Blair Sandburg answered his office phone on the first ring.

"Chief, I need you at the docks."

Face stretching into an idiotic grin, Blair cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder. He grabbed the leather backpack from under his desk and began stuffing his notebooks inside. His classes were done for the day and student hours were a joke due to the current crisp January days and sparkling clear skies. Radio ads ran nonstop, bragging about the snow bases at the ski resorts on the nearby mountain pass. Rainier campus had turned into a ghost town. Slipping away shouldn't be a problem.

After all, Jim needed him. Work could wait.

"Yeah? What's up?" Blair asked.

"Unidentified D.B. There's something I want you to see."

Exhilaration crashed. Blair wasn't particularly fond of gazing upon dead bodies - a little aftertaste from Susan Frazier, but he grabbed the pen poking out from a stack of graded papers anyway.

"Go with the address, man."

Reaching the city's industrial district and still feeling euphoric at being summoned, Blair parked next to a broken down bus shelter. This neighborhood didn't need transit. The surrounding blocks needed an overhaul. Empty warehouses and pothole-ridden streets were the highpoints. It was not the type of neighborhood to be caught alone in after dark. Blair locked his Corvair and made his way toward the knot of crime scene investigators measuring and photographing.

In the empty, refuge-filled lot between two vacant buildings, Jim stood tall among the police personnel. He caught Blair's gaze just as a uniformed cop standing guard at the crime scene tape stopped Blair. "Let him in, Santos!"

Blair couldn't help but feel privileged as he ducked under the scene tape. This was so cool. After that fiasco with the golden-laced pizza - Blair was still having nightmares - and the lingering aftermath of Lash, Blair had figured Jim would get input from the dogcatcher before trusting him again. Yet here he was.

"What's up?" Blair asked, jogging to Jim's side.

"Take a look at this." Jim squatted down and matter-of-factly lifted one corner of a tarp on the ground.

Blair looked and reality bitch-slapped him. "Whoa..." He reared back and turned away, forced to fight his stomach's efforts to purge. Jim's hand touched the small of his back, urging him back from the tarp.

"You okay? Maybe this wasn't a good idea..."

"No," Blair muttered, between deep breaths, willing his stomach to behave. "It's just... I wasn't expecting that. What the hell happened to his mouth?"

Jim shrugged. "Not sure. That's what I wanted you to see. Can you think of any rationale the killer might have had?"

Blair shook his head and sucked in a final deep breath, feeling stupid. "Not really, man. What killed him?"

"We'll need an autopsy to know. None of the visible trauma was enough to kill him."

Briskly rubbing his upper arms in a self-hug, Blair nodded. "The killer knocked him around first, maybe to prove himself superior... or maybe just to catch him. Let me look again."

Jim stopped him from turning back. "Are you--"

"I'm fine, really. It just surprised me." Blair returned to the body and knelt. He steeled himself to impartially view the body.

The victim was a young male, maybe nineteen, certainly not more than twenty-three. His red hair was scraggly and long, making him look waif-like. His face was chalky white with blackish bruising around his eye and left cheek. The lips were torn and bloody. Jim carefully lifted the victim's lower lip, showing Blair the inside and gums.

"The punctures go completely though," Jim said.

"As if the killer was sewing them shut." Blair frowned. "But no thread."

Jim nodded, pulling his hand back. "First I thought we had a sick son of a bitch that wanted to make a shrunken head." Jim raised the tarp higher, showing the victim's mud encrusted clothes, making Blair think the poor kid might be living on the streets. "Look at this." He lifted the victim's arm.

Blair recognized the expensive Fossil logo on the watch and whistled softly. "Okay, so this kid only likes to dress like he's homeless. Any I.D.?"

Jim shook his head and covered the victim back up. He stood. "That's number one on my `to do' list."

Blair rose, looking around the lot. He dropped his voice to a whisper. "Did you find anything else? You know, with your..."

"Nope. Nothing out of the ordinary." Jim scratched the back of his head. "I was hoping you might have some insight on the whole mouth mutilation thing."

Crossing his arms, Blair looked back down at the covered body. He tried not to dwell on what the victim's last thoughts might have been before he died. Had he been chained? Had the killer taunted him? Had the dead man begged for his life or spat in his killer's eye? Did he hope for a last minute rescue? Why didn't he have a friend like Jim in his life?

"Sandburg?"

Blair looked up at Jim. "I'll need to do some research."

"Any luck?" Jim asked as Blair walked into the loft later that evening.

Dumping his backpack on the floor under the coat rack, Blair detoured around the kitchen island where Jim was working at the stove and opened the refrigerator. He shook his head, pulling out a beer. "No, but I'm going back later. I just need to grab some food."

Jim frowned. "There's no reason for you to do everything on the first night. It's late." He opened the oven to revile a warm pan of enchiladas.

"God, that looks as good as it smelled." Blair had the cordless phone in hand. "Give me a second, man."

He disappeared into his room. Jim gave the rice one last stir while shamelessly dialing up his hearing. Blair asked someone named Charlie to take tomorrow's classes for him. When Blair emerged, Jim had his dinner on a plate and stood with folded arms.

"Don't disrupt your class schedule for this."

Blair waved a nonchalant hand. "Chill, Jim. It's no biggie. I want to help, you know? I need to help." He sat down at the table and started eating. "Mmm, this is good."

Taking out his own beer, Jim joined his roommate at the table, starting on his own dinner. He watched Blair shovel food into his mouth a few seconds before saying, "Dan gave us a preliminary on the time of death. Six to twenty-four hours."

Moving to the rice, Blair managed to talk between bites. "There's something... I'm missing with the lips. Something I read or saw once. Can't find it... but I know I will."

And before Jim was a quarter of the way through his meal, Blair was carrying his empty plate to the sink, dropping his bottle into the recycle can and grabbing his backpack.

"Sandburg."

"No time, man." Blair raised a hand as he left, not looking back. "Catch you tomorrow at the station."

The door closed.

Dazed, Jim leaned back in his chair.

Around mid-morning, Jim was conferring with Brown over a witness report when he heard the familiar heartbeat getting off the elevator. A very weary looking Blair Sandburg drifted into the bullpen.

"Ho, ho, look who's here," Brown said, chortling. "Late night with the ladies, Sandburg?"

"I wish. Hey, Jim." Blair plopped his overfilled backpack on the empty desk next to Jim's, shrugged out of his coat and dropped into a chair.

Eyeing his partner's unshaven face and yesterday's rumpled clothes, Jim sighed. "Didn't realize the university library was open all night."

"It is..." Blair paused to deliver a jawbreakingly wide yawn and ran a hand through his tangles. "... if you know the right people."

"Any luck?"

"A few leads." Blair pulled out a notebook. Pausing to search the room as if he'd lost something precious, his gaze fell upon Jim's nearly empty coffee mug.

"Stay put, I'll get you a cup." Jim left. Snagging a clean cup from the break room's wall rack, he filled both cups and carried them back. He found Blair reading a text book, with others scattered about the spare desk. Jim was left with just enough space to set the coffee down. He waved at the books. "This going to help?"

Reaching for the coffee like a heat-guided missile, Blair answered without looking up, "Not sure, man. Found some reference to facial scarring among the Babangi groups that I thought maybe related. And the Ngari pattern... but they use a pair of chevron-shaped scars pointing outward from the corners of the mouth." Blair waved his right hand, the pen he held coming close to marking his own face, to demonstrate.

Jim blinked. "Ngari."

"Yeah," Blair answered, taking another swallow before setting his coffee down. "But then, I think, no, that can't be it. Man, I feel like I should know this!"

Jim settled back behind his desk. "So you're saying the killer is making those cuts or piercing to create scars. Only, the victim's dead. No scars are going to form."

Blair paused, rubbing his face. "I know that. But there's got to be a reason. Scarification is all I can think of. Maybe the killer started off with the idea of the ritual, only the victim somehow moved and the killer..." He dropped his face into his hands. "Shit, I'm totally reaching here."

Jim sighed. "Hey, anything you find might help. I'm just trying to understand."

Blair leaned on the desk, cupping his chin with his left hand and giving Jim a glum look. "What's new with the victim? Any ID yet?"

Jim shook his head, reaching for the report on this desk. "No obvious cause of death. Dan's thinking he was given a poison. No needle marks, so he probably ingested it. We've sent fingerprints off to the Feds' database, might get lucky there. No local missing person's report matches, so we've widened the search to all states and Canada. No tattoos or other identifying marks to help us."

When he looked up, he caught Blair's unfocused gaze into empty space.

"Chief?"

Blair shook his head and pulled a large book close, flipping it open. "Right, okay then. I'll keep working on this angle. I still think it has something to do with rituals. Pierced lips. Damn, I so should know this one." He delved back into the pages to read.

Simon Banks replaced his phone with a sigh. Through the blinds, he could see that Jim's unofficial partner had joined them.

"Ellison, please join me in my office. Bring Sandburg."

It was a harmless test and Simon didn't expect anything to happen. After all, he'd practically whispered the order and his office door was closed, but Jim turned to meet his gaze, nodded and stood, saying something to Sandburg.

Simon felt sucker punched.

Ellison had heard. Yeah, he knew the man had pulled off some amazing stuff, in fact, he'd seen it personally when Daryl and Sandburg had been Kincaid's hostages. But this... this was not good.

Simon schooled his expression to remain blank as the two men entered his office. "Have a seat, gentlemen." He noticed Sandburg's condition and wrinkled his nose. "I thought the grunge look was on the way out, Sandburg."

The kid blushed. He ran a self-conscious palm over his hair, unable to smooth it down. "I... ah, didn't..."

"He's been working all night on this case, sir," Jim explained.

Simon nodded. "I just hung up with Anchorage, Alaska. They heard about your DB."

Jim leaned forward. "They got an ID?"

"No, but they had a similar murder a few months ago." Simon leaned back, bracing his hands on the arms of his chair to twist a kink out of his back. He needed more exercise. This desk job sucked. "They're sending down a detective to work with you for a few days."

Frowning, Blair asked, "Another victim? They know it's the same guy?"

Simon shrugged, pushing a paper across the desk for Jim. "That's the reason they're sending their man, Sandburg. Law enforcement agencies have been known to work together from time to time. Compare notes and such. Go pick him up, Jim. Here's the flight information."

As they were leaving, Simon called Jim back for a private word. He waited until Sandburg was on the other side of the closed door. "How much do you hear in my office, Jim?"

The question seemed to catch Jim off guard. He lifted his eyebrows. "Sir?"

"My meetings, my phone calls," Simon clarified. "How much do you overhear?"

Blue eyes hardened. "None of it, Simon. I only caught my name. Like when you hear a room full of people talking, some words jump out." He crossed his arms. "I don't listen in on your conversations."

Relaxing, Simon nodded. "I just wanted to make sure. This is... unorthodox, to say the least." He flicked a look through the blinds where Sandburg was waiting for Jim to come out. "Speaking of which. Tell the kid we have a dress code."

Jim nodded coolly. "Is that all, sir?"

Simon nodded. "Keep me informed, Detective."

Blair leaned against the passenger door and longed for sleep. He had no idea why he was this tired. Well, okay, check that, he did know. But the point was, he didn't understand why one missing night of sleep was hitting him this hard. He used to work all night and get through the next day without a problem. Sure, the second night he could sleep through a battleship plowing through his warehouse, but that was a price he'd pay.

"I still say I should drop you off at the loft," Jim told him.

Blair almost agreed, almost caved in, but stubbornly shook his head. "I'm fine, man." He wondered if Jim's real reason was embarrassment. He'd taken a second to tidy up his hair while Jim had pulled into a gas station to fill up the Expedition. Now he felt more presentable with his neat ponytail. It was too bad he couldn't do anything about his wrinkled clothes, but as Simon had so dryly stated back at the station, the grunge look was only beginning to go out of style.

Did Jim resent his attire on the job? He hadn't acted that way on the Lash case, or more recently, the Golden case - which they had just finished. Blair had only been home from the hospital for about a week and so far Jim had acted normally. Yet something was pissing the cop off. It was obvious by the way he strangled the steering wheel.

They took the off-ramp leading to the airport entrance and took their place in the line of cars waiting to pull a paper ticket giving their arrival time. The red and white striped barricade swung up and they drove through, up the coiled ramp and onto the floor that housed the sky bridges that led to the terminal. Blair wondered if Jim would leave his gun behind or deal with security. He took it. They walked side by side over the enclosed skybridge and into the airport. Jim stepped onto the escalator going down to the luggage carousal.

"We're not going to the gate?" Blair always met people at the gate, right as they got off the airplane. It was proper.

Jim flicked him a glance. "No. He's got to get his luggage anyway."

"What if he doesn't have any?"

"He'll have some." Jim folded his arms and leaned against a concrete pillar to wait. "If he doesn't, I'll have him paged."

They waited for twenty minutes. Soon tired passengers appeared, claiming suitcases off the revolving belt. Blair watched the crowd.

"There he is." Jim straightened and waited a moment. When a bald guy with a build similar to a fire hydrant picked up his black suitcase and turned to leave, Jim spoke a little louder. "Willden."

The man diverted smoothly toward Jim. "Ellison?"

Jim nodded. "You want to check into your hotel or go to the station?"

"Station's fine. I got a hotel within walking distance." The cop turned toward the exit. Jim fell into place at his side.

Blair followed, wondering if cops had some type of sixth sense that gave them the ability to recognize each other, even when they'd never met before. Arriving at Jim's Ford, the Alaskan cop seemed to notice Blair for the first time. "You are?"

Unlocking the doors, Jim tilted his head in Blair's direction. "My partner, Blair Sandburg. He's an observer with the department."

Blair knew better than to offer his hand. This guy was so not giving off friendly vibes. Fifteen years ago, he and Naomi would have crossed a busy street to avoid a guy like him. Still, he had to work with this guy, so he'd do his best. "So, how was your flight?" He ignored the way the other man visually sized him up. They were about the same height, but Willden had fifty extra pounds of muscle on him and somewhere along the way in his life, had lost his neck.

Ignoring the polite question, Willden wrenched open the door and glared at Jim over the car roof. "I'm not looking for a media circus with this case. We don't need an observer."

Face showing no emotion, Jim smoothly slid into the car. Blair missed whatever he said in reply. His own ears were too busy trying to self combust as he fumbled with the back door. Sliding into the seat and reaching for his lap belt, Blair noted the icy silence. He wiped his palms on his jeans, wishing they weren't the thrift store pair with the rip below his left knee, and braced for a quiet ride back to the station. He made up his mind to head back to the loft early and continue his research from home.

Much later that evening, Jim approached the door to his home, tired and frustrated. His new tagalong from Alaska was seriously driving him nuts. The guy was narrow-minded, bull-headed and insisted on taking charge. He'd insisted on reading the report without any briefing from Jim, then on being taken to the empty lot where the body had been found. His input into the case was close to squat and Jim was pissed. This guy was slowing him down.

Unlocking the door and entering, Jim found Blair sitting at the kitchen table, one cheek propped up in his palm, elbow on the table, surrounded by open books...

And snoring.

Jim used his heel to close the door behind him. His earlier irritation provided more force than he intended and it slammed shut. Blair awakened with a start. A large green, leather bound book crashed to the floor as his arm swept across the table.

"Damn it, Jim!" Blair dropped to a knee to scoop it up and check for damage.

"Sorry, Chief. Is it okay?" Jim hung up his coat and headed for the kitchen. He slipped out of his shoulder holster. He wound the straps around the holster and slipped it into a kitchen drawer that housed extra pens and scratch paper.

"Yeah," Blair muttered, sliding back into his seat and returning the book to the table. He rubbed his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Late. Did you eat yet?"

"Finished off the last of the tofu pasta."

"Thank god." Jim had hated it the first time around and had refused the offer of leftovers. Checking the refrigerator contents for dinner possibilities, Jim asked, "Any luck with the scarring theory?"

"No. Willden have any ideas?" Blair started closing books and stacking them into piles.

"The guy's about as helpful as tits on a frog."

Blair snorted. "It was obvious he felt the same about me."

"Is that why you left early?" Jim snagged two beers, setting one before Blair then twisting off the cap on the other.

Managing to lift all the books in one load, Blair staggered toward his room. "I told you, I wanted to work on researching lip mutilation."

Jim was riffling through his collection of takeout menus. He pulled out a rarely used Greek menu and studied his options. He was in the mood for lamb. "I'm sure it'll come to you."

Much later that night, after Blair had retired and Jim had finished his meal alone, he watched the news, drank his second beer and allowed his mellow mood to be soured by the memories of his boss's earlier implication. The thought of Simon thinking he would purposely eavesdrop made him angry all over again.

Like Jim couldn't be trusted. Like being a sentinel meant he had no honor.

Jim stared at the TV, not registering the images flickering in the low lights of the loft. Jim considered Simon more than a boss, he was a friend. But today he'd seen something he'd never thought he'd see in those brown eyes: fear.

His old man was right.

`Do you want the world to think you're a freak, Jimmy?'

A loud crash from Blair's room jolted him off the sofa and had him running for the curtain. It had been over a month since Blair had endured a Lash nightmare. Jim had assumed they were done.

"Blair?" Jim pulled the curtain aside.

Standing in boxers and a t-shirt, Blair yanked the blankets off his bed. "Stop `em! Gotta stop them!" He whipped the blankets about, smacking Jim's legs. A coffee cup full of pens and a framed picture were next. They flew off the desk and crashed to the floor.

Jim caught the end of the blanket. "Sandburg! What are you doing?"

"Nonono!" Fear etched on his face, eyes unfocused, Blair tugged hard on the blanket and nearly pulled Jim off his feet. "Let go! Back, get BACK!"

Hand over hand, Jim worked down the blanket and caught Blair's wrists. He gave the younger man a shake. "Wake up, Chief. You're dreaming."

Blair twisted, struggling to get free. "Can't burn! Let go!"

Then Jim got it. "Crap." He drew Blair close and sat them both on the edge of the bed. "Shhh. Calm down for me, kid."

Blair struggled. "They're here!"

"No, listen to me. You're in your room. You're safe."

"Room?" Blair stilled, still tense, still frightened.

"Yeah, you're home."

"Jim?" Blair sounded lost and impossibly young.

"Hey," Jim relaxed his hold and leaned back, hoping the kid wasn't going to head-butt him. "You with me now?"

Blair shivered.

Jim reached for a blanket from the floor, keeping one arm around Blair's shoulders. "Let's get you warmed up."

Blair clutched the edges of the blanket. His cheeks began to redden.

"It's just a flashback, Chief. Remember? The doctor said this could happen." Jim ducked to meet his friend's averted gaze. "You in there?"

Blair nodded. "Sorry, man. Stupid..."

"No, not stupid. It happens."

Blair swayed against Jim's arm. "So real."

"What?"

Yawning, Blair gathered the blanket closer. "Came right out of the floor... in the corner... needles in his mouth." Blair blinked and yawned again.

"What?"

Still caught in a wide yawn, Blair's head tilted back toward his pillow.

"Chief? What did you say?"

"Huh?"

"Just now, you said someone was in the corner."

Blair sagged. "So tired."

Reluctantly, Jim stood. "Okay, let's get your bed back together. Lie down." After tucking in the sheet, Jim spread out the blankets. Blair's shivers eased off by the time the last blanket was in place. By the time the frame had been returned to the desktop and the last pen back to the cup, Blair was softly snoring into his pillow.

Jim watched his friend sleep and pondered bastards that laced pizza with poison.

Long before sunrise, Blair woke with an incredible headache and a deep sense of shame. He sat up, or tried to. Pounding pain dropped him back against the futon. Pressing fingertips against his temples, he bit his lip. A moan escaped.

Something brushed his arm and he nearly jumped out of his skin. A blurry Jim leaned over the bed, a glass of water in one hand. "Here, swallow this."

Blair managed to scoot up enough to lean against the wall. His stomach rolled and he wondered if he was going to puke.

Jim placed a small white pill into his palm.

"I called the doc," Jim said in a soft, near whisper. "He said migraines commonly followed flashbacks. He prescribed these."

If his head wasn't trying to split into four equal parts, Blair would delight in the fact that Jim had done this for him. Maybe if he lived - because he was sure his head was seconds away from exploding - he'd find a way to show Jim how much he appreciated the effort.

Blair swallowed the pill and handed the water glass back, noticing how much his hand shook. He needed to be horizontal again. The light from the window hurt. Even the air on his skin was too much. He slid down with a moan and rolled toward the wall, barely able to acknowledge Jim's fussing with the bedding.

Jim was still talking. Blair tried to listen, but couldn't focus. For a few minutes he was alone with his pain. Warmth touched his forehead. Blair raised a hand and pressed the bulky flannel tightly to his temple, recognizing by touch his own microwavable tube filled with raw rice and herbs.

Time passed as Blair fell in and out of sleep. Jim replaced the heat pack each time it cooled. Finally, the pill took away the pain and Blair fell into a deeper sleep. When he woke, he was able to roll over to read the clock. It was after ten in the morning. His head felt sore, like an old bruise. He gingerly sat up as Jim came into his room.

"You've got color," Jim said.

"Huh?"

"Your face," Jim explained, waving his hand at Blair. "You were runner up for albino-boy a few hours ago."

Blair made his way to his feet and swayed. "Gotta pee."

Jim backed out of the room. "Might as well grab a shower while you're in there. You'll feel better. Just don't take a header in the tub."

Jim was right. Blair felt like a new man when he emerged with one towel wrapped around his hips and the other over his shoulder catching the drips from his hair. He saw the police report and files spread out on the table. "Damn, you missed work because of me."

Caught in the act of refilling his mug with fresh coffee, Jim shrugged. "I'm not missing anything. Willden wanted to read reports on his own and I told Simon I'd study the case from here. If you're up to it, we'll join him."

Blair felt up to it. "Who? Simon?"

Jim pulled a face. "No, super-cop Willden."

"I thought you guys were getting along."

"Hardly," Jim answered, returning to the table. "Get dressed. We'll grab something from the deli on the way into town."

The bullpen was a hive of activity when they arrived, with file clerks and detectives coming and going, phones ringing and keyboards clicking. Two witnesses sat at two different desks, while officers typed statements. Blair headed for his normal spot, only to find it occupied by Willden, who had obviously made himself at home.

"Anything?" Jim asked by way of greeting as he took off his Jags cap and hung it on the back of his chair.

Willden looked up. The desk was wallpapered with reports. "You guys have less to work on than we did."

"The perp must be getting smarter." Jim jabbed his computer's power button and leaned back in his chair to wait.

Blair spotted a battered looking wooden chair across the room that wasn't being used and dragged it over. The narrow space between Jim's desk and the wall barely allowed the fit, but no way was Blair going to sit at the other desk. He caught Jim's frown. "What?"

"Chief, if you're going to start getting out those books again," Jim said, pointing at the bulging backpack Blair had carried in. "I'd rather you set up shop in the break or interview room."

Blair stood, not missing the flash of humor on Willden's face as he watched the exchange. A slow burn grew on Blair's cheeks. "Right, man. I'll let you know if I find anything."

"I don't get it."

Jim looked up from his email perusing, seeing Willden's furrowed brow. "What?"

"Why you put up with having a ride-a-long." Jerking a thumb toward the closed door that Blair had just used, Willden went on, "Your hippie shadow. Why put up with that?"

"Sandburg carries his own weight. He's fine," Jim answered coolly. Simon had made it clear he expected interdepartmental co-operation from Jim, but this clown was pissing him off.

Whatever Willden's reply might have been was cut off by Simon's appearance. "Detectives, a word, please."

Jim gathered up his skimpy working file and followed Willden. He took a seat at his boss's small conference table. "We don't have much yet, sir."

"I've got a meeting in thirty minutes with the Chief. I'd like to be ready if he brings your case up. Did you see the news?" Simon asked with a sour look.

Jim had. The department was still dealing with the fallout from the Golden case. Blair's garage escapade had undone the good press that catching David Lash had provided. Well, that and Jim wrecking Simon's car by driving when he couldn't yet see. It didn't matter to anyone that he'd caught his perp.

Jim hated the press.

"I'm not sure what they expect from us in twenty-four hours," Jim said. "I was hoping Alaska could shed a little more light on the subject."

Willden ignored the barb and addressed Simon, "I'm convinced this is the same killer."

"How about convincing me, then?" Jim politely asked, ignoring the look Simon shot him.

"I assumed you'd read my report. However, I'll go over the basic facts for your captain." Willden folded his fingers together. "Our victim was early twenties. Female. Only daughter of a wealthy broker, but she'd been estranged from her father for about five months. She was living with some friends. Her roommates lost touch with her for about two weeks. She told them she was traveling south to see a concert, only the friends she was supposed to be meeting at the concert tell us she never showed. Her body was found in a dumpster behind a bowling alley."

"And how's that tell you this is the same killer?" Simon asked.

"Her lips were pierced repeatedly by an unknown sharp object," Willden explained.

Simon nodded, glancing between the two men. "So, what have you both been able to conclude with the second killing?"

"The ritual of the lip mutilation may be our best clue," Jim said. "Sandburg is working on that angle. Until then, all we can do is canvas the docks for a possible witness."

Willden snorted halfway through Jim's suggestion. Simon frowned at the visiting cop. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"Sandburg's not even a real cop," Willden challenged.

Simon raised an elegant eyebrow. "He's an observer. He's proven himself with my team so I wouldn't underestimate him, Detective."

Willden shrugged.

Glancing at his watch, Simon dismissed them. "I've got just enough time to reread my report and make my meeting. You two keep at it and let me know if anything breaks."

Jim rose, trailing Willden to the door.

"Jim, a private word with you, please."

Jim closed the door and turned back to face his boss.

"You said this morning Sandburg had a flashback. How's he doing?"

"He's fine." Jim didn't elaborate. Simon didn't need to know about Blair's lack of sleep or anything else in Jim's life right now.

Simon tilted his head, his face puzzled. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

Releasing a sigh, Simon slouched in his chair. "Listen, Jim. I know this Willden guy is a bit of an ass, but he's highly regarded by his department. Cut him some slack, will you?"

Jim frowned. "He's more than a bit of an ass, sir. He's cornered the market. And if he's got some sort of personal problem with Sandburg then I don't need him screwing up my case."

"Jim..."

"Anything else, Captain?"

Obviously not happy, Simon waved toward the bullpen. "No, I was just making sure Sandburg was okay."

There was a `while you were out' note taped to Jim's phone. He recognized Brown's writing. Dan wanted to talk to him. Jim bypassed his desk and headed for the elevator. Extending his hearing, he found Willden in the break room getting more coffee. Jim smiled and changed directions, going instead down the hall to the interview rooms. He found Blair in number three.

"Autopsy report might be in. Dan's asking for us," Jim said, sticking his head into the small room.

Blair immediately gathered up his books. "Hey, that was fast. I thought he had a backlog."

Jim waved at the table. "Leave it, Chief. No one will bother them in here."

They made the elevator without Willden seeing them. Jim rocked happily on his feet. "Any luck?"

"Plenty of the typical references; Dogon tribe of Mali and Nuba of Ethopia who pierced their lips for religious purposes," Blair said. "Then there's the whole lip stretching in Central Africa and South America. But that's not what's happening here."

"Lip stretching..."

"Yeah, man, even the ancient Aztec and Mayan used labret piercing to signify wealth or higher classes." Blair frowned. "But I think we have something more local, you know? Man, I wish I could remember..."

The doctors had told them Blair might have some temporary side effects from his Golden episode. Was forgetfulness one of them? Jim didn't know. The elevator dinged at Dan's basement. The doors glided open and they walked the cold, sterile hall toward his office. The smell of chemicals grew and Jim adjusted his mental dials to compensate.

"So, what are we talking about? Local how?"

Blair shrugged. "Pacific Northwest and Canadian Inuit tribes practiced the use of labret piercing--"

"Of what?" Jim opened the door leading to Dan's office and stopped.

Blair caught his lower lip between thumb and forefinger. "Righ' here man." He let go. "You know, the `Mao.'"

Jim felt a little lost. "Mao?"

"Yeah, from Mao Zedong's mole, below his lower lip."

Jim raised a hand. His head was starting to throb. "Hold it, Sandburg. You're telling me the killer is trying to emulate--"

Blair tilted his head. "No, man. Of course not. I'm only saying that lip piercing means a lot of different things to different cultures. It's just research right now."

"Ellison, Sandburg," Dan called from across the department's front lobby area. The doctor leaned against an open doorway. "You two joining me?"

I can do this. Blair took a steadying breath and followed Jim into Dan's autopsy bay. The raw stench of organic body, like a thousand rancid burps, hung in the air.

Everything was clean and shiny. A bone saw, chisel, hammer, needles, scalpels with small ruler marks in the blade, and toothed forceps were lined up in neat rows. Blair forced himself to look at the table, where the victim was laid out like a kid's science project in work, the `y' incision already performed, opening up his thoracic cavity. Blair found it easier to deal with bodies at this stage, not that he didn't stop thinking of the victim as having been a real person, but there was something about seeing inside which helped him focus on the case.

Dan was talking, so Blair focused.

"...So no real change to the estimated time of death, Jim. He was a healthy young man. No obvious cause of death. I'm hoping we'll find what we're looking for in his blood work."

"You're thinking poison?" Jim asked.

Walking over to a metal tray, Dan used his gloved hand to lift a red, flattish blob that Blair recognized as a human liver. "No obvious indication of poison in any of the organs, but there's no trauma either and the neck seems perfectly normal. So, yes, unless something else shows up, I'm thinking poison. See here?"

Blair shadowed Jim over to the side counter where more pulpy organs were arranged on trays. Dan was using a finger to push around bits of matter.

"He had an unusual appetite."

Jim looked surprised. "Is that raw fish?"

"Yep, salmon would be my guess. And quite a large amount."

Eating raw fish conjured a visual picture best not dwelled upon when surrounded by exposed tissue and bloodless body parts. Blair focused on Dan instead.

"It's not uncommon to eat raw fish, but I still thought you might like to know right away," Dan continued. "There's no evidence of rice or any of the other usual sushi related ingredients."

Jim nodded, looking back at the table. "Anything else?"

Dan lifted another organ, this one pink and more elongated. "Not a smoker that I could see, didn't feel any areas of pneumonia. Intestines didn't have any surprises for me." He nodded to a large grocer's scale where Blair saw the heart. "I know he's young, but I ruled out heart attack."

Nearly panting through his mouth now to avoid the smell, Blair started backing toward the exit.

"I was just about to remove the skull cap..." Dan picked up a vibrating saw about the size of the handheld mixer Jim kept hanging on the wall in their kitchen.

Blair turned and bolted.

Jim found his partner in the stairwell twenty minutes later. Blair had his back to the wall as he sat on the stairs between the fifth and sixth floor. His face was gray and his breathing deep and measured, as if meditating. If the kid knew he was being watched, he didn't show it. His eyes were closed as his face tilted up showing the fatigue of sleepless nights.

"Hey," Jim spoke softly.

Blair opened his eyes, offering a sheepish look. "Hey."

"You going to make it?"

Shrugging, Blair's gaze slid downward to his hands currently clasping his bent knees. "Sorry about that."

Jim got comfortable a few steps down. "It was starting to get to me too, even with my dials."

"Really?" Blair sat up a little straighter. "We should book some lab time and work on that."

"Yeah, we can do that." Jim leaned back against the rail, taking a moment to frankly study his friend. "I think we should make an appointment with Doctor Richards."

Blair frowned. "One flashback isn't any reason to go see him, Jim."

"You look pretty wasted these last few days."

"I'm fine." Blair raised an eyebrow, challengingly. "What did Dan say about the lip mutilation?"

"He's still clueless there. He's pretty interested in what you're working on, from what I managed to explain to him. He wanted me to tell you that he'd like to be kept in the loop with that."

Blair smiled, closing his eyes again and resting his head against the wall. "Cool."

Somewhere below them a door slammed.

"Ellison!"

Jim groaned. "Willden found us."

Jim ended the argument with Willden -who bitterly complained about being left behind -by pointing to his watch. "We're going to get some lunch."

The Alaskan cop took that as an invitation. He picked up his jacket. "What's good?"

If this clown thought he was going to get a free lunch, Jim thought.

Blair answered as he shrugged into his green corduroy coat. "Cascade has tons of good places to eat, man. What are you in the mood for?"

In another surprising move, the visiting cop actually responded. "Any good seafood?"

Blair swallowed hard. "Ah... yeah, plenty. What type?"

"Nothing fancy. Fish and chips would work."

"Okay, right. Yeah, we can do that." Blair looked at Jim expectantly.

Damn. Jim snatched his jacket off the back of the chair. "Whatever."

Jim drove to the local Ivar's restaurant. The chain of seafood stores had started in Seattle and spread like wildfire throughout Washington State in the sixties and seventies. Jim liked the quality of the fish they had on their menu, even though he preferred a juicy Wonderburger. They parked and walked in, waiting in the short line to give their orders. Blair ordered clam strips, wincing when Willden picked the grilled salmon. They took a booth near the back.

Jim slid in next to Blair, giving the other man his own bench. "You said your victim was found in an alley. How long was the time of death from when the body was found?"

"Longer than yours, about three days." Willden started pulling napkins out of the dispenser. "You going to brief me on what your examiner found? He refused to tell me anything."

Casting a sidelong glance at his roommate, Jim shook his head. "I don't like to mix autopsies with my meals."

Their food arrived and Jim opened his dispenser of tartar sauce first before tearing the corner from a catsup foil pouch. He'd decided upon the cod fish and chips and from the smell, they were fresh and promised to be tasty. Blair chewed his clam strips, thoughtfully gazing out the window at the passing traffic. Jim was starting to notice how the kid took the quiet road whenever they were with Willden.

Taking a bite of his fish, Willden offered a rare compliment. "Nice place."

They ate in silence. Jim wondered what the cop would think when he told him about the victim's stomach contents. Doubtful it would affect him. Willden didn't seem like the squeamish type.

When they were finished, they cleared the clutter from their table and headed out. An elderly man stood at the counter looking over his options on the illustrated reader board mounted above the pass-through kitchen window. He spoke as if his hearing-aid battery was dead. "You sure none of them fishes have any bones in `em? Can't abide fish bones, young man."

Jim nearly knocked Blair over as the shorter man came to a dead stop in the doorway.

"That's it!" Blair exclaimed.

"Sandburg, watch it," Jim grouched.

Blair spun to face Jim with a broad smile. "I've got it, man! Come on!" He ran for the parking lot.

The three men stood before the prestigious gray building with imposing stone pillars. Blair was the first up the marble steps. Jim followed at a slower rate with Willden tailing.

"Your partner's certifiable, Ellison," Willden muttered.

Jim didn't answer. Blair hadn't answered any of his questions on the drive over, except to mutter phrases like `it has to be' and `god, I'm an idiot.' Jim knew better than to push the issue. Blair had his `brink of discovery' face on.

"The Whitlock Museum?" Willden huffed, reading the marble etched sign above the double doorway. "We're taking a break from work for a field trip?"

Ringing the bell, Blair ignored the comment as he bounced on the balls of his feet, drumming his thigh with his fingers and running his other hand through his hair to smooth it down. A tall man wearing an immaculate suit answered the door, looking down his hooked nose at Blair. "We're closed."

"Hi, yeah, I know. I'm Blair Sandburg. We really need to talk to Ms. Whitlock. It's important," Blair explained in a rush.

But the door was already starting to close. Jim pushed Blair aside and stuck out his foot to catch it as he pulled out his I.D. "He forgot to say this is a police matter." Jim held his detective shield up and smiled, sharing a hint of `pissed off cop' as the two men stared each other down.

Jim won.

The man nodded, opening the door wide and backed away. "You can wait in the yellow room."

Inside was just as prestigious as the outside promised. The building sat in the financial district of Cascade, a hold-over from the original city founding families. Based on European architecture, the inside rooms were proportioned on the enormous scale with solid oak paneling, marble floors and rich-colored tapestries. The yellow room was about the size of the loft with pale yellow walls and white marble support columns holding up a hand painted ceiling.

Jim pulled his roommate aside. "Sandburg, what's going on?"

Blair patted Jim's chest. "Remember when I said it sounded familiar? I finally got it. That old man said the magic words and, like - BAM - it all came back!"

Fighting back the urge to shake him, Jim caught the patting hand. He was not a dog. "What did? Give me a complete sentence here."

Blair pulled his hand away, his attention already moved off their discussion and onto whatever he saw over Jim's shoulder. "Ms. Whitlock! I'm Blair Sandburg. I helped you set up your mask collection."

A strong flowery scent made Jim sneeze. He turned to see a plain-faced woman in her mid thirties. Standing uncertainly in wrinkled linen pants and an oversized man's white shirt, the woman blinked at Blair through thick glasses.

"Sandburg..." She nodded. "I remember, from Rainier. But..." She cast a confused look toward Jim and Willden.

"Oh, right, sorry. These are police detectives and they're working on a really, really important case right now. I think one of your masks might have a clue, can we see them? Please?"

"My masks?"

Jim dialed his sense of smell down, compensating for the musky perfume the woman wore, and stepped forward, holding out his badge again. "I'm Detective Jim Ellison with Cascade police. This is Detective Willden. We're sorry for interrupting your afternoon, but Blair is correct. This is an important case. We're working on a homicide. If there is anyway you might show us these... masks that Blair is talking about, it would be very much appreciated."

The woman's face had paled considerably during Jim's speech. She licked her lips. "H-homicide."

"Yes ma'am. A young man was murdered." Jim pointed to Willden. "And a woman from Alaska a few months ago."

"But how would my masks--"

Blair jumped back into the conversation. "I think the ki--'

"We can't go into the details right now," Jim butted in with a reproaching look at his roommate, who ducked his head and blushed. "At this stage all avenues of investigation are important. If you could please show us these... artifacts."

"Yes, of course." Whitlock turned and hesitated. "Um, please follow me."

She led them up a wide staircase to the second floor of the mansion. Jim realized the building was more than just a residence that had been slowly encroached upon by the city. Some sort of business took place within the stone and brick walls. He extended his hearing to people in unseen rooms talking on phones. They used the terms non-profit and endowments. A phone rang and a woman's pleasant voice answered, `Whitlock foundation. How may I direct your call?'

"Here we are." Ms. Whitlock passed through a double-wide open doorway of heavy oak trim into a museum quality arrangement of free standing glass cases and floor to ceiling wall cabinets. An ancient dugout canoe, complete with figurehead, hung from the high ceiling. Jim had to admit the collection was amazing, colorful and balanced to his eyesight, soothing to his senses like a stroll through a rainforest on a sunny day.

Blair made a beeline for a corner. "Jim, take a look, man."

They joined him. Five masks hung in a circle on the wall. Blair's hands wavered inches away from one mask in particular. Jim found it revolting.

"You may take it down, Mr. Sandburg," Whitlock said from the middle of the room.

"Here, man." Blair lifted the mask from the mount with extreme care. "This represents a gagiit."

"Gagiit?" Jim didn't want to touch it. He didn't want Blair touching it.

The mask was about the size of a large dinner plate. Carved from cedar, it had the typical red, black and blue painted designs common to the Northwest tribes. Some type of animal fur had been tied to look like long stringy hair. While a few of the masks had almost a comical look, this one did not. Jim couldn't help but study the long spines piercing both the upper and lower lip of the mask.

"You think this is what the killer was trying to do?" Willden asked, speaking to Blair for the first time without any hostility in his tone.

Blair bit his lip. "I don't know. I just know that when I saw the ..." He hesitated and lowered his voice to a whisper. "...body, I wondered what would have caused that damage and I knew I remembered seeing something similar. I helped Professor Echlund with this exhibit. He's a friend of Ms. Whitlock. Me and a few other T.A.s came here and worked all weekend last month."

Jim nodded, remembering how Blair had talked about the amazing collection. It had been right before the Lash case. "So, tell us about this gagiit."

"Well, Northwest legend says the gagiit is like a Wildman, in the truest sense of the word. He's the keeper of drowned souls, sort of like a boogey man to make the kids stay in their beds and not wander near the water alone," Blair said as he gently fingered the mask before replacing it on its mount.

"What's in its lips?" Jim asked.

"Fish bones." Blair took a deep breath and looked into Jim's eyes. "Part of the lore is that the Wildman eats raw fish."

"Give it a rest, Willden!" Jim snapped, "He said that's all he knew!"

The outburst caused the room to fall silent. Jim glared around the bullpen until his fellow detectives went back to their own work and the buzz of activity resumed.

Sitting next to Jim's desk, Blair sighed. "Listen, man, I'm not kidding when I said this is an obscure legend. The gagiit is a footnote in few papers I've read. You can cross-reference Bigfoot and get a hit, maybe, if you're lucky. I should know," Blair added, rolling his eyes toward Jim. "I'm, like, the king of hunting down mythical legends."

Jim quirked a smile.

"You don't understand," Willden said. "This is the first real break I've had. We need more information. The killer must be fixated on this thing. We can't just drop the lead. Where can we find out more?"

Blair nodded. "I agree and I will keep researching. But this is going to take time, more than a few words typed into an internet search engine."

"There's no club or group that might be into tribal monsters?" Willden asked.

"Yeah, right, man." Blair snickered, his attention bouncing between Jim and Willden. "You serious?"

"Why not?" Willden asked. "Kids dye their hair black, powder their face white and wear fishnet. I assume they have a reason for it. How do I know what the hell they're interested in?"

The level of bitterness was impossible to miss. Blair cocked an eyebrow. "First of all, you're talking about the gothic movement. And yeah, they have a reason. It's simply an alternative subculture that includes both a style of music and fashion. Secondly, do you think only adolescents have different styles? Man, look around. Rafe likes prep. Brown likes jazz and Hawaiian shirts. Simon's into corduroy, cigars and berets, Jim's into--"

"You've made your point, Einstein," Jim said with a growl, not caring to bring Willden into his fashion world pleasure. So what if Jim liked white socks?

"No, my point is this. Subcultures go beyond age brackets. And even if I told you I knew all of them - which I don't - I'd be lying. They're fluid. One grows into another. They come and go, and come back again." Blair sighed and dragged his hand down his face. "I don't know. I could ask around... maybe interview people who've studied tribal symbolism in relationship to modes of expression. If you consider the geographical correlation to the American drum and bass scene, you might find an argument for a similar depiction of a subculture on the specific subsets of American Indian lore in relationship to--"

"Sandburg," Jim cut in again. "Can we drop you off at the university or something? We still have some canvassing of our own to finish down by the docks."

Blair nodded absentmindedly as he gathered up his pen and notebook. "Actually yeah, I have a class to prepare and a lecture I need to attend tonight. I'll go to the library after that and work on this. Let me just make a few notes. I need to get my books from the interview room. Then we can go, man."

Willden watched Blair leave the room. He glanced back at Jim, his face thoughtful. "Okay, so I'm starting to see why having an anthropologist might be useful."

Jim tried reaching Blair by phone but only got his voice mail. He flipped the cell phone shut and visually searched the neighborhood for a new person to interview. He and Willden had covered every business within two blocks of the vacant lot where the body had been found. The results were slim. This part of Cascade had a few day workers. No one had admitted to seeing anything.

They stopped for sub sandwiches at a nearby shop. Finally, sure they'd walked every broken sidewalk a half dozen time and spoken to every homeless person who used the quiet neighborhood as a safe place to crash, Jim dropped Willden off at the station and headed home.

The loft was empty.

Taking a long shower and almost asleep on his feet, Jim mulled over the case. Thankfully, Willden had dropped much of his attitude. The two men were far from drinking buddies, but working with the guy didn't cause migraines anymore, so that was a plus. Jim dressed in comfortable sweats and took a frozen casserole out. He watched three innings of the ballgame while it baked. His dinner was quiet. Slowly his senses relaxed. Smells, vision, touch, taste all found their baseline. His loft did this. Home had become a real sanctuary for his body and the enhanced senses he was learning to control.

Hearing didn't want to return to normal setting. Jim realized he was listening for Blair's familiar footstep. Jim left the table to get his cordless phone. He dialed as he set the dirty dishes in the sink. The phone rang long enough to expect Blair's voice mail to catch. Just as he started to flip the phone closed, Blair answered. "Hey, man."

"Hey. How's the research going?" Jim asked.

"Good. Like I told you guys, not a lot of stuff at Rainier, but I found another source." Blair sounded weary and excited at the same time.

"Where are you?"

"A few miles south of the Canadian border."

Jim knew for a fact his partner's car was parked on the street outside the loft. "How'd you get up there?"

Blair chuckled. "Tommy was heading home tonight and I asked to tag along."

"Who's Tommy?"

"I'll explain later, man. I'll see you tomorrow at the station, okay? I want to finish this tonight so I can't stop to explain now or I'll never be ready for the ride back in the morning."

Jim could hear paper rustling in the background. "Okay. Um, so you're pulling an all-nighter then. You get anything to eat?"

"Only a crab pasta meal that you'd have killed for," Blair answered smugly. "Bye, Jim."

Jim put the leftovers into single serving Tupperware squares and went back to his game.

At midnight he patrolled his home. All the doors and windows were secure so he climbed the stairs to his bed.

"Where's the kid?"

Flicking the man an irritated look, Jim punched the garage elevator call button. "Sandburg will catch up with us this afternoon."

"What did he find out?" Willden pressed.

"We'll know this afternoon," Jim repeated.

They rode to the seventh floor in silence and entered the bullpen. A visitor sat in a straight-back chair in front of Jim's desk. Brown looked up from his work and nodded at the visitor. "Hey, Jim. Mr. McDaniel works down by the docks. He heard you two were interviewing some of his coworkers yesterday. He wants to talk with you."

Jim introduced himself and Willden, offering a cup of coffee while escorting the man to an interview room. McDaniel declined the coffee but seemed happy to take the conversation into a more private setting. Jim studied his potential witness as they settled into their chairs around the table. The guy was solidly built with dark hair, peppered with grey along the sides, late forties and fit. His skin was weather rough, hands broad with calluses. A lingering smell of salt, diesel and creosote hung on his body, but it was very faint and Jim had no problem dialing it down. Otherwise the guy seemed clean.

"Mr. McDaniel, what do you want to tell us?" Jim asked.

"Um, call me Mike."

"Okay, Mike." Jim felt his hesitation and made a show of leaning comfortably on the table with crossed arms, as if they were waiting for a waitress to bring them both a beer. "So, you work at the docks? What do you do?"

"I'm the graveyard supervisor," Mike said. "I get on about eleven. I heard you two were asking around."

Willden had been leaning against the wall, letting Jim take the lead. Now he pulled out a chair and sat. "You heard about the body found in the area a few days ago?"

Mike nodded. "Yeah, I don't know anything about that, but some weird shit's been happening at work the last few weeks."

"What's that?" Jim asked.

Mike swallowed, looking uncomfortable as his gaze flitted around the room. "You guys... look you're going to find out if you check. So I'm just going to say I had some history with... I'm clean now, but I did drugs when I was younger. Spent some time in treatment. Did a few months in jail. Cleaned up. So I don't expect you to believe me."

Jim nodded. "I appreciate you saving us the background check. How about you just tell us what you know?"

"Okay," Mike answered, relaxing. "A few weeks ago, a ship came in with a load of lumber from Alaska. Took my men about four days to unload. The last night she was in dock, I was in my office, filling out paperwork when I first heard... it."

The back of Jim's neck tingled. "It?"

Mike scrubbed his face. "I swear, it sounded like... a baby."

"A baby what?" Willden asked.

"A human baby." Mike avoided both cops' gaze.

Jim pictured the docks. The last place anyone would take an infant.

Mike continued. "I know that sounds stupid. I thought one of my guys was pulling a practical joke. But I looked around. No one was there."

"And the sound? What was it exactly?" Jim asked.

"Crying." Mike shrugged. "I can't explain it. I heard it on and off for a week. Then it stopped four days ago."

"You didn't check it out?"

"I did. That's just it," Mike insisted, frowning. "I couldn't find anything."

"So what made you think it was connected to our investigation?" Willden asked.

"I heard it again last night."

There were days in Blair's first year at Rainier where he actually slept on his feet. Now, as he rode the elevator to the seventh floor, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes and longed for that ability again. Locking his knees, he willed the tension in his shoulders to flow away. With the ding of the elevator and smooth slide of the doors, he opened his eyes to see he was being scrutinized by a woman carrying a handful of police files.

"Ah, excuse me." Blair hitched his heavy pack higher on his shoulder and headed down the hallway toward the bullpen.

He found Jim's desk empty. His feet happy to rest, Blair settled into Jim's chair and deftly typed in Jim's password to unlock the computer. Bringing up an explorer window, he signed onto his personal email account and started deleting spam. When Jim and Willden walked back into the bullpen, Blair was reading email.

"Hey, guys." Blair hurried to log off. Jim had never said anything about him using his computer, but he didn't want to push the issue. He vacated the chair in time for Jim to circle around behind his desk and take it.

"Anything new?" Jim asked.

Willden had already taken Blair's customary position. Belatedly, Blair wished he'd parked himself there to begin with. As soon as he finished the thought, he grimaced. How childish could he get? He got comfortable in the side chair. "The more I research this gagiit, the more I think I might have steered you guys wrong, man."

"What makes you say that?" Willden asked.

Blair shrugged. "The victim wasn't drowned."

Jim cleared his throat and tilted his chair back. "Actually, Dan just finished his examination. He now believes the cause of death is a `dry drowning.'"

Blair frowned. "What?"

"No water in the lungs, but for whatever reason, the throat closes off and doesn't allow air in." Jim lifted an eyebrow. "So it would seem your gagiit theory still fits."

"But what would cause the throat to close off?" Blair asked.

"Dan says," Jim began, flipping open a report file and reading from it. "Dry drowning can occur when a person is submerged in icy water. The cold is said to cause the larynx to spasm. If the larynx spasms, the person's airway is cut off resulting in lack or absence of oxygen in the body."

"In the Puget Sound?" Blair frowned. "I know it's cold, but...no way, plenty of people swim in the Sound, and scuba. Hell, Jim, you told me you sometimes surf when conditions are right."

"Poison or water," Willden agreed. "We're still looking at murder."

"Weird." Blair pinched his lower lip in thought. "Okay, so this is what I learned last night. The gagiit is from the mythology of the indigenous people who lived along the coast of Canada and Alaska. Like I said before, he's known as `the wild man' and the `keeper of drowned souls.' He's not someone you want to meet at night walking through the woods."

"Did you learn anything we can use?" Jim asked.

"Not a whole lot." Blair pulled a notebook out of his pack. "I listened to my friend's grand-uncle talk most of the night. He had a lot of stuff to say, not all of it about the gagiit. Here's what he did tell me." Blair paused to find his notes. "The gagiit is capable of many types of vocalizations, whining, crying, whimpering... even screaming or yelling."

A gasp caused Blair to look up in surprise. Jim had slammed his chair forward. Willden leaned forward like a hunting dog in point. "Crying?"

"A baby crying?" Jim demanded. "Did he mention a baby?"

Looking down at his notes, Blair nodded. "Sure, the legend has frequent accounts of it using a baby's cry."

Jim and Willden exchanged a knowing look. Blair felt left out. "What?"

"I don't think you have to worry about leading us astray on this investigation, Chief. So far your theory is dead on."

Stakeout or sleep.

Blair pursed his lips and nodded, his mind made up. He'd join the stakeout. He began tossing a few essential items into his backpack. Double checking his small room for anything else he might need before joining Jim in the kitchen.

"I'm ready, man."

Jim looked up from his sandwich fixing. "You're coming?"

"Yeah." Blair opened the icebox and squatted on his haunches as he shuffled through the vegetables in the crisper. "You said you two would be in separate vehicles, right? So you'll need company."

Jim reached into the bread bag and pulled out more slices. "I just figured you'd want to get some actual sleep this week."

Clutching bell peppers, zucchini and a small tub of hummus, Blair closed the door with a bump from his hip and carried his bounty to the counter. "Nah, sleep's overrated."

They built sandwiches in silence. Blair added fruit from the bowl on the table and stuffed four water bottles into his pack. They locked up the loft, loaded into Jim's Ford.

The quiet city had a freshly scrubbed appearance. It had rained and the asphalt glittered in the glow of the streetlights. Jim pulled up along side an unmarked sedan parked a block from the empty lot where the body had been found. Willden sat behind the wheel.

"Tac-four," Jim said, holding up his portable radio.

"Sixty minute check-ins?" Willden replied.

Jim shook his head. "Let's do thirty. We'll set up on the opposite side from the lot. Call if you leave your car."

"Right."

They drove on, found a quiet street meeting Jim's approval and parked. The engine ticked as it cooled. Blair released his seatbelt, turned a little to rest against the door and got comfortable. The night was cold, but not as bad as Blair would expect for winter.

"Right over there is where our witness works." Jim pointed over toward the dock where huge spindly cranes posed over ships in dock. Bright lights bathed the water and shipyard in stark exposure to the night.

"And you said the witness heard a baby crying?" Blair asked, drawing his coat tightly around his torso.

"That's his story."

Blair studied the shipyard. The crane was idle. A few cars in the parking lot suggested a small night crew. "So, was the victim a new employee or something?"

Jim had dug into his soft-sided ice chest and pulled out a bottle of spring water. "Doesn't look that way. The witness didn't recognize the vic's photo."

The thought of someone dying without being reported depressed Blair. "Someone has to wonder where he is."

Jim shrugged and took a long drink.

The cool, outside temperatures crept into the Expedition. The engine no longer beat a ghostly tempo. Blair found himself wishing he'd worn heavier clothes. With a twist of his upper body, Jim reached into the back and stretched. A second later, Blair had a furry blanket in his lap. He stroked it with surprise.

"Never leave home without it," Jim teased.

"Thanks, man." Blair unfolded the material, wrapping it around his legs first before draping it over his shoulders. "How's your senses?"

"They're fine."

Recognizing one of Jim's quiet moods, Blair leaned against the door and let his eyes close.

The soft snores brought a smile. Jim glanced over to see his friend sleeping, head tilted, mouth open, face relaxed in slumber.

`About time,' Jim thought, settling into his seat and extending his senses over the area. The docks held the only activity, men talking to each other as they worked. Other than that, everything seemed quiet. It was going to be a quiet stakeout. Jim wasn't even sure what they were `staking out.' The thought of a killer enticing his victims with a baby's cry seemed ludicrous, but Jim couldn't ignore the connection. Somehow, the killer was into this ancient Indian legend. He'd investigated weirder motives in his career, but this case promised to join the ranks of the top ten.

A sound brought Jim out of his musing. The scrape, scrape slide of worn leather on concrete preceded a bundled shadow turning the far corner of a warehouse. Jim picked up his radio. "I've got a street person, unknown age, male."

"Copy that."

Jim tracked the homeless man past the truck, staying on the opposite side of the street. Three hooded sweatshirts hid the man's features. The stench of unwashed body and alcohol sickness was strong enough to reach into the cab, causing Jim to quickly dial down. The man shuffled away, heading toward the busier nightlife a few miles away, where all night bars and a few street missions could afford extra heat and a meal.

Jim relaxed and picked up the radio again. "He's gone. False alarm."

"Copy."

Blair snored on, oblivious.

Rummaging around in the snack box, Jim found a sack of baked pita chips. Originally intending to search on for his corn chips and ignore Blair's offerings, Jim changed his mind and tried one. Not bad.

Jim opened the half empty tub of hummus and snacked. He'd dated a girl while in the army who was into this type of food. Blair's mother sort of reminded him of her. Her name was... Lucy. Jim smiled. Lucy Methow, daughter of General Methow. Sweet kid. She probably had five kids by now and ran the PTA with the same `take no prisoners' attitude that her old man had held.

"Naaah.... Idenofaaagh..." Blair stirred.

Crap, not another flashback. Jim started putting away the food and recapped his water.

"Getbaak!" Blair thrashed under the blanket.

Jim caught his shoulder with one hand and cupped Blair's cheek. "Hey, buddy. Wake up."

Stiffening straight in his seat, Blair's eyes snapped open. "Wah'utman!" Dilated pupils blindly reached out into the darkness.

"It's okay, Blair." Jim had to press hard on his shoulder to keep him in place.

"He's here-He's here," Blair chanted fearfully, fighting free of the blanket and grabbing Jim's arm.

"Blair, everything's good. You're just dreaming."

"Jim?" Awareness replaced fear. Blair looked around. "What..?"

"You with me?" Jim backed off, giving his friend a second to finish waking up, thankful this wasn't one of his full-blown flashbacks.

"Gawd, what a dream. He was right outside the car," Blair muttered as he shivered. He pulled the blanket to his chin and sagged back against the door.

"Who was?"

"Uh... I'm not sure," the drowsy man answered around a wide yawn. Curling into a comfortable position, Blair closed his eyes.

Jim studied his friend. Had that been a flashback or just a regular nightmare? He wasn't sure. Jim watched him for a few seconds before helping himself to more baked pita chips.

A faint, distant noise caused him to pause.

The nightmare was waiting for him to return.

Blair reached out, blindly making his way in the dense, viscous darkness. It coated his skin, clinging like a spider's web, like a pervert's caress. Blair brushed his arms, shuddering and stumbling back. A laugh challenged.

It was back.

"Ellison! Respond!"

The announcement over the radio jolted him upright and rescued Blair from the dream. The inside of the Ford was freezing. The driver's door was ajar. Blair was alone.

"Jim?" Blair pushed his covering off and fumbled for his door release and scanned the area. Pushing open the door, he tumbled out, tennis shoes slamming onto the broken sidewalk.

"Ellison!" the radio squawked.

Blair reached back into the truck and grabbed it. "He's gone! I woke up and he's not here!"

"I'm en route," Willden promised and, sure enough, his sedan screeched around the far corner, the powerful police motor bringing him to Blair's side in seconds. Willden piled out. "How long?"

"I don't know!" Blair snapped. Guilt hung like a lead shroud. If he hadn't fallen asleep...

The first drop of icy rain slapping his face ended the useless panic and guilt. He had to find Jim. Blair broke for the nearest building, running over the weed-choked, rocky ground. He didn't know what he was following, a hunch, a desperate plea or just reacting to his own panic, but standing in one spot wasn't going to save Jim.

"Hey, Kid!" Willden shouted after him.

Blair ran faster.

The cinderblock warehouse had no windows. It looked vacant and ready for the wrecking ball. No streetlights penetrated the area between the buildings. Blair's foot caught on something hard and he went down, skidding through the broken rocks and dirt on his hands and knees, tearing up his palms. The sound of Willden coming caused Blair to bolt to his feet and keep going. Rain fell harder, soaking his hair and blurring his vision.

The back of the building had a bit more light, a bleed-over from the next block. Glancing right and seeing nothing, Blair turned left, running along side the building. "Jim! Where are you?"

Piles of soggy cardboard and trash, some waist high, made for an urban obstacle course. The back side of the building held occasional alcoves to boarded up doorways. The warehouse filled a city block and then some. Three quarters of the way down, a noise - grunt, groan or growl, Blair wasn't sure - caused Blair to slow and approach the upcoming dark alcove carefully. "Jim?"

The scream wasn't human. Blair had no time to step back as a dark shape detached from the building and swept his feet out from under him. Blair landed on his back. Pain shot through his body as sharp edges of bricks bruised muscles. Blair heard Willden shouting.

Blair rolled awkwardly onto his side, pushing up with one elbow. His assailant was fast, running across the field with Willden dashing after him. Blair looked back into the alcove.

"JIM!" He scrambled up, reaching the still form of his friend.

Jim lay in the shadow of the building, curled into a fetal ball, face turned up. His eyes were closed and when Blair touched his cheek, leaning down close, he realized Jim wasn't breathing.

"Willden!" Blair screamed back at the cop. "HELP ME!"

Hooking his hands under Jim's heavy body, Blair pulled him out and laid him on his back. He knelt close, tilting Jim's head back and making a seal with his own mouth over Jim's.

Blair blew, nearly sobbing with relief when the air went in and Jim's chest rose in response. Blair gave another breath and paused to press his trembling fingers against Jim's neck.

Pulse was strong.

Focusing on Jim's airway, Blair didn't know Willden was back until he felt the touch on his shoulder.

"How is he?"

Blair gave a breath before answering. "Ambulance!" He didn't look up, but focused on the pale, wet face, the blue-tinted lips under his hands. Jim's skin was like ice, colder than the rain. Blair could hear Willden on his cell phone, ordering medics.

Blair's world was reduced to taking in air, making a seal, watching Jim's chest rise and fall, nothing else mattered. He stopped feeling the cold, the pain from kneeling on rubble, Willden standing behind him, asking stupid questions that Blair didn't have answers to anyway.

Never had Blair been more focused. Each lungful of air he shared with his sentinel carried more than oxygen. Blair willed his own life force, bit by bit, into Jim's body. Being left behind was not an option. It was NOT. Determination to give whatever Jim needed burned.

Time stopped. The world stopped. And when he felt someone pulling him back, away from the only thing that mattered, Blair ignored it. Breathe. Seal. Blow.

Then Blair was lifted back and his arms could no longer reach Jim's face and he fought like a wildcat.

"Sandburg!" a booming, familiar voice bellowed in his ear. "Calm down!"

Still, Blair fought. Powerful arms restrained him. He was tugged back and more people crowded in, obscuring Jim from his vision.

"Letmego!" Blair yelled. Jim needed him!

"Blair! Look at me." A familiar face appeared. "You did good, kid. Jim's alive. Calm down and let the medics work now." Simon Banks crouched down, eye to eye. "You in there? You okay?"

Blair sputtered, suddenly too weak to stand. "S-simon... oh, god."

Simon Banks led the way into Cascade General ER, ready to ask the triage nurse behind the counter where he could find his detective. It turned out he didn't need to bother.

A familiar, gravely voice boomed from behind a curtained area down the hallway. "I'm fine, just bring the damn paperwork!"

Blair darted around Simon, making a beeline for Jim's voice.

Sighing, Simon leaned on the counter and showed the nurse his badge. "Another detective was brought in? Injured ankle?"

She nodded. "Right, he's in x-ray right now. Should be back any minute."

"Thank you." Simon followed in Blair's wake.

"Sandburg! Tell them I'm fine," Jim demanded.

Simon could hear Blair answering, his tone soothing. Pausing in the hallway, Simon was once again reminded of the strange relationship between the two men. He'd watched it develop from the first day with Kincaid's attack on the department. When Blair had been kidnapped by Lash, Jim had been frantic. Then each of them had been compromised by that damn designer drug, Golden. Simon had watched as both academic and cop took turns caring for each other.

Simon slipped behind the curtain. Jim reclined on an exam table, bare from the waist up. ECG patches were in the process of being stripped off, over the protesting team of nurses. Blair was doing his best to slow Jim down long enough to reach the digital screen on the heart machine next to the bed.

"Sir, you really should--"

"No, I'm out of here. Where's--" Jim saw his boss. "Simon! Tell these guys--"

"Damn it, Jim!" Blair cut him off. He jerked one of the patches from Jim' fingers and slapped it back on bare skin. "I said leave that on."

"Relax, Jim," Simon answered. "Just be glad you're breathing."

Jim sagged against the bed. "What the hell happened?" He glanced at Blair as if making sure his partner was okay.

"That's what I'd like to find out," a newcomer demanded. She was a small woman, looking to be somewhere between fifty and sixty years old. Simon could see her name tag. This was Jim's doctor.

The petite doctor placed a stethoscope on Jim's chest. "Take a deep breath... and shut up."

Simon covered his grin with a hand as the room grew quiet. It was obvious this woman was accustomed to being obeyed. After taking time to place the bell of her stethoscope in no less than eight places on Jim's torso, she straightened and Simon could have sworn she gained four inches with her glare at Jim.

"You are one lucky young man. Now stop fussing like a spoiled child and let us check you out before you decide you're going to disregard whatever treatment plan I might prescribe."

Jim's mouth shut with an audible snap.

Simon found himself the recipient of the doctor's `take no prisoner' gaze. "Take that young man to a free treatment room. I'll have one of my nurses tend to his hands."

Wonderful, she took the easy job. "Come on, Sandburg." Simon crooked a finger at Blair, who was busy reading the report left on the side table by the paramedics.

Blair tried to stall, raising a hand to Simon and not looking up from his reading. "Just a second."

"Now!" The doctor barked and Simon watched Blair levitate a good half inch.

Seconds later, Simon led a docile Blair to the waiting room. He had to find out where that woman learned how to get her way.

After having his palm scrubbed and painted with some type of iodine solution, Blair spotted Willden being wheeled by. Blair and Simon waited a few minutes and slipped into his treatment room. Blair would have preferred to sneak back into Jim's room, but that doctor was too scary. At least Jim was okay now.

A male nurse with spiky hair sat on a low stool, wrapping an elastic bandage around Willden's ankle.

Simon loomed over them. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Willden answered. "Nothing broken. How's Ellison?"

"He's fine," Simon answered. "I doubt he stays overnight."

"What the hell happened out there?" Willden looked at Blair. "Why did Ellison go off without calling me?"

Blair had explained Simon on the drive in, now he had to retell his failure to Willden. "I don't know... exactly. I was sleeping."

"Rest and elevate. You should be fine after a day or so." The nurse picked up his supplies and left.

Willden reached for his coat thrown over a chair.

"What about the perp?" Simon asked.

"I did this--" Willden waved a hand at his ankle. "-- following Sandburg. I couldn't keep up with him." The Anchorage cop looked puzzled as he addressed Blair. "How did you know where to find them, anyway? You shot off like a heat-guided missile."

Blair shrugged. He had no idea. He'd just switched to some type of internal auto-pilot.

"So the bottom line is I've got two injured detectives and no suspect in custody." Simon rubbed his brow and sighed.

"What do you remember, Jim?" Simon asked.

Jim felt like an idiot. "Not a damn thing," he croaked as he let Blair help him into his coat. He wanted out of here in the worst way. "One minute I'm sitting in the car, the next minute I heard a baby."

"A what?" Simon crossed his arms. "A baby what?"

"A human baby," Jim answered.

"Oh man, I knew it!" Blair turned to Simon. "The gagiit lures his victim--"

"A what'sit?" Simon snapped before Blair could finish. He looked at Jim. "What the hell type of operation are you running, Jim?"

"I'm following the clues, sir. I don't pretend to understand the perp's motive. But it seems he lures his victims into vulnerable positions with the sound of a crying baby."

"What's he talking about?" Simon pointed at Blair.

Jim sighed. "There's a chance this might center on an old Northwest Indian myth of a `Wildman.' We've found similarities to our killer's M.O."

"Yeah, and he's using the gagiit legend - no, really, man. It totally matches," Blair insisted when Simon rolled his eyes.

"Can we stay on track?" Willden asked. He looked back at Jim. "Then what happened?"

"Nothing," Jim answered miserably. He stood up and tried to ignore the way Blair hovered at his side. "Next thing I know, I'm waking up in this bed. He must have used something to knock me out."

"You weren't breathing," Blair told him. "We found you, but scared him off."

"Sandburg got you breathing again," the Alaskan cop added.

"Thanks, Chief." Jim slung an arm around Blair's shoulders and gave him a weak squeeze.

But the younger man swallowed hard. "I was asleep. I'm sorry. I should have--"

"Knock off the guilt trip," Jim told him. "I didn't expect you to stay awake all night."

"I'm just glad you're okay," came the mumbled reply. Blair studied his feet.

Jim turned to Willden. "So, do we have a usable description of this guy?"

"Not really. It was too dark to see his face and he wore a long cape. I can't even be sure of his skin color."

"But you said `he,'" Jim pointed out.

Willden thought about that a minute. "Yeah, I think it was a man."

"It's a start." Jim yawned. It was time to get out of here. He'd already pissed off the doctor by refusing to stay for observation. They probably needed the room. "My paperwork is finished. Let's head out."

Jim soft snores filled the loft.

Blair wandered through the living room, arms crossed, feeling too restless to sleep or even watch television. The darkness outside the windows fled as dawn arrived, showing the boats anchored in the bay.

He'd almost lost his best friend tonight. No matter how many times Jim had insisted it wasn't his fault, Blair knew different. He was supposed to watch his sentinel's back.

He'd screwed up.

The phone rang and Blair bounded across the living room to snatch it out the cradle before Jim woke. "Hello?"

"Blair Sandburg?"

"Ms. Whitlock?" Blair looked up at the railing, expecting to see Jim peering grumpily down at him between the bars, but Jim was still asleep. "What can I do for you?"

"Please, call me Alice. I was wondering... if you could come over this morning for breakfast."

"Really?" Blair couldn't help but show his surprise.

"Yes, of course. I never did properly thank you for your hard work with my exhibits a few weeks ago. We could talk."

Blair's gaze went to the area above him. Jim was sleeping soundly, so soundly he'd slept through the phone ringing. Still he didn't feel right leaving. Hadn't the doctors wanted to keep him?

"I'm sorry. I can't." Blair pinched the ridge between his eyes.

"That's a shame," she answered, sounding truly sad. "Tell you what. The food is already being prepared. If you change you mind, please come."

"Thanks, really. That's very generous."

After the phone call, Blair wandered the loft aimlessly. He found himself climbing up to Jim's room.

Jim was on his back, one arm flung over his head, hand palm up on the pillow. His respirations were deep and even. Moving silently, Blair stopped at the bedside, lost in watching his friend breathe.

He missed Jim's eyelids lifting, not even realizing the man was awake until he spoke.

"Wa'z wrong?"

Blair took a step back. "Sorry, man. Just checking, making sure, didn't mean..."

Jim grunted, rolling onto his side to watch Blair retreat to the head of the stairs. "I'm fine already. Get any sleep?" His voice was still rough, not rough enough to mask the apparent irritation.

Blair felt seven times the idiot. "Nah, not sleepy. I'll just be..." He waved a hand toward the living room below.

"Sandburg!" Jim snapped, taking one of his many pillows and folding it in half. He pounded it into submission with a few well-aimed blows before placing it under his head. "I'm fine. I don't need a babysitter. And I'm not going to rest if you keep wandering around down there or climb the stairs every half hour. Either get some sleep or get lost, will ya?"

Jim, the master of sweet talk.

Blair sniffed, feeling more than a little put out. "I'm not babysitting."

"You're doing a great imitation."

Feeling his face warm, Blair made a hasty decision. "I was just coming up to make sure you were fine before I go meet a friend for breakfast."

"So leave already. And turn off the ringer before you go."

"Whatever." Stomping down the stairs, Blair only paused long enough to switch off the phone and get his coat.

A narrow drive ran adjacent to the large Whitlock residence-museum. Blair had a hard time thinking of the building as someone's home. Tall oaks and pines shadowed the drive, forming a tunnel like effect, a park within the city. Following the immaculate drive around the back corner of the house, Blair saw an old-fashioned carriage house, a matching shed for gardening tools and a large open lattice gazebo. He parked his Corvair next to a silver BMW and got out. Alice Whitlock had apparently been watching for him. She came out of the back entrance - no less grand than the front entrance - and raised her hand in greeting.

"I'm so glad you made it!" she said, taking his hand as if meeting a foreign dignitary. She wore light wool slacks and a silk blouse. Her mid-length hair was fashioned in a sweeping bun that accented her plain face. "Breakfast is ready."

"You don't have to go to any trouble, Ms. Whitlock," Blair said.

"It's Alice, please. And I remember when I was a T.A at Rainier. Seems I never found time for a decent meal. I insist. Besides, I'm hungry and I don't like to eat alone."

Blair followed her into a sunny blue entry room lined with benches for coats and shoes and places to put umbrellas. The windows were old, with small glass panes, all sparkling in the morning sunlight. From that room they bisected a large kitchen complete with a center workstation. The cabinets touched the high ceiling. Even Jim would need a stepladder to reach the top shelves. The glass cabinet doors allowed the cook to see within. Bright yellow and red bowls were stacked in careful towers. Industrial looking mixers and a blender waited to be used, looking as new as the day there were purchased.

"I have the summer room set up." Alice led him into another room, her low heels making a solid thump-thump on the glossy wood paneled floor.

"Okay, major wow." Blair stopped in the doorway and stared. The room was warmed by the late rising morning sun. Three of the four walls were floor to ceiling windows, all with the same small panes of glass overlooking the back yard and the gazebo. Winter flowers accented the landscape. But it wasn't the view that enthralled him, it was the food.

The table looked ready to tumble under all the dishes. Quiche, smoked fish, cream cheeses, hard cheese, crackers, strawberries, melons and breads all made Blair's mouth water. The fruit wasn't even in season, but it looked fresh.

Alice looked critically at the table. "I should have some sausages prepared."

"No! No, please, this is... this is more than enough." Blair shook his head. "This is amazing, actually."

Alice picked up a heavy plate and held it out. "Please help yourself." She pointed at a small oak table by the windows. "We can talk over there."

Blair tried to keep from over filling his plate. It wasn't easy, Alice insisted he take more of each dish, following behind him and filling her own as well. "I know it's not stylish for a woman to have more than a twelve dress size, but I don't care. I like food and I'm not afraid to admit it."

Blair carried his plate to the table where a carafe of coffee and pitcher of orange juice waited for them. "I think healthy is more important than style."

She smiled. "I agree. Besides, science requires fuel."

That made Blair laugh. "I tried to explain that to Jim once. He thinks all I do is sit around reading. Anthropology is physical, you know?" He sampled the quiche, enjoying the mushrooms and cheese. "This is good."

"We have a superb cook on staff. She lives in house." Alice made short work of her fruit and started layering small cheese squares on whole grain crackers.

"I wondered about that," Blair said. "How many people live here? The place is huge."

Keeping her eyes on her food, Alice answered, "My brother and I have a small staff of three. I grew up in this house."

"I moved around a lot growing up," Blair confided. "Cascade was the first place I've stayed in longer than a year."

"And now you partner with a police detective?" Alice asked. "That must be fascinating."

Blair wasn't about to divulge any facts of the case with her. He'd learned his lesson with Chris during the Lash investigation. "It is. Each case is unique, you know? But Jim is very scientific in his method of approach. Right now we're still in the fact finding stage."

"So my mask is part of this stage?" Alice asked.

Blair could understand her interest. He'd heard from other professors how thorough a researcher she proved to be. "I'm sorry..."

She blushed. "That's okay. I didn't mean to pry."

Blair smiled. "I don't blame you. I sort of became an adrenaline junkie when I first started working with Jim. I'm writing my thesis on the police culture."

"Closed societies?"

"Exactly."

She chuckled "I'm sure the brothers in blue were less than enthusiastic about your idea."

Blair snickered. "You have no idea." He moved onto a new subject. "Must be cool living here. You're right downtown, but it's like you've got your own world. I don't even hear the city."

She nodded. "We're happy. The only time I was away was when I was studying at Rainier. I wanted to live in a dorm, even though my father wasn't happy about it."

"Isn't there a dorm called `the Whitlock?'"

She blushed. "It was the only way my father would let me live there. He had it built."

"You majored in geology, right?"

"With a minor in marine biology." Alice poured a second cup of coffee and refilled Blair's. "I had a hard time choosing between land and sea. I guess land won. I plan on going for a second doctorate. I'll be the first Whitlock ever to have more than one."

"Wow, I'll be happy to bag one." Blair stabbed a strawberry with his fork.

"How do you like anthropology?" She asked.

"I get into cultures. What makes us all different and what makes us the same."

"You've read `The Savage Mind'?"

Blair nodded. "Sure! Found Levi-Strauss the first year, couldn't put it down. But I still take issue with his `Myth and Meaning' study ..."

Breakfast went on half the morning, with both of them going back to fill their plates again as they talked. Blair finally finished his fourth cup of coffee, stuffed to the gills. Glancing at his watch, he remembered he had a sleeping sentinel back at the loft. He should get back to the loft. But first...

"Alice, can I look at the gagiit mask again?"

She patted her face with a linen napkin and stood. "Yes, certainly, this way."

Blair followed her up a back stairway, arriving at the main hallway. They approached the artifact room from a different direction this time. Alice flicked on the lights as she entered. Blair's gaze went immediately to the masks in the corner, they were all there.

"I hope you forgive me for calling you so early. That visit from the police made me so curious," Alice said, crossing her arms over her chest as if cold.

They were standing before the masks now. The gagiit mask seemed to mock him, taunting Blair with his ancient smile and soulless eyes. A strong, unpleasant smell hung in the corner. Something shiny trailed up the wall. Pinpricks marched up Blair's spine as he reached to touch it. His finger came away wet and slimy. He sniffed the residue.

"What is it?" Alice asked, bewildered. She reached out and touched it for herself, bringing it to her nose. "It's fish mucus. How in the world..."

Now he could see the slime also covered the edges of the mask. Blair drew Alice back from the display. "We need to call the police."

"Oh, my."

Blair pondered his options. Jim had to see this. But he'd turned off the cordless. It was late enough for Simon to be in the office. Simon would go pick up Jim. "Where's the phone?"

She took him to the office next to the exhibit room. "The volunteers aren't in today. You can use this one." She pointed to a multiple line phone on a desk.

Blair dialed.

"Banks."

"Simon, you need to go pick up Jim and bring him over to the Whitlock residence."

"Sandburg? Do I sound like your personal errand boy?"

Blair cringed, glad he hadn't used the `hands free' setting. "Remember the gagiit mask I was telling you about? It's here and it looks like it's been tampered with. I think someone broke in here last night," he added as an afterthought.

"Where's Ellison?"

Blair rolled his eyes. "He's at home and I need him here, to check this out with his... er, he needs to check out the mask."

"Let me get this straight," Banks said, his tone menacing. "You, a civilian witness, are at the Whitlock residence, without Ellison, my detective investigating a murder."

Oh, yeah. Blair was definitely glad Alice Whitlock could only hear his side of the conversation. Plastering a fake smile on his face, Blair answered brightly. "Great, thanks, Simon, I'll be waiting for you."

Jim woke to the sound of knocking.

"Jim, it's Simon. I'm coming in."

Sitting upright, Jim listened to Simon unlock his door with the emergency loft key. "Simon?"

"Sandburg sent me to fetch you," Simon answered, closing the door behind him.

"Where is he?" Jim reached for his pants. "What's going on?"

Standing in the middle of the loft, hands on his hips, Simon scowled up at Jim. "He called from the Whitlock place. He says there's been a break in. Something about that gag-a-do-hicky."

Dressing quickly, Jim managed to break his best record getting down the stairs, although he did cheat by putting on his shoes when he reached the sofa. "Gagiit. What the hell is he doing at Whitlock's?"

"You can ask him when we get there."

Slamming his feet into his socks and shoving toes into his loafers, Jim growled, "I can't believe he went off without me."

"I'm not thrilled either. I know you need him for this senses thing, but I can't allow him to mess with an ongoing investigation, Jim." Simon took a cigar from his coat and chomped on one end. "If he's compromised the case..."

"He wouldn't." Jim hoped he was right. "He knows better."

"I would think he would know better than to go over alone."

Jim shook his head. He didn't have an answer to that. He grabbed his gun and wallet before following his boss down to the street. The drive over was made in silence. Simon parked in front of the residence, in a loading zone, and put his `official police business' sign on the dash. The front door opened and Blair jogged down the front steps to meet them.

"Hey, you guys are so not going to believe this." He opened Jim's door. "How you feeling, man?"

"Blair, what are you doing here?" Jim hissed at him before Simon joined them. "Simon is pissed, and so am I."

"Whoa, steady." Blair didn't even look chagrined at the reprimand. "Alice invited me to breakfast. It was totally innocent. Besides, you practically ordered me to go."

"What?" Jim asked, confused and then remembering waking to find Blair worrying over his bed. "Don't even--."

Snorting, Blair cut him off. "Man, wait until you see the gagiit mask. Hey, Simon."

"Sandburg." Simon's voice needed a permafrost warning.

"You weren't kidding, Jim," Blair whispered. "Okay, this way guys."

"Explain to me what fish slime has to do with your case, Jim."

"You see--" Blair started.

Alice Whitlock was still in the room. Jim turned to his boss, cutting into Blair's explanation. "I'd like a forensic team in here, Simon. We need samples of this. And a check for possible prints."

Sighing, Simon nodded and left to make the call, taking Alice with him. Jim turned to Blair. "We need to talk."

Blair waved both hands as if warding off the discussion. "I told you, Jim. This was totally innocent."

"Riiight."

"Seriously, she called me. I didn't call her."

"I don't care if she showed up at the loft in a horse-driven pumpkin," Jim answered, poking his roommate in the chest. "You shouldn't be here."

"Why not?"

And the thing was, Jim could see that Blair was genuinely confused. He drew a steady breath. "Because, until we prove otherwise, she's part of this case. She owns the gagiit mask. We think the killer is interested in gagiit lore. Draw the connecting dots, Sandburg."

Blair's eyes widened. "No way."

"Way."

"Jim."

"Don't start..."

"Jim."

Simon brought a temporary truce by entering the room. "Fifteen minutes out. Ms. Whitlock is talking with her staff. Now someone explain what's going on." He glared at Jim. "And don't baffle me with bullshit. Give it to me straight."

Ignoring Blair's crossed arms and steely glare, Jim complied. "The lore behind this mask involves a spiritual being which is known as the keeper of drowned souls. It's said he lures his victims by making crying sounds, like an infant. It was the same sound that I heard last night when I left during the stake out."

Simon's eyes widened. "A spiritual being?"

"No, sir," Jim assured him. "I'm not ready for a medical disability yet, I'm saying the killer is... might be... captivated by the legend. He - or she - might be using this story for his M.O."

"Okay." Simon nodded. "And our victim technically was drowned. Go on. Explain the slime."

"Another part of the legend is that this gagiit being eats raw salmon, and the bones pierce his lips." Jim walked to the mask and pointed without touching. "See? These represent fish bones."

Now Simon was interested. His brow creased with concentration. "And our bodies have mangled lips. Dan says something was repeatedly pierced through them."

"Right." Jim nodded to Blair. "Sandburg found the connection."

"Which brings us back to what is he doing here?" Simon asked. "Without you?"

Jim rubbed his earlobe. "He knows Ms. Whitlock from Rainier. They were having breakfast."

Looking like one of those bobbing head dolls, Simon silently looked back and forth between the two men. He executed a sharp turn and walked out of the exhibit room.

Jim shook his head. Some days it didn't pay to get out of bed.

"Heard about what happened, Jim. How you doing?" Dan Wolf asked as Jim entered the ME's office with Blair on his heels.

"I'm good. Just got stupid chasing a suspect." Rubbing his jaw, Jim tried not to let his irritation grow. He'd already been asked more than a dozen times since arriving at the station about the incident. No one liked gossip more than cops. "You said the blood workup is back?"

"Right," Dan replied, searching his cluttered desk for the report in question. "No known drugs were found, but I'm not thoroughly convinced one wasn't used. I've sent back a request for some wider tests. It will take a little longer." Dan handed over the report.

Blair hadn't taken a seat, but stood behind Jim's shoulder. "Did the victim ingest it?"

Shrugging, Dan tilted his head. "Might be in a drink. Probably doesn't take much. Although..." He tapped the report and leaned back in his desk chair. "Nah, I'd find traces of the drink in the lungs. This stuff has to be relatively fast acting. I'd guess the drug mix is somehow dribbled down."

Jim got an idea. "That's what he's doing with the lips."

"What?"

Thinking it through as he spoke, Jim continued. "He's keeping the victim's mouth closed. That's why he's piercing the lips. Remember, we thought he was sewing it shut. He wants the drug to go down the throat."

"Ewwww," Blair rubbed his face with a shudder. "What a way to go. Worse than a gag."

"Maybe he's dipping the needles or--" Jim looked at Dan. "--fish bones in the drug. Did you find any chemical traces in the lips?"

"No, but then again. I didn't look." Dan crossed his arms and leaned forward. "Fish bones? As in... gagiit?"

Blair straightened, leaning forwarded eagerly. "Yeah, man. You know about that legend?"

"Heard the story." Dan eyed them both before repeating, "A gagiit."

"Someone who knows about the gagiit legend and is using it as an MO," Jim clarified.

Dan turned his attention back to his desk. "Okay, I'll check the victim's lips for traces of the drug and get back to you, Jim."

They'd been dismissed. Jim shook his head at Blair, catching his arm and towing him out the door. Once outside of Dan's department, Blair turned to Jim as they waited for the elevator. "Dan obviously knows the gagiit legend, Jim."

"So?"

"So, why didn't you ask him?"

The elevator car arrived with a ping and the doors slid open. They walked on after the lone rider, an older man wearing a white lab coat, got off. Jim pushed the button for the seventh floor. "Dan's a professional, Sandburg. If he knew anything that might be useful, he would have told me."

Blair didn't look convinced.

Returning to the bullpen, they settled down to work. While Jim typed Dan's new findings into the case report, Blair started a written summary of his conversation at the Whitlock mansion. Lack of sleep caused the words to blur on the page. Blair rubbed his eyes, willing his body to behave. He was a professional at sleep deprivation. He could do this. His mind wandered off subject, thinking instead about Dan. The man had to know something about the gagiit. Blair saw it in his eyes. But he also saw fear.

"Willden's coming in around one. He called to say he had some personal stuff to do," Jim announced, leaning back from the keyboard and stretching his back. "You want to wait for him before getting lunch or eat now?"

Calories might wake him up. Blair stood. "Now. You know what sounds good? That teriyaki chicken over on Fourth."

"They don't deliver."

"I'll go pick it up." Blair glanced at the wall clock. "Call it in. It's a short walk."

Jim was reaching for the phone as Blair grabbed his coat and headed for the door. Once in the elevator, he hit the button for the floor housing Dan Wolf's department.

Dan didn't look surprised to see him again.

"I guess I've been expecting you."

Blair blushed. "Is it okay if I ask a few more questions? Jim said--"

With a dismissive wave of his hand, Dan offered a dry laugh. "I can imagine what Detective Ellison said, probably something about professionalism."

Blair took a seat in the chair in front of the examiner's desk. "So, what didn't you tell us?"

Even though Blair had closed the door, Dan glanced as if to check it was secure. "I'm not Northwestern tribe, you realize. My people raise sheep down by Four Corners. But I've heard the legend. We have skinwalkers and witches. The Haidas have the gagiit."

"Every culture has some form of boogeyman," Blair assured him.

Dan nodded. "Evil is evil. It's universal."

Blair waited, letting the man find his own pace.

He wasn't disappointed.

"When I was bumming around, before med school, I visited a buddy of mine up Hydaburg way. We drank and fished and just made asses of ourselves for a week or so." Dan's fingers played with a pencil on his desk, rolling it back and forth, his eyes tracking the movement, avoiding Blair's gaze. "One night - we were camping - we got a flat tire coming back from a beer run and decided to walk the final mile or so to camp. We figured we'd come back the next day to fix the flat during daylight." Dan looked Blair straight in the eye. "You're gonna just think we were drunk kids, but we weren't. We were sober."

Blair nodded. "I believe you."

"Okay, so... It was the weirdest thing." Dan shifted in his chair. "We both hear this sound. A baby crying, like it was cold and hungry, you know? Then Earl, that's my friend, he freezes. I'm thinking someone's abandoned a kid so I start into the bush, following the sound. Earl grabs my arm. He's trembling like he's just seen the grim reaper itself. He just says `gagiit' and starts pulling me away."

Goosebumps tracked up Blair's arms.

"Earl's older than me and bigger," Dan continued. "Thing is, he's so freaked that I'm scared and go with him. We never talked about it. The next day, when we go back for the truck, I look over the area we heard the cries. I had to, I felt like shit leaving like we did." Dan rubbed his jaw. "I've never told anyone this, Blair."

"What'd you find?"

"A salmon head, some fish flesh and tail in the dirt." Dan swallowed, his eyes haunted. "There wasn't a baby."

Blair leaned back. "Wow."

"Yeah." Dan crossed his arms, leaning on his desk. "You and Jim... you two be careful with this one, okay?"

"We will." Blair stood. "I have to get lunch. Let us know what you find out."

Dan walked him to the door, reaching for his lab coat hanging on the hook behind the door. "I'll take another look at the body right now."

Back in the hallway, heading for the elevators, Blair turned the corner and hit a wall of muscle.

"Jim!"

"Chief." Jim leaned against the wall, his eyebrow cocked in admonishment. "Having fun playing detective?"

"I... er... It's not what..." Blair jammed his hands into his pockets and offered a pathetic grin. "Actually, I guess it is. How'd you figure I'd come down here?"

Lightly slugging Blair's shoulder, Jim led the way to the elevator. "You should know by now, Sandburg. I can always tell when you're up to something."

"You listened?" Blair called the elevator with a punch of the button.

"Yep."

"What do you think?"

"I think," Jim said, a slight smile appearing like a rare shooting star. "You come in handy once in a while."

"I changed my mind," Jim told Blair as they got on the elevator. "Let's eat out. The teriyaki is better hot."

"Works for me," Blair answered.

At the lobby, they met Willden coming in. Jim watched Blair invite him along and the three of them hit the sidewalk. Thankfully, the weather was mild and dry, the wind light. The Alaskan cop hardly limped, so Jim assumed his ankle was better. They spent the walk sharing the news of the day, catching the visiting cop up on the case. Arriving at the popular, small restaurant, they waited in line with the men and women dressed in suits, and gave their orders. They filled their drinks at a self-service counter and found a semi-clean table in the corner where they could wait for their meal and still hold a conversation without being overheard.

"Did you take care of everything this morning?" Jim asked Willden.

Willden scowled. "Yeah, everything is square. How you feeling?"

"I still can't remember much from last night," Jim grumbled, scratching under his chin.

"I can't believe he got away." Willden fingered the plastic bottle of soy sauce.

"At least we're getting close," Jim pointed out. "He's still using the same hunting ground, or at least he was."

"Are we doing another stakeout tonight?" Blair asked, looking from Willden to Jim. "No offense, but neither of you are up to chasing down a killer."

"Simon's already got a team arranged to watch the area." Jim held up a hand. "Don't worry, Chief. He's warned them about the baby cry."

Willden looked glum. "I doubt the killer comes back. He knows we've made him. Damn, I just hope he doesn't blow town. It will take forever to catch up with him again."

That gave Jim an opportunity to ask a question that had been bugging him. "How is it your department found cause to send you all the way down here to catch a single killer anyway? What makes this case so special to them?"

Willden glowered at the steam rising from his coffee, his hands fiercely cupping the mug. "They didn't exactly support the idea with open arms. That's what I was doing this morning, talking on the phone to my captain."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jim asked. He knew Simon had talked to this man's superiors. "They know you're here."

"Yeah. Only, I'm on vacation. Now I'm taking some time without pay. I'm footing the expenses for this one."

Blair leaned forward. "What's this case to you? Did you know the victim?"

Willden shot Blair a scathing look. Blair nailed the truth in one.

"Yeah, I knew her." Willden studied the table top. "Her mom was... someone I was close to."

Jim and Blair exchanged confused looks. What was he saying? Jim hoped the guy wasn't about to tell them the victim had been his own daughter. Surely his department wouldn't allow that.

"How close, man?" Blair whispered.

Willden washed the crackers down with more coffee. "Not what you're thinking, kid. Sarah was not mine. But her mother and I were lovers. When she got sick and... died, I promised I'd look after her kid for her. Her husband's an ass. Sarah and him had some issues."

Blair's face filled with compassion. "How old was Sarah when her mom died?"

"Seventeen."

Jim did the math. The file had said the victim was twenty-three. Willden had looked after his lover's child for six years. No doubt they had grown close.

Blair sadly shook his head. "I'm sorry, man."

Willden shrugged and turned to look toward the kitchen. "Where's that damn food? I'm starving."

"I don't care, Sandburg," Jim snapped. "He's a cop with a personal vendetta and that makes him a hazard in my book."

Blair rolled his eyes and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from pointing out the obvious. How many times had Jim himself had a personal stake in his investigation and yet kept going forward? Could the sentinel not see around the log in his own eye?

They were back at the loft. Blair had just finished washing the last dinner dish. They'd spent the rest of the day cross-referencing known mental health patients against booking arrests, just to see who might be in the area. Apparently, little connections had led to finding serial killers in the past. In the end, they had found nothing of interest and Blair had been left with a creepy feeling that half the population of Cascade was on anti-depressants.

"Jim," Blair answered sensibly. "So he knows the victim. He's still a cop and he's just like you, man. He wants this guy caught. If you go tattling to Simon and get him pulled off the case, it doesn't mean he'll go back to Alaska. Wouldn't you rather know where he's at and what's he doing, than have him pop up and screw something up at the last minute?"

"When did you turn out to be this guy's cheerleader? He could barely stand to be in the same room with you when he first arrived."

Pulling the sink plug, Blair watched the dirty water drain. He rinsed the suds from the sides with the sprayer attachment, refusing to let Jim's foul mood bait him into an argument. The Jags played on television, but Jim was too busy bitching about Willden to really watch it.

"I'm nobody's cheerleader. I'm just saying the guy deserves some credit. He's spending his own dime to find this killer. He hasn't done anything to make us think he's going to jeopardize the case." Blair squeezed the dishcloth nearly dry and started on the table. A yawn broke free. Finished with the domestic duties, he draped the cloth over the faucet and raised a hand to wave at his roommate. "Night, Jim. See you in the morning."

"Where you going?" Jim twisted to glower over the back of the sofa. "It's still early."

Blair couldn't help but think Jim looked like a big kid spoiling for a fight. "I'm beat, dude."

"Light weight," Jim grumbled, slumping and picking up the remote. He channel surfed until he found a documentary on the Amazon. "Hey, Chief. Look. You'll like this one."

`Not going to work, Jim,' Blair thought as he walked toward his room. "I'll take a rain check, okay? I'm really, really beat." He tuned out Jim's grumbles and stripped down to his boxers and t-shirt. The loft was pleasantly cool and it made crawling under the blankets all that more inviting. Soon he was drifting toward sleepy oblivion.

Blair woke with a hand over his mouth.

"Shhhh, quiet, Sandburg."

Jim loomed, a fuzzy shadow against the darkness filling his room. Blair pushed up to his elbows, automatically checking the red LED readout of his alarm clock. It was half past one in the morning. What the heck ...?

Jim was tugging him out of the bed and Blair obeyed. Jim slipped out of the room. Blair followed his roommate to the front door. By the city lights bleeding in through the loft windows, Blair could see Jim had his gun. Fear squeezed his heart.

"Jim, what--"

"Shhhhush," Jim answered, bending down, lips close enough to brush Blair's messy curls. Still, Blair had to strain to hear. "Can't you hear it?"

"What?" Blair whispered.

"A baby's crying." They stood next to the front door now. Jim's nose twitched. "Gawd, can you smell that?"

Blair was seriously starting to freak now. Was Jim awake? He grabbed Jim's arm as the bigger man started to slide the chain off the door. "Wait, what are you doing?" He yanked, unable to budge the bigger man. "No way. You're not going out there!" Blair whispered urgently. "Call for back up. Now. Jim, JIM, listen to me!"

As much as Blair tried to stop the door from being opened, Jim pinned him in some stupid-ass covert ops move, easily holding both wrists.

Horrified, Blair saw him set the gun on the side table by the door. "No!"

Jim turned the knob.

Blair never felt so helpless.

The door swung open. The light from the hallway made Blair's eyes water.

The hallway was empty.

Jim stood as if transfixed as Blair slumped with relief.

"He was here," Jim said flatly, turning Blair free.

Blair looked at the hallway floor. "Oh, man..."

The ripped up flesh from a half rotted salmon had been left like an offering outside their home. The head was still attached, but most of the meat was gone. The fish's glassy eye stared accusingly.

"Well, it's no surprise the stakeout was a bust," Simon said as he stood in the loft with both fists pressed against his hips. "What with our killer staking out your residence and all." It was four in the morning.

Jim didn't respond to his boss's sarcasm.

Sitting at the kitchen table, Blair shivered as he hunched over his tea.

Jim walked over to the thermostat and turned it up another five degrees. He still couldn't believe he had woken Blair up and opened their front door. He remembered doing those things, but it was like watching himself from the other side of a thick wall of glass.

What if the killer had been standing there, waiting for them?

"Have they found anything?" Jim asked, looking toward the closed door where the forensic team worked in the hallway beyond.

"They'll give the report when they're ready, Jim. Harassing them twice in one night will have Serena in my office and I'm not getting reamed because of you," Simon answered. "Now, someone tell me how this creep found out where you two lived."

"Jim saw him," Blair answered softly.

"What was that, Sandburg?" Simon demanded.

Blair sat up and met the captain's glare head on. "I said, Jim saw him. The gagiit lore is vague, but I'm guessing anyone that actually sees him, gets marked as the next victim."

His voice rising, Simon zeroed in on the civilian. "Do I need to remind you, Sandburg, that we're dealing with a flesh and blood suspect here, not a creature from some fairytale?"

"I know that," Blair answered without hesitating. "My point is that the killer thinks he's a gagiit. He thinks he needs to target Jim now that Jim's seen him."

"So I'm back to my original question," Simon replied smoothly, waving a hand around the room. "How'd he find out where you two live?"

"Wouldn't be hard to watch the station and follow us home," Jim pointed out.

"Yeah, that would do it," Simon muttered, pulling out a chair and sitting down heavily. "Damn. I don't like this."

Jim paced, restless, on edge. The soldier in him wanted an immediate counterstrike. The enemy had gotten too close. "Maybe I could pick up his scent on the street. He has to be reeking if he carried that fish up here." Jim couldn't miss the way Blair stiffened as if in alarm. This case had him jumpy, too. And although he knew without a doubt that Blair was strong when he needed to be, all this talk of spirits and legend had him wigged out. "You can stay here, Sandburg. I'll take Simon with me."

Blair looked shocked. "No way, I'm going. But I think Simon should come too."

"Hold it." Simon held up his hands. "Jim, how far do you seriously expect to get? It's raining hard outside. The scent's been washed away."

Jim sighed. He should have insisted on tracking the guy immediately, but Blair had latched on to him. In his head, he knew the kid had a point, but the desire to hunt this guy down was strong. Glancing outside, he watched it rain. It was unlikely he'd find a trail now anyway. He glanced back at the closed door, hearing the technicians working in the hall. Maybe they'd get lucky and find something useful.

"These reports tell us nothing," Willden grumbled.

Jim had to agree, but he kept quiet.

"What I don't get is why he targeted your place last night." The visiting cop leaned back in his chair and eyed Jim. "You said he didn't knock? Just left a dead fish?"

"That's right."

"Then what woke you up?"

"I'm a very light sleeper." Jim bent over his report.

They were in the bullpen reviewing the lab results of the slime found on the mask and the wall at the Whitlock mansion. The lab had given them a twenty-four hour turn around and Jim was thankful. He knew the technicians wondered why Major Crime was investigating fish slime, but no one had raised an eyebrow when he had arrived at the lab to pick up the final report. The official name for the slime was glyco-protein. It acted like a Band-Aid, protecting the fish from harmful bacteria and promoting healing. Fascinating as it read, it didn't help their case at all.

Jim set aside the lab report and picked up another from the security agency that monitored the Whitlock residence. At Simon's request, they had faxed over the details from the night before. There had been no activity at the mansion. The security gate to the parking area had not been activated. The alarm had stayed on. No doors had been opened after ten p.m. last night. It would appear Ms Whitlock had stayed in.

Jim reluctantly eyed the stack of cross-checking left over from the day before. Blair was at Rainier, teaching his classes and not due to join them until mid afternoon. Willden fidgeted in his chair and Jim knew he was just as antsy to get out and do something as he was.

"Jim," Simon stood in the doorway to his office. He held up a scrap of paper. "We've got a possible ID for your John Doe."

Eagerly, Jim accepted the paper from his boss. It held a contact name and a phone number. "How'd it come in?"

"A brighter-than-average call receiver forwarded the information to us after she received a call from an irate parent. Apparently her son was due back home last week and he's never shown up. Keep me informed," Simon ordered as he returned to his office.

Jim dialed.

"Thank you for driving all the way up here, Mr. and Mrs. Donovan." Jim shook the man's hand.

The couple looked understandably pale. The woman's eyes were red. If Jim had to judge them just by appearance, he would put them as hard working middle-class, recently reaching the `well off' status. Mrs. Donovan's hair was fashionably arranged, with a hint of dark roots showing. She was pudgy and walked like a woman in a daze. Her husband wore off the rack clothes, probably Sears. Jim had met them in the public parking garage and had noted the late model SUV.

"Do you have a picture of this person?" Mr. Donovan asked, swallowing before he continued. "Or do we have to view the body?"

They were in a private interview room now. Jim was ready for the question and did have a picture in the file he carried. "Please have a seat."

Willden stood by the door, his face an unreadable mask.

"First of all, I sincerely hope this turns out to be a wild goose chase for you both." He slipped the picture out of the file and laid it face down on the table. "This is a picture from the shoulders up. It's not pleasant, but our medical examiner did the best he could do under the circumstances to--"

Mr. Donovan didn't wait for Jim to finish. He flipped the picture over.

His wife screamed.

"Scott Donovan, age twenty-two, graduate from Washington University," Jim recited to his boss. The three of them sat at the conference table in Simon's office. Willden followed along from his own copy of the report. "The kid came up to Cascade a little over a week ago to check out some jobs, do some research and visit with friends."

"Do we know which jobs?" Simon asked.

"He held a major in business administration," Willden answered, flipping through the report to find the kid's father's transcript.

Jim added, "His father is going to search his room for possible leads on what jobs he was looking into. He'll call us as soon as he knows."

Simon scrubbed his face. "I can't imagine..." He took a deep breath. "You said research?"

"Yeah, he's a history buff. Local stuff. Likes to dig up old newspapers and root around in basements. His old man says he's working on a book about the frontier days in Washington." Jim scratched a note in the margin of his report to follow up on that. He'd ask Donovan for access to the kid's research files. Sandburg could help him look it over. As if thinking about his partner could make him appear, Blair walked into the office without knocking.

"Hey, guys. What's up?"

"We've got an ID on the victim," Jim answered, pushing the page with the statistics over for Blair to read.

Dropping his book filled backpack to the floor with a careful thump, Blair picked it up to read. "From Seattle. What was he doing up here? Wow, look at that grade point. God, what a shame."

Simon stood with a sigh. "I've got a meeting to attend. When is the father providing the location of the victim's motel?"

Jim gathered up the case report with Willden's help and stuffed it back into his file. "As soon as he got his wife back to Seattle. He said he'd call when he found it."

Seconds after Simon left for his meeting, Jim's phone rang. He grabbed it. "Yes, Mister Donovan. What did you find out? That's good... right, I'm ready, go ahead." Jim copied down the address. "Thank you."

"He found it?" Willden asked, standing.

"Yep, we're out of here." Jim lifted his coat off the rack.

"So you haven't cleaned since last week?" Jim followed the hotel clerk down the broken sidewalk

The old man shook his head. Rain dripped off the cantilevered cover of corrugated tin over their heads. "Like I said. Kid paid to the end of this week. No reason to bother him unless he asked. He didn't ask."

Shoving the key into the lock, the man turned it and stepped back. "Don't want no trouble." He shuffled back to his soap opera.

Following the two police detectives into the room, Blair took in the old, tired furnishings joined by the painful influence of youth and hope. The bed was tidy. The dresser, with its cigarette burned edges and cracked finishing had been kept clean of clutter. A small Mr. Coffee still had a half inch of oily brew in the carafe. On the round table against the far wall, Scott had set up a filing system of newspaper ads with job advertisements circled in bold red and blue. The narrow closet held one clean suit with polished shoes waiting underneath the suspended gray slacks, for an owner who would never return to wear them.

Blair swallowed hard and tried not to look like any of this got to him. A familiar hand squeezed his shoulder. "Check out those ads for me, Sandburg. Willden, take the bathroom. I'll do the dresser."

More than happy to be busy, Blair slipped on the non-latex gloves, and sat on the one chair in the room and started through the pile of papers. A few minutes later, he had a pretty good idea what Scott was looking for in his life. Money didn't seem to be the persuading issue. Jobs that paid well were circled as well as jobs that could be considered making enough to get by. All the job offers had one thing in common; the company was large with options for travel being a must.

Blair closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He remembered this, how it felt to know the world was out there waiting for him to come and discover its wonders. And Blair had, at a ridiculously young age. He'd let the wanderlust hit him every time he got a chance, every summer, winter and spring break. In fact, no one was more surprised than himself when he turned down Doctor Stoddard's offer to join him on that last expedition. Yet Blair knew he had made the right choice.

"Anything?" Jim's gloved hand touched Blair's shoulder, breaking into his thoughts.

"Ah, n-no. Nothing yet. I'm still looking," Blair shuffled the folded newsprint together and a clipped section broke free, floating across the table top. Blair picked it up. "No way."

Jim read over his shoulder. "Now that's more than just a coincidence."

The ad was for a full time personal assistant and the address to deliver the resume was the Whitlock mansion. Blair turned it over. A time had been written on the back in pencil. Two-thirty.

The search warrant allowed them into the house. Alice Whitlock met them at the front door, her bewilderment obvious.

Jim held out a copy of the warrant. "Ms. Whitlock, we'd like to search your residence. This warrant allows us to come in whether we have your permission or not."

"What's going on, Blair?" Alice asked, turning her attention at once to Blair who looked miserable with his shoulders hunched. Taking the paperwork, she glanced at the first paragraph before looking once more at Blair.

"It's just a formality--" Blair started.

Jim cut in. "Please step aside, ma'am."

She did.

Jim led the way. Along with Brown, Jim had requested and received more detectives from the bullpen. They filled the regal hallway with their official presence. Even late in the day, Alice was dressed in baggy, wrinkled slacks and a man's work shirt.

"If you would please give me a list of everyone currently inside the building, we'll get started."

Owlishly blinking at him, Alice brushed her fingers up and down her throat absently. "My... my cook, and two volunteers are in the office."

"Anyone else?" Jim waved Brown and the other two detectives toward the large room off the hallway. "H, take the main floor. Sandburg, Willden and I will be upstairs."

With an affirming nod, the three men broke off from the group and began the search. Jim kept his attention on Alice. "Ms. Whitlock? Anyone else in the house?"

"My brother," she replied. "Bernie is here."

Jim pulled out a four by six picture of the victim. "Can you tell me if you've ever seen this person before?"

Holding the picture out, Jim listened to her heartbeat. There was no change. No inhalation of breath in surprise or any other sign of panic. She shook her head, her confusion not changing. "I don't... I see so many... is he...?"

"Dead? Yes ma'am." Jim tucked the picture back into its envelope and slipped it back into his pocket. "He also had an appointment with you last week for a job." Again, Jim waited for the response and was disappointed by the lack thereof. If this woman was the killer, she deserved an Oscar for her performance. "You're saying he never showed up?"

"No... I'm not saying." She crossed her arms and straightened. "Detective, I don't do the interviewing. I'm too busy. If that young man came here last week, he never reached the next level. I'm still looking for an assistant. So I would remember. To date, I've yet to meet any of the applicants."

"Who would handle the first stage?"

Glancing upwards, Alice Whitmore answered, "Bernie."