right outside his door," the doctor reassured him. "We can forbid any visitors to Mr. Sandburg’s room, and alert our security to be on guard. At this time of night, after visiting hours, a stranger will be more easily spotted. Short of a police guard on his door, I’m sure he couldn’t be any safer."

Jim slowly nodded. "All right. I’ll give you my card and leave one at the desk; call me if anyone tries to see him. His only family is out of town, and anyone from the Department will show their ID." He stood up, took out his wallet and pried two cards out, handing one to Dr. Schleider. "My home phone is there, too. That’s where I’m going now."

They walked together to the nurses desk. Nurse Byrnes watched their approach, stolid and expressionless. Jim smiled inwardly; probably her idea of respect for the doctor. He was sure she wouldn’t mind another go at him. Inspired, he stopped in front of her. He’d called her a watchdog . . .

"Nurse Byrnes? May I give you my card? Dr. Schleider will explain, but we don’t want Mr. Sandburg to be disturbed tonight. He spoke very highly of you, so I’d feel better if you would keep an eye on him, and call me if anything comes up . . . ?"

Apparently the nurse wasn’t immune to flattery, and Jim had mustered all his charm for a smile.

"No one will bother him." She accepted the card. Jim felt absurdly pleased and relieved.

"Thank you, both. I’ll be back around noon tomorrow."

The detective trudged out to his truck, feeling a little better about leaving his partner. He hoped to get a night’s uninterrupted rest; he’d need the fortification for tomorrow’s trials.

Upon his arrival at the station the next morning, Jim made sure that he was able to study the mask as soon as possible. He couldn't help but feel that the mask would reveal some hidden detail that would aid them in figuring out who these robbers-turned-murderers were.

Formalities of any kind were pushed aside as he made his way into forensics, not caring to be interrupted. He felt driven, needing to know who had dared injure his partner -- his Guide. A part of him realized that it was his Blessed Protector instinct swimming to the surface, and that he was pushing aside the people that could help him figure this out. His friends.

"Hey Jim," Ryf had greeted him as he had walked in that morning, into the bullpen. "You look like you didn't get any sleep last night."

Jim had simply glanced at him and muttered a terse, "I didn't."

Then had made his way to the forensics department, unaware of the shocked look on Ryf's face. Walking down, his thoughts were ridden by the nightmare that had driven him from sleep. The one where Blair had been shot, but this time the aim had been perfect. He had watched the young man crumple to the ground, unable to do anything to stop it, curls covering the bullet hole, blood seeping. As the body collided with the ground Jim's eyes had shot open while he cried out.

Blair had been very lucky.

Hands now gloved, Jim retrieved the evidence and took up the task of inspecting it using his highly enhanced senses.

He sat on a chair, a cool current blew across his skin and he used that sensation to keep himself from slipping into a zone out.

The dark-gloved hands opened the plastic bag and Jim closed his eyes as he lifted it up to his nose. There it was. That same scent he had caught yesterday at the crime scene, this time slightly stronger. He blanched at the reedy stench and shoved the bag away from himself. Marijuana. His Sentinel abilities could not mistake that smell. Obviously forensics hadn't detected any traces of marijuana on the mask, but he knew that the person who had been wearing it must have been high during the robbery.

Dialing down his sense of smell, he pulled the mask out of the bag to inspect it more thoroughly, but was unable to pick up anything else. Still fighting weariness and anxiety he placed the ski mask back in the plastic bag, silently reminding himself that the marijuana was more than he'd had before.

After the mask had been put back in evidence lock-up, Jim headed back to the bullpen. As he entered, he noticed Ryf and remembered his coolness towards the younger detective earlier.

He called out. "Ryf."

Ryf turned in his direction.

"I'm sorry about earlier. I've been kind of preoccupied."

The younger man shook it off. "I understand. You know we're all behind you 100%. We're doing everything we can to find these people."

"Have you found anymore leads?"

"Not yet. Brown's been checking out the brown Mustang the security camera picked up. The scene was completely free of fingerprints and we're still trying to track down where the bullets may have been bought."

"Blood?"

"Only Ortega's."

Jim frowned. "This isn't going to be easy."

"Not unless Blair can remember what he saw."

"No one's going to push him about his memory. The doctor said it could be dangerous to his health. I'm not going to risk that."

Ryf nodded his assent. "No one's going to give Hairboy a hard time. I'll see to it myself."

"Thanks."

After his conversation with Ryf, Jim headed towards Simon's office and knocked.

"Enter."

Jim did so and closed the door behind him before speaking. "I found another clue on the mask."

Simon motioned for him to take a seat.

"With your Sentinel senses?" he asked, realizing Jim would've mentioned it to the others if it had been otherwise.

"Yes sir. Marijuana. It couldn't be detected with any equipment, but I can smell it clearly. I bet at least one of our robbers was a junkie. It looks like these robberies probably are drug related, as we expected."

"Maybe stealing money for another quick fix."

"Possibly. I know it's a thin rope to be dangling from, but this is definitely a step in the right direction. Hopefully, Blair will remember something important before it's too late."

"Speaking of the kid, when are you picking him up?"

"Noon. I better not be late picking him up, either. Poor guy will probably go stir crazy if I'm even five minutes late."

Simon chuckled at that. "Doesn't he normally act stir crazy?"

Jim laughed. "You know, I've always wondered how well Blair would do in a marathon. Anyone with that much energy could probably take home the gold."

"I think the kid gets enough exercise sticking around you."

"That's the truth. The life of a normal anthropologist he does not lead. I wonder how he's holding up right now?"

"You know Sandburg. Probably seeing how many nurses' phone numbers he can go home with."

"It wouldn't amaze me if he is." Jim grinned. "Nothing he does anymore amazes me. Well . . . almost nothing."

"Wait, miss! You can’t go in there."

Anna turned and approached the graying, heavy-set woman impatiently. "I’ve brought some flowers, sent by his friends at work."

The nurse told her firmly, "You can leave them here. I’ll see he gets them."

"But . . ." Anna began, then was quelled by a look. Old battle-ax, she thought. At least the guy that Tony was looking for was here. What was so important, anyway? Well, she’d done her part.

"All right. Thanks." Anna set the vase on the counter and re-traced her steps to the elevator. When she exited the building downstairs, into the clear air, she took a deep breath; hospitals unnerved her. She hadn’t visited one since the night her parents were killed in a car crash three years earlier, leaving herself and her eleven year-old brother Jeremy wards of the state.

She waited at the entrance and watched as Tony and his friend drove up in Tony’s old brown Mustang, with the recently acquired bullet hole over the right rear tire. Anna hadn’t asked what it meant. Tony was the best thing to happen to her in years, and the price of her happiness was discretion. Tony had made it clear his activities weren’t to be discussed. This was the first time he’d ever asked for her participation, and she was glad to do it. But glad she didn’t know what it was about, truthfully.

As she lowered herself into the seat beside Tony, Jake leaned forward from his place in the rear and demanded, "Well?"

He stank of smoke and perspiration, and Anna had never liked the way he stared at her when they chanced to be alone. She faced forward, and only answered when Tony asked, "How’d it go, babe?"

"He’s there, on the third floor. Room 312."

Tony gave her a brilliant smile, the one that made her fall in love with him. She hated to disappoint him. "But, some old biddy wouldn’t let me in. She said no one could see him. I had to leave the flowers with her."

"That’s okay. We know where he is, that’s the main thing." He leaned over and rewarded her with a kiss.

Jake thumped the back of her seat. They broke off the kiss and Anna glared resentfully. Jake was such a prick.

"All right, kids," Jake smirked, "we still got business."

"Well, get out then," Tony replied crossly. "I’ll take Anna to work, and be back in twenty."

Jake pushed open the door and got out. He leaned in Anna’s window to as, "You got your pager, right?"

Anna turned away from Jake’s leer as Tony frowned, and said, "Yeah. I’ll be back soon, don’t worry. If he leaves, just get his license and the car’s make. We know where he works."

Tony nudged the Mustang away, and Jake stepped back, then entered the hospital to start his vigil. They’d get this guy, no problem. In fact, he was kinda looking forward to it; he’d gotten such a rush after killing the old guy, and now he’d actually been ordered to do it again.

Jim parked as close he could to the hospital’s entrance. Remembering how he’d been overwhelmed last time, he prudently blunted his sense of smell before walking through the door. He carried a small duffel with some clean clothes for Blair.

He made his way to the third floor nurses station, and was surprised to find Nurse Byrnes still on duty, looking tired but vigilant. She had thawed toward him, even addressing him civilly. "Dr. Schleider is with Mr. Sandburg now."

"Great. I’ll sit over there and wait." First Jim set the duffel by Blair’s door, knocked, and called out, "I brought you some clean clothes here, Chief. I’ll leave them by the door." Catching a reply, he returned to the waiting area and lowered his muscular frame into the same uncomfortable, molded chair he had sat in the preceding evening, elbows on knees and hands clasped before him.

He hadn’t long to wait. Dr. Schleider came out of Blair’s room, chart in hand. Spying Jim, she motioned him to remain seated and joined him.

"Well," she began with a smile, "if willpower alone could heal, your young friend would have walked out of here yesterday."

Jim grinned in return. "I know what you mean. Headstrong is his middle name." He sat back in his chair . "What’s the prognosis?"

The doctor sobered and glanced at the chart she held. "He’s doing well. Tests and x-rays are clean. He’s getting dressed now. But as I told him, there are some side effects to expect: dizziness, difficulty concentrating, anxiety. You must watch for anything abnormal; neuronal damage may become evident."

"I was a medic once," Jim told her. "I’ll keep an eye on him. How about the amnesia?"

"Recovery in these cases is spontaneous; most patients do get their memory back."

"He’ll be relieved," Jim told her ruefully. "Personally, I don’t know if it’s a memory he needs."

"To have a gap like that is very disorienting. It’s a toss-up as to which is more traumatic, in the long run: the memory or the loss of time. It depends on the individual."

Jim smiled. "Blair has a very curious mind; he’s an anthropologist. I think the loss would disturb him more."

Dr. Schleider tilted her head in question. "I thought he was a policeman, your partner."

"He’s a civilian observer, actually. It’s a long story. I say ‘partner’ ‘cause it’s easier." And also the truth, but the doctor didn’t need the details. "I thought I’d take him home for the rest of the day, although I should go back to work. I don’t suppose he should be exposed to the case and any pressure to remember . . .?"

The doctor frowned in thought, and re-settled her slipping glasses. Finally, she said, "I think you two should decide where he’d be more comfortable. Home, away from the case, would normally be best. But if he’s alone, that may increase his anxiety. Also, if he has any episodes, no one would be there to help."

It was Jim’s turn to frown. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. "All right, we’ll talk it over."

The doctor stood and Jim followed suit. He took her hand. "Thanks so much. You’ve been great."

"You’re very welcome." They turned together to the desk, where she handed the chart to a nurse. "Barring complications, Mr. Sandburg should see his own doctor within a week. He can advise you further."

Jim nodded. "Thanks again, doctor." He went to Blair’s room then and knocked.

"Yeah, come in," Blair called, a little breathlessly.

The detective entered and found his friend, wearing the fresh jeans and flannel shirt Jim had brought, stuffing yesterday’s clothes into the bag. Blair looked rested. The bandage gave him a rakish air today, like a wounded hero.

Grinning, Jim took up the bag when Blair finished.

"What?" Blair asked.

"I was just thinking how much sympathy those stitches are going to get you from Serena, Samantha, Molly…even Vera in personnel. You’ll have to beat them off with a stick."

"You think?" Blair inquired hopefully. "And Cassie?"

"I’ll beat her off myself," Jim muttered.

"What? Missed that."

"Never mind." Jim aimed a cuff at his Guide’s head, purposely missing him. "Let’s go find your chair, and be glad they aren’t here to see your exit. You’d have them swooning in the halls."

Blair groaned. "Jeez, I hate that part. Makes me feel stupid when I can walk on my own perfectly well."

"Come on, D’Artagnan. Let’s get your walking papers, say bye to your watchdog and go home."

"Oh, wait!" Blair reached over to take up a vase of bright flowers that stood on the night stand. "I got this today from the station. Smell good, don't they?" He held the bouquet up to his own nose.

Jim’s lips quirked upward. "Nope. I've got my smell turned down. Last time I was here, the odors nearly knocked me over." At Blair's bright, curious glance, Jim rolled his eyes and continued, "We can talk about that experience later."

With that promise, Blair looked at the card propped among the blooms, and read, "'Get well soon. Cascade P.D.'" He chuckled. "Sounds like Simon, sentimental fool that he is."

Jim shook his head, held the door and escorted his friend to the wheelchair and orderly that waited outside. "Yeah, it’s enough to bring tears to your eyes. What’ll it be for lunch? Italian or Chinese?"

Blair sat on the couch, an indignant pout bringing out his puppy-dog eyes. Jim stood stubbornly, arms crossed in set determination.

"I said 'no', Blair. What part of that don't you understand?'

"But I want to help!" The young grad student argued, rising to his feet. "This happened to me! I want to know who caused me to lose an entire day."

"Chief, you can't push yourself. If you come with me there's no way I'm gonna let you get involved, and you know it."

Blair sighed, well aware of just how right Jim was. He nodded, albeit reluctantly. "All right. I'll stay here."

"It's your choice. Don't think that I'm stopping you from coming. I'm just stopping you from getting involved."

"I know, and if I go with you, I'll want to be involved. So just go. I'll be fine here."

Jim headed towards the door, snagging his leather jacket off the hook nearby. He turned once more, hand on the knob, and looked at his partner. Blair stood by the table with arms crossed, possibly hugging himself against the cold. He looked rather forlorn.

"Look, Sandburg--" Jim began.

Blair shook his dark head and pasted on a smile. "I’ll be fine, man. Don’t worry. Got some work from school to catch up on, anyway."

"Okay. I’ll have my cell with me, so call if you need anything."

Blair made a shooing motion with both hands and came forward to open the door himself. Just as Jim stepped into the hall, the anthropologist said lightly, "Okay, but you gonna answer it this time?"

Jim turned quickly, head cocked. "When didn’t I?"

Blair’s face was momentarily blank, then stunned. Eyes wide, he opened and closed his mouth, but no sound emerged.

Jim gripped his friend’s arm. "When did you call me, and I didn’t answer?"

Blair’s deep blue eyes met his friend’s intense gaze, and he said hoarsely, "Yesterday. I-I remember sitting on the ground, by my car -- I tried to call for help. You never answered."

Jim gently shook his friend, then led him back into the loft to the couch before releasing him. They both sat.

Blair rubbed absently at his arm where Jim had gripped it, and whispered, "My God. I remembered something!" He aimed a smile at his friend, who returned a pale copy of it.

"Blair, I don’t know what to say . . . Why didn’t I get your call? I would’ve come . . . " Jim’s reply was met by a whoop from Blair, who jumped up and began pacing.

"Jim, Jim, that’s not the point - I know you would have!" He faced his friend again, momentarily still, except for his expressive hands and face. "I’m remembering! Yeah, I was trying to call, it rang about four times; there was shooting going on, then a car . . . " Blair’s brow furrowed in thought.

"Then what?" he muttered. "I know it’s there, it’s - it’s like there, on the tip of my tongue . . . " He began pacing again, this time in agitation.

Jim stood and put out a hand to halt his partner . "Take it easy, Chief. You’re right, this is great, but I don’t think you should force it. Try not to think about it too hard." He remembered the doctor’s words, not to let Blair get too anxious or excited.

"Jim, are you nuts? You can’t tell me not to think of it." Blair shook his head in disgust. "Might as well tell me not to think of a pink elephant. It’s in the room, man, and it ain’t gonna be ignored."

Jim smiled despite himself; Blair was closer to his usual sarcastic self.

"All I meant was, well, that memory came naturally. It came out in a casual comment. You weren’t trying to remember, were you?"

"No." Blair’s gaze turned away and he dropped onto the couch again. Jim was afraid his friend was now on the downhill side of an emotional roller coaster, but Blair’s expression merely turned thoughtful. He pushed some curls from his face and behind his ear.

Before he spoke again, a thought occurred to Jim. "I was away from my desk for about fifteen minutes yesterday morning." Blair turned inquisitive eyes up. Jim rubbed a hand across his short hair. "In the hour before I heard about what happened to you. I took a stroll down to records to return a file and stretch my legs. That must have been when you called."

Something in his voice or face must have expressed the guilt he still felt in some measure, because Blair hastened to assure him, "Jim, come on, man. Even if my call got to you, it was happening then. You couldn’t stop it. It’s illogical to think otherwise. It still would have been over by the time you got there."

The tall detective smiled at the sincere reassurance. "Thanks, Chief. Now I’m wondering, though - if you called me, who called 911? The ambulances were on their way almost before we were; they were alerted by somebody."

"Can you find out?" Blair looked askance. "I mean, you guys have access to tapes of 911 calls, right?"

Jim nodded. "We’ve got someone on that, but just assumed it was you who called." He grinned. "I know how I’m going to spend the rest of my day."

Blair nodded enthusiastically, almost up to his usual bounce. "Right! Maybe there’ll be something in the voice you can use, or something helpful in the background!" He stood and made as if to go to his room. "Listen, Jim, you may need me on this. Can’t have you zoning out on your hearing. I’ll just get my --"

"Forget it, Chief." Jim spoke in his most authoritative cop voice and hoped for the best. "I can handle this." As Blair opened his mouth, Jim rushed on, "Look, I’ll have Simon sit with me, okay? He’ll want to hear it too, anyway. This is a piece of cake, don’t worry."

Blair stood, hands on hips, pale face set. Finally, he gave up and nodded. "All right. I guess so." He gave a sudden grin. "Maybe I’ll meditate a while, and more memories will come back. At least I helped some, huh?"

Relieved, Jim nodded. "That you did. It may lead to one of the first real clues we’ve got." He once again collected his coat, and turned to the door which they’d never closed. He paused before shutting it from outside, in the hall. "Seems like this is a good sign. Remember, the doctor said most patients get their memories back. I’m sure you will, soon."

Blair joined him at the door, prepared to lock it behind his partner. "I hope it’s soon enough to do more good."

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