Jim hadn't even been gone an hour and already Blair had decided that reading was a futile effort. He'd been attempting some light reading on North African tribes, but couldn't make sense out of the words. All they came out to was gibberish. None of it made sense. Frustrated, he placed the book beside him on the couch. This was getting him absolutely nowhere. For a moment he sat there, considering his options, before deciding to go out on the balcony. The loft was starting to feel too confining as it was.

He stood up, stretched, and made his way around the coffee table towards the balcony doors. Any signs of impending claustrophobia were swept away as the doors were opened and he stepped out into the cool, crisp Cascade breeze. All thoughts of amnesia's stifling confines vanished as he took in the view of the city. Taking in a few deep breaths, his hearing detected a faint sound that pushed at his roadblocked mind.

Attempting to discern what it was he was hearing, he looked down to the streets below and was confronted with a sight that caught the breath in his throat.

The roar of a gunned engine and squealing rubber was almost deafening. In the background were angry shouts and the Mustang was heading his way. It passed between the pumps before him in a brown metallic blur.

Blair's eyes widened involuntarily at the sudden memory.

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 . . .

He collapsed to his knees trying to escape the bullet. The pain assaulted him and he cried out.

"Jim, where are you?"

Wide-eyed, he looked around the balcony and realized that he had been in the throes of a very vivid flashback. The pain, bullets, and shouts had all been phantoms of his mind. Shuddering with the intensity of it, he slowly and gingerly made his way to his feet and dared another look down. The brown Mustang was no longer in sight.

Maybe I was just imagining the whole thing.

But it had been too real. There was no way that had been imagined. With sudden urgency he was gripped with the need to call Jim and have him come back to the loft. Part of his mind argued that it was just an anxiety attack like the doctor had forewarned him of, but another part, perhaps survival instinct, was screaming at him to call his Sentinel.

His legs backed up of their own accord and he finally made his way back into the loft. He grasped the doors, then closed and locked them. Next step . . .

Call Jim.

He strode over towards the cordless phone, picked it up, and dialed in Jim's number at the station. It rang only once before Jim answered.

"Ellison."

"Jim, you have to come back."

The panic must've been evident because Jim's next words were much more alert. "What's going on, Chief? Are you hurt?"

"No, no. Nothing like that, but I saw a car. I've seen that car somewhere before because . . ." he gulped in a breath. "I had another flashback."

"Another flashback? What did you see?"

"I saw a gun aimed right at me and it fired. I could feel the pain, hear the shouting, and the tires squealing -- and it was all in my head."

"What kind of car did you see?'

"Brown Mustang. Kind of old. Early eighties, I think."

"Ok, Chief. Just sit tight. I'm going to have someone run a check on the car and I'll be down there immediately. Can you handle it that long?"

"Yeah, Jim. I'm just seriously spooked right now."

"Understandable, partner. I'll be right there."

With that the phone clicked and Blair stood listening to the busy signal. Everything would be fine now. Jim had answered the phone this time. Everything would be fine.

He hung up the phone and sat on the couch, waiting.

"I saw him, man. He looked directly at us."

"You sure, Tony?"

"Pretty much. As soon as he saw us he ducked down. Must've recognized us."

Jake swore under his breath. "Ok. Park out of sight. Let’s go about this carefully. He may have already called the cops if he suspects something's up."

Tony steered the Mustang down a narrow street that ran between two buildings. Jake opened the console and took out the two K40's -- small, compact handguns known for accuracy and power. These sweet deals had come from the higher-ups Jake and Tony worked for.

"Try not to miss," Tony growled. "We don't need to attract attention."

"I never miss," Jake assured him smugly. He put a gun into Tony's grasp. "You just make sure you don't miss."

He chuckled as he got out of the car and shut the door. This was gonna be fun.

Blair had started pacing again, trying to fight off the dizziness that kept coming in waves of nausea. He wanted to be sick, but repressed the urge, knowing that his life may very well be on the line. Panic and fear were taking residence in his mind and he knew that these feelings were far too strong to be normal. It was just the affects of his amnesia, he told himself, but it didn't do any good. He was still scared and he still couldn't think straight. Mass confusion tumbled around in his brain and he desperately attempted to piece together the puzzle, try to remember what was evading him. It kept prodding at him, that there was something very important he needed to remember. Something about the Mustang and the shooting and something else . . .

Whispers halted him in his footsteps. These were the people who had shot him, the ones driving the Mustang. Immediately his heart started sprinting, tiny beads of perspiration formed on his forehead, and his hands began to tremble slightly.

It was just a panic attack. Dr. Schleider had told him to expect panic attacks. That's all this was. A panic attack.

The doorknob jiggled.

Or not.

A gun shot rang out and the door swung open.

That was all the persuasion Blair needed to vault through the living room and towards the French doors of his bedroom.

An outraged shout and curses 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 yelled out to the person in his hidden
memories.

Not even realizing where he was going, Blair dove into his bedroom and slammed the doors shut behind him. Dimly aware of his surroundings, his mind registered the door leading out onto the fire escape.

Something heavy was thrown up against the French doors.

"Dammit! Get it open!" a muffled voice raged.

Blair scrambled over towards the exit and wrestled with it. It was stuck.

Another gun shot rang out. A surge of adrenaline gave the grad student the next burst of strength he needed to wrench the door open. He hurtled through the opening and slammed it shut just as the French doors were thrown open.

"Shit! The cop!"

Blair froze when he heard the exclamation. The cop? Jim!

Gunfire was exchanged, then a lone voice called out: "Blair?"

"Jim!" His voice was weak even to his own ears.

The detective peered out the bedroom window and saw his young partner huddled against the fire escape's cold, metallic side.

"Blair--" Jim's voice was overcome with chagrin when he saw his friend's frazzled appearance. "Oh god, kid. I am so sorry. This is all my fault. I should've never let you stay here by yourself in this condition."

The larger man opened the door, reached out to his friend and, grasping his arms, managed to pull him back into the bedroom.

"The gunmen?" Blair questioned, still shaking from the chill and adrenaline rush.

"Took off out the back door. Are you okay?"

"I'll live. Jim, you can't let them get away! There's something else I remembered."

"What was it?"

"There was a kid at the crime scene. He's the one who made the 911 call."

Jim nodded. "I checked it out. So there's another witness then?"

Blair shook his head. "No. I don't think I saw anything. I'm almost sure of it now. But the kid who was there may have seen everything."

The detective stood still momentarily, head tilted in his listening pose. "I don’t hear . . . there’s a car racing away, about a block down . . ." He shook his head, then returned his attention to his Guide. "They’re gone, I’m sure. And I need to hear what you remember." Jim drew his shivering friend back to the living room and pushed him down on the couch. After a final pat on the shoulder, he withdrew to the phone in the kitchen, saying, "Wait just a minute; let me call the station and report this, then we’ll talk."

Blair hugged himself; his tee-shirt and flannel were suddenly inadequate. He heard Jim talking to Simon, but tried to shut it out and concentrate on his returned memory. He had shouted to a boy . . . a wiry blond kid, right. He’d given him change for the phone, so the kid could call his sister. Despite his upset, he smiled to himself. Oh, man, it was good to fill in that gap! He felt whole, and surer of himself.

Five minutes later, Jim hung up the phone. Filling a glass from the sink, he told Blair, "The captain’s sending over the team to do their stuff on the bullet holes." He shook his head as he came over, holding out the cold glass to his partner and glancing at the forced door and the holes in the wall. "Can’t believe we have to do this again. I should hire a full-time decorator."

Blair took the glass without comment, feeling a little guilty. "Thanks," he murmured, and took a gulp.

Jim sat on the edge of the living room table, facing Blair, and clasped his hands together. He took a deep breath, as if to prepare himself for the next part. Suddenly, he cocked his head in the way Blair recognized as a signal that he’d picked up something with his senses.

"What is it, Jim?"

A slight smile crossed the chiseled features. "Confirmation. I smell marijuana. Another link to who these characters are, as if there were any doubt." He looked intently at Blair. "So, what have you got for me?"

Blair sat back, the glass chilling his hands. He turned it unconsciously as condensation on the smooth surface dribbled through his fingers, and returned Jim’s gaze.

"I had stopped to fill my tires. I remember a blond kid, about my height, and wiry, asking for some change for the phone. After I gave it to him, I filled the second tire." Blair leaned forward to set the glass on a nearby coaster and wiped his hands across his jeans.

"My hands were dirty, so I started around front to get the restroom key. There was a car parked in front with the engine running."

He paused, and Jim interjected, "The infamous brown Mustang."

"Yeah. It was just then that I heard someone - I guess it was one of our bad guys - yell ‘Shit! Get him!’ Then all hell broke loose."

Blair’s words came faster now, as if the adrenaline he’d experienced at the time affected him in the present.

"I ran back to my car and saw the boy still on the phone, facing me. I yelled at him, saw him drop and threw myself down on the driver’s side and reached in for my pack, to find my phone." Blair’s fingers twitched as if searching for the instrument. "Always in the way when you don’t want it, never there when you need it, huh?"

Jim gave him a brief smile of encouragement.

"Anyway," Blair continued after clearing his throat, "I heard several people yelling and cussing, and bullets were flying everywhere; I found my phone and dialed you, but it was hard to hear; when I could, all I heard was the ringing."

Jim put a hand on his partner’s knee but said nothing. There had been nothing accusatory in Blair’s tone, only remembered fear. After a moment, he removed his hand and asked, "Did you see the boy again?"

Blair closed his eyes in thought. "When I grabbed my pack . . . I think I saw the phone cord dangling against the wall, on the other side of my car. Maybe caught a glimpse of the top of his head by the hood." He opened his blue eyes again. "Then the Mustang went roaring by, and I got up on my knees, you know, to see if I could catch the plate."

Jim shook his head at his friend’s foolhardiness. "And caught a bullet instead."

"I had to try, Jim! Sure, looking back on it, it was stupid, but it was instinct - I haven’t worked with you for two years for nothing." Blair shoved his hair back resentfully and leaned into the cushion at his back. "That’s what you would have done, right?"

Jim had to acknowledge the truth of the statement - but he didn’t have to like it. He backed down and raised his hands to calm his heavily breathing partner. "Okay, okay. I guess the hero bug is catching."

Blair looked mollified. "I know, though, that I never got a look at the shooters. I got a glimpse as one shot at - well, at me, I guess. But I wouldn’t recognize him." He continued glumly, "In fact, I can’t exactly say I saw them here either; I was either running or re-living yesterday." He sighed. "My life, welcome to it."

The detective watched his friend almost physically shake off the impending depression. His Guide was nothing, if not resilient. "So, what now? It’s too late to go after those guys, they’re long gone."

Jim tilted his head. "How old do you think that kid was?"

"Oh, thirteen or fourteen, I’d guess."

"You know that area by the university pretty good, right? Are there any high schools around?"

Blair’s expression brightened. "Yeah. About two blocks north of the station, just off Gaines Avenue. George Washington High, I think." He grew more excited. "The boy said he got off early ‘cause of conferences, and wanted to call his sister to pick him up. He must have come from there, it’s too far to walk from any other school, I’d say."

Blair jumped up, forcing Jim to lean back as he brushed by him. He reached for his coat on the hook by the door, but paused when he sensed Jim hadn’t followed him.

"Well? Aren’t we going to check it out?"

Jim grinned at Blair’s enthusiasm, but merely stood up and crossed his arms. "I think you’re forgetting something, Chief. Simon’s on his way over; we’ll have to report to him first, let him know what’s going on here. Do you think you’d recognize this kid again? Maybe from a picture in a yearbook?"

Blair moved back into the living room, retrieved the glass from the table and headed to the kitchen.

"I think so." He squirted some soap into the glass, mindful of his watching partner and the House Rules. And it gave his restless hands something to do while waiting for the captain.

"He was nice looking, had a thin face, thick blond hair." He swished hot water around in the glass, then grinned at a sudden memory. "He was unfailingly polite; called me ‘mister’ and ‘sir’."

As expected, that got a laugh out of Jim. The Sentinel came around to the kitchen table and dropped into a chair there. "Shouldn’t be hard to find, then. I’ll just ask around at the school: ‘Which student would call my long-haired friend here, "sir"?’ Can’t be that many. Anyway, I heard him, you saw and heard him . . . We’ll find him," he finished confidently.

Blair dried and put away the glass, then leaned against the stove, arms crossed. "Why do you think he ran? Why not stick around? The killers were gone."

"I don’t know, Chief. Probably scared, didn’t want to get involved." The Sentinel’s fond gaze warmed his Guide. "Not everyone’s such a Good Samaritan."

Blair blushed and surrendered, moving away. "I’m gonna clean up a bit. I want to be ready to go ASAP." At Jim’s slight head tilt, he continued, "Great. They’re on their way up." He headed down the hall, not staying to see Jim’s smile of confirmation.

Jim stood when he heard the elevator doors clatter open. The captain’s cigar fumes preceded the big man, and Jim stifled a sneeze. As expected, an unlit cigar dangled from Simon’s lips as he paused in the doorway. Rank notwithstanding, he knew Jim wouldn’t let him pass the threshold with a live one. The captain stood with hands on hips, giving the damaged door a deliberate, thorough look before turning to Jim with a paternal shake of the head.

He removed the cigar. "Can’t you ever play nice?"

It’s not my fault," Jim protested. "Sandburg needs to meet a better class of people."

"I heard that!" Blair appeared from the hall, the curls around his face damp and his flannel shirt neatly buttoned.

The two bigger men immediately sobered, and Simon came in, followed by two forensics men burdened with their kits. Jim set them to work, then went to make a quick call.

Simon gave Blair a slight smile. "How you doing, Sandburg? I hear you remembered what happened."

"Yeah, it all came back!" The anthropologist gestured Simon into the living room, out of the way of the others. Briefly, he told Simon what he had already told Jim about the previous day’s events, then explained how the memories returned: "I saw the Mustang outside, and it was like a bomb going off in my head. It set off a chain reaction of memories, and I felt like it was all happening again. I can’t say it was fun, but it was definitely worth it! Man, it was the worst feeling, not knowing what I did the day before. I mean, not having access to a part of your mind, it’s like someone robbed you, almost a sense of violation." He shook his head. "Indescribable, really."

"I can see that. Well, I’m glad for your sake, as well as ours, that you have remembered."

Thanks, Simon. Oh, and thanks for the flowers."

"What flowers?

"The ones you sent," Blair replied, puzzled. He pointed to the bouquet on the kitchen table. "Or had Rhonda send . . . ?"

The captain shook his head. "Sorry, they weren’t from me. Was there a card?"

Blair fetched the colorful card from the table and returned to the living room, offering it to Simon. "Well, I didn’t really think flowers were your style, but the message was."

The captain snorted, having read it; he handed it back. "I don’t know what to tell you, Sandburg. Maybe some of the guys - or ladies - put their heads together."

Jim had been monitoring the conversation; curiosity piqued, he came up behind his friend and took the card from his hand. He read the message again, then turned the paper over. "Here’s the florist’s address: Betty’s Blooms, on . . . Gaines. Hmm." A speculative gleam appeared.

"What do you read in that, Jim?" Blair asked. Simon too raised his brows.

"Just seems rather a coincidence - the school, the crime scene, now the flower shop - all over in that part of town."

"Come on, Jim, maybe someone from the university sent it. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."

At his friends expressions, he elaborated, "You know, like Freud said; meaning that sometimes a thing is exactly what it seems, without any
hidden meaning or symbolism attached. In this case, I mean it could just be coincidence.

"Yeah, well, I’ll keep an open mind," Jim replied, unconvinced. "But why would someone from the university sign it Cascade P.D.?" At Blair’s silent "oh", he nodded, then suddenly frowned and held the card to his nose. "There’s a familiar odor. Marijuana again. Guess your ‘cigar’ quote was pretty close."

Blair suddenly realized something. He looked at the forensics men, then leaned in and asked quietly, "Why didn’t you smell that before, Jim? In the hospital."

Jim also kept his voice low. "I had the dial turned down because of the smells there, remember?"

They exchanged meaningful looks. "Well, then," Simon said, fingering his cigar, "now you have two leads: the florist and the kid. You better get moving. I’ll wrap things up here."

"Thanks, Captain." Jim herded Blair towards their jackets and the door, checking his pockets for his keys. "Oh, by the way, I called the locksmith a few minutes ago." He pulled out his wallet, then threw some bills on the small table by the door. Blair grabbed their jackets. "He should be here soon. Would you wait? Thanks again, Captain!" The detective pushed his friend into the hall and hurried him down the stairs, not waiting for the protest he’d seen clouding Simon’s face. He heard it anyway, of course, with his Sentinel hearing, as Simon knew he would. "Sure, Jim," the captain grumbled, "I’ve got nothing better to do."

"Whoa, wait a minute! This isn’t my fault, damn it!"

"You never wanted to do it in the first place!" Jake yelled back. "Your mind’s been on that girl since you met her, and you’ve been practically useless!"

Tony had time to throw his partner a glare before a green light allowed him to shoot forward once more, outdistancing the more sedate traffic. His first instinct had been to head for their apartment here in Cascade, but he was tempted to stop right now and thrash it out with Jake. Keeping an eye on his mirrors for pursuit, he navigated more carefully, not wanting to attract official attention so close to their hideout.

"Yeah, and I thought you were the one who never missed?" he said spitefully. "I make it twice now you let that long-haired cop get away."

"You should have been watching my back, and never let the other cop sneak up on us!" Disgusted, Jake finally stuffed his gun into his waistband, then stashed Tony’s in the glove compartment and slapped it shut.

"All right, this isn’t gonna get us anywhere," Tony pointed out. "The question is, what now?"

"We have to get this guy, Tony, or you know what’ll happen to us. You don’t get second chances with these people!"

For the first time he could ever recall, Tony heard Jake’s voice crack with fear.

"I know." He pulled the Mustang into an empty parking lot, outside a closed supermarket near their place, where it wouldn’t be visible from the street. They’d have to dump it, soon, as they couldn’t risk being identified with it. He had hoped to do this job, then get rid of it,
like the others, but now . . . Would this latest crime make Cascade more alert, make it harder for them to ‘acquire’ another car?

As Tony parked, Jake looked around. "What are we doing here?" He twisted in his seat to stare at Tony.

"Planning. If we go back and Hogan’s there, what’re we going to tell him?" He rolled down his window and propped an arm in the opening.

"Jesus." Jake dragged a hand worriedly through his straggly hair. "We have to get this guy, soon, before Hogan hears about this. But now the cops know about us." He shook his head. "I don’t know . . . " Jake suddenly turned to look at his partner as he remembered something strange about their recent encounter. "What the hell was Sandburg doing, yelling ‘Get down, kid’? I didn’t see anyone else, did you?"

Tony rubbed his jaw. "No. I’d swear we were alone . . . "

They sat in silent thought for a few minutes. Tony glanced at his watch. Great, and he’d promised to pick up Anna and her brother after the kid got out of school today.

He gave a sigh, and turned the key in the ignition. As the car sputtered to life, Jake asked "So, where are we going?"

Gritting his teeth against the explosion he knew was coming, he told Jake.

"Shit! Tony, I can’t believe you, man! We are dead, and you’re still thinking about this bitch!"

"Shut up, Jake," Tony said evenly. "Whether I pick her up or not, we have the job to do. But unless you’re suggesting we go back right now and try again, I may as well pick them up. You can come along, or," here he looked pointedly at his partner, "I’ll drop you off at the apartment."

Jake shook his head and muttered imprecations. Hogan could be waiting there.

They pulled into traffic again, heading east towards Gaines and the flower shop where Anna worked.

"Tonight," Jake said tightly. "I know some friends who can help us, but we finish this by tonight or I’m outta here."

Tony agreed.

When they found a slot to park in, before the administration block, Blair finally stopped for a breath.

"Come on, Chief. Here’s your chance show off that memory of yours."

The school had been built in the mid-seventies, Jim guessed. Cement corridors lined brick classrooms; the path they followed led to an apparently newer performing arts building on their right, but before them, between two lush planters, it led to the office.

They entered. A counter running most the length of the small, well-lit room barred further entrance. Behind it were several desks with computers, banks of files, bookcases, and doors leading presumably to more offices. It was late afternoon, almost time for school to let out, Jim suspected. There was an air of lazy chaos: stacks of papers in baskets, that wouldn’t be filed for another day; a young man, a student possibly, sat at one desk in the back, using the phone. Two women, one about fifty and the other in her twenties, were the only staff visible. They both glanced up from their tasks as the two men entered, the younger doing a double-take at the unexpected sight of two attractive men who were obviously not students, probably not academics, and, oh boy, hopefully not parents. Certainly the younger one with the luminous eyes couldn’t have a child attending here.

The brunette hastily waved to her colleague. "I’ll take care of this, Irene. I know you have to get home on time today."

The older woman nodded knowingly and returned to her typing. The younger woman rose, bestowing a brilliant smile on both men. "Can I help you?"

Jim had his badge ready, and showed it to her. "I’m Detective Ellison, Cascade P.D. This is Blair Sandburg. We need to see if a young man we’re looking for is a student here."

"Oh - someone in trouble? My name is Terri, by the way."

"Nice to meet you, Terri. We just need to question him about a case we’re on. He’s not a suspect." Jim kept his tone businesslike; he’d seen her reaction upon their entrance and knew her eagerness to help was more than professional. He hoped to squelch any like response from his hapless partner, who seemed to fall in love on a weekly basis.

"What’s his name?" Terri asked, pulling a scratch pad across the counter and grabbing a handy pencil.

Jim and Blair glanced at one another. "Well, that’s the problem," Blair put in. "We don’t know. I saw him, and can describe him, but we were hoping maybe I could pick him out of the yearbook, if you have one. He’s about fourteen."

"If he’s fourteen, he’d be a freshman. Luckily the yearbook just came out, otherwise we wouldn’t have a picture of him. Hang on." Terri retreated to a bookcase in the back of the room. Blair watched appreciatively as she bent to pull out a book from a lower shelf, and
her short skirt became even shorter.

Jim nudged him and murmured, "Table legs."

Blair grinned cheekily at his partner and whispered back, "Oh, I don’t know, I think they’re rather attractive legs."

They both schooled their expressions as Terri returned and placed a large book before them, the red, white and blue cover emblazoned with a flag and the year "1998" printed in gold.

"You can sit there, if you want." She pointed to some chairs that lined the outer wall. "I think I’d better tell the principal what’s going on, too, in case you find the student you want."

"Thanks." Blair picked up the book, and he and Jim settled down to find the section picturing the youngest class. They smiled at the sentimental and uplifting quotes sprinkled throughout.

"Some things never change," Jim said.

"Just the clothes," Blair chuckled.

"Not even those. I wore bellbottoms in high school," the cop retorted, putting a finger beside a picture of the freshman class gathered before the performing arts building. A good many of them wore bellbottoms or hip-huggers. Some had the thick-soled shoes Jim had hated the first time they were in fashion. "Ugh. Clogs." Seeing the grin on Blair’s face and wanting to avert the forthcoming teasing, Jim tapped the book. "Come on, look at the individual pictures. We have to find this kid."

Blair nodded and obediently turned the page. He studied the faces, the students arranged alphabetically. Abbot . . . Andrews . . . Arthur. He drifted through the A’s, into the B’s on the next page, the C’s . . .A couple faces caused him to pause, then shake his head. The pictures were so posed, and most of the kids had primped; he began to wonder if he would recognize the boy from the few moments of conversation they’d had.

On the fifth page, he came to the F’s. Farber . . . Fasone . . . Foo . . . Fraley . . . Frame. Blair paused, then held the book up to let more light spill from the window behind him. Thick blond hair, thin face, serious expression.

He tapped the picture and turned to his partner. "Jim, that’s him. I’m pretty sure."

"Pretty sure?"

"Well, as sure as I can be looking at these stiff poses, but, yeah, 99% sure."

"Okay. Let’s just finish looking at the freshmen." The detective pulled out his notepad and pen. "Jeremy Frame," he said, writing it down. "Keep looking, I’ll talk to Terri."

Jim strode to the counter and caught Terri’s eye; she had gone back to her desk, but jumped up quickly.

"Did you find him?" she asked, coming over.

"We think so. A freshman named Jeremy Frame."

"Okay, let me get Mr. Fuentes. He wants to speak with you." She picked up the receiver from a phone on the counter and punched in a number. "Mr. Fuentes, the police think they found the student . . . Jeremy Frame . . . Yes, all right. Bye." Terri disconnected, keeping the receiver in her hand, but turning to Jim. "He’ll be right here. He asked me to call the appropriate counselor, who can maybe give you some background info on the boy."

Jim nodded, surprised at their thoughtfulness. "Thanks, we appreciate it." He glanced back; Blair was just finishing, closing the book with a snap. Terri dialed another number and spoke into the phone.

The younger man joined him, setting the book on the counter. "That was the best resemblance. I flipped through the sophomores real fast, but no one caught my eye."

"All right. They’re getting the counselor and--" he broke off as a tall, fiftyish man approached from one of the connected offices.

The man held out his hand, but wavered between the two men he faced. "Detective Ellison?"

"That’s me." Jim took the hand. "My partner, Blair Sandburg."

Blair’s hand was also shaken, with a curious glance at his bandaged head. "I’m Edward Fuentes, the principal here. I understand you think one of our students is mixed up in a case of yours. May I ask how?" The honest brown eyes looked from one to another. "I ask because I’ll need to contact the boy’s parents, you realize."

Blair looked to Jim, frustrated. He hadn’t thought of that. There was another delay.

Jim was unperturbed. "I know. I thought we’d better be sure of his identity first. May we talk to the counselor? Maybe have the boy brought in on another pretext, so Blair here can at least get a look at him? They were both at a crime scene; we think the boy may have witnessed something."

The principal looked at Blair in surprise, then turned as another door opened to his left. A bespectacled man in a rumpled suit came their way, running one hand through thinning red hair, and clutching a file in the other.

"This is John Campbell," Mr. Fuentes said, stepping aside. "He’s Jeremy Frame’s counselor."

Campbell placed the file between them on the counter, and opened it. Before Jim could say anything, Fuentes scanned the top page.

"I’ll call his parents now, just in case . . . " He copied the number on the notepad, then paused. "It says Jeremy is living with foster parents."

Campbell nodded and told them, "His third set since being orphaned at eleven. His only family is an older sister, but she isn’t his guardian."

"All right. Let me make the call in my office, John, while you talk to the officers about Jeremy."

Jim filled the counselor in on their reasons for being there. "Jeremy was at a gas station yesterday when an attempted robbery and a murder took place. We think he may have seen something that can help us find the killers."

Campbell nodded and looked at Blair with dawning recognition. "Yeah, I remember seeing that on the news; and I saw you too, didn’t I?"

Blair grimaced. "So I’m told. It wasn’t my finest hour."

"Those reporters can be insensitive, to say the least," the counselor sympathized. "And Jeremy was there?"

"He told me school was out early because of conferences, and wanted to call his sister. I gave him some change for the phone."

Campbell gave a disgusted shake of his head and responded, "Right. Neither of Jeremy’s foster parents was interested enough to show up for their appointment. I’ve talked to the boy about three times since he’s been here. He’s withdrawn, but seems very intelligent, and attached to his sister. Understandable, under the circumstances; both parents were killed in a car accident three years ago. The sister, uh . . . " he referred to the file, "Anna - she went to the first foster home with him, where they stayed the longest. But she was out when she turned eighteen; she must be almost twenty now. Anyway, I gather she and Jeremy are still close, and he’s just biding his time ‘til he can be with her. I get the feeling there’s a lot of insecurity being repressed. His teachers like him, but he doesn’t open up much in class."

Blair smiled. "He was awfully polite to me; that’s gotta go over well."

"Yes--" Whatever Campbell was about to reply was cut off when the principal re-joined them.

Fuentes told them, "Mrs. Fuller, Jeremy’s foster mother, says ask him whatever you need to." He shook his head at the woman’s indifference. "Let’s call him in; if he’s your witness, we can decide how to proceed from there."

He turned to the boy at the back of the room, who was now dragging a backpack from under the desk where he sat. "Allen, before you go, I need you to take a message for me." The student waited while the principal scribbled a note, pausing to ask Terri for Jeremy’s present class.

"Got it for you here." She smiled, handing him her own note.

The summons was sent out. They waited, Blair a little nervously. He looked at the clock: two forty-five. "What time does school get out?"

"Fifteen minutes," the principal told him. "You got here just in time today."

Terri and the other secretary began end-of-the-day tasks: straightening their desks, turning off computers, closing files. Mr. Fuentes looked over Jeremy’s file; the counselor and Jim leaned against their respective sides of the counter. Blair wondered how his partner could be calm, when he felt like they were so close to getting their answers; it almost hurt to stand still. Jim fixed his penetrating gaze on the anthropologist. ‘Great,’ Blair thought, ‘never a private moment.’ Jim probably heard him sweating. He gave his friend a faint smile and pretended a calm he didn’t feel, leaning his back against the counter and crossing his arms.

It couldn’t have been much longer than five minutes before Jim stood up and looked sidelong at the door. Blair, the inveterate Sentinel watcher, knew what that meant and also rose to his full height in anticipation. He was practically bouncing by the time a lanky blond boy entered the door a minute later, carrying a pack and looking worried.

Blair and the boy froze, staring at one another. Yes, Blair thought jubilantly. He finally felt the last piece of the puzzle snap into place; his memory was complete, and vindicated.

However, his elation was obviously not shared by Jeremy. The boy’s mouth dropped open and he paled in shock at sight of the anthropologist. The principal barely got out, "Ah, Jeremy, this . . ." before the student swung around and sprinted out the door like a frightened deer. Jim was seconds behind, with Blair quickly on his heels, leaving the others paralyzed and gaping at the sudden exits.

Jim could still see the boy ahead of him, but he also had fastened his extended hearing onto the racing heart. The three of them ran down the path toward the performing arts building. As the boy passed it and headed down the sidewalk, Jim had an idea where he might be going. He stopped in front of the building and grabbed Blair’s arm, nearly staggering him. Still keeping his eyes on the fleeing figure, Jim dug his keys from his pocket and pressed them into Blair’s hand.

"Follow in the truck! If you lose sight of me go to Betty’s Blooms. We passed it on the way, remember?"

"Yeah, but . . . "

"I think he’s running to his sister! According to his file, she works there, she was listed in case of emergency. Wait for me in the truck! One way or another, I’ll get in touch with you there. Go!"

Jim raced off after the boy, who had disappeared into an alley across the street from the school. He knew Blair wouldn’t have been able to keep up anyway, not after just being released from the hospital. This way he could follow whatever circuitous route Jeremy took and not worry about his partner; and perhaps Blair would get ahead of them, and they’d have the boy trapped between them.

As long as Jim could see Jeremy, he tried to keep his hearing at a reasonable level; he didn’t want to be stunned by the sudden blare of a horn two blocks away, which was a painful possibility. He also couldn’t filter all sound but the boy’s heart or feet, and risk a zone-out. He’d sent his Guide away.

Man and boy ran down the alley which separated two strip malls; as he ran, Jeremy tried to fling a few obstacles in Jim’s way: a trash can lid, a bag of cans awaiting recycling, his backpack. But Jim avoided them easily, and recognized the panic in Jeremy’s gasping breaths and desperate attempts. What was he so afraid of? Surely he didn’t think the police suspected him, and he didn’t know that Blair was affiliated with the cops, anyway. Why had he run?

There was a heart-stopping moment when a car entered the far end of the alley as Jeremy approached it at high speed; the car squealed to a halt as Jeremy darted sideways, scrabbling for balance. The brief moment allowed Jim to lessen the distance, but then the boy was off across the busy intersection with hardly a glance to either side. Thanking whatever god looked after fools, children and anthropologists, Jim pounded along behind and managed to cross safely in the confused lull of traffic the boy’s passing had created.

The Sentinel was almost positive that his quarry was running to his sister, so desperately that he ran in a direct line, probably hoping his younger legs would outstrip his hunter. Jim wasn’t so sure that might not have happened, if he hadn’t had an idea where the boy was going. He could hear his own heart pounding now, his own breathing, and tried to filter that out and concentrate only on Jeremy.

As they raced along the second alley, Jim knew they were approaching Gaines Avenue at an oblique angle; one of the shops ahead was the florist’s where Anna Frame worked; it was situated in the middle of the block. Jim felt his legs burning with his efforts - surely Jeremy was nearly there?

Ah! Jeremy slowed, scanned the backs of the buildings to his right, then headed for a back entrance he apparently recognized. He threw a quick glance at the detective who was half a block behind, then wrenched open a screen door and disappeared.

Jim pounded up to the same entrance, gasping and leaning against it for support. A heavier wooden door opening inward backed the screen door. As expected, it was locked. He stayed in that position for several moments while he gulped air; he was in good condition, but, man, that two-block chase at full speed had been work!

When he could at last hear something besides his own pounding heart and rushing blood, the Sentinel extended his senses to hear what was happening on the other side of the brick wall before him . . .

. . . Jeremy was fighting his own breathless condition, trying to explain to someone inside that he needed to talk to Anna. Jim recognized the voice from the 911 tape. A woman’s concerned voice exclaimed over the boy’s sudden appearance and condition. She sounded like she had more than a passing acquaintance with Jeremy. Betty? Jim wondered.

"Here, Jeremy, sit down! I’ll get you some water." There was a pause in the conversation as the woman evidently did as she said; Jim could hear movement, then the magnified gurgle of swallowing.

The woman continued, "Anna’s with customers right now; I heard them come in a minute ago. Can you tell me what’s happened?"

Jim counted heartbeats: five, one still doing double-time.

His voice steadier, but urgent, Jeremy told her, "I’m sorry, it’s . . . there’s just something really important I need to talk to Anna about."

"Did something happen at school?"

Jim assumed the boy nodded, as there was no answer.

"All right, I’ll go see if she’s done yet." Jim heard high-heeled steps receding. While he waited, he scanned the alley and his environs with eyesight and hearing; where had Sandburg gotten to? As Jim considered going around to enter through the front door, the faster heartbeat he had tagged as the boy’s came nearer; Jim rolled aside, so he couldn’t be seen through the small window that pierced the inner wooden door. A tread lighter than the woman’s approached, and a startled, young female voice asked, "Jeremy, what’s wrong? We were coming to pick you up."

"Oh God, I need to talk to you!"

"Jeremy . . . "

The boy interrupted, his words nearly stumbling in his hurry: "Listen! Anna, I saw something yesterday. I got out of school early, and tried to call you from a gas station down the street, but there was a robbery going on." Jim noted the increased respiration, and a tremble in Jeremy’s voice, as he continued. "I was on the phone when these guys
came running out of the station, shooting at the owner. One guy had a ski mask on, but the other one didn’t. Anna, it was Jake! They killed the owner! I saw them!"

Anna gave a gasp and Jim heard both hearts thundering loudly in the stunned silence.

"They were in Tony’s car, the Mustang, and there was another guy outside with me, and he probably saw too, and they shot at him, but he showed up at school today with some big guy who chased me here . . . " the kid paused for a ragged breath. "Anna, what are we gonna do?! I think Tony and Jake are robbers."

Anna finally pulled herself together and hissed, "Keep your voice down!" She apparently stepped closer to her brother - and Jim - because it sounded as if she were whispering in the Sentinel’s ear as she said, "That’s Jake and Tony out front. We were coming to pick you up."

"What are we gonna do?" Jeremy repeated, his voice rising in panic. "Anna, that must have been Tony . . . "

"You’re right," a new, deeper and male voice joined the conversation. "It was, I’m sorry to say."

Jim cursed to himself. His cell phone was in the truck with Sandburg; if he left to call for help from a neighboring business, he was abandoning possible hostages to killers. In utter frustration, he extended his hearing briefly to scan for passersby he could recruit to make the call. Instead, he caught a familiar engine’s rumble; it was his own truck, accompanied by a well-known heartbeat. Sandburg was in front! If the Mustang was also parked there, surely his partner recognized it - yes, there went the heart, galloping now at an uncomfortable pace.

Jim made a quick decision. Still lightly focusing his hearing on the action inside the shop, he ducked below the window, passed the next business, which had boarded windows and a barred door on this side, and turned into the short alley that cut through the block of businesses to a driveway entrance from Gaines.

Peeking around the corner, he saw his truck double parked beside the Mustang, engine running. Where the hell was his partner? It seemed an interminable time before he saw the driver’s door open, and Blair climb in. Jim leaped out before the truck could move past, waving; Blair made a sudden swerve into the drive, stopping long enough for Jim to wrench open the passenger door and pull himself in.

"Go around the corner!" Jim directed. "Stop as close as you can get to the second door, here, so no one can get out!"

Blair did as told, pale and tight-lipped, thankfully asking no questions yet. He parked the bulky old pick-up mere inches from the wall, the cab blocking the doorway, preventing escape. Jim grimaced as the mirror on his side scraped the brick surface, and locked his own door.

"Okay, out!" Jim pushed the anthropologist out the driver’s side, then bailed out after him, grabbing his cell phone from the seat. Clutching Blair’s arm, he crouched in the lee side of the truck, dragging his friend down until they were face to face.

"Here, call for back-up," the Sentinel said, shoving the phone into Blair’s hand. He explained briefly, "The killers are in there, with Jeremy, his sister and another woman, presumably the owner. I’ve been listening. Jeremy and Anna know the killers, I think one’s her boyfriend, and they’ve been found out."

As Jim climbed to his feet, preparing to return to the front where their quarries only exit was, Blair grabbed a fistful of sweater.

"Jim, where are you going?" He glared at the Sentinel, having an idea about his intentions. The Guide had a few intentions of his own.

"I’m going to the front," Jim explained quickly, drawing his gun from its holster at his waist. "I’ve left them alone in there too long. Tell Simon we should consider these two guys armed and dangerous. Do it, Chief!"

Jim left his partner clutching at air and disappeared around the corner. Blair punched in the number and made the report in record time. Jim was in full "Sentinel of the City" mode, and his Guide should be at his back. As soon as he received Simon’s acknowledgment, he cut the connection and ran to join his partner; Jim hadn’t actually told him to stay put, after all.

As he approached the corner, he peeked around it; Jim was only steps away, cautiously peering through the large plate glass window that fronted the shop. A sudden fit of sneezing told Blair that Jim’s sense of smell had been extended, and had run smack up against an olfactory assault from the numerous flowers inside. Jim hurriedly backed away from the glass, bent nearly double by the violence of the sneezes. The anthropologist kept his back pressed securely to the wall and inched up to the detective.

"Jim, close off your sense of smell. I don’t think it will help here, anyway."

After one last mighty sneeze and a moment of concentration, Jim straightened and wiped at tearing eyes. "Hell," he muttered. "There was that marijuana again, too. I think I’ve inhaled more of that in the last few days than I have since high school."

"Could you see anything?" Blair asked quietly.

"Yeah, Betty or whoever she is. I don’t think she knows what’s going on, she’s arranging some flowers." Jim leaned against the wall with a sigh and wiped a sleeve across his eyes, searching his pockets for a tissue. His fumbling fingers met something stiff; on impulse, Jim pulled out the card that had come with Blair’s flowers.

"Chief, call the number here. When Betty answers, tell her who we are, to remain quiet and look out the window. I’ll show her my badge. Tell her to walk out the front door, quickly."

Jim dug out his shield and re-focused his sight on the Mustang’s window, where he could watch Betty’s movements in the reflection. Blair made the call, repeating Jim’s instructions. When he saw the woman look up, open-mouthed, the detective pressed his badge against the glass and dared a direct look into the shop. The woman was hanging up. She walked forward directly as Jim beckoned, thank God, but not without a worried
glance behind. Jim met her at the door, grabbed an arm and tugged her safely aside, towards Blair.

"Officer, what’s going on? My employee and her brother are still in there." She was a petite black woman who managed to sound calm, despite her evident bewilderment.

"Those men inside are wanted for murder and robbery," Jim said brusquely. The woman put a shaking hand her to mouth, and nodded when Jim asked, "Are you Betty? Do you have any idea what’s happening in there?"

"No. They’re in a back room with one door leading to it. Jeremy, my assistant’s brother-"

Jim interrupted: "We know who he is, and Anna. Jeremy saw the murder committed, and now the murderers know it. You didn’t hear anything they were saying? Didn’t see any weapons?" Betty shook her head. "All right." Jim patted her shoulder. "I want you to go to the next business behind us, go inside and tell them to lock the doors and stay towards the back. None of you are to come out unless an officer says so, okay? More police are on the way."

As the woman turned and trotted away, Jim began, "Chief--"

"No!" Blair said fiercely, scowling. "I’m staying. Jim, you’re going to listen in, right? Well, that’s exactly when you’re most vulnerable, and that’s exactly why I’m here." He placed a hand on his partner’s back. "Now let’s do it, those kids need you!"

The irresistible force clashed with the immovable object; a compromise was reached.

Jim turned his intent blue gaze to the reflections in the Mustang’s window, watching for movement.

"If I say move, you do it, no questions asked! Things could get pretty nasty, pretty fast."

"I will, Jim." Blair’s reply was made in the low, soothing tone adopted when he went into Guide mode. As Jim concentrated his hearing and sight, he felt his body responding to the security elicited by that tone. He fell into the curiously relaxed vigilance that allowed him to send his senses outward, knowing that his physical body was protected and grounded by his Guide.

Blair’s hand was warm on his back as the Sentinel listened for, and found, voices emanating from the back room of Betty’s Blooms. Angry and frightened voices mixed.

Anna was pleading with both men. "Jake! Let him go, we won’t tell anyone! Tony, I promise you, he hasn’t told anyone, and he won’t! Tonyyy!!" The last word was a pleading wail.

"Shut up, Anna! Jeremy got us in this mess we’re in now, he’s gonna get us out! Tony, check the front!"

"All right, but keep your hands off Anna!" Tony returned forcefully.

Jim assumed the rear exit had been attempted, and his truck perhaps recognized. He could hear scuffling, footsteps approaching. His reflected view showed him a burly young man in his mid-twenties about fifteen feet from the front, his right hand holding a gun to Jeremy’s cheek while the left arm encircled the boy’s throat, pinning him securely. The boy was wide-eyed with fear; Anna hovered, fingers alternately reaching out to her brother then nervously clasping one another. She kept up a steady stream of promises and entreaties. Jake ignored her, except for an occasional scowl in her direction; otherwise his eyes followed Tony, who was hidden behind floral displays as he crept forward. The Sentinel tracked Tony’s movements with his extended hearing. Unconsciously he pushed against his Guide. Blair gave maybe an inch and kept his hand in place.

"How’s it looking, Jim?"

"I think we’ve been discovered; Tony’s reconnoitering for an escape through the front. They’ve got Jeremy at gunpoint."

Unaware that he’d even pulled it out, Jim clasped his service revolver before him in both hands, ready if necessary. He hoped it wouldn’t be . . . A face peered around a rack of cards, not five feet from Jim on the other side of the window. Jim turned from his second-hand view in the Mustang to face the man directly.

"Tony! You may as well give yourselves up, we’ve got all we need to arrest you for murder and attempted robbery. Don’t add kidnapping to the charges!"

Tony looked steadily at the detective for a moment, emotionless, then turned away. "Jake! It’s that big cop, Sandburg’s partner. You can bet Sandburg’s out there, too. You wanna push it?"

"Goddamn it!" Jake breathed noisily through his nose, evidently tightening his hold on Jeremy; the boy gave a whimper that made Jim clutch his gun tighter. "Do you see any other cops?"

Tony moved and chanced a better look, knowing the cop wouldn’t start shooting heedlessly with hostages inside. "I don’t see any. Traffic’s normal, and I can’t see anything unusual across the street. Well?"

"Tony, come on, please!" Anna interjected. "I’ll come with you, I love you, but leave Jeremy here!"

"Anna . . . " Jim thought he heard sincere regret in Tony’s voice. "It’s gotten too far out of hand. We’re in deep shit with our bosses. If we don’t get out of Cascade now, we’re dead."

"All right, but use me! They don’t have to know I’m going willingly!"

"No," Jake said roughly. "The kid saw too much; he comes with us. Tony, bring Anna. We have to leave now, before back-up arrives for those guys. Move!" He raised his voice, pitching it for the two outside. "We’re leaving! If you don’t want to see these two die, you better back off!"

"Jake and Tony are coming out with Jeremy and his sister," Jim quickly relayed to Blair before the front door was kicked open; Jake and Tony sidled out, facing the cops with a hostage before each of them. Jeremy was still pinned against Jake with a gun trained on him, but Tony appeared unarmed, and held Anna before him almost casually.

Jim raised his gun and placed himself squarely before his partner. He would have preferred shoving Sandburg around the corner, but couldn’t risk dividing his attention. God knew Blair wouldn’t think of it himself.

"You guys aren’t going to make it, you know. We’ve got men coming, they’ll be here in a minute. Don’t make this worse, for yourselves or anyone innocent."

"Open the door, Tony," Jake said with a jerk of the head toward the Mustang. Tony obeyed, still holding Anna by the hand.

"Tony, no, please," Anna whispered, tears pooling, then spilling down her cheeks. Tony paused.

"Get in, Anna!" Jake ordered, without breaking eye contact with Jim.

Anna suddenly yanked her hand from Tony’s grasp, throwing him off balance, and leaped into the street. In the confusion of horns and screeching tires which followed, Jim cringed at the assault to his ears but tried to keep his gun steadily on Jake, who had turned at the sudden chaos and dragged Jeremy closer to the waiting car. His gun wavered momentarily, then returned to its threatening position.

"Shit! That’s it, Tony! Forget it, let’s get out of here!"

Jim felt a sudden coldness at his back; Blair had stepped away from him, several feet to his right, with arms raised non-threateningly.

"Blair!? What the hell- Get back here!" Jim nearly choked on his anger and fear. Did Sandburg have a death wish?

The anthropologist shook his head. "Can’t, Jim. I can’t let them take that kid." His voice shook with anguish at the decision he had somehow made spontaneously. He couldn’t look at Jim, or his resolve might melt, and everybody would suffer. "Come on, Jake, take me instead. Let the kid go. I was there too, remember?"

Jake swore. "Yeah, you’re a goddamned nuisance." His fingers tightened minutely on the trigger of his gun. God, he wanted this guy, one small, bloody, painful piece at a time.

"Blair, get out of the way," Jim ordered helplessly as his partner inched towards Jake and the car. Jim heard sirens - finally - in the distance. If he could just hold it together for a few more minutes . . . Blair was no help.

"Take me," the anthropologist insisted. "I won’t fight you; that’ll be easier than dragging along a scared kid."

And just what are you? Jim thought to himself, noting the quiver in Blair’s arms, the tension in his back. "Sandburg, I don’t know what you think you’re doing . . . "

Still keeping his arms upraised, Blair finally swung around and faced Jim, his back to the fidgeting Jake. His lips moved; Jim extended his hearing and heard a whisper: "I slashed the tires. Get ready." Speaking loudly, for all to hear, Blair said, "I’m trying to prevent a bloodbath here, Jim." He stared pleadingly into his partner’s white face, and said, with a significance only Jim understood, "Do you understand me?"

Defeated, Jim nodded. Blair must have been sabotaging the Mustang earlier, when the truck was double-parked. The kid got points for resourcefulness.

The sirens became audible to everyone. Tony jumped into the back seat and yelled to his partner, who made a hasty decision; Jake shoved the boy at Jim, staggering both of them, and wrenched Blair around and forced him to crawl through to the driver’s seat, the cold gun muzzle now prodding the anthropologist. The doors were slammed, and Blair
turned the key in the ignition, praying that the Sentinel would know his cue when he saw it.

Jim pushed Jeremy behind him and to the ground, then stood protectively between him and the car. After that, all he could do was wait with muscles tensed and ready for whatever action his Guide expected of him, trying not to let panic gain control. Subconsciously, he was aware of the police cars which encircled the block, taking up position while their radios crackled and the occupants prepared to lay siege, if necessary.

The Mustang pulled from the curb, and Jim saw it did indeed list to the left. What should have been a smooth, quick departure was an awkward, abrupt lurch as Blair floored the gas pedal, then stomped on the break only seconds later, sending his passengers flailing for support. Jake’s gun hand involuntarily flew to the dash to prevent him from smashing his face against it.

Jim vaulted off the curb, barely having time to realize that Blair had thrown himself out his own door into the street. The detective clamped an iron grip onto Jake’s wrist through the open window, and wrestled the gun from him before the burly killer had time to recover. With his own gun at Jake’s temple, he stowed his captive’s weapon in his
waistband, then dragged Jake from the car.

Keeping an eye on Tony, who sat in the back seat with arms raised, Jim called, "Sandburg! You all right?"

His partner finally appeared upright on the opposite side of the Mustang, inspecting a ragged hole in his flannel sleeve. The left side of his face and hand showed a smear of blood and painful-looking welts. His dark hair hung in tangled curls, strands of it plastered to the wounds. Unconsciously, Jim winced at the sight. Great, that'll really help his previous head injury, he couldn't help but think.

"Yeah, Jim. Just a little road rash, but, hey, I’ve had worse, right?" Blair gingerly smoothed his hair back.

Jim grinned, relieved to hear his partner's nonchalance. "Right, Chief. Just yesterday, in fact."

As Blair joined him, a swarm of officers converged cautiously on the scene, guns drawn. Brown, Rafe and several others from Major Crimes took custody of the silent Tony and his cursing partner. Jake threw Blair a venomous look, and was about to speak when Brown gave him a jerk that nearly knocked him off his feet. "Save it, pal," Brown told him. "You’ll
never get the better of him in any argument." Blair smiled his thanks.

There were grins and quick congratulations from their colleagues. The Sentinel gripped his Guide’s shoulder and gave him a look Blair found both warming and alarming. He pondered excuses to avoid the imminent lecture - perhaps he could plead exhaustion . . . injury...an invitation to join an expedition halfway around the world . . .

As always, Simon’s presence was broadcast to the Sentinel by the ever-present, heavy smell of tobacco. Jim sneezed. Without turning around, he said with amusement, "Hi, Simon."

A cloud of smoke wreathed the tall, dark man as he drew up beside the partners. "Was that a joke, Jim? Because I didn’t think it was funny." The captain’s mild tone belied his words, though, as he gave his team the once-over from sharp brown eyes. He took another drag on his cigar and nodded approvingly. "Good job." He drew their attention to the scene behind them, where Anna and Jeremy clung to one another in the back seat
of a patrol car while an officer took their statements.

"We picked her up about a block away. She ran right out in traffic to flag us down, told us what to expect. She said she ran away, hoping to distract the killers long enough for you to get the upper hand."

Jim thought how close she had come to bringing tragedy down on them all instead, but, as he and his Guide were safe, he was inclined to be forgiving; she was young.

"Seems like a brave kid," Simon finished.

"Yeah, well, she doesn’t have a monopoly on it," Jim said meaningfully.

Blair kept his gaze on the blue, yellow and silver patrol car, but felt himself flushing. Oh, well, maybe he owed Jim; he’d endure the lecture.

The three friends contemplated the busy scene in momentary silence, letting their rattled nerves settle, taking stock of their injuries, risks and gains.

"Well, gentlemen, I think we can call it a day." Simon appraised the Sentinel and Guide. "Why don’t you take it easy tomorrow; come in around ten."

Blair rolled his eyes. "Gee, Simon, so kind. Next thing we know you’ll be sending flowers."

Jim choked on his next breath and collared his partner, dragging him away from their sputtering superior.

"That’s ‘Captain’ to you, Sandburg, remember?" The tall man pointed his cigar at the anthropologist.

"Sorry, Captain," Blair called unrepentantly over his shoulder. "I forgot. I have amnesia, you know, I can’t be held responsible . . ." His last words ended in a laughing gasp as Jim gave him a friendly but firm shove toward the truck.

"You trying to get me fired? " Jim asked lightly, eyeing his battered partner. "One of these days, Chief, you’ll come home and find the locks changed."

"Nah," his friend said, sailing happily on a tide of relief, security and bonhomie. "You won’t be rid of me that easily."

"No, I won’t," Jim said in satisfaction. He stopped, grasping Blair’s arm. His friend looked up inquiringly. "And don’t you forget that."

"How could I, Jim?" Blair flashed a quick smile in understanding. "That’s not written up there," pointing to his head. He placed a finger over his heart. "That’s here."

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